Toast.ED - low key and casual in nappy valley - July 2013

 

A slight apology to start with. This is yet another positive review. In a long string of positive reviews. If it feels like I've mistitled the blog (I had one wag suggest it's recently been closer to the Gushing Gourmet, though that was before this week's post on 'Why I hate food markets') then I can only apologise for misleading you. If you're looking for a side of bile and vitriol with every main course, I suggest you head over to AA Gill's muscularly snarling man-spot in The Times.

I'm not going to apologise for a run of lovely meals. I'm having far too much fun for that. I mainly put it down to my restaurant radar, vastly improved over recent years, and the result of reasonable research (or so I'd hope). While it's true that a true car crash dinner (like last year's trip to Bistro De La Gare) is a source of much amusement, generally I don't like having bad meals just so I can dissect them for your pleasure, you're more than capable of doing that yourselves.

Toast.ED is a case in point. Why wouldn't I come here when everyone I know who has been has raved about it. A new kid on the block in smugly gentrified East Dulwich, it occupies the space vacated by one of my old favourites Green & Blue. Thankfully, it's got the look and feel of a welcome reboot of that friendly if haphazard local winestore and deli rather than being a wholesale makeover by another smug middle-class chain. 

It's the second weekend in a row I've arrived for one of the rickety wooden tables in the front of the store and stretched out with well brewed Allpress coffee while pondering the menu. Last week I didn't crave for anything more than soft avocado on thick toast, perked with the lightest touch of chilli and lemon juice, this week I loitered over another excellent coffee until the lunch menu came on line.

A whole, smiling mackerel arrived lounging on a thick slab of toast, begging for finger licking evisceration and a healthily Chinese attitude towards digging the plump nuggets of fresh pearly flesh from its bones. Dusted with toasted ginger (sadly a little lost in the flavour of the fish) it's a thing of simple beauty and, assuming it pops up again on a frequently changing menu, one of the nicest summer lunches I could imagine.

If that was the starring role at lunch, it came very ably supported by a simply blanched courgette, parsley and caper salad and a lovely, if slightly shy, Muscadet from the wine vats lining the walls of the cool, refreshing industrial space.

Those vats offer reasonably priced take out or drink in house style wines, a beautiful French concept we haven't really cottoned on to here. At 11-12 quid a bottle for on sales it makes a fine argument for more people doing the same. The food prices too are very reasonable, and you won't spend more than fifteen a head without a bottle of that wine, though why you wouldn't have one, I can't imagine.

 

 

The Borough Barista - A very short note May 2013

An independent coffee shop just off Haymarket has got to be a good thing. The area has the stink of the chain and the tourist trap and with it's rough grey Farrow and Balls and rough hewn benchery it just screams lo-fi and proud.

But hold on a second… £3.90 for a small sausage sarnie and an extra 60 pee to eat in! Not when you're going to serve it to me on a paper plate alongside coffee in a take away cup.

Hell. Fire.

Coffee might be proudly served from a a La Marzocco Machine (a sign of quality for those who know their beans?) but even the undoubted cache of the cup o'Joe (excellent though exact bean unidentified) didn't distract me from the that punchy pricing. If I'm near Piccadilly and want to spend nearly £9 on my breakfast, I'm going to the Wolesley…

  

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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Nordic Bakery - Soho Aug 2010

Where: The Nordic Bakery, Golden Square. I'm partial to a good breakfast. It's been said before.
This cool little Scandinavian place sits among the behemoths of the film universe in Soho's Golden Square. The square and the store are both packed solid with lunching film makers and local office workers on a weekday lunchtime, this drizzling Thursday morning sees them both empty.


The space is beautiful. Spare design, concrete walls and dark woods. Being a bit of a design nut, I absolutely love the regional furniture in here. Authentic, utilitarian and perfectly constructed. They're so (rightly) proud of it that it's listed on the menu like a local ingredient. After I sit down a regular walks in to prep for a meeting. With black cableknit sweater, thick horn rimmed specs and a stylish leather iPad case he was a true Scandinavian cliche, looking like he should have been in Oslo or Copenhagen.

