The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

The Gourmand: Dining on High

 

 

 

I'm very aware that I've rather neglected The Greasy Spoon over the last few months, due to 'pressures of work'- the blogger's perennial excuse. Sorry. But I'm glad to report that I am now hard at work on a new post for The Greasy Spoon. Fans of the Balham Mystery, aka The Bravo Poisoning (or Murder at the Priory) are in for a treat.

 

 

In the meantime, may I direct all Greasy Spooner's attention to my very recent feature, 'Dining on High', published in the excellent (and beautifully designed) cult Gourmand Journal? Six glorious pages on the revolving Post Office Tower restaurant- a celebrity favourite in the Swinging London of the late 60s and early 70s. Owned by none other than Sir Billy Butlin, and the haunt of the likes of Mick Jagger and Chrissie Shrimpton. You can subscribe to The Gourmand by following this link. Issue 13 out now. Hurry while stocks last!

 

 

And while I'm about it, a quick rant about The Greasy Spoon on social media. I know that some of you prefer to get your dose of The Spoon this way. That's dandy. But just to let you know- I'm now banned from posting any form of link to The Greasy Spoon on, and by, the Cromwellian organisation that is Facebook- as, apparently, my 'content fails to live up to their community values'. I've think I've finally worked out why this may be: it's 'cos I've included a handful of links- here and there- to interesting gin distillers in the past. Dearie me- naughty old Uncle Luke’s introducing the sinful pleasures of alcohol to the kiddywinks. Oh horror.

Actually, as we all know only too well, it's quite possible to declare that you were born in 1895 when you log in to any drinks website, so I suspect it's really more about covering their backs with the lawyers, isn't it?

 

 

The Greasy Spoon visits...The India Club

 

 

But where have all the students gone? Photo via: The India Club Restaurant & Bar

I've been writing The Greasy Spoon since 2007, and it's to my shame that until yesterday evening, I had never eaten at The India Club. Which is strange, as the trappings and environs of The India Club are very much to the Greasy Spoon's taste. I can go further (I’m really hanging my head in shame now) and admit to you that until a few months ago, I had never even heard of The India Club, and this is coming from somebody who was actually born here in London- in the Big Smoke, and possibly even during one of the very last November pea-soupers.

According to the restaurant's website, The India League founded the club in 1951: 

as a symbol of post-Independence friendship between India and the UK (founding members included Nehru and Edwina Mountbatten)...The charmingly eccentric India Club has remained much the same since its opening over 50 years ago...Today, enter a timewarp with portraits of the Independence era on the walls, bottle-green leather chairs, red lino flooring and wooden laminate tabletops

The original club was situated at 41 Craven Street and did not move to the current premises until 1964. It now occupies two floors of the Strand Continental Hotel (not to be confused with the Strand Palace); a rickety Edwardian hotel with an elusive entrance found beneath a grimy illuminated sign for Cadbury's chocolate.

 

Photo: Luke Honey/The Greasy Spoon

I asked one of my oldest pals to join me. We arrived at 7.30. The joint was heaving. The restaurant door opened to a layered wall of sound. A polite- if harassed- waiter in a white jacket asked us to have a drink downstairs in the bar and promised to come and find us in twenty minutes. The bar, on the first floor, is a cross between a National Service Officer's Mess, circa 1947 and the Student Union of a red brick university. It's a temple to chipped formica. A girl in skin-tight red leather trousers served us gin and tonics, with a wedge of lime. The restaurant, one floor above, is painted a pleasing saffron yellow and decorated with old black and white photographs of politicians and Indian freedom fighters. There is a whiff of the post-war canteen. The dining room was packed full of shouty old men with silver beards, scarily intellectual looking middle-aged women with cropped hairdos, and students. Lots of 'em.

Thinking about it, and if you will allow me to digress for a minute or two, what exactly is a student? The concept of 'a student' is decidedly European and suspiciously anti-English. Students have long hair, and don't wash; they lie in bed until noon, they watch cartoons on the television during the day, they tear up Parisian cobblestones and throw them at the police; they plot revolution and live in garrets. They eat Pot Noodles and read Karl Marx. When students grow up, they become accountants. 

One of my favourite ghost stories is by Washington Irving. It’s called The Adventure of the German Student (1824) and it says it all:

Gottfried Wolfgang was a young man of good family. He had studied for some time at Göttingen, but being of a visionary and enthusiastic character, he had wandered into those wild and speculative doctrines which have so often bewildered German students. His secluded life, his intense application, and the singular nature of his studies, had an effect on both mind and body. His health was impaired; his imagination diseased. He had been indulging in fanciful speculations on spiritual essences, until, like Swedenborg, he had an ideal world of his own around him.

 

 

Photo: Luke Honey/The Greasy Spoon

Anyway. The food. We ordered the set menu for two for the eminently reasonable price of £16 a head. It wasn't great, and a report in the Evening Standard earlier this year suggests, perhaps, that a snap inspection of the kitchen would not be a happy experience: the coconut chutney was grim: watery and flecked with mint; a bit gritty. Packet popadums. Lime pickle, presumably from a jar. A lukewarm battered and fried green chilli. Mashed potato folded into a limp pancake. The Butter Chicken was okay- actually quite nice, in a decent, juicy tomato sauce. The Lamb Bhuna, visually, left much to be desired. The dal was thin, slightly greasy, and again, a trifle gritty, although enlivened with mustard seeds. The Basmati rice was basic and unadorned but cooked well.

The total bill came to £25 a head, including service and two pints of Cobra beer. It was if the clock had stopped in 1947; but making you appreciate the food conjured up by the terrific Vauxhall restaurant Hot Stuff even more, where for a similar price, you can enjoy Indian food of value and quality.

  

The India Club. Photo: Luke Honey/The Greasy Spoon

 

But, look, I don't want to be too hard on the India Club. You're not going there for some crooked little finger 'fane daning' experience, are you? My culinary standards are high. If you're a student plotting revolution or a grumpy old man lamenting the past, the atmosphere's terrific. It's fabulous value for money, and the service has charm. It's a buy.

I'm a great believer in the idea that atmosphere and continuity are just as important- if not more important than the food. Step forward: The Gay Hussar, Odin's, Daquise, The New Piccadilly Cafe, The Polish Club, The Vine Bar, Piccadilly; the former Joe Allen's, the original Ivy, Wilton's, and the old Annabel's. But as the majority of institutions on this august list are now kaput, you will understand that the rest of London struggles to appreciate my point of view.

Until very recently, The India Club was under threat of demolition- those pesky property developers at their diabolical work yet again, and I am thrilled to learn that the joint intervention of a 26,439 signature petition and Westminster Council has saved the restaurant for the time being, or at least until another wave of development hits London town.

 

The India Club Bar & Restaurant, Hotel Strand Continental, 143 Strand, London, WC2R 1JA (020 7836 4880)

 

Clientele: Students, Swiss Cottage Intellectuals, Out of Work Actors, Silvered Beards, Grumpy Old Men

Ambience: 1950s Officer's Mess meets Noisy Student Union Canteen

Food: Bog Standard

Service: Charming

Cost: £

 

The Hindoostanee Coffee House: London's First Indian Restaurant

 

It is often said that the Veerraswamy is the oldest Indian restaurant in Britain. Well, Yes. Up to a Point, Lord Copper. It's the oldest surviving Indian restaurant in Britain. But it's thought that the very first Indian restaurant in Britain- and possibly the Western World- was the splendid Hindostanee Coffee House, opened by Sake Dean Mahomed in George Street, London, in 1810.

 

 

Mahomed was an extraordinary character: the son of an official of the British East India Company but adopted at an early age by an Anglo-Irish army officer. He served in the army of the East India Company as a surgeon, and later emigrated to Cork where he converted to Anglicanism and eloped with a pretty Irish girl.

 

 

The Hindoostanee Coffee House opened in 1810 in George Street, near Portman Square:

Hindostanee Coffee-House, No. 34 George-street, Portman square-Mahomed, East-Indian, informs the Nobility and Gentry, he has fitted up the above house, neatly and elegantly, for the entertainment of Indian gentlemen, where they may enjoy the Hoakha, with real Chilm tobacco, and Indian dishes, in the highest perfection, and allowed by the greatest epicures to be unequalled to any curries ever made in England with choice wines, and every accommodation, and now looks up to them for their future patronage and support, and gratefully acknowledges himself indebted for their former favours, and trusts it will merit the highest satisfaction when made known to the public

 

 

Mahomed sold Indian take away-too:

Apartments are fitted up for their entertainment in the Eastern style, where dinners, composed of genuine Hindoostane dishes, are served up at the shortest notice… Such ladies and gentlemen as may desirous of having India Dinners dressed and sent to their own houses will be punctually attended to by giving previous notice…

I would give my teeth to have an original recipe from the Hindoostanee coffee house, but as far as I am aware, none survive. So I turned to David Burton’s The Raj at Table which gives, at least, an impression of similar dishes that the Hindoostanee Coffee House might have served. Here’s a simple recipe for Country Captain, which was one of the most famous dishes in the Anglo-Indian repertoire:

Cut a roasting chicken into eight pieces, trim off the fat and fry in ghee until browned. Remove and set aside. To the remaining ghee add two sliced onions and cook for a few minutes along with five crushed cloves of garlic and two tablespoons of freshly grated root ginger. 

Then add one teaspoon of turmeric, freshly chopped green chillies (to taste), two teaspoons of freshly ground black pepper and two bruised cloves. Cook for a minute or two.

In goes the chicken pieces and some stock. Cover the pan and simmer at a lowish heat until the meat is tender. Top up with more stock or water, if neccessary.   Finish off with sea salt and a squeeze of lemon juice to taste. Serve with fried onion rings and chopped red and green chilis.

It’s a pretty simple curry, but sometimes simplicity is the way forward. The sauce is going to be relatively thin, so watch the reduction with care until you get the consistency you want. Adding freshly chopped coriander to the chilli garnish at the end might also be a good plan.

 

P. J. Clarke’s Chilli

 

 

 

I’ve been struggling to make a decent chili for years. Back in the 90’s I spent some time in America, shuttling back and forth from London and New York, cataloguing auctions for Phillips on the Upper East Side, then for Freeman’s in Philadelphia (America’s oldest auction house); plus, latterly, an unsavoury sojourn in the Gomorrah that is Los Angeles, which included, amongst other things, a bizarre invitation to a nudist chili cook-off in the Californian desert just outside Palm Springs.

One of the greatest things about America is its diner chili. Do you know what I mean by this? It’s inevitably on the menu. Always. Wherever you go. A small white bowl of hot, thick, dark red chili; cumin rich, served invariably with a handful of saltine dry crackers and a topping of grated hard cheese.

And one of the best places to get this was at P. J. Clarke’s, the famous Manhattan saloon on 55th and 3rd, which became, inevitably, a regular after-work, if dusty, haunt: all grumpy Irish barman, red check tablecloths, foxed boxing photographs and cracked daguerreotype of Abe Lincoln. A rare bit of nineteenth-century New York, still standing, just; surrounded by glittering skyscrapers, in the manner of Donald J. Trump.

 

P J Clarke’s, 44 West 64th Street, New York

 

The Third Avenue Overhead Railway, New York City, 1942

 

A Mr Jennings established the saloon in 1884 when Third Avenue still had the overhead streetcar railway: reminding me of the sets in Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in America, Alan Parker’s Bugsy Malone, and that infamous car-chase sequence in The French Connection. It features in The Lost Weekend, MadMen and The Last Days of Disco, one of my all-time favourite films, directed by the wonder that is Mr Whit Stillman, one of my all-time favourite directors.

