A Fish and Chip Off - July 2010

Where: The Adam and Eve and The Dining Plaice, Soho

With who: Wing Commander at the Adam and Eve and Ed Hitter for Berwick Street
How much: The Adam and Eve charged a tenner for their fish and chips, plus (London) pub prices for their drinks. The Dining Plaice was a much more reasonable £6.60 for a very large haddock and chips, a quid for some curry sauce and 90p for a tea (take that Starbucks)

I love working in Soho... truly I do.

I am quite aware that I spend a lot of my time going for lunches at the moment. Now to be fair, I do work as well - I'm sometimes at my desk as early as 9.30 and when really stretched have been known to stay, on occasion, past 4 in the afternoon. Lucky enough not to have a proper job surrounded by middle aged men in suits, I can sail close to the wind of Soho media trendy and waltz off for long lunches at a whim. Having had two fish n chip lunches in so many weeks (and no time to write them up) I thought I might as well cover them off at the same time. 


The Adam and Eve

The Wing Commander needed a catch up, briefing on a planned event and, never one to look a gift lunch in the mouth, I took up his invite to cover it over a bite to eat. The Adam and Eve is a bright and smiley gastro pub by numbers from mass market chain Geronimo. It used to be goth tourist trap the Ben Crouch (dark, loud and punky) prior to a beige makeover aimed at ensnaring the nearby office drones, of which dear reader, I am one. Bland is the decor, new are the staff.


I hadn't had a decent fish and chip lunch for a while, sadly on leaving the place, this situation still stood. The chirpy staff tried their hardest, but this was the worst form of cook by numbers I've had for a while. 
A dark batter carapace flecked with a mystery herb had been in the fryer for way too long. It died protecting the white flesh below but the eventual reveal showed that the fish had given up the ghost long ago. It had the look of blackened cod underneath, fibrous and chewy from the deep fry. The chunky chips looked promising initially, but a whiff of old oil hung above them, and I was only saved from the taste of that by the salt that the poundshop Jamie Oliver in the kitchen had liberally dumped on them before they reached me. 


The Dining Plaice

Ed Hitter was the most recent lucky recipient of an hour of my very valuable time. I'd been fantasising about (proper) fish and chips since my tastebuds were assaulted a couple of weeks ago and desperate to atone, dragged the hapless journalist to Berwick Street. There are certainly no airs and graces with The Dining Plaice. It's been there for years, as the formica tables, bus station seating and tired and battered decor shows. The black sign above the hallowed door has been there for so long I only noticed what it was called when I checked back on my photos, for as long as I've worked round here, it's just been known as 'the chippie'. Everyone knows where you mean, like Highlander, there can only be one. If you do feel tempted to give it a go, then get there before 12.30. The queue on a lunchbreak can stretch out of the door.

Schooling my southern friend in the ways of the fish and chipper, I led the way with haddock and chips, curry sauce, a bread roll and a cup of tea. Sandwiched between a team of web designers and a couple of sweary builders, we didn't have long to wait before the food arrived. Freshly cooked, the enormous mountain arrived straight from the fryer, heat bravely battling the aggressive aircon attack. The crispy batter was cooked to perfection, and the pearl white fish underneath was soft and yielding. Curry sauce was the proper chip shop special, sweet, thin and tasting nothing like curry. It soaked into the chips, oil free and with enough of a crunch to carry it.


In conclusion
The Dining Plaice has it. A special place in my heart. Can you tell? Now it's still not the best in London, for me Masters Superfish in Waterloo still holds that title, but then Masters isn't five minutes from my office, and it's bloody good regardless. I'm not sure whether this is the right time to bring up the tired North v South debate. All three of them have serious flaws. All of the fish is served with it's skin on, and they all look at you oddly if you ask for batter bits or scraps on the side. 

A review of Frank's Campari Cafe in Peckham - July 2010

Where: Frank's Cafe and Campari Bar, Peckham
With who: Whatever the collective noun is for a gathering of actors, clowns (really. He made balloon sculptures), ex-theatrical types and the odd accountant. A cackle maybe? More than I can name but The Vole, The Masticator, Ginger Prince, Nice Guy Eddie, Orange Crush, Queen Bee and the Art Tart were all there.
How much: £20 each (including food, an amount of lager, white wine and a number of Campari cocktails).


