The Greasy Spoon

The Savoy's Cream Cheese and Marmite Sandwiches

 

 

 

 

I'm currently reading Matthew Sweet's The West End Front, The Wartime Secrets of London's Grand Hotels. It's a terrific book: the blurb on the back reads: "A Lost World of Scandal, Intrigue and Fortitude...The Ritz, The Savoy, Dorchester and Claridge's- during the Second World War, each was a kind of Casablanca. Their bedrooms, hallways and grillrooms teemed with Spies, Con-Artists, Deposed Royals and the exiled governments of Europe..."

This is all very Patrick Hamilton:

 

 

In 1941, the Food (Restrictions on Meals in Establishments) order came into force. All restaurants were required to offer a three course dinner or lunch for no more than five shillings a head, although luxury foods (such as lobster, caviar and oysters) could still be supplied with a surcharge. Young officers, home on leave, could take their girls to The Ritz, Dorchester or Savoy for a very reasonable sum; and as a result, these hotel restaurants became extremely buzzy places indeed.

I've always been fond of The Savoy, ever since my father took me there at the age of eighteen (or was it twenty one?) to savour my first Dry Martini at the American Bar, as mixed by the legendary Peter Dorelli. Remember that back in the 60's and early 70's my father used to handle the advertising for the Booth's Gin account, so he was rather up on this sort of thing.

The Savoy Hotel, incidentally, has very recently been completely re-vamped in a multi-million pound make-over by the Canadian group, Fairmont. I've no time for this: the reproduction paintings are truly dreadful- an insult to your intelligence; it probably never occured to the re-vampers that actually, this or that painting is really rather famous, and as it's currently in the so-and-so museum or gallery, the Savoy Hotel version is obviously not going to be the real-thing. And anyone with an eye is going to realise immediately that the textures and colours are all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Let's move on, before I start shouting at my computer screen (this seems to be happening more and more as I get older, it's a horribly unattractive trait, I do realise). So I've pulled out of my bookcase Anton Edelmann's The Savoy Cookbook, a worthy thing published by Pavilion. I like the sound of their "Marmite and Cream Cheese Sandwiches":

You take four slices of thin white bread (Waitrose stock this), and then spread two slices with Marmite very sparsley. You spread the cream cheese (ie Philadelphia) on the other two slices of bread, and then combine the two pieces of bread. The crusts are cut off, and each sandwich cut into three equal fingers.

Note the curious fact that The Savoy cut their sandwiches into fingers, not triangles. I've rabbited on about this before- it's one of the Great Truths of Life.

 

The Ivy's Hamburger

 

 

Rummaging through some old newspaper cuttings from the '90's, I found this old photograph of the famous Ivy restaurant (founded 1917), with a super-imposed photograph of Charles Laughton in the 1933 picture, "The Private Life of Henry VIII".

This is how The Ivy used to be- the favourite playground of the luvvies of the silver screen: Larry, Vivien, Noel, Ivor and Sexy Rexy. I love the wood panelling, the Tudorbeathen leaden lattice windows and the naff neo-classical statues. How I would give my teeth (what's left of 'em) to go back in time and enter those hallowed portals!

 

In 1990, Caprice Holdings "restored" and relaunched the restaurant; supposedly to its "former glory". I've got mixed feelings about the new Ivy. By then the restaurant, it is true, had become a shadow of its former self, semi-derelict, and in desperate need of a makeover; but the 1990's re-incarnation was, with hindsight, a bit Footballer's Wives, (to be fair, a reflection of the then fashionable age of one Mr Anthony Blair and the cringe-inducing Cool Britannia); service was impeccable, but the whole place lacked the elan and dash of its previous incarnation. 

 

Back in the 90's (as with Terence Conran's "Quaglino's"), it was extremely difficult to get a table; these days, I gather, it's an easier ticket, and reservations can be booked on a few weeks notice. 

If you're still interested, A.A. Gill's The Ivy, The Restaurant and its Recipes is the definitive guide. I've already covered The Ivy's Chicken Masala (which is included in A.A. Gill's book)- an excellent and delicious dish, which has the slightly unusual trait of being thickened with chopped aubergine.

Here's A.A. Gill's take on the Ivy's Hamburger. I've always had a slight problem with my own home-made hamburgers: I make a delicious mix, but then add too much liquid (or too much beaten egg), so that when it comes to the "pan-frying" bit, the meat crumbles, and doesn't hold together. This is the official Ivy version. Admittedly, it's pretty basic, but I think it's worth publishing online:

Mix up a good quality minced beef, and mould into balls or patties. Put the burgers into the 'fridge to set. Whisk together tomato ketchup with American mustard (French's mustard would be ideal) to make the sauce.

Lightly toast some baps, and keep them warm. Cook the burgers on a griddle or a smoking hot pan (not under a grlll, as this could boil the meat). 

Serve the burgers in the warm baps with slices of red onion, gherkin, beef tomato and the Ivy hambuger sauce.

 

 

Take Me To Sank Roo Doe Noo!

 

 

 

Harry's Bar, Paris, the legendary haunt of Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, George Gershwin, Marlene Dietrich, Jean-Paul Sartre, Coco Chanel and Noel Coward is one hundred years old today. Many Happy Returns! Harry's New York Bar opened on November 24th 1911 at no. 5, Rue Daunou; and the decor has changed little since that day: it's currently lined with manly dark wooden panelling, painted shields displaying the coats of arms of famous English public schools, and American Ivy League pennants; all under a nicotine-stained embossed ceiling. It's still worth a visit if you happen to be in Paris, even if the style-gurus of the previous century have been replaced with American tourists.

 

Smoking, alas, is no longer allowed in Paris, and that particular 20th century ambiance has vanished presumably forever; however Harry's still serves its famous Bloody Marys- which is especially apt, as the cocktail was invented there in 1920 by Ferdinand Petiot, a barman from Ohio.

The "Bloody" apparently, comes from The Bucket of Blood Club in Chicago, and "Mary" after Petiot's daughter. The original drink was a simple mix of tomato juice and vodka, but Petiot expanded the recipe when he moved to the St Regis Hotel, New York. Here's the famous Greasy Spoon version:

 

 

Put some ice into a cocktail shaker. Pour in a decent slug of Stolichnaya vodka, and top the shaker up with a good quality tomato juice. Add a dash of Tio Pepe or otherwise dry sherry, a squeeze of lemon or lime juice, a pinch of cayenne pepper, celery salt, a few shakes of my favourite Tabasco and Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. 

Do the Hokey Cokey and shake it all about. Strain it off into a glass and add, if you must, a stick of celery. You'll find that the lemon juice smooths it out, and the sherry gives it an added kick.

Remember, as with so many other things in life, keep it simple, don't try and doll it up with extra ingredients (I'm not convinced by the addition of creamed horseradish, or chunky black pepper, although steeping a peeled horseradish root in your bottle of vodka, or subsituting Tabasco with a Horseradish flavoured Hot Pepper Sauce sounds like a good idea) and stay away from the gimmicks. 

I don't like lumps of ice floating around in my Bloody Mary, and think it's much better if strained off. The cocktail's at its best if served very cold, so keep the vodka buried away in the 'fridge, as the Russians do. You'll find the vodka goes thick-  and that, if I may make so bold Master Copperfield, is the way to keep vodka if you're going to drink it neat as an accompaniment to blinis and caviar.

The Greasy Spoon visits...The Fox and Hounds, Hunsdon, Hertfordshire

 

 

 

Photograph: Local_man

 

I like Hertfordshire. If you don't know England, this is an understated county of meagre size, found to the north of the London suburbs. Here the urban sprawl gives way to a rolling landscape: golden wheatfields, red-brick shuttered cottage ornées, church spires and tarred clapboard barns. Very Biedermeier. It reminds me in a way of the Belgian countryside around Waterloo; of Benjamin Pollock's re-imagining of the battlefield for the tuppence coloured sheets of the Victorian Toy Theatre. Or so I so imagine, conveniently forgetting the brave new world of Stevenage and Welwyn Garden City, where the post-war architects reinvented the English market town for the nuclear age, and bowler hatted bureaucrats dabbled in the dark art of social engineering.

It was at Hatfield, sitting beneath the branches of an oak tree in the autumn of 1558, that Elizabeth Tudor first learnt she was Queen of England; the famous oak now felled, a victim of the all-pervasive tyranny of Health and Safety.

 

Attributed to William Scrotes (fl. 1537-1554), The Princess Elizabeth, circa 1546, Royal Collection, Windsor Castle

 

We had a relaxed Sunday to kill in Hertfordshire, and decided to try the Fox and Hounds at Hunsdon for a light and late lunch. It's about an hour's drive from the Big Smoke. The Fox and Hounds describes itself on its website as "one of the most romantic restaurants in the South East". Well.

As a gastropub, The Fox and Hounds is pleasant enough: it's been Farrow and Balled, with a ubiquitous, slightly anti-septic, re-jigged saloon, now de rigueur of the Home Counties canteen: box framed modern prints, open brickwork, scrubbed tables and a separate "dining room", leading off a corridor framed with photo-copied reviews by the likes of city sophisticates such as Tom Parker Bowles.

Personally, I miss the days when pubs were pubs; when public bars sported cracked daguerreotypes, worn brasses, dart boards, Landseer engravings, nicotine stained ceilings, dusty oak settles and a sleeping tortoiseshell cat, accompanied with nothing more than the tick-tock of a longcase clock. Where a steak and kidney pie would be served in a ceramic pudding basin.

