The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

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)

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The Greasy Spoon visits...Le Caprice

 

 

 

 

A week or so ago, I took The Girl to Le Caprice. Recently, we've become 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 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?  Because it's not Sketch. Still fashionable, glamorous 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 all right- 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 cobnuts" 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 slightly 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 possible to dine there in style for fifty quid a head. We're fans.

 

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

 

Clientele: Silver-Haired Roués, Old School Celebs, Literati

Ambience: Grown Up

Service: Discreet

Food: Anglo-French

Price:  ££/£££

Odin's

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The Humble Cabbage

 

 

With the nights drawing in, and winter just around the corner, there's nothing more welcoming than a humble, everyday cabbage. Cabbage is one of those vegetables which everyone thinks they know how to cook, but in fact, is actually quite hard to get right.

There seems to be a general assumption amongst the cognescenti that cabbage should be cooked to a crunchy texture; well, Up to a Point, Lord Copper: quite often this just means that the cabbage is undercooked- and you'll encounter this in Gastro Pubs up and down the kingdom. 

On the other hand, I have nausea-inducing memories of the cabbage as served up to us at Dotheboy's Hall: this involved boiling water, a kitchen timer set to four and a half hours, the colour yellow, and a terrifying smell reminiscent of the Slough Gasworks. In the world of cabbage, you just can't win.

There are two methods of cooking cabbage. With the "fast-cook" method you slice up your cabbage and plunge it into rapidly boiling salted water. When it's cooked (difficult one to get right, that- you want it crunchy, yet not too crunchy), take it out of the pan and drain it in ice-cold water. This will help to set the colour green. Throw it into a small pan, warm it in butter and season to taste. Make sure that all the water has drained off properly. As I'm impatient (and also greedy), I have a tendency to do this in a rush (a "bull in a china shop", as my piano tutor used to say) and end up with nasty pools of water floating around on the plate.

The second method is the "slow-cook" or braising method, as favoured by the French (and The Greasy Spoon's grandmother). Yes, the cabbage will go yellow, and it will smell of sulphur, but if it's cooked very, very slowly, this might (just about) be a good thing. Simon Hopkinson, in his excellent book Roast Chicken and Other Stories, mentions John Tovey's recipe in which the cabbage is braised very slowly in butter, white wine and juniper berries. This sounds like the sort of dish they serve in Alsace, and my instincts tell me that a Reisling or Gewürztraminer would be just the ticket.

 

I've also found an old-fashioned French recipe for "Cabbage Soup with Diced Bacon". Chop up a green cabbage into small pieces and rinse it in vinegar and water. You then fry some chopped garlic in butter, and add diced bacon. After a few minutes add the cabbage and pour in some chicken stock. Simmer the soup very slowly for up to an hour. Serve in earthenware tureens with croutons sprinkled on the top.

If you're going to use the "slow-cook" method, a heat diffuser might be a good plan. This is a simple device which you place directly on top of the gas hob, and spreads the heat.  It will allow you to cook food at a snail's pace.

Floyd bows out...

 

Sad news about old Keith Floyd. If his more recent appearances seemed a bit contrived, world weary and lacking in genuine enthusiasm, his earlier programmes (such as Floyd on Fish and Floyd on France) were wonderful.

According to today's Evening Standard, Floyd's last lunch consisted of: Champagne, Pouilly Vinzelles 2006, oysters, potted shrimps, Nature Perrin and Fils Conte de Rhone 2007, Red-legged partridge with bread sauce, and pear cider "perry" jelly.

And who can forget Mimi of Biarritz and the correct way to cook piperade?

 

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).

Last Chance Cucumber Sandwiches

 

 

I always find this time of year- very late August, very early September- slightly wistful, if not poignant. Summer is probably over, but with any luck might just about survive for an extra week or so of golden heat- but with an added autumnal nip in the atmosphere.

F. Scott Fitzgerald captured this brilliantly in perhaps, my all-time favourite novel, The Great Gatsby: Gatsby decides to take a dip in his swimming pool for the first time (it's late Summer) and gets gunned down by George Wilson, the garage owner who thinks Gatsby has murdered his wife in a hit and run accident. Here is Fitzgerald describing the blood- red autumnal leaves floating on the swimming pool surface:

"with little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water."

 

 

 

Now, I adore cucumber sandwiches- honestly, I think there is nothing better on a hot June afternoon than a near-scalding cup of Earl Grey tea, and a plate of properly made, slighty salty English cucumber sandwiches; and I suspect that early September is probaby the latest you can get away serving them.

Here's how I make them. I like traditional finger sandwiches (ie sandwiches cut lengthways) and look upon those triangular abominations with distaste. I hope you will follow suit.

First you need the proper bread. For traditional English sandwiches forget anything brown, healthy, hippy or wholemeal. No, you need a traditional pre-sliced white, refined sandwich loaf of bread. Easier said than done, as every time I go to the supermarket, I search in vain for the stuff. So, for the time being, medium cut pre-sliced white bread will have to do.

Spread the bread with softened unsalted butter. Next, get hold of some cucumbers, remove the skin and slice them up so that they are very thin. Pat them dry (a good tip that, as there is nothing worse than soggy sandwiches). Spread the thin cucumber slices over one side of the bread. 

Sprinkle with sea salt and some pepper. Place another slice of bread on top, and remove the crusts. Slice the sandwiches lengthways to form fingers. You can then stack the sandwiches on a plate to form a neat square, and if you're that way inclined, decorate with a few sprigs of watercress.

That's how to make a proper English cucumber sandwich. Trust me.

Retro Sweetcorn Relish

 

 

We've got two corn-on-the-cobs left over in our weekly Abel & Cole vegetable box, and I was racking my brains thinking what to do with them. Last year I invented a rather good sweetcorn relish- which was very similar to the stuff you used to be able to buy in jars. It's white trash diner food, and I like it.

Chop or slice up some shallots and fry them in grapeseed oil. Next, tip a tin of sweetcorn (or better still, some fresh cooked sweetcorn) into a bowl, and mix in some diced green and red peppers, a dash of white vinegar, a spoonful of sugar, and a teaspoon of garlic powder. Season with sea salt and white pepper, and finish off the job with a spoonful of starchy cornflour.

Add the cooked shallots to the mixture and heat up the thing slowly in a small pan, so that the cornflour cooks properly. The finished result was cotton pickin' authentic. Perfect with burgers, even better with fried chicken.  I rest my case.

The Greasy Spoon's Perfect Bloody Mary

 

I'm sitting here after a pretty stressful week (we're moving house) and sipping an almost perfect Bloody Mary cocktail. It's almost perfect, but it's not cold enough and it's crying out for a dash of dry sherry. 

I've always thought that the three most famous cocktails in the world are (in no particular order), the Dry Martini, the Margarita, and the Bloody Mary. I've tried making Bloody Marys in various ways, but time after time, I return to The Greasy Spoon's own recipe, which, as I'm a kind sort of chap, I'm about to share with you. 

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 sounds like a good idea ) and stay off the gimmicks:

First, you put some ice into a cocktail shaker. Next, pour in a decent slug of Stolichnaya vodka, and top up with a good quality tomato juice. Add a dash of Tio Pepe, 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.

I don't like lumps of ice floating around in my Bloody Mary, and think it's much better if strained off.  But the drink'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's the way to keep it if you're going to drink it neat, as an accompaniment to blinis and caviar.