"If you carry on like that, you'll end up swigging spirits in a piss soaked carpark". It's the kind of thing my mother told me fairly regularly though my teenage years and for this summer and last, it appears that she's not far from the truth.


I blame it on the students. Since I stopped being one, I've blamed most things on them; queues in bars (even ones without happy hours and garish drinks), noise and general happiness on the night bus, the resurgence in fashions that we thought were shit at the time and my inability to have more than a bottle of wine in a night without feeling like crap the next day. All of the above came into play at Frank's Cafe last weekend.

Frank's is cool.. it's an art installation cum pop up bar on the top three floors of a Peckham multistory just round the corner from an art college. It was born cool. Like the arty kid who joined in the sixth form with the right band t-shirts who smoked French fags and snogged the girl you fancied.


And I'm not cool. Categorically. And I couldn't have felt more out of depth in this bastion of hip, so what did I do? surround myself with people who are. We went for the Costume King's birthday, a too rare raggle-taggle night ending late with whooping descent of drunken stairwell into piss infused alley. 

For a group who find it hard to be on time for a piss up in a brewery, we'd done well to get there early enough, but already food was disappearing from the chalkboard screwed to the reverse of the portaloo faster than we could fill our table. The staff clucked artily and fixed us jugs of Campari based punch and frosty beers while we raucously dived around the benches. Those of us who hadn't eaten (other than a late afternoon Mooli, but you can't hold that against me) raced to get to the menu before another item was scrubbed away. The rough hewn benches run from the bar, free of the tarpaulin roof, to the edge of the carpark and some amazing views over London. From this height even Peckham looks pretty. 


Eyeing the rapidly diminishing chalkboard, we went for a selection of dishes to share. This  caused The Masticator no end of pain. A born Yorkshireman, he finds it nigh on impossible to share his food and flees tapas on sight. It's a plain and simple menu, nothing flowery (or descriptive) in the descriptions ("cheese - £5") and this carried through into the cooking. A prosaic plate of 2 or 3 haphazardly chopped heritage tomatoes was nice enough, and saltily studded in a manner pleasing to us old 'uns but pricey at £6 a go. A feta and tomato bruschetta affair was similarly simple. A good portion of crackle glazed porchetta came with salty, tasty stewed green beans and sprinkled with toasted almonds. A hefty slice of pig, and worth the £10 price tag. Mackerel made a late substitution for  Sardine, the latter scrubbed from the chalkboard just before we ordered, likewise simply and competently cooked served with a lovely mustardy coleslaw style salad and served with orange to cut through the rich oil of the fish. 
We finished with a large dish of (slightly under) stewed gooseberries served with a slightly stingy portion of cream. Perfectly adequate though, and spying the mystical cheese (which appeared as a single large lump of what looked like Port Salut served solo) I think we went for the best option.


In any case, it's not about the food at Frank's. It's about being able to (legally and without fear of the Salvation Army) sit on a multistory rooftop in the summer, drinking cheapish beer and slightly camp cocktails, surrounded by groups of art students having far too much fun, dressing up in 90's retro neon and "partying like it's 1990, because that's when I was born". Who needs Hampstead Heath and the views from Parliament Hill? I've got a carpark in Peckham, until September at least...

10 things that I've noticed about eating in Russia - Nico Polo speaks

Our intrepid explorer, Mr Nico Polo is has now left Moscow behind and is heading towards Lake Baikal and the East. He's finished off with ten observations on the cuisine he's been experiencing. Short and sweet. 


"Russian food is not bad. It can be heavy but salads are plentiful and delicious, and no-one cares whether you have a main course or whether you just graze. Here are some of the things that I've noticed about eating in Russia." 