Jacqueline Kennedy was a fan of P. J. Clarke’s, as was Richard Harris (he of Camelot), Marilyn Monroe, Nat King Cole, Buddy Holly and Woody Allen. Caroline Kennedy was chucked out for underage drinking, apparently.

 

Kate Beckinsale and Chloe Sevigny in Whit Stillman’s “The Last Days of Disco” (1998)

 

Inevitably, P.J.’s is under new ownership, and change is afoot, or to be more accurate, has already taken place. Certainly, in 2002, the restaurant was given a make-over New York Style, with the ancient interior, ripped out and replaced with a refurbished (new?) but supposedly identical interior. The website boasts:  

 “What’s Old is New. ...See if you can spot any major overhauls (you can’t)”

Sorry, boys, but the eagle eye of Mister Aitch most certainly can. The tiled floor for starters. What used to be nicely cracked and uneven is now spanking new. And what about the formerly nicotined ceiling? And anyway, if the whole point was to re-create exactly what there was there before, then why on earth refurbish it in the first place? Weird logic. A classic example of change for change’s sake; typical of new management who just can’t resist a tinker (the presumably failed re-packaging of Lea & Perrins by Heinz is another noticeable example). If it ain’t broke don’t fix it: it was perfect as it was, cobwebs included, although as a commercial realist, I appreciate that the expansion into what has become, effectively, a small chain of similarly themed restaurants might need to attract a slightly different clientele: curiously clean people who don’t appreciate dust. But there you go.

 

Jacqueline Kennedy and Aristotle Onassis photographed outside P. J. Clarke’s by Ron Galella, 1971

 

But how to recreate the chilli, as served in P. J. Clarke’s? There’s an awful lot of chilli recipes out there. It’s an American cult dish. Some recipes want you to add carrots. Others, celery and bacon. Redneck aficionados in the Mid West recommend stewing the beef mince in beer; Californians, Tequila. The Brits add red wine. You can make it with venison. Some experts ditch the mince and require you to chop up beef steak into large chunks. You can also add caraway seeds and coriander. Texas makes it one way. Florida makes it another. Some people get most upset if you add beans. Others don't.

I’ve tried all of this. I’ve experimented. None of it works. The result is nothing like the bowl of chilli you get in P.J.’s or diners across America. And then the simple truth dawned. It’s obvious. There is no secret. There are no extra ingredients. Diner chilli does what it says on the tin: Beef Mince. Oregano. Chili Powder. Cumin. Onions and Garlic. Tomato. Kidney Beans. That’s more or less it, and funnily enough, the finished product is so much more satisfying.

Here’s my recipe for a very simple, and very authentic American Diner Style Chili:

Fry beef mince in oil until browned. Meanwhile, in your Magimix whizz up an onion, garlic, and a few sliced green Jalapeno peppers (mine came preserved in a jar with brine). Add the mixture to the mince and cook for a few minutes, until the onion is soft. Next add chilli powder, cumin and dried oregano. All three are essential ingredients in the dish, and I will leave the quantities to you. Then comes a teaspoon of paprika, a dash of cayenne pepper, sea salt flakes and some black pepper. Cook. In goes a tin of chopped tomatoes, a tablespoon of tomato paste, beef stock, a dash of Lea & Perrins and a shake of Green Tabasco. Simmer at lowish temperatures until the beef is cooked through and the sauce is thick. An hour perhaps? An hour and a half?

Finish the dish off with kidney beans. I used dried beans that I had cooked previously, but honestly, the tinned variety would be just as good, and more appropriate. Check the seasoning and serve with a dollop of sour cream, grated cheese and dry saltine crackers.

You’re not going to win any culinary awards with this version, but strangely, I think it’s more satisfying and authentic than any of the numerous ‘enhanced’ interpretations you’ll find out there on the net. It’s the real deal.

 

 

The Greasy Spoon Visits... Kricket

 

 

 

I’ve discovered a favourite new London restaurant. Found not in the swanky environs of St James’s, the frenetic backstreets of Soho or the hipster hovels of Shoreditch; but in a re-cycled shipping container plonked on the second floor deck of some sort of community centre pop-up in Brixton, South London. Yup, a simple shipping container, which can hold about twenty people, seated along a refectory table. Kricket’s the name. Serving, as their simple website announces, ‘Indian Small Plates & Cocktails’.

I took Mrs Aitch there on a rainy, languid, Friday afternoon in August. Nobody there, apart from two cooks working away down one end of an organised micro kitchen and a svelte waitress with a ring in her nose, which suited me just dandy; but I gather after lights out, the joint’s buzzing with creatures of the night, and as there’s (understandably) no booking and the word has spread, you might have quite a long wait before eating. But my God, it’s worth it. The food is divine.

The menu says ‘Indian’, but it ain’t like any Indian I’ve ever tasted, although I’m guessing there’s a nod to the tangy, salty, sweet and sour taste of Southern India and Goa going on in there. I’m not a fan, normally, of fusion food; in the hands of an amateur it can be scarily pretentious and if it’s going to work- and often this is a big ‘if’,  it needs a cook with the tastebuds of a Brillat-Savarin in the making. But here it works beautifully. Creative, enterprising and fun.

We ordered most of the bowls off the simple typed menu. First up was the Crab Meen Moilee (£8), Kricket’s take on a Keralan fish curry: radicchio leaves and crab tossed in a sweet creamy, lightly spiced coconut sauce, topped with crushed peanuts. Next up was Torched Mackerel with puffed brown rice, cucumber pickle and gooseberry chutney (£7). Fabulous. Deep flavour, masses of tang and crispy crunch. Then came a Smoked Sweet Potato, with gunpowder, crispy onion and labneh (£6), Lansooni Scallops, with wild garlic, poha and seaweed (£4) and Grilled Hispi Thoran with pickled carrot, coconut and curry leaf (£6). All dandy. Lovely simple presentation too, if that sort of thing bothers you. It bothers me, but then as a dealer in art and antiques, I suppose it would.

In case you’re wondering, ’Gunpowder’ is Kricket’s own spice mix, ‘labneh’ is a tangy cheese made by draining yoghurt over-night and ‘poha’ is a de-husked rice, flattened into dry flakes. We finished off with their Grilled Lamb with black stone flower, smoked paprika raita and coriander and mint chutney (£9.50). The lamb was beautifully soft, as by now you might have expected. Black Stone Flower is "an edible lichen flora, which grows on trees, rocks and stones. Botanically, it belongs to the Parmelia perlata family and it is referred to as ‘foliose’ meaning that each flower is vaguely similar to foliage or leaves and florae.” But then you knew that.

Kricket is the baby of entreprenur Rik Campbell and chef, Will Bowlby, the latter a former employee of Vivek Singh’s Cinammon Kitchen, which, I suspect, has had a benign influence. The Greasy Spoon’s signature dish is kedgeree (I can bore you to tears with a long and winding discource on kedgeree, the origins, history and development of), so I was especially interested in Kricket’s take on the dish (which sadly wasn’t on the menu when we visited). If ever there was a fusion dish, this has to be it: originally khichdi was a combination of lentils and rice, to which the British added smoked fish and eggs. Kricket’s version consists of a lightly curried dal combined with smoked haddock, pickled cauliflower (thinly sliced), a raw egg and sprigs of parsley, or quite possibly coriander. Vivek Singh makes a ‘Bengali Kedgeree’ with yellow mung beans, turmeric, green chili, cumin seeds, cream, tomato and coriander. 

It’s all terribly exciting. We went home and it suddenly struck me quite how dull my own culinary attempts can be- stuck in a molasse of retro Cordon Bleu, Elizabeth David and the Harry’s Bar Cookbook. But that’s for now. I will probably change my mind tomorrow.

 

Kricket, Pop Brixton, 49 Brixton Station Road, London SW9 8PQ (No Reservations)

 

Locanda Montin

  

 

 

Looking out of the grimy basement window onto a sodden garden, on a raw London morning in March, and I’m suddenly thinking how pleasant it would be if the clock was to whirr forward, and by some form of occult osmosis, I was plonked bang in the middle of Venice on a fresh, sunny April morning, enlivened (here and there) with the odd shower. Actually, thinking about it, not in the very middle as such, more to the left and down a bit: on the unfashionable side of the Grand Canal, slightly off the beaten track. At the Locanda Montin. 

 

 

You may or may not have heard of the Locanda Montin. It’s one of those old-fashioned insititutions, loved by Venetians, enterprising visitors and the enlightened readership of The Greasy Spoon. It’s a restaurant with rooms. The star of the show is the pretty garden with its romantic arbours, starched linen table cloths, twisty trees and trailing vines lit by hanging lanterns. But more of that later.

I’ve developed an interest in the food of the Veneto. It’s different- in its subtle way- from the food of Tuscany or the Mediterranean glories of the Arcadian South. We’re talking risottos, white fish from the Lagoon, black squid ink of a Gothic persuasion, carpaccio, gnocchi, stuff in breadcrumbs, fried; prosecco.

And for English readers, there’s a surprisingly large number of decent books on the subject. It would be fun to build up a small reference library. The Harry’s Bar Cookbook is a must, as is Russell Norman’s Polpo. I haven’t as yet bought Julia dell Croce’s Veneto: Authentic Recipes from Venice and the Italian North East, but I read that it is excellent. Tessa Kiros’s books are sumptious, and I’ve also got a sneaky liking for Francesco da Mosto’s Francesco’s Kitchen, in as much that I suspect the food in it is genuine- although, perhaps unfairly, you do wonder who actually wrote the thing.

 

Tony Musante and Florinda Bolkan in The Anonymous Venetian, 1970.

 

On what must have been my second memorable visit to Italy in the late 1980’s, we had dinner with some rather sybaritic aquaintances of my parents in Milan, two pretty chain smoking daughters on tow- and Montin was their number one recommendation; the restaurant’s cult status enhanced by its appearance in the romantic 1970 Euro-flick The Anonymous Venetian, which with its technicolor soft focus and harpsichord tinted soundtrack is now looking decidedly nostalgic, yet despite all this, regrettably not available with English sub-titles. 

Montin also stars in the late Glynn Boyd Harte’s delightfully illustrated travelogue, Glynn Boyd Harte’s Venice, published in 1988. Here he describes eating at Montin:

There are pink table-cloths, the friendly waiters wear white jackets...Dinner for us here is almost a ritual. I always have antipasto Montin with shrimps, squid and mussels, tagliatele al salmone, followed by either boiled tongue with salsa verde or fegato all Veneziana with polenta. With this we drink elegant carafes of fizzy Prosecco or Pinot Bianco (della case) and perhaps finish with tirimisu or the aptly named zuppa inglese.

Look- you don’t got to Montin for a “gourmet experience”. But I like that. I’m suddenly rather suspicious of this current obsession with “fane daning”. Continuity, atmosphere and association are as important in a restaurant as a celebrity chef with a big buck television deal and God knows how many Michelin stars. Are they not?

 

Counter Revisited

 

Philip Reicherstorfer: Restaurant Evangelist

 

We dropped by Counter, to see how the building work was getting on. Readers of The Greasy Spoon will remember my recent post: Counter is- or will be- a new restaurant and brasserie for Vauxhall, the brainchild of enterprising restaurateur, Philip Reicherstorfer- or should I say 'restaurant evangelist' (?) as the whole flippin' scale of the project is now becoming apparent. 

