There is nothing so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour

Call me unhinged but I have never been one for Christmas – the food, for me, is painfully dull. The seemingly compulsory annihilation of livers that goes on through December is just plain idiotic. And the incessant, crazed and hysterical buying of gifts for people that have long-since grown out of ‘gifts’ is irritatingly wasteful.

Christmas for me is also intensely tiring. I am chef, house-decorator, and apparently gift-buyer extraordinaire for all of my family. Meaning that, starting with the cake and pudding in early November, and culminating in a New Year’s Day extended family feast (think 15 odd ‘merry’ family members around a table ‘articulating’ at the tops of their voices), I have my work cut out for me.

But before you start making judgements and assumptions about my family, know that I am (essentially) volunteering my services – I don’t do sitting around very well, so what else is there to do at Christmas other than buy, wrap, clean, decorate, prep, bake and cook…?!

I was, however, taken aback at myself on Friday. We were invited to a friend’s flat for dinner. The ‘C’ word didn’t really enter it – it was more a get-together before people parted for the festive break. We were told food would be provided, and if we were to bring anything, cheese would be nice. A sign that these friend have their heads screwed on correctly, I thought to myself.

The Boy and I arrived somewhat later than others thanks to a Guinness, chocolate and ginger cake I was making in a hurried fit post-work, but, again in tribute to their wondrousness, the hosts had said simply that we should arrive any time after 8.30pm. Flexibility is my middle name.

The house of revels, and some seriously old, neolithic rock.

A Bonsai Christmas tree. Why not?

We walked into a small yet toe-curlingly cosy sitting room, in which around nine people were scattered across the sofa, chairs and table. At one side of the room lay Utopia. Utopia heavy with comestibles worthy of a feast on Mount Olympus. (Yes, I know I’m getting my Classical allusions wrong, but, work with me here). Home-made mackerel pate; olives; pickled onions; roasted chestnuts; home-made piccalilli; fennel, pear, orange and Wensleydale salad; roasted root vegetables; home-made taramasalata; green salad with fresh peas; soda bread; ciabatta; granary bread; baked potatoes; and the crowning beast of glory – a roasted ham joint that could have provided Gaga with at least three red-carpet outfits. As if that wasn’t surfeit enough, in the kitchen was a vat of home-made haddock chowder, and a seriously good cheese table.

Feast your eyes and appetites on this.

Potatoes, paté, root vegetables, salads, olives, taramasalata...need I go on?

Well, if you insist - what was once a mound of steaming, roasted chestnuts.

If we leave aside that this spread was effectively me, in buffet form, what really struck me was just how jubilant it made everyone. The easiness and lack of formality about it all meant that conversations bubbled across the room, ebbing and flowing with attendees as they milled about the Table of Joy, each other and the two very lovely cats. It was good food parenting a good mood.

It's Ham(mer) Time...

A mouthful of ham...

A whirlwind of pleasure.

Such was the feeling of joviality and bonhomie that carols began. This would have, in any other circumstance, made The Eyebrow jump up, my gaze narrow and my feet move. But, I found myself rather enjoying it all. It was, in large part, due to the fact that the ‘choir’ was made up of some seriously silly singers, who were more interested having a larf than singing like cherubs on high.

The Boy and I raise a glass.

After carols came dancing, and with dancing came more food (ecstasy and revelations in the mouth, in the form of cheese), and thus flowed forth more of the good mood. It was an evening spent in a casual, homely environment (no champagne cocktails or LED-lit cocktail shakers), with a modest number of attendees (plus felines), and simple, yet beautifully prepared and cooked food (notwithstanding the days of work the hosts must have put in).

The remnants of our hosts' hard work.

An evening like that rams home how simple the truest pleasures are.

Not that I needed telling that, but still, that evening has warmed my cockles, strengthened my faith in ‘modern society’ and provided me with a dam sight more cheer than any boozy, fumbled office party, over-cooked, dry turkey or flabby mince pie could. If Christmas could be evenings like that, spent amongst family and friends, I’d willingly enrol as one of His Little Helpers.

Back to basics

I’m having an identity crisis. I think I’m one thing, or at least look like one thing, but to others, they seem to think I’m something else entirely.

And now I can’t be sure what I am. Is it me? Am I deluded? Am I not what I see in the mirror? Or is it the others? Have they got it wrong?

So, I imagine, runs the internal dialogue of a Scottish raspberry, recently injected with the essence of salted caramel to form the finishing touches to a ‘chocolate sponge pudding’ that actually tastes of marmalade and ginger.