1. Restaurants seem to be open at most hours of the day and night. You can eat from any part of the menu at any time and no-one questions or comments. 
2. You eat in any order or graze, depending on how you feel. At the same table someone could eat salad, someone else ice cream, someone else grilled meats and someone else just have coffee. 
3. Most restaurants, certainly those in the cities, have a sushi menu. It could be mainly Italian or traditional russian but they also serve sushi. It's all about the status symbols in middle class Russia and sushi is clearly it. Its usually horrible though as in the middle of Siberia, fresh tuna and salmon are pretty difficult to come by
4. Vodka is drunk with food and never on its own. It usually is accompanied by a jug of Mos which is a cranberry juice drink. Each shot is downed following a toast by the table host.  
5. Many people prefer to drink wine or beer with their meals though. There are some excellent Russian beers but a good array of Czech and German beers in most places. A 23 year old tour guide told us that vodka is now the drink of middle aged and older men, and more sophisticated people drink wine with their meals.  Most of the wine is imported from France or Chile it seems and is fairly passable. 
6. Borcht is universal and each resturant has its own recipe. It is served hot and with meat usually but we have also had vegetarian versions and cold versions with shredded hard boiled egg which is delicious. 
7. The other summer soup is Okrashka which is made from Kvass. Kvass is a yeasty lemonade and drunk by the gallon and sold from massive road side water containers. As a soup, it includes egg, meat, raddishes, dill and spring onion. For something so light it weighs massively heavily on the tummy. 
8. Dill is the herb of choice. You might get parsley as a garnish but dill is in literally everything. 
9. Smoked fish with bread is very popular. They use a local freshwater fish for which I havent found a translation.  But its delcious, lightly smoked and sliced onto dark rye bread.  They do not gut the fish before smoking however, and this was a bit of surprise the first time I ate it on a train with a Russian cabin mate. 
10. Beer snacks are served everywhere.  They include deep fried breaded cheese sticks, onion rings, nuts, baked croutons, and corn chips with tomato salsa.  I never want to drink beer without snacking ever again! 

A short review of A. Gold - July 2010

The joyous and shiny new Berlin inspired Hipster Express from New Cross deposited me across the road from Hawksmoor. This could just be my new favourite journey. Walking through the old market to Liverpool Street, my mood went down from there. I genuinely hate how the developers have ripped the heart out of Spitalfields. The individual stalls and shops are pretty much cleared out now and even the camp but beautiful trinket shop Queens has recently closed. The few that remain are a shadow of their former glory peddling vanilla clothing, ethnic notebooks, expensive Laahndon souvenirs and ripped off Banksy prints in the main. 

Wandering through there on the way to meet the Masticator I found myself getting angrier and angrier, remembering some of the wonderful food stalls displaced and now moved to the Up-Market round the corner on Brick Lane. Striding past the mass market inadequacy of Wagamamma, Giraffe, Gourmet Burger Kitchen, The Real Greek and some generic crepe place I can't even be bothered to recall. It's a high end food court in a Croydon shopping mall.

Moving out onto Brushfield Street though I remembered A Gold, a quirky little place owned by Jeanette Winterson. Sandwiched between S&M Cafe (expensive 60's theme greasy spoon cafe) and a random sushi place. It's also 60's themed, though in a very different way, A Gold has authenticity in spades. They run a fascinating (albeit very expensive) deli specialising in dried goods and tracklements and also do a great range of (proper) old school sandwiches and cakes; British ham and mustard, cheese and pickle, a lovely Victoria sponge and other plain speaking treats.

Their delightful staff sort me out with a lovely single estate coffee while I wait for The Masticator. Beans ground to order, served from a beautiful drip feed set up into an array of charity shop mugs. They care about their store, and also worry about the over gentrification occurring. I take a seat outside and enjoy. Across the road, the new shiny Spitalfields Market shimmers in the sun, bereft of life and integrity, but full of confused tourists wondering what the fuss is.

Bompas and Parr - Complete History of Food AND C***V*ISIER - July 2010

Where: The Complete History of Food, Knightsbridge

How much?: £25 a head... not much for an evening's entertainment, but we both felt like we were paying to be at a PR event..

Bompas and Parr have rapidly gained a reputation for audatious food and drink related extraviganzas. They are certainly good at generating their own PR, and sadly from the evidence of tonight, other peoples too... 

The event bills as The Complete History of Food, "an exciting walk-through dining experience and multi-course meal charting key revolutionary periods in food history" brought to you by the pair behind such wonders as the walk-through Gin and Tonic and the bowl of punch so big you can row across it. They specialise in extravaganza (albeit booze advertising extravaganza), but my first personal experience sadly felt a little cheap and tawdry.. 

I used to work in the theatre industry and would often see 2 or 3 shows a week. After all of this time I still remember the feeling I had when walking into the wonderful and magical Punchdrunk producution of The Masque of the Red Death, the groundbreaking 2007 performance that occupied the Battersea Arts Centre. They transformed the entire venue. Every room, corridor, each everything and everyone you could see, hear, touch, interact with or read throughout the venue had been meticulously prepared to provide a truly immersive theatrical experience. I'm not going to re-review a show from three years ago, but if you want more info, then Charlie Spencer's review in the Telegraph sums it up well. Obviously somewhere during the run, someone had mistakenly sold a ticket to a random advertising exec who had walked through and vowed to borrow the idea and use it to sell product.

