Category Archives: Bars – let’s drink chic
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 .
Like this:
Sofitel, New York City
DSK: a trio of letters synonymous with scandal, sex and the Sofitel Hotel in New York City. When Dominique Strauss-Kahn, then-head of the IMF found himself embroiled in a hotel housemaid’s accusation of sexual assault earlier this year, Monsieur and I were transfixed before the television, not because of yet another (yawn) politician making the headlines due to a certain lack of behavioural restraint, but because of the hotel at the centre of the scandal. The story broke while we were in France for a family celebration. The French news stations were saturated with back-to-back tales of Strauss-Kahn and his fateful stay at the New York Sofitel, where Monsieur and I have stayed quite happily twice – no straying politicos or maids-with-benefits involved. It felt odd to know the place where such sordid events unfolded; contrary to how it may have come across in this year’s press coverage of the DSK affair, the Sofitel is a serene and beautiful place to call home during a sojourn in Manhattan.
Monsieur and I are fans of the Sofitel chain, especially as the presence of plenty of French staff make Monsieur feel so at home. On our last visit to The Big Apple, we dragged our cases up to the Sofitel from Penn Station and were greeted with warmth and a couple of welcome drinks vouchers to be used at Gaby, the hotel bar. Once we’d settled into our room set in a quiet recess away from 44th Street we took our vouchers down to the lobby to join the Friday afternoon crowd for a drink.
It was still too early for the pre-theatre crowd so prevalent in Midtown, and too early for most office workers to kick up their heels at the start of the weekend, but there was already the beginning of a lively gathering at one end of the room. Our waiter was Buddhist in his calm approach to serving his patrons; so much so he was almost invisible. Menus and cocktail mix appeared before us, yet so quietly that it was as if they’d been conjured from thin air.
Perusing the drinks list, Monsieur decided to forego his usual mojito in favour of the Lemon Drop cocktail, his first sip causing an audible sigh of appreciation. I stole a taste: it was like intense alcoholic lemonade with the essence of lemon meringue pie mixed through it. Iced, this would be a grown-up’s dessert of choice, not far from that naughty Venetian after-dinner drink, the sgroppino.
Chocolate was on my mind, so I ordered a mochatini, but our waiter quietly returned to our table to say “I’m afraid we’re all out of the Starbuck’s liquor required to make the mochatini. Could I interest you a chocatini instead?”. I was more than a little surprised to learn that a French hotel served drinks made with an American coffee giant’s syrup, but I have to admit that Starbuck’s mocha flavouring is quite excellent (stone me, curse me, but I give credit where it’s due). Fortunately, the chocatini soon took my mind off the omnipresence of globalisation. The cocktail was absolute decadence in a glass, like syrupy, alcoholic chocolate milk.
Meanwhile, three suits had taken stools at the bar, self-importantly jabbing the air from time to time as they mentioned markets and calls and shorts and losses. Shortly afterward, three women dressed for the kill arrived and took seats a little further down the bar. Air-kissing commenced amidst drawling “how AAAAARE you”s, making me giggle at their own brand of theatre. By the time we left, the girls were exchanging meaningful nods with the neighbouring suits whilst pointedly preening long tresses and adjusting cleavages. DSK it wasn’t, but mating rituals in Manhattan still make excellent entertainment.
There are many good reasons to stay at New York’s Sofitel: it’s ideally situated for the theatre district and Times Square, is central for the main attractions of all the big Avenues, close to the major stores of Barney’s, Bendel’s and Bloomingdale’s and shares its address of 44th Street with the eponymous Red Flame Diner and the Algonquin Hotel of Round Table fame. Ready and waiting for you when you’ve walked your feet into a numbed fatigue, the Sofitel beds are there to envelop the tired wanderer in their rejuvenating cocoons of softness. The doormen and concierges go the extra mile, there are PC and printing facilities in a quiet corner of the lobby, and if you want to just sit and watch the comings of goings of visitors and guests, the sumptuous lobby armchairs provide the comfort from which to do so.
Highly recommended, especially if someone else is paying, and I think we can safely assume that DSK won’t be going back any time soon.
Like this:
Sunday Brunch at Petite Abeille, New York
There are four branches of Petite Abeille, or ‘Little Bee’ in New York City, each with Belgian charm and all proud of their reputation as being the providers of an excellent weekend brunch. Alas, house rules say no reservations are possible; you have to present yourself in person and be prepared to wait.
Monsieur and I were in New York for a long weekend, late in March. We were lucky with the weather: the sky was nothing but high and blue, the air crisp and we couldn’t wait for a proper Noo Yoik Sunday brunch, so, armed with a pair of rumbling stomachs we headed down to lower Manhattan to the Petite Abeille at 134 West Broadway.
On arrival there was already a line out the door, but within a few minutes we were inside and soon after that were offered seats at the bar while we waited for a table to become free. The restaurant byline is ‘a taste of Belgium’ and the walls were suitably covered with Tintin posters and a variety of Belgian memorabilia. We ordered drinks to quell our hunger. Monsieur had an OJ and I went all out, ordering one of the famous Petite Abeille Bloody Marys.
This was one fantastic cocktail, with plenty of va-va-voom courtesy of oodles of fresh horseradish and a liberal dose of Worcestershire sauce. The usual celery stick garnish was enhanced by a sprinkling of colourful batons of capsicum, a bit like fat pick-up sticks. The success of this drink surely augured well for our brunch – if we ever got a table.
Just as Monsieur’s stirrings of impatience became dangerous to the waitresses, we were ushered to a table by the window – one of the prime positions in this otherwise tiny shack of an eatery. The wait was worth it for our view of both our fellow patrons and the street of eclectic boutiques outside. There must have been a fun run that day because runners and their cheerleading friends and family started to descend on the Petite Abeille, wrapped in aluminium blankets. These sporty folk knew exactly where to get their post-exercise carb fix.
Monsieur and I ventured into the menu with caution, nibbling at first on a shared almond croissant and a tartine of perfectly toasted baguette slathered with Nutella. My husband being French, his critique of breads is utterly unforgiving, so when he declared the baguette perfect and asked for a toaster like the one in the Petite Abeille kitchen, I was blown away. Such praise is rare.
Around us, the meal of choice seemed to be the waffle special, loaded with blueberries, strawberries and rounds of fresh kiwifruit, all scattered atop an evil layer of whipped cream. This was obviously not the place for slimmers, as proven by a quick glance at the menu which features a lot of eggs, potatoes, burgers and cheese. With such a tempting selection I was torn; would I honour my penchant for croquettes (North Sea shrimp or Belgian Cheese), cave in to an Omelette Maison (smoked salmon, scallions and sour cream) or tuck into the vol au vent filled with chicken stew, bacon, mushrooms and accompanied by fries? In the end I decided to go all out on the calorie front, ordering the Macaroni Jambon-Fromage - traditional mac ‘n’cheese with ham and Gruyère, delightfully gooey and rich with melted dairy products. Then to assuage the guilt attached to the glutton I am fully capable of being, I ordered a side salad of leaves with sliced red onion, seedless cucumber chunks and divinely marinated tomato that’s reminiscent of how tomatoey a tomato should taste. All of the time.