The Fox and Hounds was more or less empty apart from two pink-skinned, bald headed gentlemen in tight England t-shirts who gave us filthy looks as we dithered over where to sit. Actually, I tell a lie. They weren't dressed like that, but they could have been, so I trust you'll get the picture. But this is all beside the point. The food was excellent. Really, utterly lip smackingly good, and the service was charming. Which helps.

I had the "Lamb's Sweetbreads in a Curried Sauce". The sweetbreads were perfectly cooked: crisp and caramelised on the outside, soft inside, and served in a piping hot black iron skillet with fresh, slightly undercooked green peas and a creamy, aromatic curry sauce. Mrs Aitch's "Calf’s Liver Persillade & Duck Fat Potato Cake" was a briliant choice on her part, the liver beautifully cooked, with the parsley and garlic "melting" (her words) over the generous helping of offal beneath.

My plaice was a trifle undercooked for my liking (maybe that's a personal choice?) but served with lovely crunchy salty samphire. Bread was, presumably, home-made and genuinely delicious. The bar was stocked with interesting local ales from Adnam's and the Red Squrirrel brewery at Hertford. Service was friendly, welcoming and efficient.

  

Witchfinder General (1968), Tigon British Film Productions, directed by Michael Reeves

Architecturally, Hunsdon village is slightly enigmatic. I hadn't realised that the East Anglian vernacular extended so far to the west. The white-painted clapboard cottages, lattice windows, and timber framed houses are more typical of the flat counties of Suffolk and Essex; reminiscent of the locations used in Michael Reeve's "Witchfinder General". There's even a painted village sign over-looking the immaculate Green; the only thing missing was the village pillory.

 

The Fox and Hounds, Hunsdon, Ware, Hertfordshire, SG12 8NH (01279 843999)

The Greasy Spoon visits...Le Petit Poisson, Herne Bay

 

 

We've just discovered a little gem of a fish restaurant, or rather our old friend, Mr Nicholas Good, did- as we were recently invited there to celebrate his birthday. It's a tiny place in Herne Bay. It's called Le Petit Poisson.

Herne Bay is a windswept, kiss-me-quick seaside resort on the North Kent coast; about an hour and a half's drive down from London. It faces North- looking out over the bit where the English Channel intersects with the Thames Estuary, before it hits the North Sea. The sea is grey, as you can imagine. And cold. And wet.

Whitstable lies just along the coast, and has recently become fashionable, the one-time haunt of the Hammer Horror star Peter Cushing, but now providing weekend entertainment for the likes of Robert Elms and the fashionistas of London's East End.

 

Herne Bay! Fashionable it ain't. There's a bingo parlour and an amusing entertainment arcade; an Edwardian pavilion and a 1930's tea-rooms and gelateria. The Front boasts a few Regency houses with bow fronts in peeling stucco; any pretensions to genteel grandeur long-gone, and now re-inventing themselves as slightly sinister bed and breakfasts: where back in the early 1950's, one can imagine Wing-Commander Neville Heath entertaining his "lady friends", or where indeed, "Brides-in-the-Bath Smith" took rented accommodation with his "lady wife".

 

In 1978, the larger part of the original 3,700 foot long pier was swept away during a terrible storm and only the landing stage section remains, now isolated at sea and winking at you spookily through the mist, like a haunted cell from an old Scooby-Doo cartoon. To the front lies "The Pier Pavilion", a brutalist job (known locally as "The Cowshed") and seemingly constructed from brushed stainless steel; reminiscent of a vast agricultural silo and opened by the Rt. Hon. Edward Heath MP in 1976.

Anyway. You will find Le Petit Poisson in a hut just to the side of the Pier Pavilion. It doesn't look that promising from the outside, to be frank. Could be some sort of pizza joint catering for the local old biddies or a rotary club favourite.

Inside, it's a bit better. There's a small room with exposed brick walls, which in turn, leads down an open wooden staircase to a second room with an open view of the orderly looking kitchens: Bristol Fashion. No bad thing, that. When you can see the chefs at work. Proves that a restaurant has nothing to hide.  

And right from the start, service was on the nail. The young chap who served us could have put many a pretentious London restaurant to shame. I've currently got a thing about professional service in the French manner- something we don't often see in this country outside the big cities, or in the top restaurants; and it's a difficult thing to get right: the art of being welcoming without becoming irritatingly over-familiar; affecting the right degree of formality without looking stuffy; acting relaxed, yet at the same time avoiding the sloppy; making sure that the knives and forks are placed just so.

And My God! The food was lovely. A simple menu: delicious nutty bread, served with decent olives. A first course of native oysters (£1 each) beautifully presented on ice, with a further choice of oysters deep-fried in tempura batter, and served with lemon mayonnaise (£1.15 each) and Oysters Rockefeller, grilled with garlic, parsley and grated parmesan (£1.25 each) and served piping hot.  

The Moules Marinière (cooked with cream) (£9.95 large with frites) looked fine, and was served in the traditional deep pan with lid. My Dover Sole with an Anchovy Butter sauce (£14.25) was simple and utterly excellent, the fish beautifully cooked and falling off the bone, the sauce exactly right with just the right amount of saltiness.

A selection of British cheeses was served on a wooden board, (for a very reasonable £5.75) and came with a thoughtful written sheet on the history and taste of each particular cheese.

The excellent Chapel Down Non Vintage Brut was £25.95 a bottle.

It was a terrific find, and well-worth the drive. I'm assuming that it survives as a destination restaurant, and I wish the managers well. It's still rare in this country to find an excellent local restaurant with a simple menu, beautifully cooked food, superbly presented at very reasonable prices. And enviable service. Lucky old Herne Bay.

 

Le Petit Poisson, Central Parade, Herne Bay, Kent, CT6 5JN (01227 361199)

The Greasy Spoon visits... Joe Allen

 

 

Photo: london-taxi-tour.com

 

I've just been to Joe Allen's with my little sister. I've been going there since the late 1970's, and it''s amazing how it looks exactly the same after all these years. Hasn't changed one iota. Very New York, like something from a Woody Allen film- in the good days, when he was making the likes of "Manhatten", "Stardust Memories" and "Annie Hall". Think speakeasy basement, bare red brick, theatrical posters, signed black and white actor's photographs (Dirk, Larry and Ralph), red checked tablecloths and an upright honky-tonk piano. Similar in a way to P. J. Clarke's on Lexington.

 

Woody Allen and Mariel Hemingway, Manhattan, 1979

Of course it's a seriously luvvie haunt (or, at least, it's supposed to be) as it's one of the only restaurants in Covent Garden which stays open late and is convenient for an after-theatre or post-opera supper. My sister happened to eat there about two weeks ago, and spotted Andre Agassi swanning around on the stairs wearing a snow-white fur coat.

The trouble with Joe Allen's is that everyone there looks like a famous actor, film director or a "somebody", even if they're not. We were squeezed next to a large party, seemingly hosted by a little old man with a white beard and black-rimmed glasses who hopped from table to table, seemed to know everybody and called out "darling!" at every opportunity. He looked (and acted) suspiciously like Dickie Attenborough. The man sitting next to him was the dead spit of Richard Eyre, and the little old woman to his right, I could have sworn, was that scary second half of the 70's husband and wife duo, "The Crankies", forty years on. Anybody who remembers "Crackerjack" on Friday afternoons will know what I mean. 

But oh how wrong I was. At the end of the evening "Dickie" stood up and addressed the restaurant. It turned out that he was hosting a local office party in honour of somebody called Kevin. Kevin was retiring from the business after thirty years of loyal service.

Now about the food. Joe Allen's serves American food, of the East Coast variety. Think Black Bean soup, pan-fried tuna, "candied" sweet poatoes and barbequed spare ribs. This time round, the food was actually quite, even rather, good. Since a recent visit to The Boundary, one of my favourite first courses is Ham Hock Terrine, and the Joe Allen version tasted juicy. It was served with a piquant Mustard sauce. The main course was pork belly, served with crunchy cabbage which hit the right spot. Wine was red and raw and served in a carafe, which is no bad thing in a place such as this.

Service was smiley, quick and to the point. Another improvement, as the last time I ate at Joe Allen's, (albeit very, very late) we had a grumpy mama of a waitress who plonked the black bean soup down on the table as if it was gruel, and made it very clear that she couldn't wait to get shot of us.  But Joe Allen's is Joe Allen's, and somehow it doesn't really matter if the joint can be very hit or miss. London wouldn't be London without it, even if it looks like it really should be in New York.

Joe Allen, 13 Exeter Street, London WC2 E 7DT (020 7836 651)

 

The Greasy Spoon visits... Marco Pierre White (Wheeler's of St James's)

 

 

 

I had been looking forward to eating at the new Wheeler's for months. The old Wheeler's was an established fish restaurant, beloved by many, and in latter days a chain, which sadly, died a slow death after it decided to serve up pre-cooked dishes, manufactured in a warehouse somewhere, delivered by white van and then re-heated-in the restaurant. Marco Pierre White launched the new brand in 2009 in a joint enterprise with Sir Rocco Forte of hotel fame. The new Wheeler's incidentally, is on the site of the old Madame Prunier's fish restaurant in St James's Street.

 

Now I happen to have my golden Fauntleroy locks shorn next door at a vast expense, and over the last year or so, had often sauntered past Marco Pierre White's newish restaurant. It looks dreadfully smart from the outside, and dreadfully expensive. It turned out that I was to be wrong on the first count, and utterly correct on the second.