Ok, so for one, raspberries don’t have mirrors. And two, they probably aren’t the most philosophical of thinkers. However, the point still stands (at least in my head it does) – what’s wrong with a raspberry that tastes of raspberry, and celebrated precisely because it tastes so raspberry-y? Molecular gastronomy is mind-bogglingly impressive, but, should it be the new ‘thing’ that high-end restaurants ‘do’?

Sometime before you and I got to know each other, The Boy booked us a table at North Road restaurant. In one of the many hours I spend reading and thinking and reading some more about food, I had happened across some reviews of this restaurant, and it sounded right up my street. One review recommended North Road if you have a penchant for raw food. And, my dear reader, I certainly do.

NO, WAIT, DON’T GO. Please don’t misinterpret that as me being a follower of a raw food diet. I shall never be willing to try said regime because you can’t eat pasta raw, nor can you eat bread or cheese raw. And why on earth would I voluntarily give those heaven-sent pleasures up!? It’s more that I love a good crunch, and what is better for crunch than raw broccoli, carrots, celery, beans…?

So, yes. We had a table, and we went and we ate. And we left, and we…were confused. I think it was a naïve first fumble into the nooks and crannies of molecular gastronomy. (Or at least a menu heavily influenced by it.) And like so many naïve first fumbles, it left me rather dissatisfied.

So what did we eat? Well.

Starters

Me – Scottish hand-caught scallops, carrot, sea buckthorn & buttermilk.

In layman’s terms: scallops (beautifully cooked. Soft, plump, pearl-coloured flesh with a barley hued outside); two baby carrots, roasted; two julienne strips of normal sized raw carrot; and a few rounds of an orangey sauce that I assumed was carrot puree, but didn’t know as there was no noticeable taste. The buttermilk was a dribble across the plate. The orange sauce, I soon found out, was the sea buckthorn.

What’s sea buckthorn, I hear you ask.

Luckily I overheard a waiter launch into a lengthy yet highly informative explanation of this berry, “found on the Scottish highlands, from a bush with immensely large thorns, making its collection exceedingly time-consuming and painful, more so because the berry is extremely fragile so can often burst as it is picked. One tiny berry contains more Vitamin C than an orange, and the juice itself is very sour and tart.” (Really?) “A taste of this juice in its natural state is of course possible Madam – the kitchen is happy to oblige…”

The ooo’s and aaaaah’s that later came from the diner sipping a shot glass of this juice made me realise that either she was a chronic faker (so many of them are), or the process of whatevering the berry to make my sauce had stripped it of its oooo-factor.

The Boy – Burnt, cured mackerel & cucumber, buttermilk & dill.

In layman’s terms: two thin fillets of cured mackerel, with one side very black with ash. Underneath was beautifully soft and tender mackerel flesh, completely different from its rough, heavy skin. Around this was a pool of buttermilk with finely chopped dill, and wafer-thin rounds of cucumber.

Verdict – both starters were delicious. The Boy’s was a tremendous balance of black, ash-heavy skin, soft dove-grey flesh, and a cool, yet sharp dairy and cucumber accompaniment. Had I not heard the spiel about buckthorn and realised the shadow of its former self that lay on my plate, I too would have though my starter was well executed. Everything was cooked to perfection, and whilst the tastes were all fairly main-stream in comparison to The Boy’s, it was a plate of food made enjoyable by the skill of the hand that cooked it. My favourite kind of plate.

Mains

                Me – Norfolk venison & smoked bone marrow, beetroot in textures & wild sorrel.

(The restaurant’s signature dish).

In layman’s terms: cylinders of venison, rolled in the same ash-coating as the mackerel; rounds of wafer-thin beetroot, cubes of cooked beetroot, a small cube of bone marrow (note the singular), and a few sprigs of sorrel.

Very sadly, this was a let-down akin to realising that Rihanna can’t sing live. The venison was so over-cooked, it was like eating a rubber bung. Combined with the thick ash-coating and you have a mouthful that clung and fixed your jaw together. The lack of seasoning on the meat or coating exacerbated the clag-factor.

As for the accompaniments, beetroot will always be just a texture and provide little for the taste bud, and on this plate it was wholly uninteresting. The wafer-thin rounds weren’t crispy, so there was no great texture contrast between that and the cooked cubes. Nor was there a taste difference – no pickling or seasoning or anything. The bone marrow was miniscule: a tiny cube, about half the size of the beetroot cubes it sat amongst, visually identical. The sorrel was literally two leaves, and therefore added nothing.

The Boy - Herefordshire quail & wild mushrooms, flowers & wild herbs.

In layman’s terms: Roast chicken(ette), sautéed wild mushrooms, edible flowers and a thin mushroom consommé/gravy masquerading as a mushroom ‘broth’, and a roasted parsnip sliver or two.

Cooked well and presented elegantly, but nothing to write home about. The safe option on the menu.