The two terms, Nordic and Scandinavian are used interchangeably and refer to the five countries of the region; Iceland, Sweden, Denmark, Norway and Finland. It's not as close a union as say the United Kingdom, but they have a Nordic Council, agree on most local affairs and are closer than most neighbours often are, though the other four do gossip about the Finns behind their back. Other than that, they share a cliched propensity for strong drink, a reputation for maudlin and the aforementioned beautiful, utilitarian design. Copenhagen restaurant Noma has risen to be crowned top restaurant in the world and their fine dining food scheme may be in renaissance, but Scandinavia isn't renowned for a foodie culture.


Most people will sum Nordic cuisine up as being broadly based around meatballs, pressed or pickled fish and vodka (with Dime bars included if you've been to Ikea recently). However a trip to the Nordic Bakery will also add the unassuming sounding cinnamon roll onto that list, and probably lead to a Homer Simpson drool moment too. The bakery offers a simple coffee (served in beautiful Aino Aalto glasses, design nerds) and sandwich menu with a variety of regional specialities. Gravadlax, luscious pressed salmon in a dill pickle served with dark nutty rye bread, boiled egg served with mustardy sharp pickled herring and Karelian Pies, a Finnish potato pasty in a rye crust. All perfect for sitting with in the sun on Golden Square and almost enough to make you forgive ABBA.

Breakfast here means only one thing for me though, the cinnamon bun or korvapuusti as it's known to the sugar hungry Finns. Each nation has a variant. 'Designed in Finland, made in London' states the menu. Presumably made in London because it would cost too much to ship the gigantic yeast dough rolls, laden with a moreish toothsticking sugar cinnamon syrup, from their native Finland. One of these and you're clear past lunch, two of these and you'd be clinically dead. Warmed and served with a short latte it's the perfect breakfast pick me up, thick, chewy and moreish - but almost more than this correspondent could cope with. Only a few steps away from the beautious Portuguese pastel de nata served at nearby Fernandez and Wells but a continent away in style. Both serve great coffee and a sugared breakfast treat in their own, culturally diverse way and one of the joys of Soho is that you can sample both on a regular basis. Just woe betide your waistline...

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.

Brief review of Bea's Of Bloomsbury - May 2010

Where: Bea's of Bloomsbury, Theobald's Road, Bloomsbury (oddly enough...)
With: The Masticator
How much: He wouldn't tell me. What a gent. Cupcakes are £2.50 each, we had three to share with coffees.

Unassuming little cafe frontage on busy Theobald's Road, opens up into a beautifully chic little cafe. It was worth the 10 minute walk through the park from King's Cross. It doesn't have the nicest of views, though as we sat outside on the first sunny day of the month I couldn't help but be grateful it wasn't on nearby pedestrianised Lamb's Conduit Street. Cupcakes of this quality would ensure a permanently packed front stoop.
A light passionfruit and vanilla cupcake came with a fresh drizzle of fresh fruit across the top and was light and creamy with the two flavours matching well. A raspberry and chocolate cake was a real hit. Luscious, smooth and velvety, the dark, almost liquid centred chocolate sponge accompanied the raspberry buttercream perfectly. Our final cake was a chocolate piece studded with blueberries. Sadly the blueberry either wasn't present, or didn't come through in the flavour of the cake, but it was still a treat.


Definitely worth fighting through the fashionistas on a sunny afternoon for artisan cakes and wonderfully friendly service. They also do mail order, events and party catering too. A lovely local gem that deserves some support.

The perfect Soho day - May 2010

Where: Fernandez and Wells and Bob Bob Ricard
How much?: £3.90 for a double macchiato and a Pastel de Nata then a shade over £20 for a burger and a mimosa.

