Monthly Archives: January 2012
Planes, trains and hot air balloons! A carousel in Provins.
Last year, on a visit to the medieval village of Provins I was delighted by this beautiful little carousel:
Sadly, no one was riding the horses or jumping into the hot air balloon basket. The music wasn’t playing and the carousel guardian slouched in his seat, puffing cigarette smoke into the hot afternoon air.
The submarine was straight out of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and the hot air balloon reminded me of Around the World in Eighty Days. Perhaps the carousel was designed in homage to the great Jules Verne?
I have a soft spot for hot air balloons because Monsieur took me on a balloon trip the morning after he popped the question… But he wasn’t too thrilled when I suggested hopping into this one, especially as it wasn’t going anywhere, not even around in circles.
Isn’t this little plane absolutely wonderful? I can imagine the children of Provins fighting over who gets to ‘fly’ it.
Named ‘Le Petit Prince’ it reminded me of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, a great aviator in his own time until his plane went missing with him in it. He’s someone I’d like to have met.
Now for the odd one out (no, not the horses): a fire engine? Really? What does that have to do with intrepid exploring? If you can work out why it’s there, please do let me know.
Burger and Lobster, London
I swear I must have been a mermaid (or merman) in a former life, because I absolutely love eating the spoils of the sea. In fact, perhaps I was Neptune himself, that’s how much I enjoy fish, seafood, crustaceans, urchins, even sea weed. Picture this: the day job is dull, filled with politics and I’ve been doing it for so long now that I could possibly do it whilst sleepwalking. To keep sane, one lunchtime I start researching lobster acquisition for a little private plan, when lo and behold! news reached me of a new restaurant in London: Burger and Lobster. If my favourite antennaed foodstuff is mentioned in the name of a purveyor of meals then I must go there and soon. So, initially unconvinced by the restaurant’s no-reservation booking system, Monsieur found himself being dragged away from our nice, warm flat, into the drizzling grey of a chilly Saturday, to lunch at Burger and Lobster in Clarges Street near Green Park.
We got there a little after 12.30pm, thinking we’d be early, only to find that the place was already packed. Every table was taken and there were four dining pairs ahead of us on the list so we gave name and phone-number to the manager and went to kill time until he rang to summon us back. We didn’t have to wait long: about half an hour; on our return I almost ran through the door with excitement at having lobster for lunch. (Monsieur marvels at how motivated I become when food is involved).
The system then went like this: we were placed at the head of the queue for the next table and while waiting, stood at the bar. Some people were eating there, such was the squash inside, but not being a stool person I said a silent prayer to the god of restaurant seating because I’m not great at teeter-tottering so high up - it makes me feel quite unbalanced in more ways than one. I’m far more comfortable closer to terra firma. And, so, I implored the supernatural powers that choose one’s table destiny: “please, god of restaurant seating, put us at a real table!” Having submitted the request I waited to see if my pleas would be heard.
I digress. There were quite a few folk, like us, hanging out at the bar while tables became free. We ordered a couple of cocktails but the bar staff were rushed off their feet filling one order after another and could probably have done with an extra pair of hands, so our drinks actually followed us to the table. My prayer had indeed worked; we wouldn’t be swaying on stools; in fact our table was located just beneath the kitchen’s serving counter, so we had a great view of lobsters and burgers aplenty being lined up for the wait staff to collect.
When our drinks duly arrived I had a Clarges Buck cocktail, which was absolutely delicious, containing whisky, ginger and pale ale. Ooh yes, I could do a lot of damage drinking these at £9.00 a pop. Monsieur enjoyed his Mint Collins, being a mint cocktail kinda guy and together we happily decided that if the food was as good as the drinks, we were in for a top dining experience.
We found that what time you might lose in waiting for a table is quickly restored because the system at Burger and Lobster is simple with no excuse for dallying over what to order: no starters, choice of 3 main courses, all at the same price of £20.00, and if they don’t quite finish you off, there are 2 dessert options.
