New York Tales 1 - A small (taste) test of the Upper West - Dec 2012

A recent work jaunt placed me on the Upper West Side for a week. It's never been an area I've spent much, if any time in, so I'm certainly not going to try and give a detailed summation of such a vast area after a single trip. If you're heading that way, then check out some of the New York food resources such as Zagat, Grub Street or Chowhound. 

Defined as the long strip up from Columbus Circle to the lower reaches of Harlem, it's a glimpse into the residential life of creative but wealthy uptown Manhattanites. Bifurcated by two lane Upper Broadway, wind whistling down Amsterdam and Columbus, on a mournful autumnal afternoon as the shadows lengthen you're stepping straight into the spiderweb of cracked Noo Yoick glamour worshipped by Woody Allen.

My fine dining food map of the affluent West Side of Central Park starts with the likes of Per Se, a brace of Bouluds, the legendary Picholine and other treats for the wealthy attendees of the squat Lincoln Centre complex before petering out as you head further north. PJ Clarkes is a fine bar and diner to be propped up against in low 60's and there seem to be decent neighbourhood places a plenty (generally Italian and Asian) and a plethora of delis (this is New York after all) but I certainly wasn't confronted with any real list of must do's.

This was no problem for the first night. On a cold snapped and mizzly Monday evening straight off a flight, all I could think about was checking in and slobbing out. Post roach motel check in (the joys of start up life) I eventually ended up in Blondies, one of the many beer based, sports focussed dive bars that line that unlovely diesel engorged artery of Amsterdam Avenue.
 
There's nothing more lovely for a solo traveller than finding a decent bar in a strange city. I've never had a problem finding a decent scattering to tide over on the nights when I haven't rustled up a working dinner and don't want to deal with room service. The secret is to check with the bar staff where they go in the area when not on shift that's a little more lively / laid-back / foodie / sporty (without sounding like you're propositioning them if you can!) and use the same trick in that recommendation. You'll generally end up having the night of your life.

That particular trick took me from The Blind Poet (too quiet), to Jake's Dilemma (nice enough, but a little too loud and only NFL playing) to the Dublin Castle (a freezing cold depressive miss-step) before I ended up in Blondies for those wings and the Nets v Knicks game. A couple of mugs of nutty brown Sam Adams under my belt, a plate of hot wings and the basketball on the big screen. Good evening New York.  
 

 

The Americans like their bar foods big, fried and accessible. Sticky wings, Gordian knots of deepfried poultry, doused in various grades of slippery orange hot sauce ranging from mild to 'let's screw up the Brit' are served in most places. Sliders come in fours, bigger than the burgers and sloppy meat sandwiches they replace. Ideal for sharing? Yeah right, but these babies are all mine… 

My other night of freedom in the area followed a similar pattern. After a few more pots of Sam Adams at the Gin Mill (fine, but no classic and with some pretty pappy bar snacks) I ended up in a lovely little place called Jacob's Pickles, more a restaurant with a bar, a few blocks north with one of the finest craft ale selections I've had the pleasure of sitting in front of. While some of the soul food coming out of the kitchen looked excellent, sadly my wild catfish tacos were overpowered and oversoaked by a mass of astringent 'slaw. A beer side of hot and sour pickled pickles were sheer spicy heartburn inducing pleasure.

The lack of TV in JP was more than compensated for by the friendliest barman in New York (an Irishman called James. A top fellow with an amazing recommendation for dirty BBQ food in Williamsburg - my destination for the weekend). We were also kept entertained by a hilarious online first date. I couldn't help listening… It wasn't going well from the outset. Him, "I've always worked in restaurants. Always been anti the whole banker, money thing.. What do you do?" Her, "I'm an equities trader". Damn it… Good night New York.

   

Cote in the City and Mishkins - The Grumbling Gourmet goes solo - Oct 2012

I've never had a problem with eating on my own, partly because I'm lardy, and partly because I think that there's something perversely romantic about solo dining. Just you, the thoughts in your head and the flavours in front of you, with no distractions. The idea of sitting at the bar in a solo reverie makes me feel more like the be-hatted guy in Edward Hopper's Nighthawks than a lonely businessman refuelling after a long day. 

I've spent amounts of time travelling for work over the last few years and so have got used to it, now sitting at a random bar has become one of the highlights of a trip, particularly when the basketball is on. 

Cote St Pauls 

Surprisingly, given my thoughts on most chain restaurants, popping into a Cote brasserie for a bite to eat at the bar isn't an issue. I don't mind the Covent Garden and Soho branches, having used both as a passible lunch or afternoon meeting spot previously. However the one in the City doesn't have a bar, just a large basement space, and a set of tables along one wall, facing out into the main restaurant and occupied entirely by single, middle aged men. Before I realised my mistake it was too late. I'd been identified as one of them and led gently to be deposited in the arctic of solo dining. 

