The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

The Greasy Spoon tastes...Martin Miller's Gin

 

Welcome to the first of a new series: "The Greasy Spoon tastes..."

 

 

I've always rather liked the idea of having your own brand of something or other. The suave actor, Sir Gerald du Maurier, had a brand of cigarettes named after him, as (almost unbelievably by today's standards) did Sotheby's- "Sotheby's Special Service": in a very smart green and gold embossed box. The late Mark Birley had his own cologne. And then that charmer, Patrick Lichfield, had his very own gin, called, you guessed it, "Lichfield Gin". 

And now there's Martin Miller's Gin. I've yet to meet Mr Miller, although our paths may well have crossed in the salerooms, in the Portobello Road or in the back of a lorry. Originally an antique dealer (and then married to the antiques expert, Judith Miller) he now owns a chain of off-beat hotels and restaurants. 

 

Anyway, to cut a long story short, following my recent post on Dodd's Gin, a PR company got in touch and very kindly offered to send me a free bottle of Martin Miller's Gin for review. It arrived with a promotional hardback book, priced slightly bizzarely at £10.50: Born of Love, Obsession and Some Degree of Madness...The story of Martin Miller's Gin.

Within there's a photograph of Mr Miller, looking in part like the hybrid child of Laurence Llewelyn Bowen and Lovejoy, surrounded by a bevy of models (in various stages of undress), pretty boys with waxed chests and eye-liner, a wolf-like creature and a huge poodle, coffiered, topiarised and dyed pink. 

The gin, apparently, is distilled here in England (in an Edwardian still, name of Angela, if you wondered), and then shipped all the way to Iceland, where it is mixed with pure Nordic water, filtered through volcanic rock.

I approve of this madness (in the best traditions of British Industry): it reminds me of the manufacture of the infamous Hillman Imp by the Rootes Group: you will remember that half the car was made in Glasgow, the other half in Coventry, then the whole thing reassembled, vice-versa- a round trip of some 600 miles; or the production of the glorious 1963 V8 American-Engined Gordon Keeble, in which the car cost more to screw together than the selling price. And they wondered why only 100 or so were ever made.

 

But back to the gin. First, the packaging. I like it. The glass bottle has clean, slick lines. There's a charming olde worlde map of the British Isles and Iceland, surmounted with crossed pennants and a silvery-coloured cap. It's all rather nautical in flavour, reminiscent of yacht clubs, Robert Louis Stevenson, and the 1930's- remember Old Spice?  I note that "since 1999" is printed in a tiny- almost unreadable- typeface.

Second, the all-important tasting. The gin is delicious. And that's an objective opinion. It's subtle on the nose, but the number one overwhelming sense is of smoothness and creaminess, with a hint of sweetness to balance the dry. I tried a blind tasting alongside good old Sainbury's own brand (distilled by the distinguished old firm of G. & J. Greenall). Martin Miller's Gin was so smooth that it could quite easily be consumed neat- almost as if it was a liqueur. It would be a perfect candidate for a Dry Martini. It's a buy.

Sainsbury's, in comparison, although a perfectly respectable and drinkable gin, was raw and unsophisticated when taken neat- definitely a candidate as a mixer for Schweppes tonic water. Millers is 40% Alc/Vol., Sainsbury's 37.5%. Miller's costs £25 for 70cl.e, Sainsbury's £15.50 for a litre bottle.

My current worry is the problem of tonic water. I'm not exactly having sleepless nights over this, but you should get the drift. Why buy a premium gin if you're going to mix it with a sweet, fizzy generic tonic water?  Fever Tree is a good brand, and might be the solution. Dunno. I'm also currently researching the possibility of making my own tonic water (from cinchona bark) but that's going to be for a subsequent post. Tomorrow is another day.

 

The Greasy Spoon visits...Casse-Croûte

 

Photograph: Casse-Croûte, Twitter.