Before you say it, this wasn't on the same scale as Masque of the Red Death, it wasn't theatre but a pop up restaurant / bar experience (unashamedly sponsored) and shouldn't be judged in the same way. I know... I get it..  but while there was a lot of promise in the food and booze, it still felt like a borrowed trick used to advertise hard at me. And I'd paid to be there.  

You know what, I'm not going to review the food... it's done and gone now, popped off as it were. The show has been reviewed by countless other bloggers and reviewers, google 'review bompass and parr ' and you'll find a few or check down the right of this page and have a look at a few of the blogs I like, most of them were there too. The best one has to be Meemalee's Haiku review. it's inspired (and has some lovely pics of the food).

So leaving the slightly slim food pickings out of it, what were we left with? A walk through advert with C***V*ISIER emblazoned across cardboard sets wedged between a selection of slightly prosaic service corridors taking us through the building. Sometimes we'd see the kitchens, at other times the doors opened on store rooms stacked with crate upon crate of C***V*ISIER. We walked out slightly tiddled (and vowing not to touch brandy for a while) but in dire need of a burger. PLEASE BUY C***V*ISIER

A guest post from Nico Polo - Russia

A very good friend of mine, Nico Polo, is taking advantage of a career change and spending nearly two months travelling through Russia, Mongolia and China on the Trans Siberian Railway. Jealousy doesn't even begin to describe it. 
He's writing a blog, which I do recommend you read, especially if you're thinking of doing the same thing or can see through his rather cunning nom (nom) de plume. 


Russia and the former Soviet states aren't renowned for their culinary niceties. It's a region most regularly characterised from the outside with a patronising stab at hearty peasant cuisine followed by a comment abut unidentified meat and dumplings. A check with a number of colleagues from the region reveals only slight evidence to the contrary. There were a few ex-pats waxing about the joys of pelmeni (meat-filled dumplings served with a dash of vinegar), salo (salted, unrendered pork fat presented like fine Spanish ham) and borscht, but by and large they weren't missing it. That being said, it's a region that covers a sixth of the globe, and as Nico is travelling across most of it, we're all hoping that he'll find something, somewhere that he can eat.

And since he's writing it anyway, I've commissioned him to add his foodie thoughts to the Grumbling Gourmet as an occasional series (I'm just hoping that it lasts longer than my attempt to eat with England in the World Cup). If you like it, have a look at the blog... 


"I've got to say that it's far better than expected so far, though some of the stereotypes are certainly there. Yes, Russian food is quite heavy in the main courses. Over boiled veg, meaty mains, very often breaded and all served at scorching temperatures. Before them, however, you do get some delightful salads and soups. The amusingly named Idiot in St Petersburg saw the first taste of cold Borsch with shredded hard boiled egg, soured cream and dill. After a (hot) night at the Kirov Ballet, it was the most refreshing thing one could possibly have eaten. A passable salad followed before a main of mushroom and potato rosti (a little heavy but delicious).  My intrepid travelling companion Sputnitza Dolly had a green salad followed by a heavy pasta dish with mixed veg. She lamented not having my borsch.
Moscow called and we went. In GYM (the former state department store) there is a retro-Soviet Canteen. This is an interesting experience of similarly stodgy food but quite atmospheric and ultimately, for those that don't speak Russian like myself and Sputnisa Dolly, self-service. Over boiled veg accompanied again though I had a terrific chicken kiev (told you it was retro!) and she had pork cutlet which was still tender. Salads again were a surprise smash with herring, beetroot and tomato.  Delicious dessert of sour cherry strudel was a winner. 
Finally, today, we hit the all you can eat Russian buffet, just off Red Square. Tasty, filling, uneventful but cheap - a first for Russian cities. My buffet i think trumped Dolly's Business Lunch set - though she did get beetroot salad (fast becoming a cooling favourite in the 38 degree heat) and I didn't. Beer knocked me out for the afternoon but hey ho. When in Russia drink like a Russian.
We went for the most delicious and expensive lunch at Cafe Pushkin. An old fashioned but unstuffy (actually there's nowhere in Moscow that is stuffy it would seem) place off Pushkin Square, round the corner from Patriach's Ponds. It was very good. 4 course each, wine, coffee and petits fours really rounded off the Moscow experience. It was good food - very Russian in style: starters of herring and an asparagus salad; soups of borsch and '24 hour sauerkraut'; both having pelmeni (russian meat filled dumplings a bit like heavier ravioli) followed by lovely, if slightly over the top, desserts and coffee. The Room was beautifully clad in plaster, with a fin de siecle lift and carved wood bar. We're off to get the train now, so not sure what the journey food will be like, here's hoping for some tasty fish round lake Baikal!"