Verdict – disappointing for both. I was genuinely shocked at how much they had cooked the venison. In any restaurant, to so over-cook meat is a crime worthy of tomato-pelting, but for a Michelin starred restaurant it is…well, shocking.

Desserts

Me – Milk & cherries.

In layman’s terms: cherries halved and poached, cherry granita (think Slush Puppy texture, but with no E-numbers), milk ‘sorbet’ (aka ice-cream), and milk dust.

‘Milk dust’ is apparently milk, cryogenically frozen in liquid nitrogen and reformed into a slightly granular dust. Superman’s favourite.

I think their aim was to create a texture contrast with the soft cherries and ice-cream slash sorbet. But, the powder dissolved when mixed with a liquid, and considering the granita and ‘sorbet’ were melting quicker than the South Pole, the dust disappeared along with it.

It was simply a dessert of fruit and ice-cream, but in portions sized for a borrower. I could sneeze more ice-cream than that. But, I suppose, a light and simple dessert.

The Boy – cheese board.

In layman’s terms: the one thing we didn’t have to ask the waiters to decipher for us. Served with rye crackers and chutney. Enjoyable. Good cheeses. Washed down with an equally good glass of port.

Verdict – fine. But then I am never going to go for the excessively large and showy dessert, neither is The Boy, so perhaps we chose the quail from the dessert menu – the conservative option for thems that don’t like diverging too far from tinned fruit cocktail and Wall’s Soft Scoop.

The plates were all elegant, the staff were exceedingly polite, and the restaurant décor and ambience was restrained yet relaxing. It was an enlightening experience for me in that it showed me what restaurateurs have to do nowadays to win the attention and accolades of the critics. And how these accolades and flourishes can mean little to two South Landanas on a Friday evening hungry for some decent grub.

The kitchen seemed more tied up with the processes and techniques than with paying attention to whether they had achieved what they hoped (be it texture or taste) when the foam, dust or crisp was put into the diner’s mouth. Ingredients were transmogrified into something they didn’t need to be, at the expense of their intrinsic flavour or feel.

 A ‘good’ restaurant should be one that can consistently send out plates of well-cooked food, across all the options available. If you can’t immolate the venison to perfection every time, get rid of the venison. If it means you only have three options for the main course, GOOD.

Pick something and do it well. Don’t hide behind flashy preparations and esoteric ingredients. And always let a raspberry be a raspberry.

Would that rose really smell as sweet..?

Slow-roasted
Chargrilled
Blackened
Burnt
Twice-cooked
Triple-cooked
Pulled
Shredded
Freshly ground
Freshly roasted

Homemade
Home-cured
Hand-crafted
Hand-carved
Hand-made
Artisan
Bespoke
Heritage

Organic
Biological
Sustainable
Responsibly sourced
GM-free
Gluten-free
Dairy-free
Sugar-free
High-fibre
Low-salt
Low-calorie
Low-fat
No-fat

Are you hungry? Do the words above conjure to mind luxurious plates, lustfully put together by a passionate chef and restaurant owner dedicated to the provenance and sustainability of their menu?

Pfft.

Smoke and mirrors.Here.

It was on my morning walk into work, through the backstreets and gutters of ‘Lambeth North’, an area hardly renowned for…well, anything (except The Horse – 1st December. Something special will happen. Truthfully it will.)

Anyway, walking past a bar-cum-pub-cum-hostel, I saw a sandwich board outside proudly announcing their “slow roasted pork on artisan ciabatta bread, served with a homemade apple compote”. The only things that will be slow-roasted in that sticky-floored cesspit of grime will be the blue-bottle flies caught in the neon strip bulbs, slowly frizzling and twitching their short lives away.

It got me thinking about what is written on menus nowadays, and what then arrives in front of you. How much of what is written is there to tempt and romance the diner, and how much an accurate representation of what has ‘happened’ to the ingredients? It’s like some verbal bandit bandwagon that all café, deli, restaurant, gastropub, pub, bar and street food stall owners have jumped on. If them at Café Fernados are selling ‘pulled pork and confit of onions on spelt focaccia’, then god damn it we’ll sell ‘blackened beef on a bed of wild rice with a salsa of crushed chilli and lime leaf’.

What you actually get is a spongy, slightly stale and dry sub, filled with sugary onions and strings of pork that resemble over-sized eraser rubbings; or perhaps burnt and leathery beef in a gum-arabic heavy ‘cajun sauce’, soppy miscoloured rice (I’d rather not think about why it isn’t white), and a red sauce on top that tastes neither of chilli, or lime, or, in fact, anything at all.