Monsieur was now elbow deep in his brunch fare: eggs benedict with smoked salmon, mesclun salad and stoemp, golden yolky lava coursing across his plate. “Your eggs are better,” he pronounced, “but the muffins and smoked salmon are excellent.” Having started the day unconvinced by my choice of brunch restaurant, fussy French husband was now praising my eatery-selection techniques. “And this stoemp is very, very good.” he mumbled through a mouthful of leek and potato mash. The only thing he didn’t comment on was the mesclun, but he wouldn’t; to Monsieur salad is simply salad, only worthy of comment when the leaves are brown.
Bottomless ice water and decent regular coffee with warm milk completed this sunny picture. We didn’t have room for any of the eight waffle options on offer but as a consolation, we would now not need lunch, having been fully topped up with calorific goodness. Monsieur and I paid our waitress with a smile, heading out into a bright Manhattan Sunday afternoon with gleeful step. I’ll certainly be back when the siren call of the North Sea shrimp croquettes becomes insistently inescapable and between you and me, I hope that might be soon.
Like this:
Porto Rotondo, Sardinia
In early May, the Sardinian summer season is slowly kicking off. The atmosphere’s halcyon, the sky cerulean, the waters clear and flowers exploding with colour everywhere you look, yet the tourist hordes have yet to land. It’s paradise.
One typically fine morning, Monsieur and I drove to Porto Rotondo, a village with impressive marina just south of the Emerald Coast in Sardinia’s north-west. It’s by no means ancient; farmers and fisherman inhabited the locale until prominent architect, Luigi Vietti arrived to design the village in the 1960s. He and his team of developers set to work, building hotels and apartments, boutiques and moorings and all the amenities a wealthy holidaymaker might demand. Love him or hate him, Silvio Berlusconi likes it here; he has a holiday home on the cliffs above the town. (If you’re into a bit of Silvio-spotting, I’ve heard it’s the one with several carabinieri cars permanently parked at the gate.)
Porto Rotondo is a curious place. It has a slick, artificial feel to it, with the tangible yet conflicting element of deep relaxation. The people don’t walk, they amble, whilst smiling in a slow, easy way. The streets are cobbled and inlaid with modern mosaic patterns, the church of San Lorenzo (patron saint of cooks) resembles an overturned hull and there’s a granite amphitheatre for the entertainment of culture vultures. The marina is a tribute to luxury pleasure boats, filled with every type of exclusive vessel imaginable, from fat, white gin palaces to wood-panelled speed boats and tall, classic schooners. Boat brokers are two-a-penny here and you can see why. There’s plenty of business to be had.
When I remember our visits to Porto Rotondo, it’s the perfect breakfasts that come to mind. Monsieur and I discovered a quiet, traditional eatery overlooking a quiet section of the marina, and there we’d sit of a morning, the tranquillity seeping into our souls.
The owners of the Bar-Gelateria del Molo have proudly hung the date of its establishment above the doorway: 1950. They’re evidently proud to have been here before Signor Vietti; quite possibly they fed and watered him as the village grew into a pleasure port. Our breakfasts there were simple – perfect shots of Italian espresso, hot and creamy with a proper Continental kick, tall, cool glasses of freshly-squeezed orange juice and soft, buttery croissants to start the day. At €10.00 a head for this simple breakfast, you might argue that it’s not great value, but Monsieur and I would disagree. The location is unbeatable, the staff welcoming, the views spectacular. The memory makes my heart slow in the most calming of ways.
Endearingly, outside the Bar-Gelateria del Molo is parked a tiny Italian delivery buggy of bright buffed red. In a wink to days of yore, there’s a wicker basket strapped to the back. I hope it’s tasked with carrying picnics to seaward-bound gin palaces, for it would be a complete waste to stay at home and order delivery food in Porto Rotondo, when you could so easily wander down to this refreshingly unpretentious bar with the perfect view. The del Molo certainly provides the quintessential Italian breakfast of quality, but I imagine it’s equally glorious for a cocktail at sunset, or a wicked lick of stracciatella on a hot afternoon.
Sitting here in the grey of January in London, the simple act of recalling breakfasts at the Bar-Gelateria del Molo warms me through. If that isn’t a glowing reference for an eatery, I don’t know what is. So, promise me, please, that if you find yourself in Sardinia one early May, you’ll make your way to Porto Rotondo and, even if it’s just the once, you owe it to yourself to breakfast by the marina. For the oft-harassed escapee from the hamster wheel of the Western World, this is a tonic not to be missed.
Like this:
Certa, Paris – Where It’s Colder on the Inside
Paris on 27th December last was cold. Bitterly cold. It was so horribly cold that I figured Jack Frost was out and about, only this time on on steroids. In spite of coats and scarves and gloves with thermal lining it was too cold to venture across town in search of an evening meal; on this, Monsieur and I were agreed. Any sort of food-seeking trek was out of the question, however, in a demonstration of true courage (motivated by hunger) we did eventually manage to leave the hotel, although no further than crossing the street.
Luckily for us, on the rue de l’Isly, where we were staying, there were a few restaurants that had fairly decent internet reviews, including Certa - an informal bar-cum-restaurant. In our big, winter coats we ended up walking out of the warm hotel, several yards across the chilly street and straight into Certa. Our coats came off again mere minutes after we’d put them on.
The front of Certa was for drinking, filled with low, informal clusters of chairs, sometimes with a small table, and generally populated by hip young things with cocktails. As we’d indicated that we were here for dinner, our waitress led us to a table at the rear of the establishment, where the serious sport of eating was dealt with. We were the only tourists (pseudo-tourists at that, as Monsieur is genuine French produce); back here the people ranged in age from six to sixty and there was a happy burble of conversation in the air.
Unfortunately, that same waitress looked after us for most of the evening. If it was cold outside, it grew colder every time she passed by. This girl was so grumpy, surly and devoid of courtesy that by the end of the evening, if I’d seen her crack even the glimmer of a smile, I would have fallen straight off my chair. She seemed to have been born without the pleasant gene. I hate that. Angry wait staff affect my digestion (I kid you not).Thankfully, Monsieur and I were at Certa to eat, not to make friends with the grinch in the apron.