A few weeks ago, Mrs Aitch very kindly decided to treat me to dinner for my birthday. We decided to head for Wheeler's. The front of the restaurant looks promising- a tiled, fin de siècle style oyster restaurant of the old school, albeit empty; though our faces were to fall when we led into the main restaurant: a cavernous hanger, painted in a shiny red gloss (worthy of a tart's boudoir or a 70's Strikes 1926 burger joint), uncomfortable black lacquered cane seated cafe chairs, and decorated with semi-pornographic Bob Carlos Clarke photographs, of gigantious proportion. Look, heavens, I'm no prude, but there's a time and a place for everything, and I have to admit that I found the prints utterly distracting. There I was supposed to be looking at the lovely Mrs Aitch, but instead, found my eyes drifting towards nubile derrières, clad in oh-so kinky, skin-tight shiny black rubber.

 

 

I suppose the two big celebrity chefs of recent years have been Marco Pierre White and Gordon Ramsay. Rock n' Roll Aristocracy versus Footballer's Wives. Of the two styles, I infinitely prefer the former: all Wiltshire long barrows, covert coats with velvet collars and Bristol motor cars. And St James's is very much my sort of place. There's the endlessly fascinating London Library, the understated Budd of Piccadilly Arcade (where you can buy those knitted silk Mad Men ties), Christie's in King Street, that slightly naff bronze statue of Beau Brummell in Jermyn Street, the impeccable New & Lingwood, and probably the greatest bookshop in London (quite possibly in the world), Hatchards, where, under the addiction of some form of bibliomaniacal crack-cocaine, I have spent my inheritance over the last twenty years.

The potted brown shrimps were good. Mrs A though her smoked eel a trifle bland, and her Halibut Provencal "passionless" (her words). My halibut was reasonably good, though a bit on the dry side. The caulifower cheese was good, and the braised red cabbage, excellent. We orded a Gavi de Gavi and were told by the sommalier that it wasn't cold enough, and that they wouldn't recommend it. I found this slightly annoying. Why have a wine on the list, if you are incapable of selling it?  Am I being unfair?  But service was fine, and the sommalier was charming- a substitute Italian white was conjured up immediately at the same price.

The restaurant was more or less empty apart from an odd looking clientele. To our left, a silver-haired military type wearing a regimental tie entertained a svelte gentleman with a David Niven moustache (possibly Nigerean?). They moved tables to be out of ear-shot. Were they planning a parachute drop on the former Nyasaland? Otherwise, there were some nonegarian Teutons with bulbous girths, reminiscent of Baron Bombast in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. And a few goofy-looking American tourists. Swinging London it wasn't.

It was all at terrific shame. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't especially good, and for the money Scott's or J. Sheekey would have been a better choice. And Mein Gott, Wheeler's was expensive. Jaw-droppingly expensive. It came to £162 for the two of us. This didn't include a pudding, and we stuck to the less expensive items on the menu. Dressed Cornish Crab with sauce mayonnaise cost £15.50, Wheeler's Classic Fish Pie is £15.50, and Terrine of Foie Gras is £14.50. Mrs Aitch found it all a bit formulaic, and I think she is right: I'm not entirely convinced that Marco has had much to do with the restaurant, apart from lending his name to the enterprise and dropping by to have a look now and again. Four and a half out of Ten. Sorry.

 

Wheeler's of St James's, 72-73 St James's Street, London SW1A 1PH (020 7836 651)

 

The Greasy Spoon visits...The Canton Arms

 

Photograph: Ewan-M

 

I have to admit to a degree of self-interest over the newly re-furbished Canton Arms. You see, if I look out of the window of our drawing room, and crank my head a bit to the left, I can see the place. We're that close. It's at the end of the street where we live. 

We're currently sharing our hovel with a troupe of Polish builders, who, until the recent stock market crash put a spanner in the proverbial works, were about to rip out our slightly naff eighties-style kitchen. The plan was to use The Canton Arms as our local canteen, or failing that, to charm them into starting up a local delivery service.

For those of you who haven't been there yet, The Canton Arms can be found on the South Lambeth Road, directly south of the Secret Intelligence Service building, otherwise known as MI6. It's an ambigious area. No-one's really sure if this is actually Vauxhall or Stockwell, actually. The dreadful Foxtons call it "Little Portugal"- but then they would, wouldn't they? In truth, the Portuguese and Spanish tapas bars of the South Lambeth Road ain't as good as some people like to pretend (and sorry folks, this includes Rabato's.)

The Canton has been taken over by the team behind Great Queen Street in Covent Garden and The Hope and Anchor in nearby Waterloo. And it may be quite a shrewd move on their part, for the whole of Vauxhall (extending into Nine Elms) is about to become a major re-development and regeneration hot spot, with a Manhatten style skyscraper cluster planned for Vauxhall Cross (currently one spaghetti of a junction, dotted with edgy gay night clubs), and a picturesque Thames-side walk way extending past the new American Embassy quarter, all the way to a re-developed Battersea Power Station. There's even talk of a Borough Market style complex on the site of the New Covent Garden Market. And it looks like it's going to happen, for as I write, the cranes and diggers are at work on what I presume is going to be the foundations for the shiny new Vauxhall Tower, just to the left of the eighteenth century Brunswick House, where you can buy bits and pieces of resalvaged Old London at exorbitant prices.  Ah, Brave New World.

The new owners have taken the very sensible option of more or less leaving The Canton Arms alone. They've painted the walls a satisfyingly Victorian plum red, and put up quite a few Art Deco mirrors- but that's about it. The scuffed floorboards have been left uncovered. The front of the pub, remains just that; a pub. At the back is where the action takes place, where the eager (if slightly awkward) staff direct you to the tables. And they seem to be doing well, as on every visit there's been a buzzy atmosphere, fueled by their new clientele- vaguely trendy, media types in late youth, wearing Tom Ford designer glasses. It's also becoming a destination restaurant: last week I saw a prosperous looking young couple arriving at the pub in a chauffeur driven black Mercedes. 

Last night we decided to escape the chaos and drop by for a quick supper; on arrival we were directed to "our table", as one of their chaps rather kindly put it. The staff, by the way, wear black and white striped aprons. As at Great Queen Street, the menu takes the form of an austere bit of paper, and the choice is suitably frugal. Mrs Aitch's "potted shrimps" were served warm, oozed butter and were properly seasoned with nutmeg and spice. My "pressed pig's head" was served in thin slices, and tasted very similar to tongue. Mrs A's sole looked fine, though she felt that the chef might have had shares in Lurpak- for they're very keen on their butter at The Canton. My lamb was nice and pink and came with well cooked courgettes, and a crisp and- yes, again- buttery green cabbage. We ordered a few glasses of the house Beaujoulais and were offered the choice of either "warm" or "chilled". A nice touch, I thought. You can also order wine by the jug.

If you're sitting at the bar and want a snack, their "Foie Gras Toasties" might be just the ticket- I gather that these are already enjoying a certain following among le gratin. Yup, the food's not bad at all; actually, in it's own way, rather good. It's unpretentious, earthy and simple. No bad thing, that: pub's a pub, and who on earth wants their local to serve " a medley of fruits de mer presented on a bed of pampered whatever" ?  Especially if it's on a square plate.

The Canton Arms, 177 South Lambeth Road, London SW8 (020 7582 8710)

The Greasy Spoon visits...The Boundary

 

 

 

Last Sunday, Mrs Aitch treated me to lunch at The Boundary. It's Terence Conran's latest venture, to be found in the heart of Jack the Ripper territory; and apart from the location, it's the usual Conran setup- a semi-industrial warehouse converted into a "gastrodome" (his word- not mine), basement restaurant below, a series of slightly pretentiously named rooms in the French manner above (The David Tang suite, The Dickens Suite), a trendy cafe (The Albion) and attached deli or "dairy" selling bottles of Heinz Tomato Ketchup and Lea & Perrins at snazzy prices. 

You see, I've got rather mixed feelings about old Sir Terence. Ever since he opened the very first Habitat in 1964, he's been part of British Life, some would say even before that with his creative designs for the Midwinter Pottery and the Soup Kitchen, where back in 1953, a warming bowl of soup, worthy of Master Oliver Twist 'imself, could be bought for a shilling. 

His restaurant chain (now I believe sold to D & D), although admirable in so many ways, often suffered in my 'umble opinion, from a lack of charm or an understanding of what it takes to create old-fashioned comfort; Quaglino's, initially ultra fashionable, degenerating into a bland canteen with indifferent food and mildly irritating staff: "Hi, I'm Ricky, your extremely camp and over-friendly waiter for the evening"; Mezzo, seemingly a junior version of the previously mentioned, a hot destination for raucous Essex girls up for an evening in the Big Smoke; Bluebird; perfectly all right, but not especially memorable and quite possibly formulaic.  Maybe I'm being horribly unfair. Maybe.

 

 

But back to The Boundary. This place is an entirely different ball game. It's smart, utterly grown-up, both comfortable and civilised, with the urbane French service that I'm currently very keen on: the concierge in pin-striped trousers, the slight incline of the head, the discreet welcome; the art of being highly attentive without getting on your nerves; for unlike the Americans, the French understand that diners don't necessarily want to become best buddies with the restaurant staff on first meeting, and the professionalism and integrity of the waiter's craft is respected to the highest degree.

The restaurant looks stunning too, with well spaced tables of a decent size (something I've got a thing about), and comfortable, velveteen-padded armchairs. There's a whiff of the Sixties with the Fornasetti style ceiling canopy decorated with 17th century astrological charts showing the signs of the zodiac, and illuminated with tiny pin-pricks of light. The exposed London brick walls are decorated with bashed up Victorian silver-plated trays.