That would all be fine if the menu had read: ‘pork and onion sub’, or, ‘beef stew with rice’. Expectations would have been set correctly. The diner would know that they are not, in any way, in for a gastronomic experience. One would also expect the prices to reflect this un-gastronomic fare. And if they didn’t, well, neither Café Fernandos nor their competitors would do any good business, and so they would be forced to re-price their menu. A Darwinian Theory of Evolution for purveyors of food.

Upsettingly regularly I order something and remain amazed that someone has got away with describing my dish in such a sexed-up manner. And aside from my own disappointment, this trend for (misleadingly) elaborate descriptions is robbing those who do actually make cheese at home, for example, or slow-roast a whole pig for 29 hours. If everyone is supposedly doing or at least serving ‘artisan’ or especial ingredients and dishes, it is difficult to find, and support, those who are actually doing what they say they are. Sifting the wheat from the chaff and all.

In a totally naïve and hopelessly optimistic way, I would like to believe that if we all started probing and examining what we are told we are getting and what we actually get, food would get better. Or at least stop being so haplessly described.

And then in a more comfortably cynical way, all I can see is a readiness in society to accept surface impressions, and even if we sense that the outer impression belies the inner reality, we tend to ignore or disregard it. Take pop music – are you seriously telling me that the new girl-band in the charts can get away with ripping off a cover of what was a hugely successful pop song around 10 years previously, changing absolutely nothing about it? On the surface they are pink and pretty and have a strange name, and there is no issue with them ‘storming’ the charts with a like for like cover..??

And then there’s contemporary art. Don’t even get me started on contemporary art. It is slightly different in that not even the surface pretends to be something that it’s not. It looks ridiculous, and it is ridiculous. It looks like random bits and pieces put together that you can’t quite understand, and it is just pieces put together for no compelling reason, no matter how many times the artist or curator mentions the word ‘narrative’, ‘conflict’ or ‘exploration’.

When did we become so happy with the superficial? When did we become so ready to accept and not question? I’m not asking for Platonic discourse over every weeknight dinner, but please, a little discretion and demand for something better than this.

Please?

Are you with me?




Anyone?

Divertissement avec Le Garҫon

So, at the beginning of this month, I won The Best Girlfriend award for taking The Boy to Hawksmoor in Seven Dials, Covent Garden – read all about our night of cows, cocktails and contentment here.

And last night, The Boy won The Best Boyfriend award. How could such a captious and sardonic wench be gratified so, I hear you wonder. (Perhaps I do myself a slight injustice in that description, but you get the gist).  Well, he took me to the ballet. Swan Lake no less, at The Royal Opera House. Preceded by dinner in their Balcony restaurant, overlooking the bar-atrium.

Yes, I know, outrageously generous of him. And I am, in turn, outrageously appreciative to him. The ballet was completely bewitching. I find any ballet bewitching, but, it was a combination of the dancing with that music. Everyone recognises the overture from Swan Lake. I would wager a guess that most little girls at some point during their childhood either owned, or knew someone that owned, a small ‘jewellery box’, that when you opened the lid had a small plastic ballerina pirouetting on her tiny plinth, to the vaguely discordant chimes of Swan Lake. And so, as the orchestra struck up their first ‘megamix’ of the Swan Lake music before the curtain lifted, I found my whole body prickling, my eyes full of water, and my insides trying to burst out. And that’s before the dancers came on. As I tried to explain to The Boy, watching ballet theoretically ‘makes me cry’, but not in a soppy, feminine, I’m-about-to-faint way. It is simply my body, or rather my senses, being completely overwhelmed by what I am watching, and what I am hearing from the live orchestra. Men have their Page Threes, I have the ballet.

And for The Boy, it was only his second time watching ballet, and quite different from the first time some months ago, which was a series of shorter ballets. By all accounts, it went down well with him too. Our conversation largely focussed on the shape and tone of the dancers’ bodies – to me it is a bizarre self-sacrifice to the art of ballet. A 25 or 30 year old body, no matter how fit, does not bend in the same way that a ballet dancer’s does. It is the years and years of training when young that has manipulated how their body developed, and has resulted in a body that moves in an unnatural (yet exceedingly beautiful) manner. One shudders to think of the pain they go through whilst training, and when they stop dancing and their bodies seek to adjust to a ‘normal’ range of movement.

It is not surprising therefore, against such a glorious assault of the senses that the dinner was totally unbewtiching. A three-course meal from a set menu, which, when read, promises the diner seasonal food and pleasingly crafted plates. I should have known not to have hoped so much.

Starters

Me: Venison carpaccio, with pickled pear and parmesan.

The Boy: Crab mayonnaise with sourdough toast.

Verdict: Uninspiring.