It was happy hour. As all true bar-hoppers know, ‘happy hour’ can mean many things: two for ones, half-price bottles, discounts, free glasses, silly hats and vouchers. At Certa, happy hour meant that Monsieur’s beer was cheaper, and my small glass of house rosé was upgraded from a measly 150ml to a slightly less measly 200ml.
What can I say to that? Quite a lot, actually. France is a land of fine wine, filled to the gunnels with grapes, vines and vintners, but can you ever get a proper English-size 250ml glass of wine? Not on your Nellie. If you want 250ml of your favourite grape, you have to order a pichet or small carafe and if you’re not sharing, you might get a look as if you’ve fallen off the latest twelve step programme. I digress. I’d been looking forward to this particular glass all afternoon and 200ml, even if 50ml of that were free, simply did not cut it. Added to which, the aforementioned happy-happy-waitress prevented me from ordering a second glass through negligence, so 200ml had to last a whole two courses. That’s simply not the way I was raised.
So far, so bad. We had grumpster in charge of our supper and ridiculous happy hour ‘bargains’. Heaven only knew what the food would be like.
Monsieur and I both decided that the Salade Italienne sounded good so ordered a matching pair as starters. We expected a modest selection of salad and antipasti. Instead, our plates arrived piled high with ingredients – like a small Matterhorn of Italian foodstuffs. The price per salad was misleadingly modest for central Paris. What sat on the table before us now was remarkably good value. Perhaps we hadn’t made such a dire mistake by coming here. This Certa place was finally showing promise.
A pillow of crisp, green leaves peeped up at us from beneath a panoply of colours and textures. Folds of paper-thin prosciutto, wedges of avocado pear, grilled rounds of marshmallowy eggplant and a rainbow of marinated capsicum – just looking at the array made me think of Arcimboldo, the artist who invented the vegetable-face portrait. A dollop of creamy ricotta sat on one side of the plate, artichokes hid beneath greenery on the other. It’s not possible to assemble an Italian salad without tomatoes, so they were there, too. A mosaic of slim, hard cheese (parmesan? pecorino?) squares sat like a tumble of upturned scrabble squares atop all, a shower of pinenuts and balsamic vinegar completing the composition.
The presentation of our salades Italiennes might well have been impressive, but Monsieur and I bore the brows of concern. Our plan for a light meal looked as if it had just been blown out of the Seine. These salads were immense and we’d already ordered main courses. Ah well. The diet would have to start tomorrow.
Surprisingly, once our cutlery got busy, we found that the salads were lighter than we’d presumed. I finished every last bite of Italian goodness without a problem. Monsieur also cleaned his plate. And yes, there was still room at the inn. Our mains would not be wasted.
But first, Grumplestiltskin made a rare appearance. She cleared the table, grimacing in her attempt to leave us with our cutlery from the first course, only to realise that it was too covered in olive oil/balsamic/ricotta to rest on the table without causing mess that inevitably she would then have to clean up. With an audible harrumph, she removed the cutlery with the crockery and returned to drop new knives and forks on the table with the careless tingtingting of metal on metal. Grace was definitely not a virtue with which this waitress was endowed.
As a main, Monsieur had carefully selected a beef burger with fries and salad. I’d be lying if I said it looked inspired, but my own, private carnivore declared it excellent – both in the quality of ex-livestock, and the special, spicy sauce which looked disturbingly like thousand island dressing. Burger aside, if Monsieur’s happy, I’m happy, so, as he munched happily on his side of the table, I tucked into a plate of pommes de terre écrasées (roughly translated as squashed potatoes, not to be confused with mash) served with a drizzle of sour cream and a gluttonous spoonful of caviar.
For anyone who has not yet tried potatoes with sour cream and caviar, please do so immediately. The combination is Guilty Pleasure with capitals G and P. On the menu, the pommes de terre écrasées were listed as NEW, their description appearing in its own little text box and the proprietor must have been interested to see which of his patrons had ordered this wicked dish, for he appeared table-side, genial in plaid shirt, suggesting that I sprinkle some sel des algues, or seaweed salt, over the potatoes. “Yes, please!” I enthused. My advisor’s face lit up with joy, for he had an adventurous eater at his restaurant. Too soon, he disappeared back into the kitchen, just as I started flailing about like a shipwreck victim at sea, trying to gain the attention of the waitress so I could enjoy another (small) glass of rosé with the potatoes. Apparently quite the invisible woman, I failed in my quest for pink grape juice, but the potatoes were such a success that a smile slowly spread across my face and stayed there for some time after.
It won’t surprise you to hear that we weren’t asked whether we’d like dessert or coffee (we didn’t want either) or that Grumplestiltskin effectively forced us to approach the bar in order to pay (no bill was forthcoming). She managed to charge our card on a machine, return it with paper chit and effectively ignore both Monsieur and me as she carried on a grumpy little conversation with the barmaid. She did not thank us or wish us a good evening. In fact, she was such a fine example of how NOT to treat paying customers in a dining establishment that I’d have to say she’d turned it into an art.
Would we return to Certa? Even though the food was excellent, I’d have to say no. Firstly, Paris is overflowing with opportunities to eat well in environments non-conducive to Grumplestiltskin-style staff, so why go to Certa if you prefer to be treated like a visible human being? Secondly, I have since successfully made my own pommes de terres écrasées with sour cream and caviar, hence removing the need to revisit that meal option at Certa. Admittedly, if you’re stuck for somewhere to eat around the Gare Saint Lazare, Certa will tick a few boxes, but if, like me, you resent feeling like poodle poop on a Christian Louboutin heel when paying for food, this is a place to avoid.
***If you work at Certa and happen to read this, please note that, by the simple act of ignoring my husband and me, Grumplestiltskin shaved a potential of at least 2 desserts, 2 double espressos and a pichet of pale pink wine off your takings from our evening with you. Worse still, she has lost you the value of repeat business from a couple who often stay at the hotel just yards from your door. The bottom line is this: in tough economic times, restaurateurs can’t afford to pay staff who lose them money, even when the quality of what you serve is high. In summary, it’s time to lose the sourpuss. Can you really afford not to?
Like this:
Desperate for Desperados
Almost everyone I know has a tequila story which invariably involves one or all of the following: bouncing off walls, falling off furniture, early-onset dementia (a.k.a. can’t remember getting home) or a clanger of a hangover. In my twenties I had one particular run-in with tequila that ensured I would not go back for more for over a decade, and even now only in Mexican restaurants, with food, in moderate consumption whilst discussing the attributes of a reposado versus an anejo. My, how times change.
Cue last summer, when Monsieur and I found ourselves perusing a drinks menu at a bar in Cap Ferret. It had been a long, hot day of filing my nails (not really) at the beach and an ice cold lager was now overdue and requisite imbibement.