The food is excellent and of the uncomplicated Anglo-French persuasion, with simple dishes such as Eggs Florentine offered as a first course. Very Elizabeth David. Their Bloody Marys were full of spice. The charcuterie trolley makes a very welcome return, with a well made and tasteful ham-hock terrine, set in a juicy and flavoursome stock. The roast beef was rare (as we like it)- actually extremely rare- with a light and crisp Yorkshire Pudding, and slightly silly carrots (I'm not sure of the variety), which were so long that they almost flopped off the side of the plate. Gravy was thin (hooray!) and dark brown in colour and served from a dinky copper pot placed on the table.

Pudding was a simple oh-so-English elderflower jelly, served with berries, in a redcurrant juice. The cheese "house" (they're keen on trolleys) smelt good. There was also a refreshingly unpretentious "under £35" section at the end of the wine list. Sunday lunch came to a eminently reasonable £45 a head.  This included pre-lunch drinks, three courses, black coffee, a jug of tap water, a bottle of very drinkable house Rhone and service.

 

The Boundary, 2-4 Boundary Street, Shoreditch, London E2 7DD (020 7729 1051) 

The Greasy Spoon visits...Rasa Sayang

 

 

Photograph: Kake Pugh 

Rasa Sayang does exactly what it says on the tin. It's a small crowded room in Chinatown, just off Shaftesbury Avenue; painted white, with wood-effect tables and cheery laminate menus full of colourful photographs of Malaysian and Singaporean street food. I like this: being able to point at something and saying "I'll have this one, this one and this one". If you're a lazy or frustrated communicator (and I'm often feeling like that in London these days) it makes life one hell of a lot easier. No hanging around for the idle.

The food is good: a substantial cut above many of the dubious restaurants in the area. And there's lots of it, too. I ordered "Seafood hor fun" (that's stir-fried flat rice noodles with seafood, mixed vegetables and "velvety" egg) and liked it, though The Girl thought it a trifle bland: much better were the deliciously crunchy stir-fried "Sambal cluster beans" and the intensely savoury "Nasi goreng istimeura" (rice with shrimp paste, soy sauce and chili). The Girl seemed pleased with her "Nasi Lemak" (chicken curry with coconut scented rice, sliced boiled egg and crunchy anchovies), and my "Curry chee cheong fun" (rice noodle rolls in a hot and rich curry sauce) were the cat's whiskers.

There seemed to be quite a few Malaysian people there- which is always a good sign, although I've just read a few negative Malaysian reviews on the internet, and I suspect they know much more about their own food than London bloggers who pretend to know what they're talking about. It's a bit like the time I ate a soggy fish and chips in Hong Kong- but that's another story for another time. 

Anyway, service was reasonably friendly at first, but then degenerated into slightly brusque, anti-social behaviour- I had my plate snatched from under my nose as I was still gobbling down the Sambal cluster beans with chili (dearie me, what Mrs Aitch has to put up with). I'm not too fussed about this: to survive, a small restaurant like Rasa Sayang needs a brisk turnover, and the bright lighting and hard seats à la "Chicken Land" are- er- not exactly there to make you linger are they now?

A destination for a romantic diner à deux it is not (am I writing the obvious?) but for students of a gourmet persuasion, those on a lunch break with a precious three quarters of an hour to spare, or just the plain greedy, this new restaurant comes out top of the form. Well, almost.

Rasa Sayang, 5 Macclesfield Street, London, W1D 6AY (020 7734 1382)

 

The Greasy Spoon visits...Bocca di Lupo

 

 

I had been meaning to take The Girl to Bocca di Lupo for ages, and typically had done zilch all about it. Until recently, Bocca di Lupo was currently the number one London foodie destination on the Urban Spoon hot list. I managed to get a table at a decent time (in other words not at Tea-Time or the Witching Hour), and one of the best-if not the best- tables at the back of the room, with comfy leatherette armchairs. Service was charming, and efficient.

Initial reactions were good, even if the lighting is a trifle on the harsh side; but I can see what they're trying to achieve: a sophisticated interpretation of a late 1940's Italian canteen, and this meets with some success. It reminded me greatly (at least to look at) of none other than that shining beacon of civilisation and hope, Harry's Bar in Venice- although the food at Bocca di Lupo is cooked, without doubt, to a much higher standard.  Those of an artistic bent might be interested to learn that the walls are lined with tasteful canvases by the Italian-American artist, Haidee Becker.

This is The New Austerity. As at 22 Great Queen Street, menus were printed on unpretentious sheets of throwaway cheap paper, and at Bocco di Lupo the food is restricted to a selection of classic regional Italian dishes. The very helpful waiter suggested we went for a selection of the smaller dishes- in the Tapas manner.

The "tripe with cured pork cheek, chilli and tomato" was wonderful: for once the tripe didn't taste like rubber, and was cooked to perfection. The "artichoke a la Giudia" was crispy, the "rustic pork and foie gras sausages with farro and porcini", divine. The "grilled squid with gremolata" tasted as squid should taste, and for a light pudding, the "blood oranges" were just what we needed.

Wine was provided by the glass, and Bocco di Lupo has an interesting and intelligent regional wine list.

Jiminy Cricket, I really like this place; and I'm currently in quite a picky mood when it comes to reviewing restaurants. Bucco di Lupo is grown-up, civilised yet utterly unpretentious. The food is wonderful, too- which helps.

 

Bocca di Lupo, 12 Archer Street, London, W1 (020 7734 2223)

 

The Greasy Spoon visits...Le Caprice

 

 

A week or so ago, I took The Girl to Le Caprice. Recently, we've become rather fond of the place, and it's currently one of our favourite restaurants. Forget all the fuss, in reality it's just a small room off Piccadilly, painted white, and decorated simply with fresh linen tablecloths and black and white photographs by David Bailey of his ex-wife, Catherine Deneuve and the like.

There's also an upright piano, played badly by a thin person wearing black tie, and a bar propped up by silver-haired roués, chatting up good looking London blondes on the wrong side of forty. Maybe that's its charm?  Beacuse it's not Sketch. Still fashionable, glamourous and grown-up after all these years, just because it is what it is.

Service is friendly and relaxed, and the tables are spacious- that is if you're not sent to social Siberia and given the tiny table for two in the corner, on the right-hand side. The food is good- as you would expect- but certainly not exceptional.  

My "dressed Dorset Crab with celeriac rémoulade" was pretty decent, but the second course of "Cornish lemon sole with herb butter and sea greens", was, in my opinion, under-cooked, and, sadly, a trifle bland. Mrs Aitch ordered an attractive looking "wild rabbit salad with elderberries and cob nuts" which "ticked all the right boxes", but her main course of Atlantic cod with brown shrimps and sea purslane (Halimione portulacoides (if you've ever wondered) left her slightly unsatisfied with " a monster lump of fish" she couldn't handle, and "not enough brown shrimps". It's always welcome to see English Wine on a leading restaurant's list, and the Wickham 2008 Vineyards Vintage Selection from Hampshire was just the ticket.

Don't let our slighly picky observations put you off; I'm a great believer in the idea that you don't go to restaurants just for the food alone, and Le Caprice has glamour and ambience in abundance. In short, it's fun. It's also, in my opinion, surprisingly affordable for a restaurant at the top of the game, and I reckon it would be quite possible to dine there in style for fifty quid a head. We're fans.

Le Caprice, Arlington Street, London, SW1A 1RD (020 7629 2239)

 

The Greasy Spoon visits... The Royal Standard of England

 

 

I've been going to the Royal Standard of England for God knows how many years now. It's supposed to be the oldest freehouse in England, and I have no particular reason to doubt it. The building looks old enough- a Quakerish brick and timber pub in the seventeenth century South Buckinghamshire style, bordered by a brick-and-flint wall, and found down a single track, pot-holed lane near Forty Green, Beaconsfield, on the outskirts of London, where the outer suburbs meet the mucky countryside of "Tinker Country". Here, the scrapmetal heaps of road-side gipsy encampments sit uneasily next to the cliquey golf courses of Bekonscot Man, where hearty middle-aged execs (clad in the latest polyester plaid and natty Pringle v-necks) practise their swings and entertain the Boss.

 

In the days when I was still wearing shorts and humouring my pyromaniacal tendencies with a magnifying glass and a pile of smouldering leaves, they used to serve 'Owd Rodger'- an especially dark and black bitter of superhuman strength with the density of pond water and, which, according to local lore, was limited to one pint per burgher. This was the stuff which put hairs on your chest. Those days are now past, and there is no sign of "Owd Rodger" on the menu, which is a pity, as I look back to those days of inebriated discovery with nostalgia.

 

In a world now dominated by Farrow & Ball and its many acolytes, I am delighted to say that The Royal Standard is a rare example of a pub which has actually improved with age. The interior is slightly grotty, with muzak and dubious sub-Rothko contemporary paintings banned. The food is excellent, too- which helps.

Mrs Aitch ordered fish and chips (£12), and that is exactly what she got- a beautifully cooked, generous helping of cod wrapped in a thick, traditional batter, served with chips of the chunky  persuasion. I ordered the Steak and Kidney Pudding with cabbage (£12), and a pint of the local Chiltern Ale. Again, it was properly cooked, with a suety pudding crust as your dear old Grandmother might have made, with thick, meaty gravy, and a verdant cabbage. It's always a good sign when pubs stock local beer, and the Chiltern Ale lived up to expectations.