The venison slices were tiny, maximum 4cm diameter, and completely unseasoned. The parmesan was the type that comes ready-shaved, in plastic tubes from the supermarket. And the pickled pear was as vinegary as a Somerset farmer’s onions.

The crab was perhaps slightly better – purely by the fact that they had laced it with a small tonne of salt. However, I can’t deny that it was a densely packed timbale of white meat flesh, bound together with only the faintest amount of mayonnaise, allowing the (salty) crab to be the main element in the mouth.

Mains

Me: Roast pigeon with a celeriac remoulade and beetroot, and carrots with honey and thyme on the side.

The Boy: Fillet of turbot with brown shrimp sauce, and celeriac mash on the side.

Verdict: Un…adventurous.

My pigeon was well-done. Strike number one. The celeriac remoulade was swimming in mayonnaise and cream, meaning that any woody, aniseed taste from the celeriac was masked by the odious, creamy white devils. Strike number two. The ‘jus’ (oh how we love a good ‘jus’ nowadays) was but a shadow. It was as if someone had been served their mains on this plate, eaten everything, wiped up all the ‘jus’ they could, and then I had been allowed to use their plate after. The real bugbear was that the ‘jus’ actually had a rather pleasant taste – the perfect tangy yet sweet taste that game benefits so much from. It could have rescued the dish. But, three strikes and you’re out.

The Boy’s turbot looked…like a white fish fillet on a bed of spinach, with a butter and brown shrimp sauce. Revolutionary. And the celeriac mash was, celeriac-less. It was mash. White fish, spinach and mash. Hmm.

Desserts

Me: plum compote and kirsch sorbet.

The Boy: cheese board.

Verdict: Unsurprising.

Yes there were plums (in a cloyingly sweet sugar syrup), and then there was a red sorbet, but as for kirsch, I’m stumped.

The cheese board was ‘traditional’, if we’re being polite. Brie. Stilton. Cheddar. Three oatcakes. A twig of red grapes, and, given the size of the cheese slices, a vat of tomato chutney, pureed so that it resembled tomato puree in texture. The Boy, who can attack blue cheeses with a resolve akin to Ajax the Trojan Horse, commented that it was a ‘safe’ choice. He’s politer than I.

What struck me about the meal was that there were lots of grand promises reading the menu, and on the plate, compositions that were elegant and pleasing to the eye, like the ballet. But, unlike the ballet, it failed to deliver anything of great note. Is it even possible to contend with the level of sensory stimulation that Swan Lake at The Royal Opera House provides? For all that food and eating constitutes the main pleasures in my life (it’s alright, The Boy has accepted that and knows I love him too, just in a different way), the ballet fed me, or rather my senses, with a feast of pointed toes, taut limbs and faultless twirls that completely over-shadowed our actual repast.

Go there not for the food, but for the arresting setting and atmosphere. The atrium is like something out of a Monet painting of Gare du Nord (an impression perhaps heightened by the fact that the majority of the waiting staff were French). Pretend to be elegant and graceful, like the menu. Pretend to be of importance and gravitas, like the menu. And tuck into the occasion: a meal for the senses. Buon appétit.

Confessing about obsessing.

I think I may need to see someone…get a bit of professional help…I have a slight, um, well, a slight fetish for something in the kitchen…

WHAT? Oh really. Not that. That’s far from hygienic. No, this is a pervading and genuine love for…spoons. Yes. Spoons.

There. It’s out. (That was easier than I thought). I have an obsession with spoons.

Firstly, let’s contemplate just how many different types of spoon there are: serving, salt, tea, Apostle (a traditional christening gift), soup, honey, caviar, table, dessert, slotted, and coronation. Yes. Coronation. There are historical reports of medieval coronation ceremonies being conducted with, that most pleasing type of cutlery, spoons. Material enough for a Monty Python sketch, surely?!

This myriad of different types may indicate just how useful spoons are – why would cultures have developed so many versions of the same shape if not because they acknowledged how utilitarian spoons are.  Aside from cutting through very hard or dense objects, I believe I could happily devour most meals armed only with a spoon. Soup – easy. Cereal – no problem. Toast – well, you could spread the butter with the back of the spoon, and then slice the toast (roughly) with the side. Pasta – fine. Rice – easier than chopsticks. Steak – ok, I’ll give it to you. That’s a tough one. Ribs, chops or roast – ditto. Fish, however, you’re mine. Vegetables – yes, mine too.

All in all, I’d manage most things very happily with a sssssppppoooooooon.