 

I could have have called this post 'A Tale of Two Restaurants'. I'm standing at the upstairs bar of Village East, Bermondsey, a stone's throw from The London Dungeon. I've been standing there for a very, very long time. Waiting to be served. Both the barmen think they're Tom Cruise in 'Cocktail'. They're spinning martini glasses into the air, pouring liqueurs from great heights, working the till with hip gyrations- as if they're dance extras in Saturday Night Fever. It's all slightly embarrassing, and to be frank, a bit of a yawn. They think they're cool, but as my 10 year old niece- going on 19- would say 'are so totally not'. To my right are two boys; skinny creatures with straggly beards. They pick up on my raised eyebrow. I ask them what they're drinking. The barman's making patterns in cocoa on the surface of their brownish coloured cocktails. Espresso Martini, they tell me. Vodka flavoured with Coffee. They sense my disapproval, and shunning me, like some ostrasized beast, turn away in unison.

This is not my place. The strange thing is that I don't think it's got anything to do with my late youth. I don't think I would have liked it even if I had been twenty years younger. Dear old Claudio at Harry's Bar. I can't imagine him serving an Espresso Martini or keeping thirsty clients waiting for fifteen minutes as he shakes his way through a Cucumber Mary. Still, I feel rather at home in Bermondsey, with its narrow cobbled streets, and Hogarthian vibe. It's a bit like being in a Leon Garfield novel. Bill Sykes's manor. It has the feel of an English country town- with The Shard standing in for a church spire.

We meet up with an old, and discriminating friend, Michael, and move on to Casse-Croûte, a few doors up. It's a tiny French restaurant with a very different integrity; all red checked table cloths, Charles Trenet crooning on a bakelite radio, stained Absinthe posters (actually I made that up, but there could have been). The problem with this sort of place is that it can almost become a caricature of itself. A caricature of 'le zinc'. The nictotined ceiling has been painted in burnt umber, all of six months ago. It's never seen a Gitanes in its life. The young chap who serves us sounds French. Very French. Lots of Zzzz going on. You almost expect him to drape onions around his neck, wear a striped Breton shirt and to radiate garlic breath. Not that I would dream of stereotyping anyone. How d'you say?

I've been rabbiting on about French food for years now, and Casse-Croûte is a welcome return to the delights of simple French cooking, presented well. I detect a trend: there's Jeremy King and Chris Corbin's Zédel, their Colbert in Sloane Square and Joel Kissin's newly opened Boulestin in St James's Street, which I've yet to eat at. 

The restaurant, of course, is packed out, with a very mixed crowd. We make friends with a young couple at the next table. A pretty girl with peroxided blonde hair and yet another scrawny beardy type. Kenny Everett springs to mind. I admit to her that I write a food blog. She seems reasonably impressed but my cover's blown when she sees my iphone- It's one of the older types, slimmer, more streamlined, with a touch of Deco, but to her eyes this went out with the ark. My 'hip' status plummets. 'I think you'll find', she says, 'that the so- and so- iphone, Model XZY takes much quicker photographs.' The Kenny Everett association vanishes when they start canoodleing at the table. We return to the food.

Mrs Aitch had the goats cheese salad, which was served luke-warm, almost cold. She looked a little bit disappointed. Michael ordered the creamy mussel soup: it tasted good, but was certainly not generous: the helping was definitely on the mean side- but with these sort of prices they're going to have to cut corners somewhere, aren't they? I had the marinated red mullet, which was subtle and hit the spot. This came with a simple green salad, nicely coated and tossed in dressing. So far six or six and half out of ten.

The main courses were much better. Mrs Aitch had hake with a white bean pureé. It was excellent. The fish was cooked perfectly, and the beans made a jolly alternative to the dreaded mashed potato. Michael ordered a classic pork tender loin, again perfectly cooked, with creamy mashed potato. I had a slowly cooked beef daube, in a glossy rich, beefy sauce, served with pearl onions. It was excellent, well presented and generous.