Scanning the list of beers, I spotted one I didn’t recognise.
“What’s a Desperado?” I asked my Walking French Dictionary, a.k.a. Monsieur,
“You.” he quipped. Ha-blooming-ha, Frogman.
“No seriously, what is it?”
“It’s a DesperaDOS,” he corrected, heavy on the last syllable, “it’s beer with tequila in it.”
As ever, when confronted by something different on a menu, as yet untried and preferably not involving animal innards, I was intrigued. I became DESPERATE to try the DESPERADOS so ordered one, tapping my feet beneath the table in impatient anticipation.
At long last my Desperados arrived, cool with condensation and deep red saloon-style branding running up its side. For some reason its overall presentation made me think of ”Lucky Luke”, the cowboy who shoots faster than his shadow.
A wedge of lime sat in the bottle of the matching Desperados glass, obviously provided just in case a passer by was in any doubt as to what I was drinking. I reverently poured my recent liquid acquisition down the side of the glass, admired the perfect head and sipped. Ah, yes, just as I’d hoped, this would be a beer to remember.
The consistency was similar to a Corona, but the flavour was sweeter. Not as sweet as a lager shandy, perhaps, but sweeter in a citrussy sort of way, and, as lime doesn’t have this strong an influence on the taste of a Corona, this particular tang couldn’t be attributed to the presence of lime alone. The tequila was definitely in there, doing its work, but in a subtle, barely-there fashion, instead of a smack-your-head-in-with-force manner of a good-idea-at-the-time shot of the stuff at the wrong end of an evening. All I can say is this: it’s a very good thing that it isn’t widely available in England, or I’d be carrying this brew around in a brown paper bag.
As for the after-effects: apart from feeling refreshed in both body and spirit, there were none. Admittedly, I didn’t drink enough to bounce off walls or terrorise locals; I consumed the grand quantity of one bottle. As such, I can highly recommend tracking down a Desperados or two (can’t give expert advice on heavier consumption), especially if you find yourself near water on a balmy evening. Despite its unfortunate and misleading name, this is a truly transporting thirst-quencher. Drink it from beneath your sombrero before tucking into a cactus salad and platter of mole and you may just spot a cartoon cowboy out of the corner of one eye. I did. My first Desperados may have been consumed on the West Coast of France, but like magic it took me all the way to Mexico. At the bar price of €4.50, that was one delicious and affordable trip and as the days lengthen, I look forward to making it again. And again. And again and again and again (you get my drift).
Like this:
The Price of Eggs at Mont Saint-Michel
Ever since I first set eyes on an image of Mont Saint Michel in a school French textbook I’ve dreamed of visiting the famed island abbey and recently that dream came true. At last Monsieur and I were able to see Mont Saint Michel for ourselves, but that experience is a whole different blog post. First, I have a rant just BURSTING to get out.
Most readers of Epicurienne will know by now that I like to accentuate the positive in this blog, but sometimes the negative will rise to the surface, bubbling like an angry little New Zealand mud pool. Today I am that mud pool.
It’s a sad fact of life that popular tourist sites often become overrun with mediocre eateries and tacky souvenir stalls purveying their wares various at premium prices. All’s fair in love and commerce, as they say, but what really irks me is when a little premium becomes mass extortion. That’s when a sightseeing experience with great memory-making potential runs the risk of being badly tarnished. Unfortunately, that’s exactly the sort of experience we had at Mont Saint Michel.
After a long drive across Britanny, Monsieur and I decided that doing the abbey on an empty stomach simply would not do, so we made lunch our priority. We’d heard of a place called La Mère Poulard, long-established on the mount and renowned for its omelettes, but I’d been put off by internet reviews saying that the Poulard establishment charged €20.00 for one omelette.Outrageous. Wary, as ever, of tourist traps, and admittedly not a huge fan of omelettes unless cooked by my brother, I wasn’t that keen to dine at La Mere Poulard, but Monsieur changed my mind by pointing at the menu hung on the outer restaurant wall. It showed a set menu for €15.00 and it wouldn’t be necessary to eat omelette. I could have galettes, peut être. The menu sounded like good value so we waited for a table, watching the theatre of the kitchen, open for the benefit of the passing public. Before too long, we were ushered to a table and presented with a different sort of menu, consisting of omelette, omelette or omelette. The price per omelette was no longer €20.00; it had escalated to €28.00. I was not impressed.
“They’ve probably just given us the expensive menu so we should ask for the one we saw outside,” I suggested to Monsieur, who was sitting in stunned silence, staring at the menu in front of him. Meanwhile, I tried to remember how much we pay for our eggs at home, and how many of those eggs I could buy with €28.00. (The result was 112, to be precise, which would make 37 three-egg omelettes.)
When the waiter returned we asked for the €15.00 menu.
“I’m sorry, but it is not served at this time. Only omelettes are served after 2.30pm.” It was 2.35pm. Nowhere on the outdoor menus had it stated time restrictions and by keeping us waiting for a table, we’d missed our chance at dining reasonably. I wanted to leave, but Monsieur just wanted to have lunch and get on with our visit, so we stayed. I didn’t really want to eat omelette, so asked if there was a more extensive menu. The answer was a definitive “Non.” So now we’d be paying a ridiculous price for eating something I didn’t even particularly like. What a pair of idiots. Mr T would rightly call me a foo’.
So, stuck with the expensive menu, we surveyed our options. The choice was
- Omelette with tomatoes
- Omelette with ham
- Omelette with smoked salmon.
Monsieur had a 2 and I had a 3. I expected the omelette to have the smoked salmon whisked through it, forming part of the overall whole. Instead, the smoked salmon was served in a little bowl to the side of a gigantic, foaming hemisphere of omelette. The smoked salmon was far from the best, which one really should expect when dining in an omelette house so ancient that the walls were hung with dozens of pictures of politicians and actors chowing down on the world’s most expensive chicken eggs. At least the omelette looked sizeable,(not that I cared because in case you don’t remember me saying, I. DON’T. LIKE. OMELETTE.) but on cutting into it, air escaped, the formerly fat half-moon deflated and in spite of not being the number one fan of omelettes, even mine disappeared in a jiffy. So in essence, not only had we just paid €56.00 for 2 omelettes, they were so insubstantial that eating them took a mere 5 minutes. That’s €11.20 per munching minute per pair of omelettes. If that’s not extortion, I don’t know what is. Shame on you, La Mère Poulard. You make my mud bubble.