 

 

The restaurant fills a massive space, the entire length of an old railway archway (and longer than the height of Nelson's Column) with a "monastic" archway in glass at one end, looking on to what is likely to become (if Lambeth Council succeeds in demolishing the hideous bus station) a new town square for Vauxhall:

 

 

Philip knows exactly what he's doing, and the bones of the restaurant are now taking shape: a bar the Vauxhall end, kitchen in the middle, and further space at the back, not unlike the old concept of the Saloon and Public Bar in a Victorian pub.

 

Mrs Aitch props up the bar to be...

 

Philip in action...

 

 

I gather that a chef has been hired- or is about to be hired- and the menu will inspired by American and French brasserie classics. At the moment, it all rather reminds me of one of those immaculate ocean liners, the RMS Queen Mary or Aquitania, with Philip very much at the helm and in command of every detail; the shiny, metallic ventilation pipes are enormous and, I think, are going to be left on view. Watch this space.

 

 

The Greasy Spoon visits...Otto's

 

 

 

It's 1968. I'm in a swankpot restaurant entertaining Dollybird Number Two. Edda Dell'Orso's crooning Morricone. There's a fawning waiter in a maroon mess jacket. He's flambéing Crêpes Suzette at the table. Behind him hovers a suave eagle-eyed maitre d' of the old school. Or that, at least, is how I imagine it; in my dreams. Silver Service. That's what they used to call it. And when was the last time you had that?

Well, Greasy Spooners, I have some exciting news. Please make your way as fast as you can to the soon-to-be-hallowed doors of Otto's in the Gray's Inn Road. Otto's opened in 2012, so it's a relatively new kid on the block. It's a small-ish restaurant, sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a sushi bar, just across the road from the barristers of Gray's Inn and almost next door to the newscasters of ITN. Visiting Otto's is to enter a culinary time machine. A little trip in time back to one of those smartish, sophisticated and very grown up local restaurants which used to exist in the land of Never-Never. We're in Frasier and Niles Crane territory; this, I think, is what used to be known as 'gastronomy'. 

The maverick genius behind this new enterprise is Austrian-born Otto Albert Tepassé, old-hand and late of the Tour d' Argent and Mirabelle. If you're lucky- and rich- you may have eaten at the Tour d' Argent. It's that oh-so-famous restaurant in Paris where they serve the spécialité de la maison: pressed duck. But this is no ordinary duck. Each dish comes with a signed and numbered certificate as if it was a trinket from the Franklin Mint.

 

Tour d'Argent, Paris, 1974. The generosity of a more leisurely age.

 

Now, too, you can experience the delights of pressed duck, here in foggy old London. If you're prepared to pre-book a slot, pay £140 and watch the whole performance (it takes over an hour). For this is the generosity of a more leisurely age. No second sittings with this one. Otto's devotes a whole page on its menu to the story behind its very own Edwardian duck press (Christofle, 1910, if you're wondering). They have a lobster press too, but somehow that doesn't seem quite as exciting:

Pressed Duck is mostly prepared in front of the customer. The Duck is roasted to rare and carried to the table where thin slices are cut from the breasts. The breast slices are then placed in a dish of reduced red wine. The rest of the Duck except for the legs, which are served grilled, is pressed in the special screw press. The juice obtained is flavoured with Cognac, thickened with Duck liver and poured over the slices of breast which finish cooking in the sauce. 

Which reminds me. Back in the early 90s, I managed- with difficulty- to secure a job of sorts as a junior 'expert' (I now hesitate to use the word) at the defunct auction house, Phillips, which then eeked its trade at the shabbier end of New Bond Street. The first objet I ever had the pleasure of cataloguing was- you guessed- a silver-plated duck press; a relic, I expect of some smart high falutin' 50s restaurant gone bust. Floundering, I described it as a 'grape press' and gave it an embarrassingly low guesstimate. Prudence Leith won it for a pittance.

 

 

Inside, Otto's has an Old European vibe. Whitewashed walls. Large tables, pressed linen, spacious padded banquettes in crushed raspberry, art nouveau lamps and Viennese busts. Decorative nick-nacks in silver-plate grace each table. Ours was a lobster. Downstairs, there's a framed poster of Catherine Deneuve's naked back, Belle de Jour; upstairs, bizarrely, there's a thing for Marilyn Monroe going on, and Audrey Hepburn to a lesser extent- photographs, posters and cushions. It's kitsch. But it works. I think. Up to a Point. It's weirdly edgy, even slightly eccentric as, seemingly, is Mein Host.

We sat quite close to the fabled duck press. Saw it in action, too- surrounded by a team of eager white-coated waiters wrestling with the wheel on the top. They like trolleys at Otto's. And waiters, of which there seems to be an inexhaustible supply. After a bit, one of them came along and with ceremony parked a trolley, spiked with a piglet's haunch, at the table opposite (presumably the Jambon Agé de Serrano?).

 

 

The food is of the Old School. It's rich. It's Gothic. It's French. It's wonderful. My first course of brains (Cervelle de Veau a la Grenobloise, Poêlée de Champignons Sauvage) was superb. Barely cooked, flashed in the pan - as it should be, meltingly soft, almost runny, served in a complex sauce enlivened with lemon, capers, parsley and mushrooms. Mrs Aitch's Snail Ravioli (Ravioles d’Escargots à la Bourguignonne) was 'divine'. 

Then I had to have the Steak Tartare with Rôsti potatoes (Tartare de Bœuf, Préparé à la Table, Pomme d’Arphin), of course, I did- it's a very Greasy Spoon dish. It said 'prepared at the table' on the menu. I thought this was going to take a minute or so. Not so, this was theatre. It took about fifteen minutes. Having something done in front of you is, of course, a childish pleasure. Then another trolley was wheeled out with various ingredients spread out across the top. And a wooden bowl. Our waitress cracked an egg into it and made a mayonnaise, subsequently mashing in all the other ingredients one by one with Lea & Perrins and Tabasco added to taste. 

Mrs Aitch had Saddle of Hare in a Raspberry Vinegar and Bitter Chocolate Sauce (Selle de Lièvre de Fennes, Choux Rouge, Vinaigre de Framboise et Sauce au Chocolat), an enlightened choice for a dark and rainy London night. The dish was 'immaculate', the meat was 'unbelievably tender' and it arrived with 'delicious creamed potatoes'. 'It was so much better than I thought it was going to be'. Always a good sign, that.

Through all this culinary excitement, Otto remained inscrutable. But on leaving, I told him how much I had enjoyed the brains, and his face lit up into a huge smile. The bill came to about £75 for two, including wine, two courses and coffee. And that included a Kir Royale and a Bellini. You can also have a very reasonably priced lunch at Otto's: two courses cost £24, and a half carafe of the superior house wine is £12.

 

 

As you can gather, we're rather smitten with Otto's. He's ignored popular opinion and just gone ahead and done it. Opened an old-fashioned French restaurant of the Old School. As if the River Café had never existed. It's all so splendidly unfashionable. It's terribly exciting. Who's ever heard of bruschetta?

 

Otto's, 182 Gray's Inn Road, London WC1X 8EW (020 7713 0107)

 

Clientele: Barristers, Judges, Newsreaders, Gourmands, Drs Frasier & Niles Crane

Ambience: Old School Kitsch 

Food: Superb

Service: Silver

Price: ££/£££ 

 

Underneath the Arches: a Restaurant is Born

 

 

 

Just got back from a fascinating hour or so being shown round the building site of Counter, a new restaurant in London's Vauxhall- on the South Bank, just across the river from Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It's the current baby of our enterprising friend, Philip Reicherstorfer, former J. P. Morgan banker turned restaurateur and visionary.

 

 

I've mentioned Vauxhall in previous posts- it's where we happen to live, and currently, I believe, now Europe's biggest re-generation zone and building site. The new American Embassy is under construction, and near the location of the original 18th century Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens one Mr Damien Hirst is opening a gallery featuring his entire art collection. A mini-Manhattan is planned linking the once edgy streets of Vauxhall to the East with a re-imagined Battersea Power Station complex to the West.

And that's only the half of it. Over 10,000 new residents are expected to live in the previous wastelands and bomb-sites of Nine Elms. That's 18,000 new homes.

 

 

 

You'll find Counter- or what is to become Counter- in one of those Victorian brick railway arches originally constructed by the London & South Western Railway. And it's not a half-hearted enterprise. The space stretches a phenomenal 60 metres, long enough to fit in the entire length of Nelson's Column with room to spare. The slightly Gothic arch at the end creates an almost cathedral like ambience, with the distant rumble of over-head trains echoing into the cavernous space.

 

 

I admire Philip's ambition. He knows exactly what he wants. It's going to be dreadfully smart. "Art Deco meets Disco" is the plan. No brick walls à la Joe Allen going on here. Or scrubbed pine floorboards. Or chalked-up blackboards. "Shabby Chic" ain't a popular phrase in these parts.

Instead, the walls are going to be lined with soft antiqued glass, creating a 'Hall of Mirrors, Versailles-ish' vibe. The space will be divided into two restaurants with a bar in the middle and private dining rooms. Orange is the house colour.

 

Philip examines the re-claimed wooden floor blocks

 

A darkish slate grey is the colour

 

 

 

The ceilings are being left in their semi-industrial state and are currently being sprayed with gallons and gallons of Farrow & Ball paint in a subtle off-black.

Food will be of the unpretentious comfort variety, covering different regions of the globe, suitable for London's increasingly international population. Sam Adams beer will be available on tap. 

Philip has asked me back in a month or two's time, and I'll report back with a progress update. In the meantime, watch this space. Counter plans to open in January 2015.

 

The Greasy Spoon in Florence

 

 

A Room with a View

 

We're just back from a few days in Florence. I've got a thing about the place. Thinking about it, I've got a thing about Italy, but Florence just has that special 'something'. I adore Venice. I'm excited by Rome. I'm turned on by the Amalfi Coast. But Florence? I'm not sure exactly why this is. The stern fortifications of the Palazzo Vecchio? Quite probably. The scented delights of the Santa Maria Novella apothecary? Quite possibly. The simplicity of the convent of San Marco and the wonder that is The Annunciation? Without doubt. The dreamy, water-colour view from the Boboli Gardens, Rus in Urbe? Most definitely. The food? Now that's an interesting conundrum.

 

The dusty Boboli Gardens

 

I first visited Florence back in the late 90's with my then girlfriend. We were both strapped for cash (a struggling junior auction specialist and a chain-smoking lapsed journalist between us); this was in the early days of the internet, before the addiction of ipads and iphones. We trawled the touristy area near the Piazza della Repubblicca, ending up in a generic 'trattoria', the memory subsequently banished to the dustbin of culinary history. 

 

Quattrocento Virginal Beauty, Santa Maria Novella

 

I suppose the same could be said of any major European city. God help those poor visitors to London who end up in that steak house on Oxford Street, or Parisian optimists searching in vain for the ghosts of Jean-Paul Sartre, Gertrude Stein and Simone de Beauvoir and finding instead, a chain café in the Boulevard du Montpernasse- or even worse- the bacterial breeding grounds of a restaurant on the Place du Tertre.

 

Florence from the Bardini Gardens

 

But on this trip to Florence- thanks to internet recommendations- we ate extremely well. In a way, the food of Tuscany (at least in the chill of autumn and winter) reminds me of the best of England. It's hearty, rib-sticking stuff; comfort food at its best: wild boar, funghi, trippa alla Fiorentina, rustic tomato soups thickened with bread, slow cooked meat stews, prosciutto, white beans.