The mains are:
- Burger with salad and fries
- Lobster (steamed or steamed and then grilled) with salad and fries and choice of butter or lemon butter
- Lobster roll with salad and fries
The desserts are chocolate or lime mousse. I love lime desserts – they make me think of happy times in Florida – but would I have room after ingesting one of the orange-clawed monsters being carried to tables around us? We’d have to wait and see…
Prior to arriving at the restaurant, I would have put money on my husband ordering the burger, committed gourmet carnivore that he is. But, no. He ordered lobster, so that made two huge platters of giant grilled crustacean and accompaniments arriving for our attention. I don’t know how we fit everything onto our table, quite frankly. After two large stainless steel platters, surgical instruments for dissecting the lobster, cocktails, water bottle, water glasses and hand towels, there really wasn’t a centimetre to spare. Normally this would irk me, as I find confined spaces cause for concern (yes, I’m a fussy old bird), but normally when confronted by a tight, small seating arrangement at an eatery, I’m not enjoying a big, fat lobster, all to myself. Suffice to say that as soon as my Burger and Lobster bib was on, crackers in hand, I was too busy extracting meat and stuffing my face to worry about space.
As Monsieur and I set about cracking and excavating and pulling succulent claws from shell, commenting on the smokiness of the lightly grilled flesh and comparing the two melted butters, a table of four next to us tucked into what looked like four very fine burgers whilst another nearby table was served entirely with lobster rolls, which also looked excellent. Monsieur was clearly enjoying his lobster, because he stopped eating for a moment to suggest that we share a lobster roll before leaving. Now, they certainly look good, and I certainly enjoy my food, but that was way to ambitious for anyone except that guy on Food Network who eats America’s biggest burgers. “Why don’t we just come back and have lobster rolls next time?” I replied, providing an excellent excuse for a second visit. Monsieur soon wisely concurred. With fries (excellent – crispy golden outside and fluffy on the inside) and a salad, albeit small, still to wade through, not to mention lobster so good that it was taking time to seek out every last hidden morsel of flesh, if we continued to share a lobster roll and dessert they’d have to quite literally surgically remove us from our table and roll us out of here like wicked Violet Beauregard and Augustus Gloop after their visit to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.
You may have guessed by now that, although we polished off every mouthful of food that had appeared with our names on it, there would be no pudding today for we were sure to burst if we ate any more. We settled up (10 points for the speed at which the waitress brought the bill and processed payment) and on our way out were kindly shown where the lobsters live behind the scenes. Down a winding staircase we went to a window, through which we could view the living crustaceans, claws restrained by multi-coloured rubber bands. Their tanks were surgically pristine and it was good to learn that their imminent deaths would be as kindly conducted as possible, and they’d be sent quickly to Lobster Heaven by a humane lobster-killing device called a CrustaStun. I believe strongly in the welfare of anything we eat, so this was a bonus: to learn that our lobsters didn’t suffer before landing on our plates.
Dear Burger and Lobster,
thank you for a wonderful lunch on an otherwise gloomy Saturday. We will be back for more Clarges Bucks, Mint Collins, the lobster rolls and a couple of tubs of your divine-looking lime mousse. I can see you fast becoming an institution in London Town.
Long may you prosper here.
Yours,
La Lobster Lubber, Epicurienne.
Burger and Lobster, 29 Clarges Street, London, W1J 7EF, tel 020 7409 1699
Burger and Lobster is part of the Goodman chain of restaurants.
The Burger and Lobster cocktails were designed by The Soul Shakers .
Remembering Dad
On the last Friday in January of last year, the sun rose but my heart could not. My father had passed away overnight.
This weekend marks the first anniversary of our loss and I’d like to honour it by remembering a few of the things that my father so loved in life.
His family.
Potatoes in every way, shape or form.
Walking.
Ships.
Travel.
Books by the Mitford girls.
Obituaries (ironically).
Laughter.
Whisky Galore (Ealing comedy).
Inspector Morse.
Taggart (when Mark McManus was still the star).
Single Malt Whisky.
London.
Lists.
Flight Magazine.
Airports.
Classical music and jazz.
The piano.
Eating out (sadly, something he couldn’t do in recent years).
English Breakfast tea.
Old Times Lime Marmalade.
**do you see how I might have inherited some of my passions from this man?**
Another passion of Dad’s was John Betjeman’s poetry. Dad introduced me to it and we both loved the following poem. I was tempted to read it at his funeral, but it didn’t seem right at the time so here it is to help us smile a year on.
Indoor Games Near Newbury
In among the silver birches,
Winding ways of tarmac wander
And the signs to Bussock Bottom,
Tussock Wood and Windy Break.
Gabled lodges, tile-hung churches
Catch the lights of our Lagonda
As we drive to Wendy’s party,
Lemon curd and Christmas cake
Rich the makes of motor whirring
Past the pine plantation purring
Come up Hupmobile Delage.
Short the way our chauffeurs travel
Crunching over private gravel,
Each from out his warm garage.
O but Wendy, when the carpet
Yielded to my indoor pumps.
