The Green Man and French Horn - Jan 2013

Now I have to admit to being slightly inebriated when I first visited The Green Man and French Horn. It was the glorious day that Bradford City triumphed over Arsenal in the Capital One Cup. Not a day seared into most people's memories, but enough to send me into paroxysms of clappy handed joy as I watched the giant killing unfold.

In fairness, all I really needed was something to soak up a number of pints. The output from this cracking little newcomer and youngest sibling of Terroirs, Brawn and Soif, was almost certainly beyond my faculty. So good though that, while not capable of sobering me up, it did cause me to drag a non football obsessed guest back to confirm what I'd witnessed.

We're in mixed small plate territory here. Lots of lovely little ideas, pulled together with a loose thread of the Loire Valley, intended as much as anything to show off an outrageously interesting cellar.

A thick slab of pork rillette was pushed eagerly into the contents of a hearty, fresh bread basket and consumed within minutes, hearty and flavoursome. My main plate was, as it had been on the previous visit, one of the simplest dishes I've had in a long time, three beautifully buttery fat mackerel, served with butter, garlic and a spritz of lemon. The quality was superb and the simplest of touches was all they needed.

Alongside, I opted for a grassy almost cidery fresh Cabernet Franc, refreshing and unexpected. A punch in the mouth of clean flavours that it through the thickness of the pork and the fish perfectly.

Poached pear was almost unexpectedly rich after the simple fare so far and a little too sweet for me, reclining like an early Rita Hayworth in a limpid caramel pool. I couldn't stop eating till it was gone, but in hindsight I'd have snuck in another small plate.

It was only after I'd been for the first time I realised the background to the restaurant and its owners, the terroir if you will. It was obviously going to be a winner. Until that point I got to experience the sheer joy that comes with making a real find, of discovering a new restaurant that will stay in your little black book for years. The fact it's a known quality doesn't change that fact.

Tapas Brindisa - Is the original still any good? Jan 2013

So how's the original outpost of growing tapas juggernaut of Brindisa doing since I last visited? Not as well as I'd hoped unfortunately...

Situated on the corner of Borough Market's southern corner, no bookings Brindesa was always a tough (and tiny) table to score, light wood interior filled with souls exiting the market laden with goodies, unable to wait until their home before sampling them. The unlucky masses would look on through the floor to ceiling windows and resolve to turn up earlier next week.

A recent midweek trip to the neighbourhood let me pop in for lunch on one of the less screwily busy days for the restaurant before the market next door grunts into life on a Friday.

The menu is still a organic shopper's wet dream, everything veggie sourced from the nearby stalls while meats and spices come from the Brindesa shop, hotfoot from the best suppliers in their Spanish homeland. The joy has always been that you don't want to wait until you get home from the market, mainly because what the kitchen can do with the same handful of ingredients is infinitely better than anything you could manage.

We've been spoilt by Jose, and the jamon croquetas he now serves up on Bermonsey Street. Those are light, fresh and heaven sent, these lumpen cigars of gluey mash under a too thick oily carapace just don't cut the mustard. Huevos Rotos - broken eggs over fried potatoes and Iberico pork sobrasada - is unevenly cooked. Soft slices of spud seemingly decanted into a lukewarm serving dish, the egg just the wrong side of soft and the sobrasada, a thickly spiced tomato based sauce, huddled in one corner under a slice of waxen potato. A great idea, and one I'm looking forward to borrowing for an inevitably hungover brunch, but there's nothing here any reasonably home chef couldn't improve on.

Sautéed chicken livers with an onion and caper dressing were fine, and well cooked. If I'd just taken a plate of that with a muscular minerally and obscenely dry sherry, I'd no doubt be hurrahing from the rooftops.

Compared to a recent revisit to gracefully ageing Barrafina, the team at Tapas Brindisa have got some way to go to regain their crown. If you're in the area, nip round to Bermondsey Street and see what their old boss Jose Pizzaro is up to at his brace of eponymous restaurants, either one of them easily has the measure of Brindisa I'm sad to say...

   

New York Tales 2 - A bite of Billyburg - Dec 2012

Manhattan's officially over for me. A weekend in Williamsburg gave me chance to really explore another side of the city I love. I've crossed the East River to graze on a few occasions, most memorably for visits to Peter Luger, the steak lover's equivalent of a trip to the Vatican. This time however I was staying there. 