First up was the Trattoria La Casalinga. This is an old-fashioned family-run restaurant in Oltarano, that rather appealing 'arty' area on the wrong side of the Arno. Nothing much to talk about from the outside- and the inside either, but the staff were charming, considering we hadn't booked, and managed to find us a small table in the corner for an hour or so. Incidentally, the place was full of American and British tourists; but then in Florence every restaurant is packed full of Fodor brandishing tourists: the city is a monument to well-heeled American tourism.

 

The convent of San Marco

 

The food at La Casalinga is outstanding. Divine. Actually tastes of something. This is rustic simplicity. And the value for money! A carafe of the local chianti came to four Euros- I repeat, four Euros. A plate of thinly sliced proscuitto, served with bruschetta, chicken liver and some sort of fish, plus tomatoes of a wonderful flavour, came to seven Euros.

My main course was nectar. I asked for their house speciality, the peposa beef stew (beef stew with black pepper) but instead, ended up with a stew cooked with onions: bubbled on a low heat for hours, enriched with white onions, melting into a rich sauce; slightly Gothic but hitting the mark. Mrs Aitch's tagliatelle came with a seasonal funghi sauce. The whole shooting match came to 36 Euros. Including service.

 

Autumn funghi at the Mercato Centrale

 

Next up was the Mercato Centrale food market. This is a Victorian ironwork structure not unlike the now demoished Les Halles market in Paris or our own Covent Garden. Instead of pulling it down (Parisians please take note) the Florentines, very sensibly, have re-invented it as- gasp of amazement- a food market. And this time, there's not a tourist in sight. The range of fruit, vegetables, meat and dry goods is astonishing. It's a reminder that the food in Britain is languishing- still- behind the rest of Europe. I see this time and time again- in France, Belgium, Italy and Germany.

In Britain, it's possible to eat very well indeed- but only at shops, restaurants and bars aimed at an affluent, yuppy clientele. In mainland Europe, good food is part of the every-day culture. Where a French or Italian lorry driver can pull over at some roadside watering hole and eat simple and decent food. Or where some impecunious little old granny can buy a loaf of incredible, hand-made bread. In Britain, it's a Little Chef or a packet of Sun-Blest.

 

Rus in Urbe. The water-colour light of Florence.

 

On our last night we tried to get into Il Santo Bevitore, again in the Oltarano area. This has had rave reviews with the likes of The Daily Telegraph, no less, describing it as 'surprisingly gourmet for what at first looks like a Bohemian Drinking Den'. I tried to book, but they seemed to have left the telephone off the hook. Deliberately.

We arrived early (it opens at 7.30) and joined the queue. Immediate conversation. Charming Americans with the same problem. Eventually a harrassed waitress came out and separated us into two lines. Those who had reservations and those who didn't. Moral of the story: When in Florence, book.

So we ended up at the excellent Enoteca Pitti Gola e Cantina, a small wine bar offering individual glasses of artisan Tuscan wines. You eat out in the street directly opposite the magnificent Pitti Palace, formerly the residence of the Grand Dukes of Tuscany, as Baedeker puts it. Simple ingredients again: grilled funghi in a fondue sauce, fresh pasta, wild boar, anchovies- that sort of thing. The helpful waiter recommends a glass of this or that wine with each course. I like this approach. Eminently sensible. I wish more restaurants could do this.

Four cheers for Florence! We've rubbed that boar's nose. We'll be back.

 

 

The Greasy Spoon visits…Dram & Smoke

 

 

 

I like pop-ups restaurants. They're creative. They're fun. They're slightly bonkers. So I don't think it's especially clever to be too hard on them. You're eating food cooked in a garage or shed-like environment; look- it's not exactly The Ritz or The Waterside Inn at Bray is it?

Bearing this in mind, we booked ourselves into the Dram & Smoke, a new pop-up venture in edgy, up-and-coming inner-city Vauxhall. It's where we happen to live, so it was a pleasant five minute scurry from our Victorian hovel to get there. It's in a former steel yard. Think cobbled streets, holes in walls, shabby old typography, rusty iron braziers and the wafting aroma of roast pigeon and you'll get the picture. Wun, Wabbit, Wun Wabbit Wun Wun Wun. There was a roof.

 

 

The brainchild of Edinburgh entrepreneurs, Paul Ross and Nick Fulton, Dram & Smoke has food of a Scottish theme, with the emphasis on theme. You sit at communal tables and there's a bar to one side, selling the excellent toffee flavoured Innis & Gunn Beer, whiskies and bottles of wine. The transfer printed Royal Worcester porcelain was a nice touch. Monarch of the Glen, Landseer, the Famous Grouse and all that.

 

 

To be honest, the whole thing was a massive Scottish Love-In, which slightly caught me off guard as I was expecting (perhaps idiotically) to encounter- how shall we say- a more international bunch?  

Scottish Independence was, thank God, off the menu, although talk was consistently of the "Back in Scotland..." and "I support Andy Murray, as I am Scottish" persuasion. I did, at least, learn the recipe for Balmoral Chicken.

Does Scottish Cuisine exist? Does British Cuisine exist? What makes a menu Scottish? Is it the ingredients? Is there a thin dividing line between classic and cliché? Dare I open an English themed pop-up in Glasgow serving Sussex Pond Pudding, Cromer Crab, Toad in the Hole and Brown Windsor soup without being lynched? If I did, I don't think I would try and serve Autumnal or Winter dishes in the middle of Summer, even in the climatic heaven that exists north of the border.

Anyway. First up were balls (bon-bons) of deep-fried Haggis, served with Chili Jam. I'm always a champion of Haggis (aka "sheep's pluck boiled in its stomach" to non-Brits) and it hit the mark, although the 'jam' was strangely runny, almost sauce like in its consistency.

 

 

Next came 'Scottish' Charcuterie. Lots of it. Good-ish chunks of Chorizo and Parma Ham served up on a bit of old plank, with pickled vegetables in a Kilner bottle. Not sure how 'Scottish' that was.

 

 

Then came some form of marinated, potted Smoked Mackerel, served up in those jars you used to catch tadpoles in as a child. Juicy and Fresh. Decent Flavour. The Cullen Skink (like Vichyssoise, but with the addition of Smoked Haddock) was fine.

 

 

And then came hunks, I repeat hunks, of red, rare, Smokin' Venison Haunch, served on pearl barley, propped up on a pair of bricks, with some form of beetroot sauce. Now, I'm definitely a rare steak sort of man, (as it happens I turn into a werewolf at the rise the Full Moon), but this was food of the Gothic persuasion. I couldn't banish from my mind the image of a circle of ravenous Neanderthals gnawing into the raw backside of one very kaput deer.

 

 

And then came the pudding. Deep Fried Mars Bar with Ice Cream and Irn Bru sauce. It was ghastly. How is this Caledonian delicacy made? A Mars Bar (made in Slough if you've ever wondered), is dipped in batter and then deep-fried in a vat of boiling oil. I cannot even begin to describe the horror. It tastes like a piece of shrivilled skin embalmed on a nodule of chemically zapped caramel. Even the complimentary mini-bottle of single malt Monkey Shoulder whisky couldn't sterlise the taste. Mrs Aitch liked it. I'll leave that one to the Scots.

£40 a head plus the cost of a bottle of wine. 

 

 

VISIT SITE

EVENT DETAILS

 

VIEW SAMPLE MENU:
View Link 

DATE & TIME:
19:30 - 23:30
Fri, 27th Jun 2014 - Sun, 29th Jun 2014

ADDRESS:
Anchor Yard, 4 Durham Street, SE11 5JA
[view full map]

NEAREST TUBE:
Vauxhall 

USEFUL INFO

Tickets: £40 
6 courses + 2 drinks

For six weeks starting only (23rd May-6th July) every Friday and Saturday come 7:30pm, plus Sundays at 2pm.

Related articles

The London Steak House

 

"Just a Beaujolais sir, but a good bottler..."  The Servant (1963)

 

One of my earliest restaurant memories is being taken by my grandfather to The London Steak House, somewhere near the old Roman Wall in the City of London. We were the only customers in an empty restaurant. I remember a few things. The head waiter falling over backwards to fawn over my grandfather (he looked distinguished- my grandfather, not the head waiter- not unlike David Niven with flamboyant Harvie & Hudson shirts, an Errol Flynn moustache and well-cut suits with narrow Edwardian cuffs and drainpipe trouser bottoms).

The London Steak House, I seem to remember, was a (relatively upmarket?) chain- but to an eight or nine year old's way of thinking, achieved sophisticated heights. Here a waiter would advance, and in a hushed tone ask if Sir would prefer "English, French or German Mustard?" All Colman's of course. I seem to remember thick (burgundy?) carpets, padded banquette seating and linen tablecloths. The claret was served in a ducky wicker cradle. My grandfather kept them waiting for about a minute while he swirled the wine around his glass and sniffed. It was a terrific performance. I was terribly impressed.

 

The London Steak House, Old Brompton Road (1966)

 

"The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there". Back then (this was the early 1970's), people aspired to middle-aged sophistication, to becoming a grown up. Recently I've had fun flipping through old House & Gardens from the 1960's and 70's. Full of advertisements for cognac, expensive cigarettes, fine liqueurs and Martini. Libraries with chocolate lacquered walls, Chinese ancestor portraits and bookshelves lined with fine leather bindings seemed de rigeur. A place to relax at night with a balloon glass of armagnac, admire your collection of Marquis de Sade firsts and listen to the Bach 48 on the Bang & Olufsen.

 

Middle-aged aspiration, the true spirit of the 1970's, Dormeuil (1979)

 

I don't know why when somebody mentions the 1970's everyone starts thinking of Mr Travolta, white suits, hairy chests matted with sun oil, 100% polyester flares and Night on Disco Mountain. I remain unashamedly fond of Disco, for in truth, Studio 54 was a deadly sophisticated affair, a sybaritic rendezvous where Truman Capote, the Jacquelines Onassis and Bisset could intermingle with the likes of Andy Warhol, Disco Sally and the urbane haute monde. And for every tenth thousand turmeric-sprayed Austin Allegro (with square steering wheel and brown deckchair striped seats in static inducing draylon) there was one hand-made Rolls Royce Camargue, coachwork courtesy of Pininfarina, a car in which Lady Penelope herself might have cut a dash.

I found very little about The London Steak House on the net, apart from a stylish matchbook on Ebay, with black salt and pepper pot graphics set against a brown ground and the photograph shown above. Note the half-decent abstracts on the wall, and the serving trolley (Flambéed Steak au Poivre and Crêpes Suzettes?).

Retro diners are currently toute la rage in Old London Town at the moment (Soho is full of 'em), which is fine- good even; but wouldn't it be refreshing if some brave entrepreneur decided to look up for once, rather than down, ditched the 50's Americana Shack Look and aimed at something, well, just a little bit more sophisticated? These days everybody aspires to be a dungaree-wearing, Pepsi drinking, bearded 17 year old hick from the Deep South rather than a Bentley driving clubable chairman with an interest in rare books, antique furniture and Dry Martini cocktails.

So in memory of The London Steak House (long may it Rest In Peace), here's my recipe for a simple cognac infused Green Peppercorn Sauce. You have it with steak. The green peppercorns come in little jars full of brine.

 

The Greasy Spoon's Green Peppercorn Sauce

 

2 tablespoons peppercorns

Knob of unsalted butter

1 chopped shallot

Dash of Cognac

1 teaspoon of Flour

100ml Beef Stock

60ml Double Cream

 

Heat a small to medium sized saucepan and add the butter. Fry the chopped shallot and the green peppercorns very briefly. 