There you stood, your gold hair streaming,
Handsome in the hall light gleaming
There you looked and there you led me
Off into the game of Clumps.
Then the new Victrola playing;
And your funny uncle saying
“Choose your partners for a foxtrot.
Dance until it’s tea o’clock
Come on young ‘uns, foot it feetly.”
Was it chance that paired us neatly?
I who loved you so completely.
You who pressed me closely to you,
Hard against your party frock.
“Meet me when you’ve finished eating.”
So we met and no one found us.
O that dark and furry cupboard,
While the rest played hide-and-seek.
Holding hands our two hearts beating.
In the bedroom silence round us
Holding hands and hardly hearing
Sudden footstep, thud and shriek
Love that lay too deep for kissing.
“Where is Wendy? Wendy’s missing.”
Love so pure it had to end.
Love so strong that I was frightened
When you gripped my fingers tight.
And hugging, whispered “I’m your friend.”
Goodbye Wendy. Send the fairies,
Pinewood elf and larch tree gnome.
Spingle-spangled stars are peeping
At the lush Lagonda creeping
Down the winding ways of tarmac
To the leaded lights of home.
There among the silver birches,
All the bells of all the churches
Sounded in the bath-waste running
Out into the frosty air.
Wendy speeded my undressing.
Wendy is the sheet’s caressing
Wendy bending gives a blessing.
Holds me as I drift to dreamland
Safe inside my slumber wear.
L’Hostellerie aux Vieux Remparts
Last summer, Monsieur and I enjoyed a lovely weekend with my Belle-Mère. Somewhat of a culture vulture, she took us to visit a medieval village called Provins. We parked up, bought our entry tickets for the village (yes, unless you lived there, you had to pay to visit) and hopped on one of those funny little white tourist trains which took us on the scenic route around the remparts, through a gate and into the village itself.
Somehow we managed to miss all the decent performances that are staged about the village in summertime, but we did enjoy a lazy exploratory walk about the place, working up our appetite and working off calories pre-consumption. If you’ve read Epicurienne before then you’ll be familiar with how food-obsessed I am, not to mention my husband and extended family, so it shouldn’t surprise you to hear that the highlight of our afternoon in Provins was most definitely lunch.
After humming and hahing about crêpes versus set menus in the various establishments around Provins’ main square, we settled on L’Hostellerie aux Vieux Remparts, one of the more established-looking options, with a lovely enclosed terrace where we could dine in pleasant shade – the sun was high and scalding hot that day, so the respite was welcome.
We immediately set about ordering a good Petit Chablis and plenty of water. Playing tourist is thirsty work. With our drinks arrived a little amuse bouche of bread sticks (don’t be fooled – they look pretty but are total tooth-crackers), dried sausage and prosciutto. Bread rolls of different types were offered, but none of us managed to finish one. Too tough. Perhaps Monsieur le Boulanger had absconded to la plage for le weekend?
Monsieur and I decided to follow the set menu, which gave two options for each of three courses. Belle-Mère ordered à la carte.
From hereon in, and notwithstanding the bread issue, the food was superb. Our starters of quality smoked salmon, served in generous folds atop a selection of crunchy leaves and par-cooked vegetables, were excellent. A deft drizzle of balsamic completed the plate.
As a main course I chose the pan-fried gilthead sea bream (somehow it just seems so wordy in English. Let’s do it the French way and call it ‘daurade’) which was light and succulent, served on a bed of pak choi (which the people of Provins call ‘Shanghai cabbage’) with a lovely warm tomato salsa spooned across the top. This was a healthy, delicious lunch so far. I also appreciated the way flowers garnished each of our mains – so pretty and perfectly appropriate as we were sitting in a terrace garden. Someone in the Vieux Remparts kitchen certainly believes in the importance of presentation and the detail was not lost on me.
Monsieur thoroughly enjoyed his roast pork loin served with a confit of capsicum and a perfect round of gratinated potatoes. I wanted to pinch some of those beautiful-looking French spuds but Monsieur wouldn’t hear of it. Sometimes sharing is just out of the question.
My mother-in-law had taken her main course from the main menu – sea bass on a bed of smashed greens, with a concasse of tomato and citrus sauce.
We finished up by ordering the chocolate ‘moelleux’ (a small, soft ‘melt-in-mouth’ cake) with coffee ice cream. The squirt of something wasabi-like on the side was (we think) a sort of pistachio paste – really very good and quite dangerously more-ish.