I'm not sure who was more on show; us or the inane works party we were facing. A works party dinner on a Tuesday night, oh what fun! I won't go into detail, suffice to say that they were definitely having a wilder time than the banquette of solo diners in silent judgement opposite. 

The menu is generic brasserie, the quality matches, tonight at least. I tried first for a steak hache, before being informed "we can't serve below medium rare I'm afraid..." glad at least that they acknowledge why they're unable to serve that simplest of brasserie dishes served at anything less than a medium rare (you're not allowed to serve at less than medium rare unless it's minced on the premises...), sad because it was all I was looking for. 

In the absence of home chopped steak I went for the onglet frites, served with a garlic butter and little else. Not bad. The solo diner in me couldn't complain at a single mouthful. Sure it wasn't the best steak i've eaten in my life, but nor was it meant to be. For the price, I could definitely have done with a thicker or more substantial slab. Served with a passible fruity Pinot Noir, it wasn't a bad experience, but the atmosphere leaves something to be desired for the solo diner. 

Mishkin's in Covent Garden 

It's been a while since i've popped into Mishkins, Russell Norman's Jew(ish) Covent Garden diner. If his other sites channel Venice or Brooklyn, then Mishkins wouldn't look out of place in the Lower East Side or the up and coming bits of New Jersey. It's a little louder and a little brassier than the others, and that's not necessarily meant in a bad way.

The beautifully designed 'found' space has settled in well, though you'll struggle to see anyone in the evening gloom. It'd be the ideal place to have a central London affair. I also had a slight quibble about the pounding baselines we're put through, but I'm probably the only one. Certainly the smiling staff don't seem to have a problem hearing. I put it down to my age, grateful for their pleasantries. I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does. 

The ubiquitous tattoligan behind the bar is a friendly enough cove, more of an Eton Rifle than an Enfield Charger though. It takes guts to get a tattoo just to get a job, so one can only hope that double inked sleeves were part of a life plan prior to hearing about Russell Norman and his cheeky chain of diners. 

I started with corn dogs as good as I've had either side of the pond, beef franks encased in a grittily accurate coating of corn, served with a piquant tomato salsa. Desperately seeking carbs mid one of those weeks I went for a mac 'n' cheese to follow; a sizzling skillet full of all of the right ingredients. It's a dangerously dairy affair, ideal for two, but physically too much cheese for my British stomach. I didn't quite manage to finish it, and it was a solidly single noted affair that needed a salad or a spicy meat to loosen it up a bit. 

Other than the pumping tunes, is there any fault with the place? I have to say that the house Merlot was truly execrable, a surprise for these boys, but regardless of that, the lovely service and the comfortable food made me vow that it wouldn't be long before I sat at the bar again.

Michelin quality bar snacks at the Gilbert Scott - July 2012

They've settled down at St Pancras station, all of the builders have moved next door to repair years of damage to the original monstrous carbuncle King's Cross.

Railway restaurants are one of those things we don't seem to be able to get right in this country. They're too often poorly operated by franchises with low to no service standards, just an excuse to rip off occasional visitors. travel in rural France if you ever want to see how these sites could work.

Hearing that Marcus Waring would 'consult' on the menu at the grand St Pancras hotel made me wonder if this wasn't just another, higher end franchise, intent on extracting too much money for substandard fare.

I'd avoided the main restaurant until now, and on the basis of what little I sampled that could have been an error. Arriving mistakenly an hour before my train, I still didn't have time to sample the main menu, but I did have time to sample an excellent selection of bar snacks and a cheeky Chinin Blanc.

The room alone is worth an entry fee (or at least a drink), fully restored to its grandeur. Anchored with an art deco bar, the high painted ceilings carry away the drunken yammering of the herd of estate agents celebrating a deal next to me. Their Veuve-fuelled party lasted until one bold boy 'jokingly' pinched the breast of his female co-worker. The resultant slap couldn't have happened to a nicer man.

Posh pork scratchings are appearing on a number of menus at the moment, and these are the best I've sampled outside Claude Bosi's bucolic Wimbledon gastropub, the Fox and Grapes. Puffed up like chicharon, these bite-sized porcine pillows are subtle and almost refined. Dipped into a tureen of homemade apple sauce, I could eat them all day.

Salt cod croquettes are bigger than I'd expected. Not a patch on Jose, but robust and filling. Excellent bread, fennel seed loaf a highlight, and a decent pull of that ice cold aromatic white brought the total with service in at just under £20. Admittedly more than the traditional railway station sandwich, but worth the extra expense as a treat.

      

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...

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