Add the dash of cognac, and stir. Add a teaspoon of flour and stir, making sure it cooks properly.

Now add the beef stock and bring the sauce to the boil. Turn down the heat and let it bubble away gently. After a few minutes, add the cream and let the sauce reduce gently. 

Season to taste, and serve with steak.

You may need to play around with the quantities of flour, stock and cream. The sauce needs to be just right. Not too thick (and floury) and not too thin (watery). I've found chef Michel Richard's similar recipe from The Washington Post which looks great. He adds a tablespoon of Soy Sauce, which, I think will help to bring out the beefy, meaty, umami flavours.

 

 

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)

 

Marcel Boulestin

 

 

 

I was pleased to see that Boulestin has re-opened on St James's Street. Or rather, a re-imagining of that old London institution which closed down in 1994. I've yet to book- but from the outside it looks desperately pretty, and the old-fashioned French menu looks promising: where else in London can you enjoy the Gothic delights of tête de veau on a regular basis? (It's Monday's dish of the day for £14.75). I'll report back soon.

This made me go and dig out my Boulestin books from the back of the shelf. So far, I've got three: "Classic French Recipes", "The Finer Cooking" (published 1937), and "Recipes of Boulestin". If you're inclined to collect, I'd urge you to have a look at the various Boulestin cookery books published over the years.

 

Xavier Marcel Boulestin was born in 1878. Very much a talented jack of all trades, he scraped a living from a variety of ventures, (including a sophisticated interior design shop in Belgravia) before settling on his eventual and successful career as the first television chef and restauranteur. In 1923 Boulestin published "Simple French Cooking for English Homes" which was an immediate hit. In 1927, The Restaurant Boulestin opened in Covent Garden- at the time the most expensive restaurant in London. In a prominent place was an immense bottle of 1869 liqueur "cognac de la maison". The food at Boulestin was obviously terrific, and apparently, Boulestin's standards were of such a high standard that the restaurant failed to make a profit, forcing Boulestin to make money from articles, books and public appearances. Boulestin died in 1943, trapped in a Paris occupied by German forces.

 

Boulestin's recipes are curiously charming, and by the fenickity standards of Auntie Delia, rather vague; allowing the reader the chance to develop his or her creativity. Here's his recipe for Sauce aux Noix (Italian Sauce with Crushed Walnuts):

This is a very pleasant sauce to serve with spaghetti; it has a delicious and unusual flavour. Peel a handful of walnuts and pound them well in a mortar. Fry in oil a small quantity of garlic and parsely finely chopped together ; add the pounded walnuts, cook a little but do not brown, moisten with a little olive oil, and very little boiling water. Mix well with the hot spaghetti and serve immediately.

This reminded me of my disastrous attempt to make Italian Walnut Sauce as described by one Mrs Elizabeth David. I shouldn't be surprised by this as Elizabeth David, apparently, fell under the spell of Boulestin and the Great Man influenced her writings.

Anyway, I'm a fan of the French cuisine bourgeoise, and feel strongly that it's time for a revival. As much as I like all that Amalfi coast/Mediterranean stuff, I do think that French country cooking is more appropriate for the Northern climate. After all, isn't Welsh Rarebit really just a Croque Monsieur in disguise?

 

 

 

The Greasy Spoon Visits...The Gunton Arms

 

 

One of the many beauties of England is the diversity of its landscape and architecture. The grey limestone of the Cotswold Hills surrenders to the warm red brick, clay and flint of the The Chilterns in the space of a few miles. Each county- however small- has its own identity. Norfolk, the most English of counties, is no exception, with its wide, open skies, undulating barley fields, ancient copses, Dutch gables and bleak, windswept salt marshes. 

 

And late August is an especially poignant time to visit, reminding me of the spectacular and languid cinematography in Joseph Losey's "The Go-Between", when the great fields turn to the colour of straw, and the heat and dust throw up spectacular Harvest Moons.

 

The Gunton Arms sits away from the Cromer Road, on the edge of a heart-breaking thousand acre deer park. The house itself, gabled, and built presumably, in 1840's chalet style, has more than a whiff of the Hunting Lodge about it. The art dealer, Ivor Braka, spent two years restoring the place with the help of the interior decorator and antique dealer, Robert Kime; re-imagining the interior as a relaxed country house of the Old School (Voysey-esque paper and worn leather in the hall, inlaid Hoshiapur side tables, deep free-standing bathtubs, recycled Persian runners, racing prints) accented with a choice selection of contemporary Brit Art, the likes of Mr Hirst, Miss Emin and Messrs Gilbert and George. It sounds incongrous, but here it works, harmonising into a relaxed whole, albeit with a slight edge. It's all a bit rock n' roll.

 

At first glance The Gunton Arms doesn't shout from the rooftops, but with time there's the realisation that everything works beautifully, with great attention to detail- there's a hidden light in the wardrobe, curtains have been beautifully sewn, the beds are spacious and comfortable, there are digital Roberts Radios by your bedside, your keyring is attached to a tiny deer antler from the park- a lovely touch. This is understatement taken to a high art. It's also staffed with a seemingly never-ending supply of helpful and charming young people.

There are eight bedrooms. We stayed in "Langtry" (it is thought that the Jersey Lily stayed in the house during the 1890's; it's relatively close to Sandringham). 

 

The restaurant (The Elk Room) is dominated by a huge pair of pre-historic Elk Antlers displayed over an open spit and grill: here you can watch the chef toast your Cumberland sausage. This must be an evocative room in autumn, especially when venison makes a welcome return, and the heat of the fire banishes the October chill. The menu is inspired by Mark Hix; this is very much my sort of thing: British food, cooked extremely well, for the food at the Gunton Arms is rather good.

Over two successive nights, we sampled (amongst other things) a Middle White Pork Terrine with Piccalilli (£7.50), Cornish Squid with Heritage Tomatoes and Chili (£6.50), Scallops marinated in olive oil and lemon juice, a Cider and Ham Hock Pie (£12.00), Barbequed Beef Brisket with Slaw (£14.50), home-made bread, and Ivor's Crab and Chili Pasta with Parsley (£12.50).

The terrine was superb, full of meaty flavour, and nicely offset with a tangy Piccalilli, properly made in the old-fashioned way. The Cider and Gammon Pie, again, came with a rich sauce, and is possibly one of the best pies I have recently tasted. The scallops, sadly, failed to meet their mark, their delicate sweet taste over powered by an unneccesary marinade, and Ivor's own pasta (although admirable in concept) was too salty and too spicy for most palates- but hey, these are trifling quibbles over what was otherwise, a delightful experience. The house wine (Am anti del vino prmitivo salento, 2011) was also a relative bargain at £16.00 a bottle: smooth, full of blackcurrent and velvet plum; a relevation. Iced tap water is served (in old whisky advertising jugs) without request.

 

After dinner we took our drinks into the garden and as darkness fell, watched the deer herds drift across the landscape.

As you've probably gathered, I like the Gunton Arms- very much indeed. They've got it right. Spot On. It's thoroughly unpretentious. There may be some who dislike the lively bar- it's very much still a pub, with a snooker table, television, rock music and bags of peanuts hanging from a saucy display card- but this is a good thing. There's nothing worse than a Farrow and Ball'd gastro-pub which alienates the locals, many of whom have probably been going there since before you or I were born.

There may be others who wring their hands over the torn leather, the slightly louche atmosphere, the naughty Tracy Emin plates hanging over the bar, the deer droppings in the park. And to them, I say, it's your loss and our gain. Four Cheers for The Gunton Arms! We will be returning.

Photographs from The Gunton Arms website.

 

The Gunton Arms, Cromer Road, Thorpe Market, Norwich, NR11 8TZ (01263 832010)

 

 

The Fish Store

 

 

The most extraordinary thing. It's baking hot, here in England. Almost like that famous summer of 1976. Day after day of Mediterranean heat. We've just come back from a marvellous holiday staying in a fabulous house in St Mawes, on the south Cornwall coast, with sub-tropical gardens and views stretching out to a blue, blue glittering sea.

 

I've been coming to St Mawes, on-and-off now for many years. It's the most pretty coastal village- all Treasure Island, thatched smuggler's cottages with lattice windows, harbour inns with creaking signs swaying in the wind. It's like going back to the 1950's. The harbour is full of period varnished sailing yachts (including the 1939 yacht Pinuccia, rumoured to have been the former Olympic yacht of Il Duce).

There was nobody there. No transistors blaring on the beach, no plastic gin palaces, no floating discotheques (instead, a sprinkling of nice old cars, MG's, Mercedes Pagoda Tops and the like, in the harbour car park). Peace reigns. And its very much like the South of France. I kid you not. I really mean it. Palm trees, the scent of trailing rosemary, low stone walls flanking twisting coastal roads, stepped terraces punctuated by tall Scots Pines, steps down to private shingle beaches. If you've seen the 1958 version of Bonjour Tristesse, the one with David Niven lounging around on terraces in silk dressing gowns, you'll get the drift.

 

On the Monday night, we had dinner at The Tresanton, about a minutes walk from where we were staying, lovingly re-furbished by Olga Polizzi in 1997. And a very good job she has done too. In the 70's The Tresanton was a rather swish- and utterly expensive- hotel. There was a collection of Impressionist paintings. By the 90's it had fallen into that inevitable decline; I remember a rather strange lunch there out on that extraordinary terrace. Now, of course, things are utterly different.

I love it. This is like something out of Agatha Christie: Evil Under the Sun, or Peril at End House. White Star ocean liner railings, staff in brass-buttoned white mess jackets, and with its tiled floor mosaics of Neptune and Trident, and roughly-plastered walls in white, has more than a whiff of the Amalfi Coast about it or, indeed, Clough Williams-Ellis's Italianate fantasy at Portmerion. 

 

Anyway, all this happened to co-incide with the kind arrival of an advance copy of Lindsey Bareham's The Fish Store, published by my friends at Grub Street. This is a new paperback edition. The book first came out in 2006.

I'm a fan of Lindsey Bareham's rather understated and intelligent approach to food writing, The Prawn Cocktail Years, which she co-authored with Simon Hopkinson, being one of those treasured books I would probably try to rescue if, God Forbid, the house burnt down.

The Fish Store is a slightly misleading title for those of you who judge books by their covers. It's actually the name of her Cornish holiday bolt-hole, a former pilchard packing shed in Mousehole, Cornwall (she married into the family of Augustus John) and is a semi-autobiographical and reflective tribute to Cornish holidays, family life and all the food- and associations- that go with it. This is very much my sort of book. It's a literary fest- with a few illustrations here and there (some in black and white); very much the antithesis of those colourful celebrity picture books, heavily promoted and flogged in your local supermarket, all style over content.

Her "Roast Haddock with Barlotti Beans and Tomatoes" went down especially well. It's a very simple dish of unsmoked haddock, balsamic vinegar, cherry tomatoes on the vine, sea salt and lemon juice, served on the beans, which had been simmered very gently with chicken stock and the juices from the pan. Probably one of the best things we've had in a long while; the secret of course, being in that we'd bought some very fresh haddock a few hours before. My nine year old niece, Sammie, formally announced to the table that this was one of the best things she had ever eaten.

And then there was the mackerel. James Brown, a friendly local skipper, took us out to sea, about two miles off the coast for a spot of wreck fishing; we hit a shoal and started reeling in tiny, turquoise zig-zaggy mackerel (flashing in the hot sun) and some larger pinkish whiting.