For pudding, the pear tart was fine. Mrs Aitch enjoyed a gooey dark chocolate pudding which was a 'fix' and 'hit the mark'. 

Wine was red, and of the house variety, served cold in a carafe. All this was a good thing, but then a much-needed second carafe failed to materialise, despite asking for it quite clearly. And by then, it was too late. I suppose if your English ain't up to it, the way forward is to smile- and ignore; and there for The Grace of God...

But another grumble was the coffee. We expected it to come black, with, perhaps, a tiny jug of milk, but instead, were given creamy cappucinos- almost insulting- as if this was the sort of plebian coffee les rosbifs enjoyed after dinner. I'm a fully signed-up black coffee drinker and although I can just about stomach a cappucino at breakfast, it's the last thing I want after a rich pudding. 

I like Casse-Croûte, I do. I admire their simple menu, it's great value (around £35 a head, including wine). The food is cooked well and looks professional on the plate. They most certainly know what they're doing in the kitchen. But at these prices they're going to have to cut corners somewhere, and this shows in the slightly disappointing first courses. And for such a small restaurant, service is erratic, quite probably Lost in Translation. And, through no fault of its own, it lacks that authentic patina created by the greasy vapour of twenty thousand French cigarettes. Two and Half Cheers for Casse-Croûte! Booking is essential.

 

Casse-Croûte, 109 Bermondsey Street, London, SE1 3XB (020 7407 2140)

 

Louisiana Gold

 

 

 

On our trips to Paris, we normally stay at this rather good little hotel in the 7eme. It's relatively close to the Boulevard St. Germain and almost as importantly, happens to be bang smack next to the Bon Marché Grand Epicerie. 

Here you can buy just about anything. One of my rarer finds was a bottle of Louisiana Gold Horseradish and Pepper Sauce. Now I expect in America this stuff is as ubiquitous as Heinz Baked Beans, but I tell you, in England, you can't get your hands on it. It's completely non available. The shelves are bare.

I've also got no idea if Louisiana Gold is a much loved American brand, or some recent marketing man's invention. It's got all that corny riverboat, gunslinger, Old Man River, cardsharp, Deep South stuff on the label. But I've become addicted to the horseradish version which is genuinely delicious and I've now got a problem. I've run out of the stuff, and I'm looking at an empty bottle as I write. I need my fix. I think it would work brilliantly in a Bloody Mary.

Can anybody tell me if a) Louisiana Gold is a decent brand and b) if not, if there is a better (and more authentic) American pepper and horseradish sauce to recommend?

Oh- and one, preferably, that I don't need to travel to Paris to buy.

 

 

Supermarket Garlic

 

 

I do hope The Greasy Spoon is unpretentious. Know what I'm getting at? I'm always happy to recommend the bog-standard option- if I think it's up to scratch. Take tinned sweetcorn for example. Niblets. The stuff made by the Jolly Green Giant. A terrific product. Can you really tell the difference between corn, taken off the cob, and the tinned variety?

Heinz Tomato Ketchup is another winner. It's just got that certain something. Many tinned beans and pulses are excellent, too. As is Uncle Ben's Long Grain Rice. That rice with the starch removed. Brilliant for making a non-mushy kedgeree. And there was that infamous television programme when Rick Stein, during a blind-tasting, turned his nose up at various organic and corn-fed chickens and declared a plebby battery supermarket chicken the pick of the crop. 

But garlic's a different matter. Let me tell you more. Mrs Aitch recently bought a plump head of garlic from a farmer's market and vineyard shop down in Hampshire. It came from the Isle of Wight. It may- or may not- have been organic. I can't remember. But what I can tell you is that this sun-kissed garlic head was larger in size, juicier and packed full of flavour. It was an utterly different beast from the pathetic, inspid, flavourless, ersatz garlic bulbs currently offered in your local British supermarket; in our case, Sainsbury's, Nine Elms- and even- dare I say it- Waitrose, Belgravia. Supermarket garlic, it ain't good.