Annoyed with ourselves for having been suckered into a tourist trap so soon after arriving at Mont Saint Michel, we grumbled our way up the path to the abbey, a well-trodden way lined with store after store of souvenirs, Norman biscuits and (strangely enough) replica swords – something to do with Saint Michael’s skill at slaying demons. The queue for entry tickets was quite long, but moved at a reasonable pace. Soon enough we were paying for our tickets. At €8.50 each, the total was €17.00. Now, I’m no banker, but I do know that when you hand over €20.00 note for something that costs €17.00, you should expect €3.00 in change. I received tickets and a receipt but no Euros. So I said to the ticket man “you owe me €3.00. I gave you a twenty.” And he glared at me as if I were a thief and thrusts coins into my hand in a rough manner before stalking away from his booth in a dark mood, probably because (a) the tourist could count and (b) the tourist spoke French.
By this time, the story of Christ and the money lenders was foremost in my mind. The irony of visiting a religious site, built in honour of The Archangel Michael, and being ripped off IN the abbey itself by a ticket salesperson was not lost on me. Sadly, the rip-off culture of Mont Saint Michel was to continue.
After our visit to the abbey, Monsieur and I were understandably thirsty, so we returned to the busy shopping street and found a little terrace bar looking out at the coast from the island. An ice cold soft drink was just what the abbot ordered, so we asked for 2 LARGE cokes. What we received was 2 teeny weeny pepsi colas, not at all cold and able to be swallowed in about 2 gulps each. The bill when it came was for a whopping €8.00. We did NOT leave a tip.
TIPS TO ENSURE YOUR TRIP TO MONT SAINT MICHEL GOES SMOOTHLY:
- Avoid La Mère Poulard at all costs unless you like to pay a fortune for a few whisked up eggs or are curious to dine at a place which has an impressive list of patrons, from Edward VII and François Mitterand to Claude Monet and Woody Allen. There are more affordable places to eat further up the path, but the best thing would be to dine away from the Mont and it’s money-grabbing ways. As we later realised there are some great meal deals to be had just the other end of the causeway, on the mainland, and a few of those eateries have stunning views of the Mont.
- Stop off at a shop or supermarket on your way to the Mont and buy water bottles to take with you. On a warm day the hike up to the Abbey is thirsty work. This will also save you a small fortune which is what all drinks on the Mont will cost you if you wait to purchase them there.
- Note that parking a regular car for the day will cost a flat fee of €5.00 – about the only thing at Mont Saint Michel that seems reasonable.
- When you arrive at the car park, check the signs which state when the tide will come in and flood certain areas of the car park, otherwise your visit to the Mont could become a lot more expensive than just a couple of overpriced omelettes and cola drinks.
The irony is that the most amazing aspect of the visit to Mont Saint Michel is the view – both of the Mont as you approach it and from the Mont looking out at the coast and sea. It’s really quite magical. And a view, like a smile, costs nothing.
Like this:
A Lavish Laurel Court Breakfast Buffet
Warning: the reading of the following post may cause excessive salivation. Prepare to dribble. Might be an idea to grab a cuppa, too, cos it’s longish… But you know what I’m like when we talk food, right?
The lobby at The Fairmont.
At long last Monsieur and I could begin our much-needed honeymoon in earnest. In the course of a few short days we’d said our I Dos, celebrated in style, travelled across the globe in spite of that inconsiderate Icelandic volcano and were now safely in San Francisco. At the airport they’d run out of moderate-sized cars so upgraded us to a mammoth of a bright white SUV that had so much interior space that Monsieur and I felt like a pair of Smurfs driving along the freeway. Ah yes, we had definitely arrived in The Land of Super-Size Everything.
Following a sleep so deep that we could have been mistaken for a pair of new stone effigies in neighbouring Grace Cathedral, we were now in dire need of breakfast, so followed our noses down to the lobby in search of much black coffee and eggs with everything. It would be quite factual to say that we were quite empty and desperate to refuel.
Breakfast at The Fairmont is served in a circular room located just off the main lobby. Called The Laurel Court it boasts a triple-domed ceiling and walls painted with wistful Italianate landscapes. As we found, this is a low-lit haven where food for the famished may be found at most times of the day. What’s more, the menu reads like a gastro-geek’s dream AND even better, the ingredients are ‘locally sourced, organic, or sustainable items wherever possible.’ Not to mention that ‘all cuisine is prepared without artificial trans fat’.( I hasten to add that at this point in time trans fats were the last thing on our hungry minds but it was nice to know that we could chow down with a clear conscience. Ish.)
Barely skimming the menu in our starved state, Monsieur and I decided to go for the Deluxe Hot Buffet which, quite frankly, was a bargain for $28.00 (at least, it was the way we did it). We enjoyed bottomless freshly-squeezed orange juice, ice water and coffee, and tucked right into the buffet. Our word of that particular morning was “more!” and with good reason because we hadn’t eaten properly for almost a day. That’s right, people, a full 24 hours without food and we didn’t do it for charity. FYI: I do not classify the plastic wrapped oozy object that the airline called ‘a light meal’ as food.
Laurel Court at The Fairmont.
On the bakery island we found pastries so soft and fragrant that they must have just been lifted out of The Fairmont’s own ovens. The varieties of bread catered for all palates, including the densest, darkest pumpernickel and multiple multi-grained breads alongside classic rye, sourdough, sweet brioches and slices of downright ordinary white. There were baskets of bagels, piles of fat scones from both sweet and savoury recipes, granola and porridge for cereal-lovers, a selection of cheeses from nearby Sonoma and a veritable charcuterie of cured meats. The low-fat raspberry yoghurt was the fullest tasting low-fat variety I’ve ever had the joy to slurp and the platter of fresh fruit sat so heavy with sliced melons, bulbous berries, Californian oranges and squeaky shiny apples that it reminded me somehow of The Garden of Eden.
Beneath stainless steel covers in the hot foods buffet we found bacon and sausages and morning-fried potatoes. Then a smile spread across my husband’s face: he’d found the eggs Benedict.
It always makes me nervous when Monsieur eats eggs Benedict that have been made by non-Epicurienne chefs, just in case he finds some that are better than mine. I sat and watched his face carefully as he took a bite and ruminated over his Benedictine cud. “They’re very good,” he said, “but not as good as yours.” Thank the Epicurean Lord of all things edible. I could now resume breathing. You see, Monsieur is a highly critical eater and my eggs Benedict are in the top three things I make that so far no one else has been able to beat, but I live in (slight) fear of the day when he finds a preferable alternative to my version. Silly, I know, but I’m a bit competitive about my eggs ben…
Anyway, in our time at The Fairmont, Monsieur and I enjoyed two Laurel Court breakfasts and were intensely gratified by both. On one occasion I joined Monsieur in trying the eggs Benedict, to find that he was indeed correct in his appraisal that they were very good (but I also prefer mine). On the other occasion, I asked the egg chef to make me an omelette with tomatoes, scallions, wild mushrooms and mozzarella. Once again, it was very good, but The Epicurean Brother makes them better. I gave Monsieur my omelette appraisal, to which he replied: “what is it about your family that you’re all so good at making eggs?” To that, I have absolutely no answer, apart from: “just wait until you try my brother’s TORTILLA!” I guess we just enjoy the fruits of happy hens.