This has to rank up there in the list of great places to start the day. The view isn't the best (though on a weekday you get opportunity for a Soho trend spot) but their coffee is well up there, and the charred and slightly chewy puff pastry case of their Pastel de Nata is as good as anything I've had outside Portugal. It's a buzzy little place and, like Soho neighbour Flat White, you'll struggle to get a seat. 
One of the worst things about working in Soho (after the tourists, the dirt, the idiots riding their fixies on the pavement and the chuggers) is that I've stopped appreciating what lies around me. There are some great little shops on the side streets and left to my own devices for a few hours I'll tend to head to Berners Street for Sister Ray records or over the road to check on the sale rail at Jakes Clothing. 
After that, it's down and underneath the old archway from Raymond's Review Bar, past the clip joints and the grot mag peddlars and Diamond Jacks and on to Brewer Street to grab some sushi from one of the little bars down there. I've always got time for a slightly cliched wander through the expensive, but very worthwhile stacks of authentic (but expensive) Italian food at Lina Stores. It's like Spike Island or the first Libertines gig. If half of the celebrity chefs and style mavens who claimed to be in here daily actually were, you wouldn't be able to get through the door.
After that, I'd built up an appetite for lunch. There are a fair few places to chose from but today it was going to be the burger. The burger at Bob Bob Ricard is the reason that exercise exists. Without that, you're lost. Sadly, I appear to be losing... though if I thought that the reward was a guilt free burger at BBR then I'd be spending a lot more time on the rowing machine.

There's a limited menu, mainly classic bistro dishes intermingled with a handful of left field caviar based choices (no doubt a small reminder of home for the Russian owner).

The decor wouldn't be out of place in a top end French railway buffet (assuming that said buffet were decorated with beautiful blue leather seating and staffed by men in salmon pink jackets). The staff were attentive and friendly and while I had to ask twice for the bill, I wasn't exactly in a rush, and could quit happily have sat there all day.

Starting with a sharp yet sweet pink grapefruit mimosa, I eagerly awaited my meat patty fix.

Not that I'm obsessed with the art of burger, but I'd heartily recommend this excellent article on perfect construction. Heston Blumenthal has nothing on this level of obsessive detail. While you're there, check out the equally obsessed Ibzo and his review of another firm favourite burger spot of mine, Lucky Seven. 

The burger arrived cooked perfectly as requested, enough fat to make it silky smooth with little pieces of onion studded through. A nice char on the outside contrasted with the soft bun and the Kraft slice melted deep into the pores of the unctuous patty. The sweet pickles were excellent, and the only (very slight) bum note came from the slightly flabby and seemingly unseasonal tomato.

As I polished off the last morsel, a salmon pink jacket dropped off a warm hand bowl and I sat back in my booth. The glamour of Bob Bob Ricard is a contrast with grimy old Soho, but somehow fits in perfectly.

Review of Maison Bertaux, Soho - Feb 2010

Where: Maison Bertaux, Soho With whom: Me, Vole and our Guest Lecturer How much?: £16... for 2 cups of tea, a coffee, two macaroons and a vanilla slice... seriously...

OK. It's not cheap, but this is one of the nicest little treats in Soho. A rickety three room coffee shop on Lower Greek St, just across the road from Soho House and next to the (sadly slipping into tourist hell) Coach & Horses. They used to take the left over cakes into the pub for the regulars at the end of the night, not sure if that still happens, but it's one of those nice 'old Soho' stories that people still bandy around...


Anyway, onto the cake. It's excellent. Homemade, always. And you can smell it... the place just exudes sugar, and fruit, and coffee or course... You chose from the window as you come in before taking a seat, new lines coming out of the kitchen in the back continually, with the baked goods left to cool on a rack next to the tiny staircase up to the (only) loo and the second floor. We took our 50's black leatherette seats and waited for our order. I'd never dream of ordering something as pedestrian as a macaroon somewhere like this, and the Vole and Guest Lecturer compounded their sins by ordering the same damn thing! 


Still, the macaroon I tried was perfect. warm from the oven, chewy centre with a crisp buttery crust, elements of almond and coconut combined perfectly. My fruit topped vanilla slice was an excellent choice (though I say so myself) with fresh black fruit sitting atop a textbook slice. Decent ingredients, proper coffee and tea (though the coffee wasn't outstanding it passed muster and my tea for one was hot, good and enough for 3) and good company. Everything you need for a rainy afternoon in Soho!