A quick coffee and we were on our way – well, almost. First we had to wait for the bill. When it didn’t appear after three requests, we went inside to pay at the till. So, in summary, at the Hostellerie des Vieux Remparts in Provins I’d give them dix points for setting, neuf points for the food, but nul points for the bread and only quatre points for the inconsistent service. Still, bread and service aside, if you’re not in a rush this is a fabulous place to dine on a fine day (get there early and head for the terrace).
Highly recommended.
| 3 Rue Couverte 77160 Provins, France 01 64 08 94 00http://www.auxvieuxremparts.com/uk/index.php |
The Shangri La of healthy breakfasts
This is a breakfast that works with a diet: inspired by the healthy breakfast menu at the Shangri La hotel in Singapore.
The field mushrooms are filled with low-fat cream cheese (I use Philadelphia light with chives), then sprinkled with low-fat olive oil and a little parmesan cheese and popped into the oven at 180C for about 10-15 minutes. Garnish with half a cherry tomato on serving. Looking at my attempt above, the mushroom could only benefit from a sprinkling of chopped herbs.
The egg is poached. The baked beans are Weight Watchers. The bacon is smoked back rasher, selected for having less fat, more protein present. 2 rashers should be plenty if you’re watching your weight. Make sure you pat them dry of excess fat with kitchen paper after frying.
When everything hot has landed on the plate, garnish with a handful of fresh leaves. You don’t really need dressing because the salad mops up the flavours of everything else on the plate.
I hope that, like me you’ll find this so simple and tasty that you won’t remember you’re on a diet.
Smoked Salmon at the Hotel Metropole, Hanoi
Smoked salmon is so easy to get wrong. Buy the over-farmed or rapid-cure variety and you may find yourself pulling bits of bland stringy stuff out of your teeth, wondering whatever happened to the true taste of the smoked salmon of yesteryear. Get it right, from a fine farmer of happy salmon and the situation flips on its head; silken folds of fish dissolve on the tongue, leaving both a smoky taste - at once tart and salty and succulent with oil - and, of course, the desire for another mouthful.
I’m a massive fan of how they do it at the Hotel Metropole in Hanoi, where the salmon is traditionally served with all condiments, muslin-wrapped lemon and a shot of the smoothest sort of vodka that ex-pat oligarchs might use to toast the Mother Country. The star of the platter is home-smoked, from Norway and boy, is it ever good. So good, in fact, that it almost seems a shame to mess with its pure taste by putting anything with it. To spar with the salmon, two small rounds of toasted baguette crowned with different varieties of smoked salmon share the plate. One is marinated in beetroot, Russian-style, giving it sweet earthiness; the other is stained like piccalilli, hot and tart to the tastebuds.
There’s a taste of salmon roe, another of caviar, a shot of cool sour cream and one of softened cubes of onion, but my favourite condiment is that of minced onion with herbs – scattered onto a forkful of smoked salmon with a dash of sour cream, it gives the tastebuds a reason to put on their dancing shoes.
At $19.00 US this isn’t the cheapest of smoked salmon offerings to be found in an international restaurant, but if you like value for money, I’d say that with the generous serving of finest Norwegian salmon and attention to detail in both presentation and quality of ingredients, this is a platter that I won’t forget in a hurry. In homage to a great plate I hereby add it to the Epicurienne Smoked Salmon Hall of Fame.
Dine With Dos Hermanos at Pizarro
Once inside I found a lively L-shaped room filled with the happy buzz of people whose appetites were soon to be sated. The decor is Manhattan loft-style, with exposed terracotta brick walls, cosy booths, an open kitchen with bright stainless steel surfaces and when I walked in the kitchen counter was already covered with plates of Iberico ham in different guises. I’d starved myself all day so that I’d have capacity for everything on the menu, so you won’t be surprised to hear that one glance at the ham caused some (discreet) dribbling into the flute of delightfully dry cava that had been offered at the door.
In his welcome address Simon Majumdar, one of the Dos Hermanos behind the event, explained that there had been one thousand applications for tickets for tonight and we were the fortunate fifty to receive them. That was certainly interesting to hear – only five per cent of applicants would share the Dine With Dos Hermanos experience at Pizarro tonight and I was one of them (HOORAY!). I took my seat at a table with three lovely strangers, ready to begin the serious task of eating Mr Pizzaro’s fare.
First to arrive at our table was a plate of croquetas –perfect orbs of gold and so very creamy that they disappeared in a flash, causing me to dub them ‘flash croquetas’. I adore croquetas and these were at the top of their league – no gristle or tough old chunks to distract from the smooth, cheesy potato, just the right consistency with a smoky ham flavour wafting through the middle.