Apart from trying the eggs at The Laurel Court, I also enjoyed constructing my own bagel one morning. Lightly toasting an onion bagel I spread it with a blend of smoked salmon and regular cream cheese then layered it with soft folds of Atlantic smoked salmon and slices of a perfect tomato. With a squeeze of fresh lemon, a few crisp rings of red onion and a sprinkling of miniature capers I was good to go. And that, my foodie friends, is one bagel I won’t soon forget. It has something to do with the tomato that tasted exactly as a tomato should – tart with juice, unlike the bland red fruit we too often find served up at home which, to my mind, are tomatoes in name only. The salmon was also a revelation compared to the over-farmed slices to be found on London’s supermarket shelves. It practically dissolved on the tongue with the full flavour of a fish that had enjoyed a life free of pent-up farm pond misery. The key to the success of this bagel was all down to the ingredients.
My perfect bagel with the Happy Salmon.
Returning to the breakfast menu for a moment, I must share a few of the a la carte options. There’s Fig-Stuffed French Toast, comprising local black mission figs, brioche, organic eggs, cream and maple syrup. It’s served with roasted red and gold new potatoes and a traditional breakfast sausage. For the health-conscious there are Flaxseed Pancakes, made with dried cranberries and blueberry syrup. These are presented with sides of Asian pears that have been poached in syrup, Riesling and vanilla, and a chicken apple sausage. The classic poached eggs come with Yukon gold potato latke and corned beef hash and even the oatmeal turns up at table with roast potatoes and Applewood smoked bacon. Having said that, these combinations are mere suggestions. On ordering you can select whichever sides you like to accompany the main plate. The Laurel Court calls this ‘couture cuisine’ and positively encourages their patrons to play havoc with their menu. And no, in case you’re wondering, Monsieur and I were not born with bottomless stomachs so we did not try any of the above, not that we weren’t tempted. The buffet provided plenty of everything for both our appetites and believe it or not, we’re not that gluttonous. Yet.
Had Monsieur and I been intent on growing our girths at the Fairmont we could feasibly have noshed there all day. In addition to breakfast, The Laurel Court provides light lunches of classic dishes like grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, flatiron steaks and insalata Caprese. Then there are dishes with a twist, like the Bloody Caesar Salad which uses both red and green romaine lettuce, or the simple sliders made with top-notch Kobe beef. Some guests prefer to enjoy this elegant dining room over a sedate afternoon tea including six sandwich varieties, two of those previously-mentioned fat scones and five desserts. You can even add on bubbly and caviar or chocolate truffles. (Goshdarnit. I’m making myself hungry.) If you have a taste for some end-of day relaxation with a glass of something stronger in hand, then The Laurel Court has a pianist to tinkle you into reverie with soothing classical music.
Get a load of this cheesy geezer! That grin is oh-so-very wrong.
Sadly, Monsieur and I didn’t have enough time to try The Laurel Court’s offerings apart from their superb breakfasts for we were only stopping over in San Francisco but we were impressed with our experience there. As we left on the next leg of our honeymoon, Monsieur remarked “that was one of the best breakfasts of my life.” Now, that’s a true compliment coming from a genuinely fussy customer.
Show me your Tequila Face!
If you could don a moustache and the look of a seasoned tequila drinker to convince a casting agent that you are the new face of Jose Cuervo tequila, would you do it? Maybe, but you’d probably need a bit more convincing that it’s worth your while. What if I told you that as Jose Cuervo’s Tequila Face you and a group of your bestest amigos/amigas would be whizzed off to Mexico for an all-expenses paid holiday of a lifetime? You’d even star in Jose Cuervo’s new film. Would you do it then? If margaritas and a good, chocolatey mole are your kind of thing, then I think the chances of a positive answer would increase manifold.
The chances of Epicurienne becoming Jose Cuervo’s Tequila Face are slim to nil, in spite of recent efforts at a Tequila Face event. I joined the Jose Cuervo gang at Cargo in London’s Shoreditch, where the guests were greeted with large white envelopes. Inside each pack was our new identity for the evening, along with a couple of key accessories to help us get into the Tequila Face mood. My new persona? Veronica de Sanchez.
My accessories? A beret and a pair of aviator sunglasses which were adopted so fast that I could have been Speedy Gonzales after his sixth double espresso. Taking a glass of margarita, I quickly decided that my alter ego has been drinking tequila since her grandfather first slipped some into her bottle when she was six months old. Apart from that, my identity brief told me that I was ‘One of Mexico’s hottest actors’, but fellow party-goer, Lolly a.k.a. Juanita, thought Veronica looked French. Apparently, Veronica is famous Mexico-wide for faking her own death in a soap called ‘Love in the Sky’, or ‘El amor en el cielo’. The soap is set in an airport. I love airports, so the creators of my new self certainly got that part right. I only wonder how she died. Was she caught in a propeller? Poisoned by in-flight food? Run over by a speeding baggage trolley? The intrigue grew and from behind the aviator sunnies my new theme song became: ‘I wear my sunglasses at night’.
With the help of some old buddies from Mexico - Zorondo, Juanita and Guillermo, now sporting wrestler masks and headphones and faux moustaches, we had a blast. And who wouldn’t with friends like these? Zorondo is the music-producing pioneer of the Mexican dance scene with an unhealthy obsession with Michael Jackson, although for this outing he thankfully left his spangly glove (singular) at home. Juanita is a DJ cum soap star bombshell who appears in La Fea Mas Bella – we swap make-up artists to keep our looks fresh. Meanwhile, mask-wearing Guillermo is a retired wrestling champ who keeps a clean-shaven chest for those plunging necklines he wears with brazen aplomb whilst practising his other favourite sport – ballroom dancing. So far, this was a seriously fun event.
(Veronica in borrowed ‘tache, taken by Juanita on her i-Phone)
Once dressed up, part of the deal was to sit on the casting couch with Jose Cuervo’s casting agent, Vince Frank, to have our ‘casting’ filmed. Suffice to say that Vince didn’t seem to like me very much. Gone was the soft-centred foodie; I was now a diva with attitude and a big, fat pout, in spite of the fact that the botox was wearing off. Veronica was taking this alter ego stuff very seriously and her (faux-Mexican) accent was getting stronger with each sip of margarita. Pity The Poor Vince. Was I Epicurienne? Or was I Veronica? It was becoming hard to tell.