 

 

James gutted the fish on the way back to harbour. About two hours later we filited the mackerel, and my brother in law (no mean cook) fried it in the pan with rosemary, olive oil, lemon juice and flaky Cornish sea salt. I can honestly, say that I think this was one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten. Uber fresh mackerel, eaten on a baking hot, sunny terrace. With the sound of the sea. Happy Memories.

The Fish Store is published by Grub Street, and costs £14.99.

 

 

 

The Greasy Spoon Visits...St. Clement's

 

 

We were in the shabby Regency sea-side town of St Leonards-on-Sea, on a day-trip to that fascinating vintage habadashery, Wayward, purveyors of a glorious array: vintage braids, French Tri-Coleur ribbons in yellow and red, bakelite buttons, bolts of chalk-striped West of England cloth; charming remnants from the 1950's- including period chromolithographic birthday cards in original, pristine condition (God knows where they found them); that sort of thing. And then we needed somewhere to eat. A helpful woman in one of the numerous bric-a-brac shops gracing Norman Road (where I found a perfect Super 8 ciné camera for twenty quid) mentioned "that Michelin star place at the top of the street". Our ears pricked up. We couldn't get out of her shop fast enough.

 

 

 

The first thing I can say about St. Clement's is that it is a restaurant. Yup, a restaurant. Not a gastro-pub, a café, a funky bar or a retro brasserie. A proper grown-up restaurant. And I've suddenly decided that we need more of these in England. There's just something more civilised about a restaurant. Okay, St. Clement's is a simple affair; the interior's not much to write home about (the usual ubiquitous abstract daubs) but it did boast a thin, poe-faced French waitress who didn't especially want to become my great friend in the manner of our American cousins (a good thing), but was still prepared to laugh at my appalling jokes. I liked her insouciance.

 

And incidentally, the "Michelin Star" was sort of true. Up to a point. St. Clement's has been awarded a "Michelin Bib Gourmand", which is the next step down: "good cuisine at a reasonable price..."  And affordable it most certainly was. Our two course lunch, with a large glass of the House Red (Castillo del Moro Tempranillo, 2011 and two bottles of lager beer (Chapel Down) came to £23.00 a head.

 

My Duck and Pork confit terrine was full of texture and taste, and the piccalilli which came with it was crunchy and sharp. My second course of tuna with a tomato salsa and white beans sounds slightly bland, but the tomatoes had an intense depth of flavour which one so rarely comes across these days. It was truly good.

Mrs Aitch's Hastings Fishcakes were served with a herb and caper crème fraîche (a Gallic twist on the very English Tartare Sauce) which, again, was remarkably herby; making me want to try and re-constuct the recipe for another post. I also enjoyed two bottles of Chapel Down's "Curious Brew", an English lager re-fermented with the addition of Champagne yeast.

I would be interested to go back for the full hog one evening. I've a feeling that the atmosphere would be different. Our Saturday lunch companions weren't exactly spring chickens (the old boy in the corner might have been wearing a bib), and an overheard conversation seemed to focus repeatedly on the National Trust and the art of making jam for the Women's Institute, but hey, it was St Leonards, wasn't it?  The English Sea-Side. And a great destination for the worthwhile cause of affordable antiques and affordable food. 

 

St. Clement's, 3 Mercatoria, St Leonards on Sea, East Sussex, TN38 0EB (01424 200355)

 

La Trattoria Terrazza

 

 

        Mr Jagger samples the delights of the Positano Room, 1966

 

More about La Trattoria Terrazza, the most fashionable restaurant in Swinging Sixties London. Yesterday I spent a snowy afternoon re-reading The Spaghetti Tree- and what an entertaining story it is! Franco Lagattolla and Mario Cassandro opened La Trattoria Terrazza in 1959. It very quickly became the fashionable haunt of artists, writers, models, film directors, actors, photographers and society hangers-on. In 1962, the London Daily Sketch ran a feature which noted that on one certain night, between 6.30 and midnight, the following people ate at La Terrazza: Ingrid Bergman, Leslie Caron, Danny Kaye, David Niven, Gregory Peck, Laurence Harvey, Sammy Davis Jnr, Michael Caine, Julie Christie, Terence Stamp, David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton. They forgot to include Ari Onnassis. This is astonishing when you discover just how small La Terrazza actually was at that time. Len Deighton, immortalised the restaurant in his spy novel, The Ipcress File: 'In London with a beautiful girl,' Deighton wrote in 1961, 'you must show her to Mario at La Terrazza.'

 

I'm trying to work out exactly why La Terrazza was so successful, and I think, after much thought, there are at least two reasons. The innovative food, and Mario's considerable charm. The initial interior of La Terrazza, sounds, frankly, pretty naff: a kitsch mural of Vesuvius, framed by bunches of plastic grapes and hanging wicker work chianti bottles- nothing out of the ordinary there; but the food, obviously, by the standards of the day, was.

A quick glance at a 1967 menu shows that Franco and Mario were offering: fritto misto mare (fried octopus), rognoncini con funghi al barolo (sautéed calves kidneys/mushrooms/red wine sauce), salsiccie fresche con spinaci (Italian sausage on spinach, tossed in olive oil and garlic), and cervella di vitello alla monteverde (calves brain sautéed in special batter). Of course, nowadays, any decent Italian restaurant worth its salt might sell such dishes, but back then, after fourteen years of deprivation and rationing, this was exciting, new and different (rationing in Britain, unbelievably, only ended in 1954, a mere five years before La Terrazza opened).

And I forgot to mention that Franco and Mario introduced informality to the restaurant scene. Until then, fashionable restaurants, such as Le Caprice, were grand, carpeted institutions where a coat and tie were de rigeur, where waiters wore starched shirt fronts and funeral black tail-coats, where the dishes of Escoffier were served "silver service"- an elaborate ritual which involved waiters spooning out food from silver tureens at the table.

Instead, the charming waiters at Le Terrazza wore hooped Neapolitan fisherman's jerseys (I bet you anything they flirted away like crazy), the food was brought straight to the table, piping hot; staff and clientele were on first name terms, and any pretence at a dress code was abandoned- Tony Snowdon was admitted wearing his trademark polo-neck; from that day, they never looked back. In many ways this was the birth of the modern restaurant we have today.

And then in 1960, the cartoonist and designer, Enzo Apicella, re-designed the downstairs space to create the Positano Room: a cool, white, spare space; a modernist re-interpretation of the rustic. In came green-tiled floors, roughly plastered white walls, multi-coloured down-light spots over each table, arched ceilings, modernist rush-seated armchairs, and rustic lobster pots. Apicella went on to re-design many famous restaurants, including San Lorenzo and the Pizza Express chain. 

 

               Enzo Apicella in the Positano Room, 1960

Here's the recipe for La Terraza's most popular signature dish Petto di Pollo Sorpresa, taken from Franco Lagattolla's The Recipes That Made a Million. Based on Chicken Kiev, it has the addition of parmesan and parsley, giving it that certain Italian something:

"First, have your butcher cut and skin four tender breasts of young chicken,leaving the wing-tip bone. Carefully, without breaking the flesh, flatten them with a flat-sided mallet-cleaver, very, very thinly. 

Place a 50g conical-shaped piece of well-chilled butter, which has been mixed with finely chopped garlic and parsley, a teaspoon of grated parmesan cheese, salt and milled black pepper, in the centre of each piece of chicken.

Roll them up tightly leaving the bone exposed rather like a handle. Seal in the butter by pressing the edges very firmly. Roll the chicken breasts in flour, dip into seasoned beaten egg and then carefully cover with breadcrumbs.

Deep fry the chicken breasts in hot oil until they are cooked and golden outside with the now melted savoury butter bursting to be released."

 

The Recipes That Made A Million

 

 

 

Not mine, I'm afraid. Franco Lagattolla's. It's the title of a fun book that I bought the other day for the princely sum of £2.50. That's right, £2.50. One of the things I love about second-hand book hunting is the amount of pleasure old books can bring you for say, the price of some awful paper cup of cold take-away coffee, otherwise known as a "Mocha Light Frappucino Blended Beverage- To Go". The coffee's gone in an instant, but the book stays on your shelf, to be poured over again and again; the cover, typography and graphics to be re-admired, the contents to be savoured and used as a spark for new ideas, or more simply, to dispel the gloom of a boring Sunday afternoon. Oh yes, I love old books. They're like trusty friends. And I like, especially, forgotten books from around forty years ago.

I've written about Franco before. As the blurb on the dust jacket of The Recipes That Made A Million says: "What did Michael Caine, Gregory Peck and Frank Sinatra all have in common? Answer: they all dined at Mario & Franco's superb Italian restaurants in London- the eating success story with the 'beautiful' people in the swinging sixties". 

 

Franco Lagattolla and Mario Cassandro; former waiters at The Mirabelle, first opened the starry La Trattoria Terrazza in Romilly Street, Soho, in 1959. It's hard to believe now, but La Terrazza was the first restaurant in Britain to serve genuine regional dishes from all over Italy. Their story is covered admirably by Alasdair Scott Sutherland in The Spaghetti Tree, Mario and Franco and the Trattoria Revolution, which I would recommend without hesitation.

 

 

Here's a recipe I liked the look of from "The Recipes That Made a Million". It's for Pȇches Flambées, otherwise known as Peaches flamed in kirsch. Those of you with pyromaniacal tendencies will appreciate it:

"Peel four firm but ripe peaches. Poach them in plain water and sugar syrup until barely tender. Do not over-cook. Keep them warm.

In a copper pan melt 25g (1oz) of castor sugar and allow it to take on the slightest colour over a low flame. Add the juice of one orange, four tablespoons of the poaching liquor and a string of lemon peel. Dissolve the caramelising sugar, moving it around with the back of a spoon. Now stir in two tablespoons of Melba sauce and add the poached peaches. 

Bring up the heat a little and, turing the peaches gently, glaze them in the syrupy sauce. Pour in a large wine glass of kirsch. Prick the peaches so that they absorb some of the flavours. Pull the pan sharply across the fire, and stand well back while the whole lot bursts into beautiful flames".

Melba Sauce, by the way, is just a pureé of rasberry jam, diluted with a little water and simmered for a few minutes, then strained.

 

 

Langan's & Odin's: The End of an Era

 

Langan's Brasserie

Back in July, I posted an emotive piece about the glamorous, beautiful and shabby interior of Odin's restaurant in Marylebone, writing "that I will be extremely grumpy if it ever closes down": that sad day has arrived; in as much as the art collections at Langan's and Odin's are being sold off. A fan of The Greasy Spoon has alerted me to a Christie's press release: "the core collection of 230 artworks from the legendary London restaurants Langan's Brasserie & Odin's...(to be sold at auction)...in December 2012."

 

Odin's

I've had a look at the Langans' website and it tells me that the three restaurants (Langan's, Odin's and Shepherd's) will be closed for redecoration, re-opening at later dates. I can tell you right now that without that fabulous interior, I will- with great regret- not be returning to Odin's. The food's not that good, the once impeccable service has declined noticeably in the last few years, and the only raison d'etre for the place was that fabulous art collection (bought with the help and advice of the art critic, Brian Sewell) and the wonderful interior. Without it- I really don't see any point of returning, even (and especially) if, the whole place is redecorated in the Los Angeles airport lounge style. Look what happened to The Savoy or Brown's Hotel. Surely without Peter Langan's art collections, the whole ethos, the intrinsic spirit, the whole flippin' point of these famous old restaurants is gone?