Slowly but surely, the hipsters have been forced out of the lower reaches of the borough and pushed up into Williamsburg and Greenpoint by the buggies and prices of outrageous gentrification and for the last few years the buzz outside the enclave has been growing about the strip dividing Brooklyn from Queens. With pop ups littering every unused shop front and bars in people's front rooms, It seemed like a good place to start. 

Metropolitan Avenue runs broadly above the L train, the true hipster express, and the line that takes you from Manhattan out to the sprawling Brooklyn suburbs. While it's only a handful of stops until you step out at Bedford or Grahame Ave, it's a world away in terms of style and surroundings. Low rise apartment buildings run all ways in strict grids, occasionally drunkenly bisected by thundering expressways. There's a clapperboard style used along the slight, narrow streets that covers those that don't expose their redbrick to the pale December sun. 

The photos on cult flat-sharing site Airbnb showed part of the story, shot from great angles, perfectly lit. Turning up and realising we were bunking down in the corner of a photographers studio explained why we'd see the best angles before we arrived. 

Still, we weren't here for the five star living arrangements, this is Brooklyn baby, and we were here for a slice of the atmosphere, a pint or two of Brooklyn Lager and most importantly to check out a tip off about the best BBQ in New York City. 

As I've said before, the joy of barhopping in strange cities is that you'll end up with recommendations that you won't find in any of the guide books. And more often than not, you'll be on track for a proper locals night out. Here amongst the hipsters, that means necking artisan craft brews in a speakeasy that resembles a Girl Guide hut before queueing outside (in December) for beef ribs, drinking whiskey out of jam jars like some sort of hillbilly. After that? Well it's got to be pickle backs in Mabels hasn't it? Pretentious, scenester-ish. Fantastic.

Thankfully the steam train of gentrification hasn't yet brought conformity (unless it's in the identikit denizens with their plaid shirts, rigger boots and artful woodsman beanie hats) and you'll struggle to find a Starbux, or a Maccy D's on these streets. Coffee came from San Fran export Bluebottle (also sold at Variety Coffee on Graham), beer was almost always Brooklyn or craft and post 'refreshment' tacos came from one of the multitude of street vans.

And the BBQ? Now that was something special...
 
Queuing down an anonymous chain link lined alley in December wouldn't usually be my thing, at all, but James the barman had been insistent. "Best. Damn. BBQ. In New York". Early doors on a Saturday, we waited over an hour, warmed by a retro hipster body warmer my travelling companion had half-inched from the rental flat, fortified by hard liquor served in jam jars. And it was worth it. 

A huge wall montage covered the cuts and joints of every animal (just for those who didn't know what they were getting into), a chalkboard next to the server gave you the lowdown on their goods, sold by weight. Creamy soft brisket crowded the metal serving tray, stacked next to charred beef ribs, blackened fat crackling under tooth, breaking like ice on a pond to reveal soft and toothsome deep red meat. The sweet and tender pork ribs, burnt end infused beans and soft white rolls to mop and sop were almost an afterthought, the broccoli (you can take my travelling companion out of California...) was a steamed irrelevance. A few more of those jam jars and we rolled, hiccuping gently, into the Brooklyn night. "Best. Damn. BBQ. In New York".


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Latymers to The Begging Bowl - a Thai evolution - Jan 2013

A good few years ago now, the food trend du jour was for Thai food in pubs. Don't ask me why, I wasn't involved, though I do remember it involving pre-prepared easy dishes and just enough fried stuff to make sense alongside a couple of pints. In these fast moving days of lusty tattooed young chefs preparing robust local food in every spit and sawdust boozer in zones 1 and 2, that seems pretty old hat.

Thankfully for the food historians, there are still a few working examples of the lazy predecessor to the gastro pub. The Windmill on the Cut in Waterloo is one (though the clientele and the actors spilling from the nearby theatres mean it's still one of my favourite pubs in London, albeit not for the food). Latymers in Hammersmith suburb Brook Green is another. Pre-prepared tasting sauces, frozen veg and factory spring rolls, old sticky rice and tough fatty duck all reared their heads. This is food you'll keep eating for a while afterwards, and not in a good way. 

Thankfully, within London at least, there are enough people out there who manage to cook decent Thai food, taking it out of its inauspicious start to provide a solidly egalitarian lunch or dinner option. Around the capital I'd note a few worth popping into; Rosas (Spitalfields and Soho), The Pepper Tree in Clapham, Thai Corner Cafe in Dulwich, Brixton Market's Khaosarn and Spicy Basil in Kilburn (an old favourite on trips to the Tricycle Theatre). 