The Mutton Shepherd's Pie (£10), Buckinghamshire Bacon Badger (£12), Braised Elwy Valley Welsh Lamb Shank, with sauteed potatoes and roasted vegetables (£16), and Bramley Apple Crumble (£5) all looked excellent.  The Malt Whisky list looks interesting, too with Laphroaig, Bruichladdich, Dalwhinne and the Welsh whisky, Penderyn at £2.75 a shot.

How wonderful to find a pub serving Apple Crumble!

The Royal Standard of England is Pub of the Year, 2009.

The Royal Standard of England, Forty Green, Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire, HP9 1XT (01494 673382).

The Greasy Spoon visits... Khan's of Westbourne Grove

 

 

I'm back. First, you may remember that I had that awful bitter taste thing going on in my mouth after eating a packet of rancid Chinese pine nuts, and frankly, as the taste lasted over a week, I just wasn't in the mood for writing anything about food, let alone even thinking about it. It was as if I was constantly licking my tongue against an aluminium panel. Secondly, my modem decided to finally give up the ghost, so I was offline for a few days, and peace and harmony reigned supreme.

But last week, my taste buds had recovered enough to revisit that former favourite: Khan's, the Indian restaurant in Bayswater. In the event, this became an irrelevance, as all we encountered was bland food and, frankly, pretty rude service.

Khan's was founded, I think, in 1977. My father used to work for an advertising agency around the corner, and I remember being taken there to admire the murals and palm tree columns holding up the ceiling. That's about the only good thing about the restaurant- it used to be a Jo Lyons Corner House- and the ghosts of tea-time orchestras, walnut cake and waitresses with starched pinafores still linger; at least, to those of us with over-active imaginations.

And the first impressions of Khan's are still good, even if it is a paper napkin sort of place. Waiters in white jackets bustle around in Italian style, the palm trees give off a whiff of the Raj, and the murals are still there- if now repainted in a kitsch turquoise and beige.

We were shown to a rickety table. As the restaurant is Muslim owned, alcohol is now banned, so we ordered alcohol-free Cobras, which were surprisingly drinkable- even if alcohol-free beer is a confusing paradox in itself. Service was erratic. The beers arrived and were handed to us, as if- God forbid- we were at some sort of Antipodean barbeque.  

Poppadoms and chutneys arrived on time. The Poppadoms came, I guess, straight from the packet, and the chutneys were boring, thin and unappealing, though the lime pickle tasted all right, and had probably been made in house. I ordered a "Meat" Madras, and a mushroom side dish. The "meat" came in small grey lumps (dyed orange by the sauce) and looked suspiciously processed. The Girl had some sort of chicken thing with radioactive rice (I'm almost falling asleep as I write this). And when the waiter finally brought himself to bring it to us, he spent the whole time chatting away to the people on the next table as he dumped it all on ours. Don't think he could be bothered to look us in the eye once. Enough!  Frankly, the whole place was such a yawn, I can't even be bothered to write about it anymore.

And it's a great shame, as Khan's could, indeed, be excellent. The space is potentially fantastic, and has oodles of character. I like the bustling brasserie-like atmosphere, and the look of the waiters in their smart white jackets and black trousers. If you sacked the head chef, and gave the waiters each a copy of "How to Win Friends and Influence People", courtesy of Dale Breckenridge Carnegie, Khan's could be a great destination restaurant. Currently, it's not. 

And one last word on the subject: Khan's has an irritatingly slick and self-indulgent website, in which they suggest, I quote: "I suppose its (sic) fair to say that Khan's of Westbourne Grove, W2, is probably the most famous Indian restaurant in London."  Ever heard of The Veeraswamy, chaps? The Bombay Brasserie?  Or Chutney Mary?

 

Image by Kake Pugh via Flickr

 

 

 

Khan's, 13-15 Westbourne Grove, Bayswater, London, W2 4UA (020 7727 5420)

Finisterre: Where Have You Gone?

 

 

I seemed to have tapped into the zeitergeist: yesterday, there was another feature in, I think, The Sunday Times colour supplement, on the perfect chip. Which made me think- what's happened to our supposed national dish, fish and chips? 

 

Photograph: gruntzooki

 

In the last few weeks, I seem to have fallen into a dangerously nostalgic, slightly reactionary mood: I was spluttering into my breakfast cuppa on Saturday morning when I read the ghastly news that Bates, the eccentric hatters of Jermyn Street, was under threat of closure. The Crown Estate has its eye on a juicy bit of property along the Haymarket end of the street, and are, apparently, keen to re-develop. I love Bates, and often drop by to touch my forlock to Binks, the stuffed cat and original cigar smoking St James's swell- I like the way he wears his topper at a jaunty angle, and the cut of his dash. Similarly, I've never felt the same since I heard the news that 'Finisterre' was to be replaced by 'FitzRoy' in the BBC Shipping Forecast. It's just not fair. 

 

 

Back in the '80's, I lived in Notting Hill, and a regular port of call was Geale's. This was a fabulous fish and chip restaurant of the old school- red and white checked tablecloths, Windsor chairs, pints of bitter served in jugs, a chalked up blackboard, lovely crispy lard-based batter, proper English chunky chips, and bottles of Heinz Tomato Ketchup and malt vinegar in those little bottles with the plastic spouts. This was the place where famously, Jeremy 'In The Street Where You Live' Brett, struggling with manic depression and God knows what other gremlins, ordered champagne for the whole restaurant. Geale's is still there- sort of- but has now changed hands, and inevitably lost its original authentic London charm in an unnecessary designer make-over.

Over the next few weeks I'm going on a mission to try and find out where I can order authentic fish and chips in the old tradition. Lots of formica, grumpy proprietors, malt vinegar, fishing nets and linoleum will be the order of the day. I like the look of the North Sea Fish Restaurant in Bloomsbury, and The Golden Hind in Marylebone Lane.

 

Gaswork Memories

 

 

 

Hands up who remembers The Gasworks?  Twenty odd years ago, I started my glamorous career in the so-called Art World- as a porter at a well-known auctioneers to be found in the grotty fag-end of The King's Road, London; humping antique brown furniture from lorry to saleroom, and stacking shabby Victorian paintings against the brick walls of the warehouse. A favourite after-work refuge was The Gasworks restaurant (a last gasp of the myth that was Swinging London), in that no man's land between Chelsea and Fulham- a former haunt of Princess Margaret, the Rolling Stones and, if the internet is to be believed, Noel Gallagher.

Where on earth do I begin?  This was a London institution, where eccentricity became a creed. Outside, it looked a bit like a private house, with its green painted stucco, latticed windows of stained glass, garish window boxes, and niches filled with ponderous busts and Neo-Classical statues. The proprietors were- how can I put this politely?- different. Shells (Cheryl?) of Wagnerian proportion, fag in mouth and forthright opinion, ruled over her kitchen, offering a choice of rack of lamb (some lover-ly lamb, dearie?) or duck 'all orange'.  Jacks, her husband, was a thin, dapper man with a trimmed grey beard and silk stockings. Rumour had it that he had previously held some sort of vague career in the antiques business. He liked to join you for an after dinner cigar- this had more than a whiff of Reggie and Ronnie about it.

The dining room was reminiscent of an Edward Gorey illustration or a Pinewood set from that early 70's meisterwerk, The Legend of Hell House. Here was the perfect place to lie on a chaise longue, sip a gin and tonic and admire the Victorian bric-a brac: pornographic chess sets, oil paintings of dubious antiquity and provenance, heavy gilt frames, doubtful portraits in the manner of Greuze, and wall-mounted taxidermy; all set off by a long, polished mahogany dining table, high-back 'Jacobethan' chairs and a massive chandelier.

Choice was not a word in The Gasworks' vocabulary: champignons en croute (a nice bit of tinned mushroom poised daintily on a slice of toasted Sunblest) or avocado pear; rack ('racked' being the operative word) of lamb or assassinated duck; some sort of gateaux horror topped with UHT cream from a spray-on aerosol. Indeed, The Gasworks seemed to be almost obsessed with the trend setting avocado: their seemingly endless supply was stacked up high in the corridor which led to the bogs, which, in turn were lined to the ceiling with amusing nineteenth century erotica.

I held my 30th birthday party there  (I was less interested in food, then), and as that night finished in the wee wee hours (Jack locked the front door at midnight) and the alcohol flowed, my memory is decidedly hazy. Pearl, the long-suffering waiter, rather sweetly made me a little chocolate cake with the word 'Love' piped on the top in very shaky handwriting. 

If they approved of you for some reason (as a wannabe auctioneer, I was in 'the biz', Guv), everything was just dandy. If they didn't (and this could change on a daily basis, as when my brother in law had a bit of mutton bone pointed directly at him, and told that he was 'evil'), you couldn't even get past the oak studded door. An earnest European couple in immaculate Loden coats, no doubt enticed by the cosy Englishness of the bow windowed exterior and the enchanting prospect of avocado vinaigrette, had the door slammed in their faces and were told to 'get lorst, and don't even think of comin' back!'.

But a few months ago I did go back. From the outside, everything looked the same: Jack's black Rolls-Royce corniche (fitted with darkened glass and vanity numberplates) was still parked opposite, and the house looked immaculate. But most ominously, the menu had been taken down. We threw gravel at the upstairs windows, but the net curtains remained firmly closed, and we didn't even get a twitch. Sadly, it looks like Jacks and Shells are no longer plying their trade. I do hope they haven't gone to the great gasworks in the sky, and are enjoying their retirement. That fast changing corner of SW6 won't be the same without them. Even without the duck.