And there’s another thing that gets me going about spoons. That word, their name. Say it out loud. “Spoon”. Isn’t that sound pleasing to the ear? Doesn’t the word just pop through your lips, caressing them on its way, allowing them gently to close around its end… now, say it with force, and louder. “SPOON”. That feels satisfying, doesn’t it? You can really get your breath behind the “sp” and out shoots the ‘OOOOOOOON’, surprising you and everyone around you, exploding into the space in all its SPLENDID…splendour. The longer you hold on to the “ssssssssssspp”, the louder and more forceful the “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON” is, like a hungry child finally breaking through the tuck-shop melee at lunch to gain first place in line. And if you’re feeling really fruity, try putting a “schp” into it. SCHHHHHHHPPPPPPPPOOOOOOOONN. Now that is just the ticket to having me rolling around with laughter and joy.

The Boy regularly gets “spoons” and schpoons” in his face. He’s used to it now.

On a recent walk during my lunch break, I found myself perusing a local antiques market at which three stalls were displaying selections of spoons – some sets of 6 or 8, others simply one-offs, or larger serving spoons, all of them different styles and ages. I walked, beatifically, from stand to stand just observing their understated majesty . The silver set of butter knives were graceful, but the four Celtic-designed salt spoons more so. The bone-handled bread knife was impressive, but the crooked, mottled and tarnished dessert spoon struck my eye more.

And now, let’s take a moment to think about the shape. The round ‘bowl’ head, mirroring in shape, by and large, the vessel from which this most humble of items will dive into, like a culinary Tom Daley. It’s a well-known fact that curvilinear forms are received in our psyche as more relaxing and comforting than their rectilinear counterparts. Whilst rectilinear forms impart a sense of order and control, which in itself can be comforting, curvilinear forms convey a sense of calm stability, reassuring continuity and harmonious tranquillity.

Be it perfectly round, slightly wonky, or elliptical, large, miniature or just right, spoons are immensely pleasing to the eye. Next time you are about to hurriedly shovel in those Shreddies, or scoop up pillows of cappuccino foam, take a micro-pause to appreciate the shape before your eyes. Love its curves, love its bump, love its shine - for that way, young Jedi, the spoon will love you in return.

Smoke and mirrors

Let’s play a game. Close your eyes. Clear your mind. And tell me what the first thing is that comes into your head when I say…fast car.

Ferrari? Lamborghini? No, wait, I’ve got it: Audi R8.

OK, another one. Ready?...fast animal.

Cheetah? Ostrich? Road Runner doesn’t count by the way.

OK, last one. One…two…fast food.

That’s easy: burger and chips.

Good. I’m glad we agree on something.

Of the above things, the word ‘fast’ relates to their speed of movement. Obviously a burger is the slightly odd one out being an inanimate object. ‘Fast’, one might assume, therefore relates to the speed at which it is cooked, or at which it is eaten.

On the subject of burgers, that most iconic and easily recognised of fast foods, I am fascinated by its sudden adoption into the ranks of the gourmand. I can’t quite imagine Cheesy Chips, or Doner Kebabs, or Hot Dogs ever making it into equally revered culinary grounds. Seemingly, by eating a burger in a restaurant specifically dedicated to burgers, and by choosing extras such as ‘home-made tomato coulis’, ‘oak-smoked Lancashire Bomber’ or ‘confit of onions’, the diner is eating something more…less…the diner is eating something ‘better’ than your bog-standard burger.

I suppose my problem is how people are actually fooled by the tarted up sides and extras, and the high-ceilinged, industrial-chic restaurants, packed full of media-lovies or City-boys, all tucking in, with irony, to their burger. They eat fast-food too you know. What fails to register amongst these lost souls is whether what they are eating is actually any ‘better’ than the burgers from the many burger vans across the stadiums in the country, or alongside the roads that weave in and out of our countryside.

The answer doesn’t have to be ‘yes’. Eating a burger that is equal to those sold by the burger van man in Twickenham Rugby Stadium doesn’t make it less enjoyable. What does make it less enjoyable is either if you are paying through the nose for a supposedly ‘gourmet’ burger, or if you are surrounded by people braying about how marvellous and delicious the burger is, or, worse still, both. And it was precisely that kind of experience which confronted me on Saturday evening.

Bukowski Grill – a charcoal-grill “joint” that started life in the hyper-cool, “retail revolution”, Boxpark, a pop-up mall in Shoreditch. Bukowski promises to serve up classic style burgers, pulled-pork sandwiches and quality beers and ales. Prices are low, the menu short. I like short menus. It gives one hope that the kitchen will be able to devote maximum attention to the few dishes available.

At Brixton’s Bukowski, on Saturday night, however, such a hope was quashed.