And there's now another one to add to that list it would seem. The Begging Bowl in gentrified Peckham enclave of Bellenden Road. 

Its bright, open corner location opens up wonderfully in the early January light and large open windows and outside seating will be a godsend in the summer and will near double its capacity. Fashionably small wooden tables and communal bench seating are lovely, but we were left with little room for the multiple small plates of food (yes, that again) once water and a cute little pot of Jasmine tea were stacked up. 

There's not much delineation between plates that would be starter or would be main other than the price, so it helps if you're happy sharing. Prices vary from £5.50 to £12.50 and with a recommended 2-3 plates per person it can get pricy for a neighbourhood restaurant. Thankfully they include the rice in that price. While there are a few staples featured, there isn't a focus on the thick curries many will associate with the region, instead more is made of subtle and steamed melanges of exotic vegetables, herbs and fruit like galangal, morning glory, krachai and the rarer members of the aubergine family. On our trip there weren't too many dishes on the regularly changing menu, but still enough to construct a reasonable selection from. 

One of the best Pad Thai dishes I've had was a smashing demonstration of how unctuous and satisfying this often bland noodle dish can be. Soft and pillowy pork belly in a light peanut sauce came with a sharp papaya salad, though the portion size was a little disappointing for the price. The only disappointment were a handful of satay pork skewers, cooked, but not charred, and without enough texture or flavour correspondingly. 

There's easily enough here to bring me back, and it's a fantastic new local spot for the local lads and ladies who lunch. Given Bellenden Road's firmly cemented position as an extension to East Dulwich's Lordship Lane, I don't think that they've got anything to worry about.

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Birthing pains? Naamyaa Cafe - Jan 2013

You can almost hear David Attenborough's hushed and breathy tones describing the place as he peers unobtrusively through the window..."Carefully created.. And lovingly placed next to a recently spawned Jamie's Italian for shelter and contrast.. Small and comparatively week now, but within years this will be a force to reckon with. Under an anonymous new build office block here in the Islington foothills, we are present at the birth of a chain..." It'll go great at the start of the next series of Human Planet.

Naamyaa (or N-U-M-indecipherable squiggle as the sign would have you believe) is, or certainly what feels like, a new concept being rolled out by Alan Yau. Many of his creations have become chains over the years; Wagamammas, Busabi Eathai, Yauacha, the mighty Hakkasan and ChaCha Moon (actually, scratch that last one... It's the black sheep of the family in so many ways) and while Wagamammas may have blossomed into mediocre provincial ubiquity, it's a damn site better than most high streets could have offered even 15 years ago.

The menu at Naamyaa Cafe, created in partnership with Michelin starred Thai specialist David Thompson (he of Michelin starred Nahm fame), is an odd one if you're in search of a new, or specifically Thai, experience. They cover a broad gamut of South East Asian dishes, many offered as shared or small plates, alongside a handful of international offerings such as burgers and European salads (it's styled as an all day Bangkok cafe, this appears to be a 'thing that those establishments offer, much like the culturally curious Indian railway cafes that inspired Dishoom).

So bring it on... 

Walking in to a bright airy space of light pines, gorgeous orange pictoral tiling and cool pistachio green banquettes, one of the first things you notice is that Naamyaa smells of food. In a good way. Food that makes me hungry. Food I want to eat. 

Pulling up a pew at the large bar overlooking the open kitchen (that'd explain the smell then) I skimmed through the menu before succumbing to menu Tourettes and ordering the smell that had turned me on as I walked in. I get the purpose of open kitchens in showier restaurants, where there's genuinely a sense of wonder about what the white clad magicians are doing with their exotic ingredients, less so when you're simply watching a bored guy repeatedly prep clingfilm clad tray after clingfilm clad tray of veggies.

Despite that smell, it didn't start well. Vegetable stuffed spring rolls or Po Pia Jay were as under-filled and generic as those you'd get from a local Chinese supermarket, Thai spiced chicken wings were a generous portion and easily suitable for sharing, but slightly greasy, under-flavoured and just too scrawny. I wasn't wishing I'd nipped into Jamie's next door, but I was starting to bemoan the fact I hadn't gone a little further down the road to Exmouth Market for my scran.