Casting aside, there were tequila-based cocktails to try and Mexican hors d’oeuvres to nibble. Mention margaritas and I’m there with bells on so I was a happy little starlet to find that the Jose Cuervo margaritas did not disappoint. On the food front, one kind waiter fed me extra skewers of teriyaki chicken because it was oh-so-lipsmackingly tenderlicious that I couldn’t stop saying so. Perhaps he was just pleased to lighten his load on the tray, but my tastebuds were not complaining.
On the food front, prepare to drool because here’s what we enjoyed throughout the evening:
- Tangy tomato salsa and guacamole with taco chips
- Marinated olives with rosemary, lemon and garlic
- King prawns, jalapeno, red onion with coriander and lime
- Seared tuna with salsa verde served on a chic black ceramic spoon
- Tequila-marinated salmon ceviche – so succulent!
- Chicken teriyaki on skewers – melted in the mouth
- Thai beef salad, mint, soy and red pepper in a filo cup
- Torillia cigars, refried beans, cheddar, harrisa and coriander
- Chorizo and butter bean hot pot served in a crystal espresso glass – Mexican with elegance.
There were also three cocktails to choose from, all made with Jose Cuervo tequila, and in spite of the fact that they all looked divine, I stuck firmly to the margaritas. Deeeee-lish.
- Cuervo Classic Margarita: Jose Cuervo Especial Tequila, shaken with fresh lime juice and Triple Sec, served straight up in a salt-rimmed glass
- Cuervo Diablo Flower: JCE Tequila appears again, this time shaken with fresh lemon juice, pasteurized egg white, Vya dry vermouth, creme de cassis and a touch of lavender eau de vie
- Cuervo Maracuya & Apple Punch: More tequila, this time shaken with pressed apple juice, fresh passion fruit and Noilly Prat Rouge vermouth, sweetened with agave nectar and served long over ice. Finished with a float or cherry liqueur, these cocktails were as pretty as coconut ice in a glass, but even so I did not desert my beloved margaritas.
If all of the above isn’t excitement enough, we also had wrestlers to entertain us by slam dunking each other and some of the braver guests among us (not me!) WWF-style. Surreal or what?
Luckily, there was a photographer there to capture all the fun.
(Veronica with Zorondo, Juanita and Guillermo, and Splendid Organiser, Splendid Chris)
At the end of the evening, which was sensibly not too late, we were all presented with very generous goodie bags, including enough tequila to keep Veronica de Sanchez happy for a good while longer, more aviator specs in case Veronica breaks hers on set for her latest flick, ‘Tequila Mockingbird’, and a Tequila Face t-shirt, so that even if we don’t win The Big Prize, we can still pretend that we did.
So, my little chicos and chicas! If you want to enter the Jose Cuervo Tequila Face competition, you may. Just click here to visit Vince Frank’s Tequila Face casting room to find out what to do. Hint: a big moustache works wonders and a sombrero may not go astray.
You can follow Vince Frank on Facebook or tweet him sweet tequila on Twitter: twitter.com/VinceFrank, but be warned, he can be harsh. He recently told Veronica to get herself an appointment in Harley Street. Why? The pout needs more botox, apparently, and Diva Vonnie doesn’t need to be told twice. Andale! Andale! Arriba! Arriba! And she’s off…
Viet Grill Me!
It doesn’t seem to matter that Viet Grill is located a good twenty minute trek from the nearest tube station; last Friday evening saw it bursting at the seams and I’m quite certain it wasn’t Rent-a-Crowd. Monsieur and I were there to review this well-reputed bastion of Vietnamese cuisine in London and, in spite of having a reservation, for a split second I wondered whether we might have to wait to be seated; that’s how busy it was.
We rapidly realised that such fears were ill-founded as a waiter hailed a manager called Nam to look after us. We were soon sitting at a table blessed with elbow room, which looked to be the exception to the rule in this hive of Friday night activity.
Monsieur had already experienced Viet Grill, having dined here with a group of friends last December. I was the Viet Grill virgin in our party but this did not hold me back. As I checked out the recently-refurbished interior with feature fish tank embedded in one wall and a neon-lit shrine above the bar, Nam reappeared to ask whether we would like to choose our own dishes or would we trust him to order on our behalf. Before Monsieur could blink I had committed us both to Selection by Nam. Yes, Viet Grill’s staff knew I was there and why, but I was curious to see which dishes they thought would please us the most, especially as I’d spent the past couple of days devouring the menu on their website and fantasising about dishes like Saigon Ceviche Lobster and Crab Salad and Wicked Crispy Frog. I wondered, would such things feature as the staff favourites?
The first dish to appear was the Lotus Stem Salad. Described as comprising ‘shredded pork, shrimps, Vietnamese basil, peanuts and lime zest served with a sweet chilli dressing,’ this was a happy confusion of textures – the lotus adding a cool crunch, the pork contrasting in its softness and the overall effect reminiscent of summer by the beach. The Vietnamese basil, lime and chilli added Far Eastern flavour, altogether tangy and tart and hot against the tongue. Every single ingredient was served so fresh that there could have been a seaside farm in the kitchen. Thus far, Monsieur and I were impressed, but would our satisfaction survive the evening? Let’s find out.
(Lotus Stem Salad)
In addition to selecting the plates now appearing before us, Nam had also chosen our wine. I already knew that Viet Grill had enlisted the services of wine guru, Malcolm Gluck, to match wines to their dishes, and various reviewers before me have found this to be one of the unexpected bonuses of an evening at this Kingsland Road restaurant. Therefore, I was quietly confident that Nam would choose the right bottle for us, but when a Gewurztraminer appeared, my heart sank. Monsieur and I usually steer clear of this grape variety, as it tends to be too sweet and fruity for our taste. Choosing to trust Nam’s judgement, however, paid dividends. The Hunawihr Gewurztraminer Reserve d’Alsace (2007) matched particularly well with everything we ate that evening, especially as Vietnamese food tends to include a sweet element somewhere within. To its credit, our Gewurztraminer sang along with the food without being a diva. That is, its zesty flavour was complementary to the food without being overpowering. Thus far, it was a perfect match.
A plate of Beef Vinh arrived next, followed by Chicken Royale. I’m not the world’s biggest carnivore, but when Monsieur tried the Beef Vinh he described it as “so soft, it’s like eating cotton.” I couldn’t resist, so tried a piece of the beef that had arrived in kebab-style sans-skewer, slivered and rolled before being charcoal grilled and served in bite-size chunks. A dipping sauce next to it was later identified as fermented soy and although adding a dash of something extra, it wasn’t really needed because the beef was so tender and flavoursome, thanks to the addition of five spice, that it was stand-alone melt-in-mouth joy to our taste buds.