 

The Gasworks, 87 Waterford Road, Fulham, London, SW6 2ET (020 7736 3830)

The Greasy Spoon visits... Louis Pâtisserie of Hampstead

 

 

Many moons ago, I used to live in Hampstead. Subsequently, I've always had rather fond memories of the place; comparing it (perhaps foolishly) to Montmartre; and having been weaned as a nipper on Walt Disney's The Aristocats, think longingly of crooked chimneys, jumbled roof-tops, Victorian gas-lamps, hilly cobbled streets, and silvery Parisian light. In London.

If you've been following my blog, you'll know that I'm not especially keen on change for change's sake, and think continuity is often a quality overlooked by many restaurants. In a world of establishments modelling themselves on the Los Angeles airport transit lounge, circa 1961, it's refreshing to visit such restaurants as Wilton's (all banquettes, shabby velvet and heavily gilded frames) and Odin's (Edwardian British paintings, crisp linen tablecloths, and a discreet double-breasted maitre d'). Yesterday we had a Sunday afternoon coffee at the Louis Pâtisserie, and I can tell you now that it hasn't changed one iota since I last graced it with my presence- oh- at least ten to fifteen years ago.

Louis' is an institution. It's a Hungarian pâtisserie, café and tea rooms on Heath Street- that means it's in the centre of Hampstead village, proper. For some reason, East European restaurants always look a bit like railway carriages or waiting rooms- I can think of The Gay Hussar (railway carriage), or Daquise (waiting room). Louis' looks like a railway carriage- but a first class railway carriage at that: panelled with cherry wood, lined with slightly dubious 1950's still-lifes, and offering its clientele the luxury of banquette seating covered in sinful kidron. It's staffed by rather efficient little old ladies- heavily made up, plucked eyebrows, bee-hives, pearls; and (reassuringly) younger blonde girls with cracking figures and a brisk attitude.

Louis' is deservedly busy, and we had to wait in the crush for about ten minutes before being seated. One of the blonde girls brought a large silver plated tray of tempting looking goodies. I chose a chestnut, chocolate cream thingy, with worm-like bits on the top. The Girl went for some sort of chocolate torte, decorated with an L for Louis in swirly writing. The strawberry topped cake looked fabulous, too. 

In this sort of place, you can't but help listen in to other people's conversations (not that I would normally dream of doing this sort of disreputable activity). There were two youngish types (clearly from distant shores), not I regret plotting revolution, but trying instead to finish off some sort of marketing deal in broken English- with lots of gesticulation, stabbing of the table, and 'how do you say's'. The rest of us were more interested in the cake. 

Louis Pâtisserie, 32, Heath Street, Hampstead, London, NW3 6TE (020 7435 9908)

 

The Post Office Tower Restaurant

 

 

I never managed to get to The Post Office Tower Restaurant: as children we had begged to be taken there, but when the grand day finally came, the IRA detonated a bomb- closing the restaurant, and it never re-opened. 

The restaurant, apparently, survives and I wonder if the empty salon still echoes to the ghosts of suave International Men of Mystery and their Dolly Bird dates, revolving at a constant 360 degrees until thy kingdom come?

Construction on the Post Office Tower was begun in 1961, and at the time, it was the tallest building in London. It's easy to forget what a symbol of modernity it was at that time, and the iconic image cropped up time and time again in films, on posters, on television, and in books and magazines. The revolving restaurant was located on the 36th floor, and opened in 1966.

 

 

 

 

The restaurant was leased to Sir Billy Butlin, who managed the operation until terrorism closed it down in 1971. And what was on the menu I hear you ask? 

Les Hor D'Oeuvres: Le Melon Frappé, L'Avocado au Fruits de Mer (that's just avocado with prawns), La Terrine de Truite Fumée (sounds dodgy); Les Poissions: Le Homard Newburg, Les Filets de Sole Bonne Femme, Les Entrees: Les Medallions de Filet de Boeuf Sautées au Beurre Noir, Le Châteaubriand, Sauce Béarnaise- etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

In other words lots of flambéing at the table, chilled glasses of grapefruit juice, domed silver chafing dishes, and fawning waiters in maroon mess jackets. Hasn't the world changed since then?

 

 

Photographs: http://www.butlinsmemories.com/other/postofficetower/index.htm

 

The Greasy Spoon visits... Moti Mahal

 

 

Photograph: Kake Pugh

 

I'd read good things about Moti Mahal, the oopmarket Indian restaurant of gourmet persuasion in Covent Garden, and was looking foward to our visit. We tried to get in without a booking just before Christmas, and of course, the restaurant was packed out; but the front of house staff were charming and said they would be delighted to see us again; so I booked a table last Tuesday, only to find the restaurant fairly empty. 

Before I go anywhere, I would like to officially put on record just how expensive Moti Mahal was. Jaw droppingly, go and jump off a skyscraper, expensive. Now, I'm not some mean, Scrooge-like, god-fearing, flint-like penny pincher, take my word for it, and I never mind splashing out when the occasion demands (as indeed it did on Tuesday night, when The Girl in her wisdom agreed to marry me), but I do like to get something back for my hard earned coppers; and with hindsight the Moti Mahal makes that glamorous old thing, Le Caprice, seem rather good value. 

And, with restaurants, value is not just about the food, it also includes the atmosphere, and obviously the service. The decor at Moti Mahal disappoints: you're lured inside by an interesting array of blue glass bottles in the window, but the interior, frankly, was bland and uninspiring: pale walls, a few tables dotted about, and a bar in the Los Angeles airport style (yawn). I can't even remember if there were any interesting pictures on the wall? It reminded me a bit of one of those local restaurants you find in places like Fulham or Chiswick (nothing intrinsically wrong with them, but lost in a sea of magnolia and ghastly good taste); and made me think longingly of that lovely conservatory at Chutney Mary, or indeed the kitsch trompe l'oeil and palm trees at Khan's in Westbourne Grove.

I can find no fault with the staff- they were all charming and efficient, in an understated way, and made minimal fuss, though lacked the professionalism of a restaurant at the top of its game, and which, at the prices Moti Mahal are charging, you might, not unreasonably, expect. 

The food was good. Typically, I went for the rabbit kebab spiked with cinnamon crack pepper, and served on an asparagus n' chestnut roesti (Gilafi Khargosh ki Seekh), half expecting Neanderthal-like hunks of pink rabbit flesh stuck on a barbeque stick, but instead, getting two juicy and delicately spiced rolls of meat, which to look at reminded me of those hot, steamy towels you're given to wipe your sweaty face with after coffee and a mint chocolate, and reminded The Girl of something else.

Lamb Biryiani 'scented ' with green cardamom (Matkey ki Gosht Biriyani) came in a small earthenware pot, again delicious, but considering it was supposed to be the main course, mean. The Girl skipped her first course and went for the wild bream with garlic, baked Devon Crab, and bean cakes with quails' eggs (Surkh Lasooni Macchi), and pronounced it all finger lickin' good, with the fish perfectly cooked, and the bean cake with quail's egg fabulous.The wine list was suitable for all the spice floating around, so I went for a Reisling, rather than a pricier Gerwuztraminer.

So, mixed feelings.  Would we go again?  Yes, if I conveniently happened to leave my wallet behind, and some kind soul was paying the bill. For my money, I'd rather have spent an evening at J. Sheekey's or Le Caprice- and with hindsight either of those two places would have been more suitable for that particular night of wit and romance, but- hey! "if you can't fail, you can't do anything", as I believe the late Eric Thompson (of Magic Roundabout fame) once said.

 

Moti Mahal, 45 Great Queen Street, Covent Garden, London, WC2B 5AA  (020 7240 9329)

At The Sign of The White Hart

 

This photograph made me laugh. It looks like a Mock Tudor pub, but it's actually a Southern Railway Tavern Car, circa 1947. They called it "At the Sign of the White Hart"; here you could enjoy a pewter tankard of bitter, (or presumably a slice of gammon with pineapple?) as you steamed through the Surrey countryside towards Waterloo or Victoria.

The gel at the front looks a bit like Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter. She's got her foot foward like a Harrod's model. I bet my bottom dollar the chap at the back (missing only a manly pipe clenched between his teeth) is a bogus Wing Commander and drives an MG.

I would love to know what the waiter is serving up through the hatch. Steak and Kidney pie? A grapefruit half, garnished with a glacé cherry? Dover Sole?

 

Brief Encounter, directed by David Lean, script by Noel Coward, 1945

Hug a Hoodie: Hot Stuff Revisited

 

 

 

A few days ago, I was amazed to discover that a foodie friend of mine (over here for a few months from Bangkok) had never been to the cult South London Indian restaurant, Hot Stuff.  Hot Stuff reminds me of one of those tiny local restaurants you can find in France: a few tables, an enthusiastic patron, and a loyal clientele.  The food at Hot Stuff is not going to win awards, but it's still pretty darn good, and a refreshing change from the delights of the Pimlico Curry Centre.

Hot Stuff is found in that windswept hinterland between Vauxhall, Stockwell and Clapham, just south of the river Thames. If you stretch your imagination and ignore the gang-land graffiti, 60's brutalist architecture, and otherwise edgy concrete surroundings; it's all a bit reminiscent of the Blitz with green painted vegetable barrows, cobbled streets and a "Knees up Mother Brown" pub on the corner- from which floats the strain of inebriated group singing: "wun wabbit, wun wabbit, wun, wun, wun"; highly appropriate, as the eager chefs of Hot Stuff lurk a few doors up. Hot Stuff doesn't have a licence, so you have to nip next door to the offie to buy marked-up plonk. The enlightened bring beer.