 

Langan's Brasserie

To be fair to the group I don't know what their financial position is- and they may have been forced into a depressing and uncalled for position where there was no other option but to sell up. Asset Stripping? Dunno. But what I do know, is that yet another two legendary London institutions- or at the very least, their art collections- are about to bite the dust. And on this grey, gloomy, and foggy November morning, I am extremely grumpy.

 

Called to the Bar

 

 

I was thinking about wine bars the other day. Realised that these are a vanishing breed. When was the last time you ate in one? There seem to be two styles. There's the spit- and-sawdust, oak barrel, vaulted cellar, pin-stripey, Dickensian thing. Hogarthian. Very Inns of Court. Where Rumpole of the Bailey might have spilt claret down his starched shirt front back in the late 70's. And then there's the 1960's groovy wine bar- all spluttering candles in wickered wine bottles, Spanish Bullfighting Posters, chalked blackboards, plummy waiters in black and white striped T shirts, and some dude playing skiffle guitar in the corner. Back in the early 60's, this sort of place was dead trendy- but I reckon by the early 90's they had really gone out of fashion. The world's a sophisticated place, and things had moved on.

 

I'm trying to think how many of these are left in London. I mean genuine examples, not those pastiche French cafés. Grumble's (Pimlico) was established in 1964 and is still going strong. The Troubadour (Earl's Court), admittedly more of a coffee bar, was founded in 1954. There's also that bizarre bistro, L'Autre in Shepherds' Market ("Mayfair's Oldest Wine Lodge"). Originally serving Polish food to the sound of Greta Garbo 78's, it expanded its repertoire to include Mexican food- accomodating the Mexican Embassy nearby.

 

The food in these places was invariably Mediterranean. The post war boom meant that European travel became accessible to the middle classes for the first time, and the affluent Conran generation wanted the food they had sampled in Italy, France, Greece and Spain back home: garlic mushrooms, taramaslata, olives, coq au vin, deep fried camembert, goulash, paella, beef stroganoff, piperade, l'escargots, garlic bread- all washed down with a cheeky little Spanish Red.

And then there was Nick's Diner in the Ifield Road, opened in the early 60s' and the haunt of fashionable Swinging London. It features in Joseph Losey's The Servant; one of my all time favourite films- there's that wonderful sequence with James Fox: camel hair coat, upturned collar, cigarette, striding past a grainy Woolworth's, Davey Graham's haunting "Rock Me Mama" filling the cold night air...

 

 

 

The Greasy Spoon visits...Brasserie Zédel

 

 

 

We've just had dinner at the Brasserie Zédel, currently one of the hottest restaurant destinations in London. It's managed by Chris Corbin and Jeremy King, former owners of Le Caprice, and current proprietors of The Wolseley and The Delaunay. I've got a quite a bit of time for Messrs Corbin and King: they've got the formula for the near-perfect restaurant down to a fine art. Let's remind ourselves about The Wolseley: I like the democratic service; a smart establishment where clients are served on an equal basis. My mother, for instance, is a regular; she's treated as royalty by the staff, and it's her favourite haunt when she's up in London from the Country. This is a Good Thing. I like the way they offer you a copy of The Daily Telegraph to read while you're waiting for your guest to arrive; even though you're probably only going to have a cup of coffee and a small plate of something or other.

And the service at Brasserie Zédel is very much along these lines- it deserves an eleven out of ten rating. Professional, discreet, not at at all in your face, utterly appropriate for the relaxed flavour of the joint; and in a restaurant with such a huge amount of covers there always seems to be a flunkey in a long starched apron hovering nearby waiting to attend to your every whim. This, frankly, in our day and age, is a remarkable achievement- and especially when the Brasserie Zédel offers food at such a reasonable cost. And democratic the Zédel most certainly is, with a strikingly mixed clientele. It's packed out: East End trendies, old biddies up from the Shires, Hammersmith PR Girls, fidgety couples on a first date (their eyes met over the office photocopier), hard-cropped Swiss Cottage intellectuals (sweet brown sherry at the Wigmore Hall), Fulham Sloanes, lavicious plutocrats (too many buttons undone, hairy chests matted with sun oil)- out to impress with a round of oysters and a bottle of iced Sancerre.

The Zédel is to be found in a windowless, slightly airless yet marbled basement, formerly the site of the uber-trendy 90's haunt, The Atlantic Bar and Grill- and what on earth happened to that? You walk down a flight of stairs, reminiscent of a Thirties' Picture Palace, all woven wool Deco carpet and shiny brass ticket kiosk. There's also an "American Bar" along Savoy lines. Oh, it's the talk of the town, all right.

The food is in that classic Parisian brasserie style. It's astonishingly affordable. There's a three course Prix Fixe at £11.25 a head. So far so good, But I'm not going to shout out from the rooftops. It's good, but it ain't that good, and for the prices they're charging, you're going to have to appreciate that their helpings are going to be a trifle ecomomique with the actualitié. I had the terrine de jambon persillé (£5.25), followed by a steak haché with frites served in a paper bag and a pepper sauce (£7.50). Both were goodish, the steak probably better than the slightly anti-sceptic and formulaic terrine. But the delicious and perfectly cooked ratatouille (£2.50) I would order again, without hesitation. 

 

But I have a problem. I like the Brasserie Zédel, I really do; but there's just something lacking. It's without doubt a pastiche of the original La Coupole in Montparnasse, beloved of Henri Cartier-Bressson, Josephine Baker and Henry Miller. It reminds me of a brand new "French" restaurant as seen in Sunny Los Angeles. Everything is shiny, refurbished and spanking clean. You need a pair of sunglasses to glance at the refurbished gilded Edwardian Corinthian Columns. Is this the new London? For some, this isn't going to be too much of an issue, but for me it lacks that genuine patina of age, of a hundred years of nicotined plaster, of a Remembrance of Things Past, it lacks that certain je ne sais...

London has never been a brasserie sort of place, which is a genuine shame, as I am undoubtably a fan of the genre. And now suddenly there's a vibrant Parisian style brasserie in our midst, as if it had been there since the glory days of The Titanic: as if it had witnessed two world wars: full of people gesticulating, having affairs, making new contacts, sucking oysters from the shell, flirting, arguing, having a great time; with slick waiters acting as if they have been in business for over a hundred years... and yet...and yet, it's only been there for two months.

I'm torn between two schools of thought. It's a fake- but a very good fake. But for my money, I'd rather spend a bit more dosh- what's left of it- at The Wolseley, which somehow manages to re-create a fin de siècle vibe without screaming 'pastiche'. And that's no mean achievement. And, my god, I do miss those cigarette girls. Those thin uniformed girls in black stockings- with the trays.

 

The Brasserie Zédel, 20 Sherwood Street, London, W1F 7 ED (020 7734 48888)

 

 

The Grand Central Oyster Bar, New York

 

 

Photograph from The Kitchen Files

Still on the subject of classic American restaurants, here's a photograph of The Grand Central Oyster Bar, New York. Back in the late 90's I used to spend quite a bit of my time in America (various auctions in New York and Philadelphia) and the Grand Central Oyster Bar, alongside P. J. Clarke's on Third Avenue was one of my favourite destinations.

The Grand Central Oyster Bar really is the most extraordinary place. It's massive: a cavernous warren of vaults, decorated with a mosiac of glittering Byzantine tiles in the Beaux-Arts manner. Imagine such a thing underneath Paddington Station! 

It was founded in 1913, and originally served "Continental" (i.e. French) food, although it became famous for its oyster stew. From memory, there are various murky fish tanks dotted around the restaurant. I like the way you can point a long finger at your lobster of choice, and then a few minutes later the critter is paraded though the restaurant, held high by a waiter on a silver plated serving dish.

 

 

Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant, Philadelphia

 

 

 

Here's a terrific technicolor photograph of the Old Bookbinder's Restaurant, Philadelphia, taken from Vincent and Mary Price's "A Treasury of Great Recipes", published in 1965. The "Treasury" was really just an excuse for Vincent to eat at various horribly swanky restaurants around the world, no doubt at the publisher's expense. It's a fun book, and includes recipes for the restaurants' signature dishes and original menus in facsimile.

This is very much my sort of thing: fawning waiters in dinner jackets, bouillon ladelled from a silver tureen, the copper canopy over the roaring fire, oysters, chafing dishes over little spirit lamps, an avuncular maitre d'. Bet you anything he was always called by his first name. He's got to be a "Charles". Note the model yacht in the top left hand corner, sitting next to the exposed brickwork. Can't you just see the clientele offsetting their lunch bills against their tax returns? It's like something from The Seven Year Itch.

 

 

 

Robert Carrier and Drinking in Vogue

 

 

 

It's hard trying to be a food writer when you haven't got a kitchen. It's the reason why you've had a series of posts from me on cocktails over the last few days. You're also going to get quite a bit about books over the next few weeks or so; that is until the dust settles, the builders are banished and the ribbon, unveiling the new kitchen, is cut. I might even post up a photograph of the whole shooting match when it's finished.

For this one, I'm combining the two by recommending Drinking in Vogue, written by Henry McNulty, first published in 1978. Condé Nast published a series of excellent design and style books in the 60's, 70's and 80's; all of which are now becoming highly collectable. Henry Piper McNulty sounds like one of those splendid old school Henry Jamesy Americans. His Princeton obituary describes him as "a man of the world". I like the dry, spare irony of his biographical entry on the back flap of Drinking in Vogue: "Henry McNulty was born in Soochow, China, the son of missionary parents..."

And what a useful little book is Drinking in Vogue; peppered with amusing stories and witty asides:

"Learning to appreciate wine is a bit like falling in love. It happens to you without you actually encouraging it. But unlike love there is little chance that divorce will set in, unless your doctor intervenes".

He's also disarmingly candid: " I make no claim to wine expertise. I just like wine. My personal preference is for red over white, and French over others, and Bordeaux over Burgundy..." 

 

 

 

Hintlesham Hall, Suffolk

 

I was amused to see Henry McNulty mentioning a recipe for the "Hintlesham White Lady" (gin and lemon juice in equal measures, a dash of cointreau, a touch of sugar to taste, shaken with the white of an egg and ice). Oh, crikey, that's a trip down memory lane. Back in the late 70's, Hintlesham Hall was the fashionable country house restaurant owned by the starry American food writer and television "chef", Robert Carrier. Hintlesham was the sort of place where the waiters would count to three, and lift their silver tureen lids in unison. I buy old Robert Carrier books whenever I see them. They go for a song.

 

 

Mr Carrier in action for the BBC

 

It's funny how nobody seems to remember Robert Carrier anymore. In his day, he was huge: a contributor to Vogue, the proprietor of a trendy cookery school, author of many urbane cookery books, the inventor of the wipeable Robert Carrier Cookery Card System- a novel concept at the time. Food, Wine & Friends (the book of his now long forgotten 1979 television series) remains a particular favourite. If I can find my copy, I'll post up some photographs from the book at a later date. You will find them highly entertaining. His "friends", of course, included glamour girls like Joanna Lumley, Liv Ullmann, Susannah York, and Valentina Cortese. 

 

 

Robert Carrier's dining room at Hintlesham, "Robert Carrier's Entertaining", Sidgwick & Jackson, 1977 

 

 

And he was a terribly nice man to deal with: a very long time ago, as a junior auction specialist at a well know auctioneers in New Bond Street, I was told to telephone Mr Carrier to tell him that his rather camp 17th century wood carvings (gilt-wood angels, heavenly cherubs, South German putti- that sort of thing) had failed to sell. He was utterly charming, shouted "good, good!" down the telephone and told me he was delighted to be "getting his old friends back".