Mooli's - July 2010

Where: Mooli's, Soho
With whom: work lunches, I think I've introduced most colleagues now. if I haven't taken you, then it either means I'm not enough of a fan to share the spare five minutes I get to eat, or you don't work near me... 
How much?: A remarkably reasonable £4.50 for a large Mooli.


Now I grumble right? It's one of the reasons that you read the reviews (other than the fact I ram it down your throat every five minutes), but every now and then even I find somewhere that I just can't complain about, and Mooli's may be that place. But I'm a Grumbling Gourmet, and certainly not qualified to just be a Gourmet, so will give them both barrels.
Complaint no 1: There are long queues at lunchtime
Complaint no 2: I've the sneaking suspicion that they could turn it into a chain, and thus become the corporate enemy. After all, being in on the ground floor of a food revolution is wonderful, but you don't want to admit to shilling for a nationwide chain, "hey guys, I've found this beautiful new sandwich shop... artisanal, fresh, Pret A Manger I think it's called.."
The premise is simple. A small shop on Frith Street sells 6 types of Mooli, Indian style wraps of meat or veg in a roti roll. They do a better job of explaining this than me. Take the wrap, eat the wrap, smile... 


I habitually, like an addict, go for the Goan Pork. More pulled pork, this time an unctuous slow cooked spice hot mix, almost past the point of individual strands and spread like a rough pate on the freshly cooked wholemeal roti. There's a pleasing crunch and sweetness from the pomegranate seeds and a lettuce, cucumber and tomato salad shares the porky bed and adds a touch of cool to proceedings.
The Keralan beef with coconut and raita works well, as does their new goat, a spicy step change from the more subtle beef. I've tried a bite of the veggie Mooli's but keep getting side tracked by the pork.   


It's too simple a concept for a long review. The fact I take people there most weeks sums up my feelings for the place, it's the same pleasure I get introducing people to a great new band. I hope that it can and does roll out (geddit, geddit?) further so I get the chance to look at the Mooli's on every high street and remember back to when I knew first, and best... 

A short review of Bodeans - July 2010

Where: Bodean's, Soho originally (and now also Clapham, Fulham and another couple)

I'm not quite sure why I'm putting a date against this one, and I'm certainly not putting people, the list would be way too long. Pretty much ever since I started working in Soho, the weak mid-morning cry of 'Bodean's?' on a Friday has been the dead giveaway of many a hangover. It's been there since 2002 pumping the area's media workers full of authentic(ish) BBQ treats and grumble as I may, I've got to say it does a pretty good job.

I'm not sure why BBQ, for that's what they serve, and serve well, is the ideal cure for the self inflicted wounds of school night drinking, but it's generally held that the hot and greasy will somehow make you feel better (see other exhibits here, the fry up, fish and chips, the Sausage and Egg Muffin and the bacon sandwich) at least in my version of the world. Similar to hair of the dog, there's the idea of a restorative shot of flavour, salt and some form of pork product will bring you back to normality.

The decor falls somewhere between sports bar and diner, long high communal tables in the middle, a full size fibreglass cow and TV screens everywhere. The downstairs resembles the kind of country club you'd expect to find in Happy Days. They have laminated menus and a selection of chipotles on every table, a witches brew of different condiments to anoint your meat. In short, it's not an ideal spot for a first date... unless he/she really likes meat.
Pay at the counter,grab your ticket and wait for them to holler your number (downstairs is waiter service, see, I told you it was like a posh country club). Your food is served on a plastic tray with a liner to soak up the juices. The few sides offered (fries, gherkins, slaw as you'd expect, beans come studded with more pig) are nothing special, just necessary to break up the monopoly of the main ingredient. Skip the burgers and 'salads' too. The first because you can get much better locally and the buns really don't measure up, the second because it's a BBQ restaurant. Man (or woman) up, the clue is in the title...