I won’t deny that I was already feeling somewhat cynical about eating at this new and supposedly fantastic burger “joint” – it was the endless hype and babble amongst the young and trendy, more interested in their buttoned-to-the-top checked shirts, slicked hair-styles and matt-red lipstick than what is on the plate, that had me raising The Eyebrow. But, The Boy was keen for meat (are you spotting a pattern here?), and keen to sample what his friends had promised was a bloody good burger, and I had The Friend who was also keen to try it. Never one to kick over sand-castles, we went in.

It can’t really ever bode well if you walk into a restaurant and smell burnt toast. No, before you ask, it wasn’t charcoal. I’ve worked in a kitchen, I’ve been to a BBQ  – I know what charcoal smells like. And I think every ex-student will know what burnt toast smells like. It is something as indelibly engrained in our sensory memory as newly cut grass, burger van onions or freshly baked bread. And that’s what smacked me in the face as we walked in.

The Eyebrow twitched.

The menu is, as I said before, short. Three beef burgers: one classic, one double with cheese and bacon, and a monthly special: currently with Argentinian sausage and chimichurri. One chicken burger. One vegetarian burger. Unsurprisingly tarty extras and no ‘ordinary’ mustard despite the kitchen making horseradish mustard. The Eyebrow twitched again.

Burger alternatives are pulled pork, a steak sandwich, beef ribs, and pork ribs.

The sides: tobacco onions (was that the burnt smell?); crayfish and prawn popcorn (sorry, are we in K.F.C?); and fried chicken livers (the obvious side for a dish already heavily saturated with animal fat). I saw the onions. In appearance they are true to the name – it looked like the contents of Fag-Ash Lil’s ash-tray after a night on the sofa watching the Eastenders omni-bus, the grey-brown cinders like decaying lung cells. Any takers?

I opted to keep it simple and try their classic burger, rare, no mayo, with red onion chutney and gherkins. So did The Friend, but medium, with Colston Bassett stilton and gherkins. The Boy went for the pulled pork bun. One small portion of chips. Two frozen margaritas and one Skrimshander.

After forty minutes, and every other table (around 15 in the unit), including those that arrived after us, having been served, our burgers arrived. And, sadly not to my surprise, my burger was well-done. Not even medium. It was well and truly cooked. As was my patience with fashionable, of-the-moment “joints”. The Friend’s burger was, yes, you guessed it: rare, or not quite medium. The Boy’s pulled pork sandwich looked like something I shall not describe in polite company.

The Friend and The Boy looked at me knowing exactly what was raging through my mind, and cowering lest I start to rant, but I said nothing and began to eat. And so our evening continued, me trying ardently to not allow this irritatingly average burger sour the atmosphere. Perhaps it is that I am unused to eating medium or well-done meat, but to me the burger was grizzly and bland. The red onion chutney was so heavily applied that it rivalled the size of the patty. There was a flaccid lettuce leaf and a thin slice of wet, pale and apologetic tomato.

There were two vaguely enjoyable parts to the meal: the gherkins, firm, and mildly vinegary with that traditional sweet twinge; and the margarita, so sour that The Friend almost couldn’t drink it. Thanks to my bi-daily lemon and hot water, my obsession with Campari, and love of all things bitter, I slurped away, with each slurp, slurping down my rising irritation.

And there we have it. A burger at Bukowski. Uninspiring, incorrectly cooked and irritatingly believed to be good.

I can’t help but notice that at Honest Burgers, previously the sole, or at least most popular, burger purveyor in Brixton Market, there was no sign of the queue that normally queued every day at any time, drooling for their patties. Such is the fickle nature of diners nowadays, more easily romanced by the new than the truly good. Give them reclaimed steel beams, unplastered walls and exposed brick work, perhaps some tobacco-heavy smoke, and you have yourself the hottest new “joint” in town. As for what to serve, don’t worry about that too much. Smoke you have, mirrors you can hang, and the diners they will rave.

A cow and a cocktail.

I have recently acquired the accolade of Best Girlfriend Ever. It may not be particularly long-lived, but, for now, I am the proud owner of said title.

As for how I got it, it should be relatively obvious. An accolade such as that is really only ever given after arranging or buying something related to the following: cars; meat; beer; and sports matches. This time it was meat. 600 grams of Chateaubriand, to be exact, at Hawksmoor's Seven Dials restaurant.

A brief Google of Hawksmoor reveals the immodest number of reviews, some by notable restaurant critics, raving about their steaks being The Best. Did I believe it? No. But it fitted my criteria for a special evening for The Boy, so I booked. Do I believe it now? Yes. I rave along with the rest of them now, and I encourage you to go so that you can be a raver too.