As usual we were met by the affable (albeit slightly eccentric) and transfer-tattoed host, Raj, who suggested that he order for us. Hot Stuff is really just a small room, with a few formica tables squeezed inside, and a blackboard on the wall. You can watch the kitchen from the "restaurant": a team of hoodies (baggy jeans half way down their derrières) all working in unison to the soothing harmonies of Snoop Dog.  The chilli prawns, saag gosht, karai chicken, masala fish, makhini dhal and 'magic mushroom' rice were all good, The nan bread was also delicious.

It's the sort of place where they don't give you a bill ("let's call it twenty quid, mate"), but instead, round it up (or more likely, down), for Hot Stuff is remarkably good value. It would be wonderful it there were more family run restaurants like this in London: serving unpretentious, well cooked food which won't break your wallet. Often, local restaurants still suffer from delusions of grandeur (do the ghosts of Nouvelle Cuisine still linger?) and entirely miss the point.  If you're planning a visit to Hot Stuff, it's essential to book.

 

Hot Stuff, 19 Wilcox Road, Vauxhall, London, SW8 (020 7720 1480)

The New English Dining Room

 

 

 

 

I detect a whiff of change in the air.  I've just got back from lunch at the Princess Victoria, a former Victorian Gin Palace in Darkest Shepherd's Bush. That's right- in that valhalla of discarded litter, mini cabs, kebab parlours and the imaginativly named "Chicken Land". The Princess Victoria, apparently, won the "Time Out Gastropub of the Year" award; but I don't think that's doing it full justice. I find gastropubs slightly tiresome, who doesn't?  But, like Great Queen Street in Covent Garden, it's one of the new breed of re-invented Dickensian Dining Rooms flogging well-cooked, plain British food at its best.

There's a large dining room painted a blueish austerity grey, with mid-Victorian portraits of various whiskered worthies that would do the Reform Club proud.  Add to the mix a heavy William IV mahogany sideboard, etched glass, long oak dining tables in the refectory manner, bare floor boards, non-matching chairs and leather armchairs.  The type of austere room that I can imagine the directors of The Great Northern Railway having a hearty luncheon in, in say 1865.  The whole effect was decidedly architectural, which was an interesting observation, as the architectural historian, Dan Cruickshank, happened to be tucking in at the next table.

Now to the food.  My parsnip soup was to die for.  Creamy, sweet, and savoury, with nuggety mushrooms lurking in the bottom of the tureen.  The belly of pork was, perhaps, a trifle disappointing (cooked properly and topped with a decent bit of crackling, but, a smidgen on the mean side), however, the brussel sprouts were beautifully undercooked and crunchy, which, I suggest, is the only civilised way of cooking the critters. Pudding was bypassed in favour of a generous and gooey cheese board (including the obligatory goat's cheese) served with walnuts, and some form of Germanic looking, nutty black bread.

It's refreshing to see a restaurant- or should I say, dining room?, which we can claim as genuinely one of our own. English. Unpretentious. Cromwellian, yet full of Rabelasian cheer. It's the New Austerity.

 

The Greasy Spoon visits...The Old Ebbitt Grill, Washington D.C.

 

 

I've just got back from a quick business trip to Washington D.C. I like Washington: it's a grown up sort of place; understated, with fabulous museums and art galleries, swanky hotels, oodles of history, and fabulous eighteenth century colonial architecture in the Georgetown district.  Having a bit of time on my hands, I took refuge from the pouring rain at the Old Ebbitt Grill on 15th Street- almost literally a stone's throw from The White House; incredibly convenient for a certain Mr Barack Obama if he's suddenly feeling a bit peckish.

The Old Ebbitt Grill is a Washington institution, and many famous American politicians, movers and shakers have crossed its threshold over the years. The original restaurant was founded in 1856, and moved to it's present address in the 1980's. You could see this clearly in the decor: there was a nice old 19th century dial clock over the door (presumably brought over from the original restaurant), acres of dark mahogany and various historic bits and pieces scattered around the restaurant, but the whole effect was ruined by the huge and tacky wall murals, painted in particularly nasty shades of turquoise and beige.  

This reminded me of the fate of P.J. Clarke's in Manhatten. This used to be a lovely, shabby, Irish bar on 55th and 3rd; the haunt of Truman Capote, Jacqueline Kennedy and the like; with a dirty, cracked photograph of Abe Lincoln above the counter, grumpy Irish bartenders, and a 50's Juke Box that didn't work. And what did the new owners do?  They closed it down; ripped out all the original fittings, and then put everything back in again, exactly how it was- except, and it's a huge except, everything was not only identical, but also happened to be brand, spanking new. 'orrible.

Service at the Old Ebbitt was good, and I ordered Eggs Chesapeake with hash browns. This was a local variation on Eggs Benedict, with Maryland Crab Cakes thrown in for good measure, and a Hollandaise Sauce flavoured with Old Bay Seasoning.  

It should be easy to put together. Make Eggs Benedict in the usual way, but place the Maryland Crab Cakes on top of the ham slice, cover them with the top of the muffin, and then pour over the Hollandaise Sauce, to which you've previously stirred in a spoonful or so of spicy Old Bay Seasoning. It's simple, classic American food at its best.

Austerity Britain

 

 

Yesterday evening we had dinner at Great Queen Street, a newish restaurant in London's Covent Garden, directly opposite the Freemason's Hall. It's a welcome return to the idea of the old-fashioned dining room.  Formerly a pub, it's now just a large room with bare floor boards, dark aubergine coloured walls, and basic wooden tables. Wine is quaffed from small tumblers of the toothpaste variety, and napkins are quite definitely made from paper.

The menu (on a single scrap of thin, cheap paper) was concise to the point of parody. Rabbit. Prunes. Crab on Toast. Lamb with Chestnuts. Braised Venison. Greens. Roast Pheasant for Two People. I had clocked the pheasant on arrival: two pin-stripe types were tucking into a Gothic looking carcass on a large old-fashioned transfer printed oval plate.

"Crab on toast' turned out to be excellent- a large dollop of mashed, brownish crab on a toasted hunk of brown bread. "Lamb with Chestnuts" was a socking great hunk of lamb cooked on the bone to a melting perfection and oozing fat, served I think, with pickled chestnuts- I could taste the brine. The Girl's "Greens" were a generous helping of Kale, again, cooked beautifully.

In London, this new simplicity comes as a shock-  the antithesis of the dreaded gastropub, where everything is served with "a twist' or with a nod to Escoffier. This is plain, well-cooked British food at its very best, which relies more on the quality of individual ingredients and technique, than complicated flavour combinations. The restaurant was packed out- so the word has obviously spread and the place is very much in vogue. I'm glad.

Postcard Teas

 

 

Readers of this blog will remember that I am a champion of small, often quirky, specialised shops struggling against a tide of bland, character redundant chains. I was devasted to learn that "Under Two Flags", a tiny never-never land sort of a shop in St Christopher's Place which sold traditional toy soldiers, had finally shut its doors after god knows how many years.

But something lost can often something gained, and on Saturday morning I found a new gem to get excited about. It's called Postcard Teas, the brainchild of Timothy d'Offay, son of the contemporary art dealer, Anthony d'Offay. Timothy d'Offay is a dealer in rare and fine teas, which he has sourced from all over the world, and I'm pretty sure that his shop in Dering Street (just off the top end of Bond Street, behind Fenwicks), retains it's original early 19th century shop front.

Inside, it's a tiny minimalist sort of space, with a shelf of beautifully packaged teas, and a long Japanese type bench, where you can sit and sample his teas for £1.50 a cup. If you buy a canister, you get this knocked off your bill. God knows how he makes any money at all out of this; it's very much a labour of love. We sampled a Ginger and Clove tea, which Mr d'Offay told us came from the Handunugoda Tea Estate in Sri Lanka. The Sri Lankans drink it with milk. It was refreshing, with the subtle yet slightly medicinal taste of the cloves coming through strongly in the aftertaste. I reckon this is currently going to be my number one tea for a baking hot summer's afternoon.

And there's another fascinating twist to this noble enterprise. The d'Offays' are fanatical postcard collectors. This is something I've got a burgeoning interest in myself. Postcards took off in the early Edwardian period, and an early postcard collection, apart from being visually beautiful, depicts a lost world before the First World War; so near and yet so far. They're also an important social historical record. Many of the negatives and plates of these photographs will have been lost, and all we have left are the postcards themselves, and with the shipwreck of time, a dwindling supply.

I'm currently interested in early Japanese postcards, so I've stuck a recent purchase on the site for you to have a look at. Postcard Teas has a gallery space downstairs, where they have occasional postcard exhibitions. Their first exhibition was called The American Dream, which showed fascinating real-photo postcards from the American Depression.

 

 

Tête de Veau

 

 

As you probably know by now, apart from the dreaded mashed potato, I'll eat just about anything: snails, frog's legs, octopus, seaweed, haggis, and chicken's feet; but I'm still not entirely sure about the French classic, Tête de Veau. It's one of the great cult dishes of French bistro cooking.

If you've never tried it; it's the face of a baby calf, ripped off the bone, wrapped around a tongue, prepared in a bouillon; and then served with the brains on one side of the plate, and a vinaigrette sauce and capers on the other. Appetising, eh?