So how's the meat? That is after all the reason we're here right? Several species roost / roast here, chicken, beef (brisket) and pork, both ribs and 'pulled' pork shoulder. All cooked long and low in their oak smoked BBQ pit (disclaimer, never seen the pit, though would like to...) I've always been a fan of pulled meat, it's a simple concept that brings a real tenderness to some of the most surly and taciturn cuts. By marinading and roasting low for 8 or 9 hours you get the recalcitrant strands of muscle to fall apart into a juicy stringy mass. The South Americans use it as carnitas, served spicy with salsa and guacamole. Those north of the border prefer theirs slavered in vinegary BBQ sauce. 


This all comes in various combinations, all with sides, mostly under or around a tenner. The one sandwich I would think worth including is their inspired Soho Special, a heady mix of beef brisket, salty spicy 'que sauce and pulled pork which embraces the poor quality soft white bun like garments from its trailer trash roots and gets to work on your hangover / hunger in the manner of a character from a Johnny Cash song. 
Nothing Bodean's does will win fine dining awards. And they don't necessarily care. It's a simple, down to earth and relatively cheap spot. But they serve you more meat that you can cope with, and you cover it with a zingy chipotle sauce and after a long time chewing, you smile a simple meaty greasy smile and immediately lower your eyes to the rest of the plate, resolving that this time, definitely this time, you won't be beat.

Review of Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester - July 2010

Where: Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester, Mayfair

With whom: The Flying Manc and two others
How much?: DISCLAIMER ***guests of the restaurant, but not for blogging or review purposes, it's one of the perks of my day job*** two courses (no wine) are £55 per head, three for £75. 

There are times when you realise quite how lucky you are. Being able to regularly conduct business over lunch, especially when that lunch happens to be at one of the 140 in the country with a Michelin star, is a good start. When lunch is at the country's newest three starred restaurant, one of only four accorded the highest accolade in the UK, you're on another level entirely. If I had a newspaper backing me, worked for an investment bank or had a trust fund to pay for it, then I'd probably be used to this by now, as it is, I've just got to try very hard not to sound too smug.

Walking into the Dorchester is always walking into a world of craziness... Even on a Wednesday lunchtime, there were paparazzi outside fighting over who got to be closest to the ridiculous and expensive looking cock extension that someone was emerging from. The Grand Dame of London's grand society hotels, it now has the propensity to resemble mutton dressed as lamb, like someone has taken an elderly but refined lady and dressed her as a high end Russian call girl. Anything that doesn't move has been plumped up, gilded or had a mirror attached to it.

There are multiple restaurants throughout the Dorchester, breathily calling their opulence out as you walk down the Promenade in the centre of the hotel. You can also 'enjoy' afternoon tea along this boardwalk though quite why anyone would choose to enjoy afternoon tea along this stretch, somewhere between Brighton Pier and an explosion in Harrods, I do not know. They have awards though (so I've been told) and there's a better chance of seeing who's just climbed out of the shiny mid-life crisis in the front. But there's the rub. The people here aren't having a mid-life crisis, or even spending their children's inheritance. They're here, from around the world, because spending £36 on a cup of tea and some cakes is perfectly normal, and dropping a ton on lunch for one (without wine) just isn't something that you think twice about. It certainly isn't worth some of the prices you'd get charged but the overall experience is perfection - and people will pay for perfection.

After the gold explosion of the lobby, the (relatively) understated calm of Alain Ducasse came as a blessed relief, I felt like my eyes could breath again. Aside from the floor to ceiling crystal shower curtain (a six person V VIP table separated by a crystal sheet and few quid on the bill), the tone is muted light wood and grey anonymous elegant. After the overblown opulence of the adjoining corridor this is definitely in it's favour. 

The parade of inevitable extras started as we sat with herb parcels in filo pastry, in size and texture no different to warm Scampi Fries, deliciously salty and very more-ish though. These arrived along with a selection of perfectly seasoned choux pastry puffs. The black pepper variant was especially successful. An amuse of heirloom tomato mousse was less inspiring though a handy palate cleanser. 