There's hardly anything featuring Robert Carrier on youtube, but I did find him trying to flog Magimixes in an old ad from the 1980's:

 

          

 

 

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Rex Whistler and The Tate Gallery Restaurant

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944), "Self-Portrait", 1940, National Army Museum

One of my favourite biographies of the 1980's is Laurence Whistler's The Laughter and The Urn, an affectionate portrait of his brother, the artist and illustrator, Rex Whistler. Rex was killed in July 1944 as the Guards Armoured Division attempted to break out of the salient at Caen. His languid self-portrait, painted in 1940, is now in the possession of the National Army Museum. He's sitting on the edge of the balcony of one of those Nash stucco terraces in Regent's Park, self-aware in his new uniform of the Welsh Guards; Sam Browne belt unbuckled, cocktail tray and paint brushes at the ready.

Rex Whistler died at far too young an age. He is remembered now for his charming, delightful, whimsical if frivolous, illustrations (Beverley Nichol's Down the Garden Path, immediately comes to mind); he was after all, a friend of Stephen Tennant and a Bright Young Thing, but his later work shows the promise of greater things. Here's his portrait of Sargeant Isaacs, Welsh Guards:

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944) "The Master Cook", Sergeant Isaacs of the Welsh Guards, 1940 or 1941.

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944), "Caroline Paget", circa 1938

 

In 1926, The Tate Gallery commissioned Whistler to redecorate the murals of their then refreshment room, now the Rex Whistler Restaurant at Tate Britain (the restaurant is currently closed for re-fururbishment until 2013).

With quirky wit, Rex called his murals The Expedition in Pursuit of Rare Meats: "a hunting party is formed, including a princess and her maid, a prince, a colonel, a captain, a pantry boy and the son of an impoverished nobleman. At the start of the mural they are seen leaving a palace and riding across the countryside, spearing sturgeon, hunting for truffles and other delicacies. The hunters encounter wild and mythical beasts on their journey through the mountains and forests including a leopard and a unicorn".

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944), "The Expedition in Pursuit of Rare Meats", Tate Gallery, London, 1927

 

Yesterday I mentioned my "cook books to save in the event of a fire shelf". I've got another one to add (this is growing by the day). It's The Tate Cookbook, by Paul King and Michael Driver, published by The Tate Gallery in 1996. It might just be still available new, otherwise you should easily be able to track one down through amazon or abebooks. I really love it. Published in an elegant format, with a terrific dust-jacket by William Strang ("Bank Holiday", painted in 1912) it's generously illustrated with food-related paintings and drawings by the likes of William Nicholson, Vanessa Bell, Elisabeth Blackadder, William Scott, Duncan Grant, Stanley Spencer and Walter Sickert.

Inside, there's a selection of relatively simple, elegant (like "iconic", a much over-used word, but I'm going to use it again without hesitation in this case), recipes with a British, even Nursery twist: buttered crab, venison pâté en croûte with Cumberland Sauce, poached pears with stilton walnut quennelles, omelette arnold bennett, breast of pheasant with pâté croutons and Madeira sauce, whisky and coffee ice cream, brioche and butter pudding, lemon soufflé. All this is similar, in some ways, to the 1920s' and 30's recipes in Arabella Boxer's Book of English Food.

 

 

William Strang (1859-1921), "Bank Holiday", 1912, dust-jacket design for The Tate Cookbook

 

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Cocktails at Ciro's

 

 

 

 

I thought this looked quite interesting: it's a reprint of "Cocktails by Jimmy, late of Ciro's London", originally published in 1930. There's someone selling paperback reprints of vintage cocktail books on amazon. They're not very expensive, but I gather from a friend who ordered one recenty that they're really nothing more than scans or photocopies of the original book. Still, if you're interested in the history and origin of cocktails, the information contained within may well be of some use, and I see that there's a dealer on abebooks.co.uk currently offering the 1930 edition for well over a thousand pounds.

Ciro's was a fashionable London nightclub, founded in 1915 (despite the War) and located in Orange Street, just off Haymarket. According to Pathé news: Ciro's was "the famous London rendezvous of Smart Society." It even boasted it's own all-black dance band, possibly the first one in this country. Ciro's bartender, Harry McElhone, left to start up Harry's Bar in Paris ("roo sank der noo"), handing over his cocktail shaker to Jimmy, who I'm sure did an admirable job. Incidentally, there was another Ciro's- in Los Angeles- but the only thing it shared in common was the name.

 

The Pegu Club, 1910

 

According to the reprint's editor, Ross Bolton, this is one of the few cocktail books of the period to share the secret of the Pegu Club Cocktail, the signature drink of the Pegu Club, Rangoon, set up in the 1880's as a watering hole for British army officers.

There are all sorts of different opinions on how to mix a Pegu Club Cocktail, but I found this recipe on The Gin is In blog, and thought it looked good: 3oz gin (our old friend Plymouth would be ideal), 1oz Cointreau, .75oz fresh lime juice, two dashes of aromatic bitters, two dashes of orange bitters. Serve cold.

While you're mixing the drink, and to get you in the mood, here's a recording of the "Ciro's Club Coon Orchestra" in action:

 

 

 

 

If you like all this historic jazz age cocktail stuff, for my next post I might well cover the mysterious slaying of one time antiques dealer and Hollywood silent film director, William Desmond Taylor. He shared an Orange Blossom cocktail with the silent comedienne Mabel Normand a few hours before his death. The case remains unsolved. But that's for my next post. After all, tomorrow is another day.

 

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Harry's Bar, Venice

 

 

 

 

I'm not sure how many "Harry's Bars" there are in the world. Quite a few, I expect. There's that famous pub in Paris, there's the late Mark Birley's smart dining club in London; I would imagine there are some pretty divey bars in god-forsaken fleshpots using the name. But for me, the one and only, the place that can truly describe itself as "Harry's Bar" is the famous institution in Venice, opened by Giuseppe Cipriani in 1931.

I've unashamedly described my love for this place over the years- and I make no apologies for it. I like its wooden simplicity (a bit like a saloon in a varnished schooner), I like the fact that the food is prepared by "cooks" rather than "chefs"- suggesting a remarkable honesty, at least when it comes to the food. I like the immaculate service- the way you can return a decade later, and there will be the same barman behind the counter, I like the continuity; the idea that the ghosts of Ernest Hemingway, Orson Welles, Truman Capote and Peggy Guggenheim might just, if you played your cards right, come over and say hello.

 

Very many years ago, as a callow youth (all of nineteen years old) I developed an interest in the Dry Martini. I was in Venice with my girlfriend of the time. We were shy and naive. We had never been to Harry's before. We plucked up courage and pushed through the hallowed swing doors. It was pouring with rain. We found a seat at the bar and ordered two dry martinis. Harry's serve them in tiny, rather stylish little tumblers with their famous Deco motif, frosted, very cold and straight from the 'fridge. The barman- Mr Claudio Ponzio please step forward- was charming and treated us as if we were royalty, even though starry people like Roger Moore and Michael Caine happened to be sitting over in the corner. The next day we came back, and Claudio had "your usual, sir?" waiting for us before we had even arrived, served up with a wry smile. Now, that's why I like Harrys' Bar.

 

        Mr Claudio Ponzio in action

There will be certain people- visitors to Venice- who will grumble about the place "not being as good as it used to be". They will complain about the quality of the Bellinis; about the number of badly dressed tourists packing out the downstairs bar, they will dismiss the exorbitant prices in the separate restaurant. Despite its fame, Harry's remains remarkably unpretentious- and this, I think, might be the cause of the trouble.

But I do think- and I've been meaning to say this for some time- that's it's often a question of respect, which Venice, as one of the greatest tourist destinations in the world often doesn't get. The last time we were there (a few months ago) we were greeted with a reserved charm, and offered a little dish of canapés. Just for us. We had just been to La Fenice- or possibly High Mass at St Mark's (I forget which, my wife is a Catholic) and were dressed appropriately, a suit for me, my wife as immaculate as ever. You get back what you give.

 

 

 

May I also recommend The Harrys' Bar Cookbook by Arrigo Cipriani? If our house ever caught fire, this would be first cookery book that I would try and save. We use it the whole time. The recipe for Minestrone is certainly the best version I've made- so far. Pollo alla Veneta and Insalata di Cape Sante are particular favourites.

 

 

Before the Theatre

 

 

Before the theatre: Prunier's Snack Bar by "Eric" (Carl Erickson, 1891-1958), Vogue Magazine, late 1930's, (from Food in Vogue, Six Decades of Cooking and Entertaining, edited by Barbara Tims, Harrap London, 1976)

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Odin's

 

 

One of the most beautiful- and glamorous- restaurant interiors in London. Slightly shabby, a touch frayed at the edges (a faded velveteen quality) understated, grand, utterly grown up; like a time-warp from the 1950's: what a proper restaurant should look like. Odin's boasts a serious art collection- many pictures, apparently, bought on the advice of Brian Sewell when the Modern British art market was going for a song. This is very much my sort of thing: William Nicholson, R.B. Kitaj, Patrick Procktor, David Hockney; all mixed up with obscure Edwardian and 20th century British artists such as Alfred Hayward. There's a massive and fabulous Laura Knight by the front door. Peter Langan took over the restaurant in 1967. Desparately fashionable back then, serving nursery food to le gratin, it's now very much off the beaten track.

Not so long ago, there was a suave maitre d' in a dark grey double-breasted suit to lead you to your table and spread your napkin on your lap; although recently this appealing trait seems to have vanished; the food- to be frank- is not up to much either (thinking about it, if Odin's suddenly upped its game and served fabulous food, it really would be heaven on earth) but I really don't want to spoil my post. Odin's still remains- and will remain- one of my favourite London restaurants. I will be extremely grumpy if it closes.

 

 

 

 

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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:

 

 

 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.

 

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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.

 

 

F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

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.

 

 

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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)

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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 1970s, 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 "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 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, who was retiring from a laser printing business after thirty years of loyal service.

Now about the food. Joe Allen's serves American, of the East Coast variety. Think Black Bean soup, pan-fried tuna, "candied" sweet potatoes and barbequed spare ribs. This time around, 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. 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 matter if the joint can be a hit or a 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)

 

Clientele: Out of Work Actors

Ambience: Woody Allen

Food: East Coast American

Service: Brusk

Price: ££

 

 

 

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 correct on the second.

A few weeks ago, Mrs Aitch kindly decided to treat me to dinner for my birthday. We decided to head for Wheeler's. The front of the restaurant looked promising- a tiled, fin de siècle style oyster restaurant of the old school, albeit empty; although our faces were to fall when we led to the main restaurant: a cavernous hanger, painted a shiny red gloss (worthy of a tart's boudoir or a 70s 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 helplessly 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 cauliflower cheese was creamy, and the braised red cabbage, excellent. We ordered a Gavi de Gavi and were told by the sommelier 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 unfair?  But service was fine, and the sommelier 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 Nigerian?). 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 our 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. It 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 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)

Clientele: African mercenaries, American & German tourists

Ambience: Commerical 'Fridge

Food: All Right

Service: Fine

Price: ££££

 

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)

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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 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 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. The gravy was thin (hooray!) and dark brown 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 an eminently reasonable £45 a head.  It 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) 

Clientele: City

Ambience: Grown Up

Food: Anglo-French

Service: Urbane

Price: ££

 

 

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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)

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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:  ££/£££

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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 auctioneer 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 do I begin?  It 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 hazy. Pearl, the long-suffering waiter, rather sweetly made me a little chocolate cake with the word 'Love' piped on the top in 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)

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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 phallic 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