I first tried it at a Parisian brasserie specialising in the food of Alsace-Lorraine, Chez Jenny. A fatty, nausea inducing, glutinous, and chunky mess, swamped in vinegar. Not good, I have to admit to you now, though I was darned if I was going to admit it then.

But the version I ordered at Bibendum, was a different ball game altogether. Obviously prepared with great skill, the sweetbreads melted on the tongue, and the piquant vinaigrette gave off just the right balance.

On Friday night, The Girl very kindly treated me to dinner at Tom Ilic's excellent restaurant in Queenstown Road, close to Giles Gilbert Scott's masterpiece, Battersea Power Station. The first thing to point out is that Mr Ilic's restaurant is good value for money. I've worked out that he probably manages to keep his prices down by buying the less fashionable cuts of meat, and then cooking them with care. Like Bibendum, the menu concentrates on classic French country cooking with a sophisticated twist. For the first course, I had croustillants of calf's head with sweetbreads; and for the main course, scallops with honeyed pork belly. Both were delicious, and presentation was top notch.

Towards the end of the evening, we were joined by Tom Ilic himself, who told us that his restaurant has been up and running for five months. He seems to be pretty booked up at the moment, so it looks like the word has spread. I wish him every success.

 

Polish Food Revisited...

 

 

Apologies for my absence; the workload at The Counting House has been phenomenal, and I've been crawling back to my hovel exhausted, and lacking my usual joie de vivre.

Having said that, on Sunday, I took The Girl to The Wallace Collection to have a look at Fragonard's racy painting "The Swing"; and on the way back to The Silver Beast- parked rakishly (and badly) in Manchester Square, we passed none other than Stara Polska- or if you have been following this blog, "Old Poland". Well, we had to stop by and have a late lunch; and I had a second opportunity to re-try their White Borscht.

 

I've had an email from Nancy of Vancouver, who has very kindly pointed me in the direction of a website with an authentic recipe. If you want to have a look at this site, here's the link: http://www.soupsong.com/rbarscz.html

Otherwise, here's my take on it: First, you need to make a Barscz. In a mixing bowl, mix together a quarter of a pound of dark rye flour, with four cups of warm water. Lie a drying up cloth over it, and leave in a warm place for five to six days, stirring once a day, so that it starts to ferment. Bring a quart of water to a simmer on the hob. Beat together an egg, and a cup of milk, and then stir it into the simmering water. Turn up the heat, let it thicken, and then stir in the Barscz which you've made previously. Thicken it up even more, and season with salt and pepper.

In a serving bowl, place rye bread (torn up into chunks), a sliced hard-boiled egg, sliced smoked sausage (kielbasa), and freshly grated horseradish mixed with a little white vinegar. Ladle in the prepared Barscz stock, and finish off the soup with a bit more grated horseradish.

Check the seasoning and serve. I reckon that's almost exactly what I had at Old Poland, except they probably add some garlic, and also garnish the whole shooting match with parsley. Incidentally, the label I've used as an illustration is for the excellent Zwiec Polish beer. Don't ask me how to pronounce it exactly, but I like the stuff, and of course, it goes beautifully with hearty Polish food.

Stara Polska

 

 

Last night, I was taken to a new Polish restaurant in Marylebone- close to St Christopher's Place. It's called Old Poland, otherwise known as "Stara Polska".

It was a funny, ramshackled sort of a place, with stuffed squirrels in glass cases, and uninvitingly hard wooden benches. But the food was rather good- I reckon that the couple who run the place had probably just arrived off the boat, so the food seemed genuinely authentic; I hope they do well.

I had a delicious White Borscht soup. I've never had this before, assuming wrongly that all borschts were made from beetroot, and therefore pink in colour. Apparently, Polish White Borscht is a traditional Easter Dish. It was sour in taste (with a hint of horseradish?), with garlic, slices of sausage, and sliced hard boiled eggs. I've trawled the net looking for an authentic recipe, but so far haven't found one.

As I've got a hard day ahead of me at the Blacking Factory, I'm going to have to put this one on hold for the time being, and report back later. If anyone out there in cyberspace can send me a decent recipe for this, please do, and I'll post it up on The Greasy Spoon.

Over and Out.

 

Mushrooms

 

 

It's Autumn, and I'm thinking mushrooms. Moist, meaty, woody mushrooms. There's a place I know on a wooded hill in South Oxfordshire, where at this time of the year top London chefs drive out to and pick fungi for free; then charge a fortune for them in their fancy restaurants back in The Big Smoke. Believe me, I've seen it with my own eyes: Volvo estates loaded up entirely with mushrooms; every variety of mushroom you could ever think of.

The English have never really been into mushroom hunting. It's far more common in mainland Europe; and in France you can take your crop into a local chemist, and get them to point out which are the deadly ones; in other words, whicha the ones that are gonna kill you. If you're going to go mushroom hunting, you really need to know what you are doing, otherwise you could end up in trouble- serious trouble. So kiddywinks- a word of advice from The Greasy Spoon: please, please don't do this at home...

 

 

As I was in an autumnal mood, I decided to make Mushroom Risotto. And who better as a guide than Arrigo Cipriani of The Harry's Bar Cookbook. The Harry's Bar Cookbook is one of my all-time favourite foodie reads. The recipes are unpretentious, delicious, and always seem to work out.

The next time you're in Venice, save up, and enter the hallowed doors of Harry's (It's next to the Gritti Palace, near the Grand Canal, opposite a rather dubious dive called Haig's Bar)- you won't be disappointed,; although I have to admit that it has a reputation for being fiendishly expensive. Fiendishly.

Anyway, this is how you make "Harry's Bar Mushroom Risotto":  First, you need to make a "mushroom mixture". Sweat some porcini mushrooms in olive oil, for about seven minutes or so, until they are cooked and golden. Next add some crushed garlic, and some chopped flat leaf parsley. Cook for a bit. Add a cup or so of white wine. I used a dry Italian Soave. Put to one side.

Now for the risotto. They say that the mark of a good chef is how well he or she makes risotto. This could be true. I'm usually quite good at it, but now and again I go wrong; especially if my attention span starts wandering, which as my ex-girlfriend contests, happens on a regular basis. Heat some olive oil in a pan. My much loved and battered bright orange Le Creuset thing was perfect.

Now saute a minced onion. I chopped up my onion in the Magimix. Cook for a bit. Now add your rice. It's very important that you use risotto rice. Under no circumstances use any old rice you've got hanging around in the cupboard. The best rice to use is either Carnaroli rice or Arborio. Let the rice absorb the oil for a minute or so. Add your mushroom mixture and stir.

 

 

 

Now for the important stock bit. You need to use a chicken stock, which you have kept on or near the boil. You are going to ladle in your hot stock bit by bit, so that the rice absorbs the liquid. What you must not do is tip in the stock all at once. Stir like crazy. Ladle. Stir. Ladle. Carry on adding the stock bit by bit. Risotto always takes much longer than the cookery books say. I would guess at least half and hour, to forty five minutes.

When the stock runs out, use boiling water. You should finish up with a well-cooked risotto. I like mine to be fairly sloppy, though the Italians prefer the rice to be slightly crunchy. Grate in some fresh parmesan cheese and stir in some butter. That's it. Perfect for October. And I expect you want to know where that mushroom hot spot is in South Oxfordshire, don't you? I'm not gonna tell you.

Jellied Eels

 

 

Gor Blimey, for years now, I've tried to like jellied eels- I really have; and this is from someone who will quite happily tuck into a juicy plate of Tete de Veau when he's living it up in Paris.  Trust me, I want to like jellied eels, but somehow the miraculous conversion on the Road to Damascus hasn't quite happened yet.  But I'm getting there- slowly.

The photograph shows Tubby Isaac's famous seafood stall in Aldgate, London, which has been feeding "the poor man's delicacy" to hungry East Enders since 1919.

What exactly are jellied eels?  Well, the eel is caught- or used to be caught- in the muddy and murky waters of the dear old Thames Estuary.  Long, slippery, slimey things.  Then they're sliced up and boiled in water with herbs, spices and a bit of gelatine to make a sort of fish stock or jelly.  Afficinados like to sprinkle chili vinegar on them, and stress that you need to suck at the bones to get out the full flavour.

I'm fascinated by the traditional Eel, Pie and Mash shops of London.  There are not that many left now.  I need to get my camera out and go and photograph them for a later post.  If anyone out there can point me in the right direction with a particular favourite, please do.  I know Manze's in Peckham and F. Cooke in Dalston- although I have a sneaky suspicion that the last one might have closed down.

 

The New Piccadilly Cafe is no more...

 

I've just heard some earth-shattering news. The New Piccadilly Cafe is about to close its doors for the last time. Founded in 1951, this little gem is tucked away in Denman Street, just behind Piccadilly Circus. Inside, the formica topped tables, swivel chairs, menu written on a giant horseshoe, burbling espresso machine, and white jacketed staff take you back to a vanished Soho of the 1950's; a shadowy world populated by spivs, bogus Spitfire pilots, teddy boys and gangsters; when the Skylon was a futuristic installation on the South Bank, rather than a trendy restaurant.

There are hardly any of these cafes left now. As London becomes more affluent, higher rents have forced quirky, independent shops and cafes to close. The King's Road in Chelsea is a typical example, and the transformation occured with lightning speed. The same thing almost happened to another perenniel favourite, the Polish cafe, Daquise, in South Kensington, which I am delighted to say is still there (although re-furbished), but still serving its rib-sticking helpings of Goulash, Hunter's Stew, Seurkraut, and Golonka- which, as I am sure you all know, is a stewed and huge knuckle of pork.