Oddly (and annoyingly had I have been paying) despite the prices, four items on the short menu came with hefty £10 supplements. My Scottish LANGOUSTINE salad with coral jus (their capitalisation, just in case the oligarchs don't get the main ingredients...) was one of these. Assuming a £20/£35 split on that £55 set price for two courses, that supplement brought the salad to a punchy £30. Don't get me wrong, langoustines that do well at school pray to end up on a plate like this. Some of the sweetest shellfish I've ever had, with an earthy jus served over strips of seasonal vegetable. The dish worked. But for £30, I don't know what else it could have offered, short of trained prawns that danced their way out of the pot and onto my plate. Will stop whinging about money now...

I followed this with the roasted rib, saddle and kidney of MILK FED LAMB, served with perfectly cooked, roasted purple artichokes and new potatoes and a scattering of soft garlic croquettes. These were a revelation. The size of jelly gums, they yielded a perfect soft garlic infused paste under their crisp shell. The meat was cooked medium and fell apart. Technically one of the finest takes on this dish I've had, with a wonderful clarity of flavour. 

The Flying Manc had the roasted native LOBSTER, seasonal vegetables and macaroni served as a tiny raft of gratinated tubes. Again, simple perfection in ingredients and preparation. The showmanship ran through to the array of petits fours served with our coffee, macaroons, tiny dark walnut studded chocolate nibs and a variety of chocolates and sweets. One of my hosts ordered a lemon verbena tisane, the leaves cut from the plant in front of us, served with a sense of theatre. 

The service throughout was flawless, in every sense of the word. The staff were attentive, knowledgable (the Pinot Noir selected as an accompaniment to my lamb isn't what I would have picked, but worked a treat) and unobtrusive. There is a discernible, hugely positive difference between here and many of the one star restaurants I've eaten at. Does the restaurant justify a third star? I couldn't say I was competent or experienced enough to judge that, but for all elements it was a meal striking in its perfection throughout, the clientele were certainly happy to pay for this perfection, and I was honoured to eat it (even if I won't necessarily be taking my own wallet back there..) 

The humble fry, an ode to Sergio - Part I

Restaurants run by people who come from, and live in the community that they serve need to cook, prepare and serve consistently good quality, affordable food. They're not in it to make big money, but to financially survive along with their neighbours. At the opposite end of the scale, you have the Renaissance artists of the food world and their patrons. Those who pay to see, rate and be seen, rating. Ticking the names off their culinary big game list. 

At least both ends are fully involved in the journey from ingredients to plate. In the middle, you're well and truly shafted. Removed from the means of production by microwave, fryer, centralised menus, ordering and preprogrammed tills, the poor sods charged with bringing this from freezer to table are as involved with the culinary world as this blog is with the literary.

I was reminded of this at 9:57 a.m. on a Sunday morning, attempting to have breakfast at a Premier Inn in the middle of Leicestershire. Harried staff on a turnaround for lunch - "you know what happens if the juices are still out when Sheila gets in" - had to rush our order through to get it in before the axe swung at 10. Cooked to order, a anomaly in places like this managed by the big Pub Co's, it was hot and freshly cooked, but bland and forgettable. The ingredients were obviously selected by a corporate chefcountant for optimum price vs lifespan vs storage ratio and cooked to the tune of a laminated card above the fryer. 
I came over slightly communist at this point, ranting at the Vole about the invidiousness of said corporations. I was sure that the guy in the kitchen didn't want to be cooking this crap, as much as I didn't want to be eating it. Would the bacon sandwich that he cooked for his mates the morning after a big night out not have been preferable? Not fitting a corporate template, but prepared with pride.


This experience was especially sad coming as it did the day after I'd found out that Sergios of Eagle Place was no more. That pissy alley between Picadilly and Jermyn Street held a tiny tobacconist, a fruity tailor of the Grace Brothers era and a formica table topped, mirrored wall, Sun reading, stuttering coffee machined workaday glorious cafe. 
I'd pop in before a regular morning meeting that way. Always for a bacon on fresh white bloomer treat. It came soft and yielding with a lightly chewy crust and a slight crisp on the salty pig fat, garnished with red sauce, served with a steaming tea, bag firmly still in. Banter existed. The owner (possibly the Sergio of the title) knew his regulars and teas, coffees and 'works' were dispensed to a steady, mixed stream of brickies, cabbies and well preserved gentlemen in their Jermyn suits. 


So here's to Sergio. And to other ones like him. Keep the good ones alive, we'll miss them when they're gone, and replaced by faceless Pain Quotien or Eat or worse. Shout cheers to the guy behind the counter as you leave, and don't dump your teabag on the table.