(Beef Vinh)
As for the Chicken Royale, Monsieur gobbled up his share with relish. He’d ordered this dish on his previous visit and thoroughly enjoyed it on both occasions. Slightly sweet, the chicken is free range (thank the Lord, because happy hens are tasty hens) marinated in cinnamon and fresh herbs before being roasted and dressed in a soy broth, giving it an almost honeyed flavour. Apart from adding to the taste, the marinade also gives the chicken a deep golden shine, so not only does it taste good, this chicken looks as royal as its name on its simple bed of house salad.
(Chicken Royale)
A word about the salad garnishes at Viet Grill – there’s no floppy lettuce here. Everything tasted as if it was just plucked from a homestead’s vege patch, rinsed in spring water and shaken dry before landing on the plate. Surely to get such a simple thing as garnish so very right shows that the people in the kitchen care about their produce and attention to detail. Whoever supplies Viet Grill with its ingredients is someone I’d dearly like to supply my fridge at home.
The next surprise to arrive was a whole oven-baked mackerel, eyes and fins and all. It had been marinated in lemongrass and wrapped in banana leaves, according to the menu. A waitress boned it deftly at the table, leaving us to dig in, which we did repeatedly. Mackerel is quite an oily fish, so often seen in the form of smoked fillets on supermarket shelves. This was a whole new take on mackerel for me. Mouths full, Monsieur and I hummed our happiness back and forth at each other across the table as we demolished the entire fish, leaving only head, tail and a few random bones behind. The lemongrass had imbued the flesh with a delicate, sweet perfume and the skin was so perfectly cooked that it lacked the usual slippery sensation that the skin of an oily fish so often has, and, without being cremated beyond edibility, the skin instead had a fine crispness to it meaning that we ate most of that, too.
(Oven-baked Mackerel)
Nam interrupted us part-way through our mackerel munch-fest to ask how we liked our meal. “The mackerel is delicious!” we enthused. “I know.” he agreed, “I take it home twice a week for dinner for me and my girlfriend.” If I lived closer to Viet Grill, I’d do exactly the same as Nam and take this fish home often. Not only is it good for you (mackerel is rich in Omega 3s), Viet Grill has a take-away menu so if you don’t want to dine in, you can have this dish at home for an unbelievable £8.00 (it costs £9.00 if you eat in; a fact that Monsieur and I cannot quite fathom because it’s such unbelievable value for such a sizeable and delicious fish).
Which brings me onto pricing. Considering the quality of what Monsieur and I were trying at Viet Grill, none of it would break the bank. And if you are still hardened against spending your hard-earned beans in these tough economic times, there’s a two-course Recession Set Meal for £9.50 per person. For soups, pho and One Dish Meals, if you dine before 3.00pm you can do so for £5.00 a plate (or large bowl) in these categories. The wine may set you back a few quid, but if you check out the retail prices on the internet, you’d be surprised that the restaurant mark-ups are so modest here.
Monsieur and I took it in turns to visit the restaurant conveniences in the basement, amazed to find another dining room below with even larger feature aquarium and yet more pho-slurping patrons. The loos were Ally MacBeal-style, that is, unisex, but the layout meant that this was not a problem if you prefer a bit of space between you and the opposite sex when you tinkle. The cubicles are spacious, with ledges for handbags which are great for people with O.C.D. about loo floors, all the fittings are brand new, and the colour scheme is a crisp white and olive green with dark wood accents. The only thing I’d mention is that the floor is slippery when wet, so take care, especially if you’re onto your second bottle of Gewurztraminer, as we were.
Now we just had to do our best with a Vietnamese dessert. Nam recommended tapioca cake, and sensing that The Blogger and her companion were close to maximum stomach capacity, brought just the one with two spoons. That was very considerate of him. The last time Monsieur and I ate tapioca was at the Cu Chi Tunnels in Vietnam. That day it was simply prepared, served with a peanut and sugar dip that became a magnet for all sorts of wasps and jungle insect life. The Viet Grill tapioca cake was bright green and gelatinous to the point of being a bit rubbery. Served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a sprinkling of nuts, it was perfectly pleasant, but lacked in the va-va-voom of the other dishes we’d tried. Having travelled through Vietnam, Monsieur and I know that Vietnamese sweets can often be a bit alien to Westerners, so we didn’t allow this minor blip to colour our views of the evening. For all we know, a Vietnamese connoisseur of tapioca pudding might deem this a fine example but for us it was akin to eating a sweetly perfumed eraser.
(Tapioca cake)
Unfortunately, the Vietnamese coffee was also a slight disappointment, tasting a little like a Westernised version of the usual coffee poured over ice with condensed milk. It was still sweet andchocolatey, which is what I so love about Vietnamese coffee, but for some reason the Viet Grill version made us think of Starbucks frappuccino, so next time we’ll probably end with the Iced Jasmine Tea, just for a change. Besides, I adore the subtlety of jasmine tea but have never tried it iced before. It sounds like a glassful of eastern exoticism. Alas, there’s only so much one stomach will take in a sitting.
On our way out we waited to thank Nam, who’d disappeared into his back-of-house domain. As a waiter helped me to track him down, he allowed me to poke my head into the kitchen. This was where our fine meal had been prepared and was a revelation. Brightly lit with work surfaces that could well be used to advertise kitchen cleaning products, the chef’s team was busy at work – chopping, steaming, plating, stirring and more. In spite of it being 10.30pm, they didn’t look anywhere close to slowing down. Back in the dining room, a few tables were now free but the space remained close to full.
Then, there was Nam, asking how we’d found our Viet Grill experience. We thanked him for a thoroughly enjoyable evening and asked him to pass on our thanks to the other staff who’d cared for us so efficiently throughout the evening. Then we sent our compliments to the chef/s, commending in particular the mackerel, which Monsieur and I then talked about all the way home.
Yes, Monsieur and I will gladly return to Viet Grill. We highly recommend the Lotus Salad, Chicken Royale, Vinh Beef and Oven-baked Mackerel. If you follow in our footsteps, just make sure you order those dishes and you’ll leave happy. As for me, next time I’d be tempted to try that Wicked Crispy Frog, mostly because the name alone makes me smile, but partly because I’ve never before eaten frog and would like to try it, just the once.
Even though I didn’t meet him, I must now extend my thanks to the owner of Viet Grill, Hieu Trung Bui, who offered me the chance to review his establishment. Thank you, Hieu. I have a feeling we’ll be back for more mackerel, soon, because just thinking about it makes me dribble onto my keyboard. With food of such quality, at such reasonable prices, you can Viet Grill me, any day.
Follow VietGrill on Twitter: @caytrevietgrill
Or visit their website for more information: http://www.vietnamesekitchen.co.uk/