Next to appear was a spread of Jamon Iberico in three different forms, my favourite of which was the chorizo. Sliced paper-thin each mouthful brought more strange noises of contentment. My husband, a die-hard sausage-lover, would have hogged (pardon the pun) the plate for himself, had he been there, so I’m quite selfishly relieved he wasn’t. The accompanying bread was also good – bouncy, yeasty sour-dough, but the quality of the ham before us was such that it fully warranted being eaten on its own.
I went slightly bonkers with delight over the carpaccio of cod with fennel and orange. As the self-dubbed Queen of Carpaccio this combination was right up my street. The fish was fresh with the versatility to add the smack of ocean to the aniseedy fennel and zing of citrus. The only problem with Neptunian carpaccios such as this is that I’m always left wishing for more, still, there’s a way to get around that: I’ll just have to order double quantities next time.
We were next presented with the head of hake – this was understandably ugly yet delicious, with forks about the room excitedly excavating cheeks and precious fleshy bits from all parts of the fish head. Softened red pimentons were scattered liberally about the dish and these were a revelation in themselves – packed full of flavour but with an unexpected velvety texture on the tongue.
By now the guests were all heads-down, merrily eating and critiquing each plate. Meanwhile, the staff didn’t stop. Plates were cleared and new ones presented in a very efficient operation, especially considering that this was soft-opening week so everyone was working hard to get it right before inviting the public to come in and chow down. Such seamless professionalism was impressive, a testament to organisation skill. Not one of the wait-staff looked harassed, just focussed. What’s really amazing is how friendly they all were – no mean feat given the pressure they must have been under.
A side of tiny florets of cauliflower was a pleasant surprise. Cold, crudité-like, with the unexpected tang of vinegar, the cauliflower was simple, refreshing and palate-cleansing before the shift towards the heavier tastes of the evening: duck livers and Iberico pork cheeks.
The duck livers were served with red onion – or were they shallots? Small, red skinned, onion family… the liver was heady, stronger than chicken liver, yet smooth and gamey. The Iberico pork cheeks then arrived – morsels of porcine paradise. They practically dissolved in the mouth requiring next to no mastication – therein lies the beauty of slow-braising.
Then we were onto the cheese course – I regret I didn’t get the names of the cheeses, but being a fromage fan I was easily pleased here as there was a good representation of types – a couple hard and manchego-like with rind, one I’m sure was made from sheep’s milk… some black grapes and fruit chutney were the accompaniment.
And lastly, some cake – my single mouthful of this was enough as desserts are not really my thing, besides which I was thoroughly enjoying the PX Fernando de Castilla sherry, which eclipsed anything else I might have tasted at the time.
Throughout the evening, José Pizarro’s partners in wine from Cillar de Silos had kept us informed about and topped up with various glasses of Spanish goodness. We’d started the evening with a beautifully dry cava, which I wouldn’t hesitate to serve to friends as an aperitif, and then moved onto a rare and special fino from Gonzalo Bayass. The Duero wine-growing region was well represented by the Rosado de Silos and Illar de Silos Crianza from the Silos cellars, and lastly we had the delicious sherry to round off the evening. By the time I left for home I was one very happy bunny.
And so to the verdict on Dine with Dos Hermanos: well worth the effort. The evening was superb, the food and drink quality, the conversation excellent – especially as it mostly revolved around the common interest of the Fortunate Fifty: food. The icing on the tarta is that Simon Majumdar is, in my opinion, a really good egg with the right sort of priorities – family and food. As for José Pizarro, well, he kindly gave me some advice on how to make my tortillitas de camarones better, and that was a bonus to the evening that was most gratefully received.
Pizarro is definitely worth visiting if you’re heading down Bermondsey way. Don’t try to book – there’s a no-reservations policy, but as a back-up, if things are busy, you could always pop along the street to José, the slightly more senior tapas bar in the Pizarro stable, which opened to great acclaim last year. Definitely go to Pizarro if you’re fond of all things Iberico ham, be sure to try the croquetas, and if you’re in the mood for bubbles, why not give the cava a whirl? From what I hear Pizarro has had the odd teething problem since the DWDH evening, but that’s to be expected of any new establishment. Put simply, I’ll be returning soon with my chorizo-chomping husband in tow; he’s even fussier about food than I am, so if that’s not an EPIC seal of approval, I don’t know what is.
Useful links:
Pizarro, 194 Bermondsey Street, London SE1 3TQ