Thankfully, it was saved by the laksa, a deeply intense and flavoursome bowl of hearty spice. £8.50 is a pretty reasonable price for a dish of this quality, one so overfilled with yielding strings of braised chicken, silken noodles, crunchy beansprout and fried garlic that I struggled to finish it. I know that laksa isn't specifically a Thai soup, though versions are served throughout the region and this one is a triumph.

Expectations finally met if not exceeded, I'll certainly pop back in to sample a couple of the other rice and noodle mains if I'm in the area. On the second half of this showing, I won't have a problem recommending Naamyaa, though you might want to wait until one pops up closer to you. It won't be long.

    

Mmmm Ramen... hip to the jive - Jan 2013

It's January! And what do you need to beat January? There's nothing like a healthy soup right? And trust me, tonkotsu ramen are nothing like a healthy soup...

After my recent rant about burgers I should be careful about jumping on another bandwagon lest I end up with more on trend foodstuffs I can't write about. After the gourmet meat patty explosion, the latest import popping up is that Japanese addition to the street food canon, ramen noodles. And not just ramen noodles, but the porkiest, most unctuous subset of ramen, tonkotsu.

With ramen, and especially with tonkotsu, the news isn't about the noodles. They're the bread that soaks up the soup. They need to be good, but they're not (really) the story for me. The story is the broth… broth made from pork bones to be precise, long and slow cooked for 15 hours or more until they yield up their fatty bounty into a creamy collagen rich soup. As an advertisement at Shoryu proudly describes it, 'rich, creamy and porkalicious'. Oh, and reader, it is.

I won't write too much about them, but instead defer to Marina O'Laughlin's excellent review on the most recent openings, Bone Daddies and Shoryu. I'd also recommend that you read her end of the year round up on the inexorable rise of trendy, dirty fodder like ramen and burgers. It's bloody funny (and bloody accurate).

Now noodles aren't just meaty delivery systems, there are numerous different styles (ask Mr Noodles, he has almost an entire blog devoted to them) and combinations, but the one unifying rule should be that it's (very) hearty, healthy(ish) and leaves you feeling better than you were when you walked in. Like the Japanese version of chicken soup, this is food that soothes the soul.

I've become slightly obsessed with the Soho venues that have sprung up offering the noodle, particularly ramen, over the last few months. As much because it's the perfect solo lunch or pre-theatre dinner. They all (with the exception of Ittenbari) have a counter that means you don't feel out of place slurping away on your own. Of all of them though, I preferred the atmosphere at Bone Daddies, it's buzzy, fun and resolutely non-traditional. The least authentic of the lot, but the chance to stare out at the passing Soho trade while supping your thick broth means that this is the perfect way to spend a lunchtime. The ramen was almost too porky for me*, packed with salty piggy flavour and creamily unctuous. Served with a rich and shining soft boiled egg and thick slices of the pig whose bones you are literally drinking, it's protein and protein and protein till you can't take any more.

Shoryu feels slightly more authentic but somehow slightly more austere (the cringey communal greeting all of the staff holler as you walk in aside) and Ittenbari, despite not offering the tonkotsu everyone is lusting over, is still often packed, it's shabby interior full to bursting with a silently polite line of ex-pats and Japanophiles queuing out of the door. Tonkotsu has proved the easiest to snag a table at, but here still you'll face a 30 minute wait of a prime time evening. To a casual like me they all taste pretty fine though it's definitely that Bone Daddies stock I wake up after dreaming about.

At between £8 and £11 a bowl it's not as cheap as it should be, but as a once a week treat it beats a burger. Don't kid yourself though, it certainly isn't as healthy as you make out just because you eat it with a spoon and it has veg spiked through it. It's probably not far off the calorie count of that burger if you checked (I won't if you won't). Even conveyor belt kings Yo Sushi are getting in on the game... Ramen vs Hunger emblazoned across their windows. I can't contradict them on that, and given the quality of the rest of the menu, I may not... any reports welcome!

Four spots for ramen in Soho:
Tonkotsu - 63 Dean Street, W1D 4QG
Shoryu - 9 Regents Street, SW1Y 4LR (opposite the Japan Centre)
Bone Daddies - 31 Peter Street, W1F 0AR
Ittenbari - 84 Brewer Street, W1F 9UB
And if you can't get enough of your noodles, then pop round to Koya - 49 Frith Street, W1D 4SG - Thicker udon noodles here, but damnably tasty all the same...


*even now I'm ashamed to have written that sentence...