So what is it that gets so many raving? Well, for one there's the venue. It's a relatively inconspicuous door down a cobbled street in Covent Garden. It could be a stage door for one of the theatres dotted around it. There is something of the night about it - a large, heavy door, that opens into a small, soft lit reception area. Once rid of your coats and bags, you go downstairs into the bar area: tall wooden tables with high bar stools; walls covered in 50's style white tiles; the bar full of decanters and cut crystal glass tumblers, bottles of brandies and vermouths, large bell-jars of fruit in syrup and olives. It oozes style without being sickeningly conscious or laboured.

The Boy and I ordered a cocktail each, whilst perusing the refreshingly 'old-fashioned' cocktail list. Mine a Negroni (what else?), his an "Angel-Face", less than apt but overtly delicious nonetheless. If you have no interest in meat, or are a vegetarian, I would still recommend you going for a drink at the bar. It will reform even the most stalwart cynic of cocktails.

When ready, we moved to the table and the fun began. There is a menu which lists ‘individual steaks’, and ones to share. Blackboards dotted around the room list the different types of sharing steaks, and a list of weights after. As the kitchen runs out of one weight, so it gets crossed off the boards. Our waitress was exceedingly well-equipped with information about each type of steak to help us choose, and did not turn it into a recited monologue about what was on offer. In a moment of temporary insanity, I thought I wasn’t particularly in the mood for steak, so wanted to find a steak large enough for The Boy and I to share, without forcing Him to eat the majority of my half too once I’d had my fill. 1) I don’t think the words ‘force’ and ‘steak’ need ever be in the same sentence with The Boy, and 2) you think he got a look in when the steak arrived? Did he hell.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. There is the starter to speak of before. Me: Brixham Crab on toast, with a gherkin salad. The Boy: chicory, pear and Colston Bassett salad. The same adjectives can be used for both plates: light but vibrant, flavourful but fresh. The soft, crumbly crab sat in a triumphant mound on its thin, cracker-like ‘toast’, not violated with the usual mayonnaise. Left to dazzle in its naked beauty. The Boy’s salad was a man’s salad – the cheese, like mini boulders crumbled in a thick layer on top, laid flat the raw delicacy of its bed fellows, pear and chicory. (Were I to volunteer an improvement, it would be a more powerful, or noticeable dressing. With the strong tasting cheese, and highly sugary candied walnuts, the pear and chicory needed some citrus to bring them alive).

And now on to the main event. For all of my natural verbosity, I am rendered somewhat speechless even by the memory of what we ate. 600 grams of Chateaubriand, rare, with a side of braised peas and lettuce, and beef dripping chips. A bottle of Chateau Musar (Lebanon). We asked for it rare, and it came rare. Criminally red, provocatively soft and fleshy, with an enticingly dark and mysterious seal to its surface. Unethical amounts of salt but truly delicious. We didn’t just eat. We felt, we licked, we sucked, we chewed, we rolled our eyes and then we collapsed back in our seats, our senses exhausted by the stimulation.

Whilst I don’t think the topic of money should come in to or sully such a divine experience, I do feel it appropriate to reassure you that if the prices look steep, sample one of their steaks and that matter will flee your mind entirely. The quality of the meat is superb. Add to that the precision of the chefs cooking it, and you have yourself a very worthy way to spend those notes. I started the meal not entirely fussed for meat, but happy to have a mouthful or two, and ended the meal like a rabid dog scouring the table for any remaining hidden morsels. Those were very happy cows. I could feel it between my teeth. Happy and big and juicy and wow. And in turn they made this cow very happy too.

Desserts for me are not possible after such godliness has passed through my lips, but The Boy was keen for the old Sticky Toffee Pudding, so I kept him company with some pear sorbet. And, out of it all, that was the most disappointing part. It lacked flavour and was overall rather disappointing. Ginger or vermouth would make a welcome addition to the mix. The Boy’s S.T.P was, well, sticky, and cloyingly sweet. I guess what only what is desired from an S.T.P. We followed that with two espressos, and a tantric state of calm.

And, as if all of the above wasn’t temptation enough for you to go to Hawksmoor, on Monday it’s BYOB, with a corkage of £5.

In short: it’d be rude not to.

With an eyebrow raised

Introducing myself to my computer screen, or to the black infinity that is 'cyber-space' and anyone that is reading this is, for want of a better word, odd. Owning this arena for voicing my thoughts to the worldwide web seems slightly hubristic...but I am strangely compelled to try it. I am intrigued by the perfect silence that a blog lends its author. You could be saying or thinking anything right now, and I am protected from that. I can carry on, blithely tapping away at the keys, ignorant of everything, aware of nothing.

Do I believe people will 'follow' me (or whatever you do with blogs) - well, not really. I would hope that there is something more exciting going on...and if there isn't, then maybe I'd get read as an alternative to polishing the silver.

So why am I doing it? Because sometimes conversations with yourself are the only sensible ones you can have.