A plague on both your houses

I realise now that I am one of those people who are prone to tonsillitis, but I have managed to miss this over the years in my search for more obscure illnesses from which I am suffering. Hypochondria is one of my least attractive features, but I actually can’t help it if I am pre-disposed to getting weird symptoms that I have to google and then it turns out that they are fatal. 

Anyway, I had tonsillitis (I will laugh in your face if you call it a sore throat) first when I was 19- I was on holiday in France with my family who were uncaring to say the least, so I just sat in my room and facebook flirted with boys for sympathy.  A year later, I was in Paris and it came back; a doctor on the Boulevard St Germain charged me 70 euros to take my top off and gave me some paracetamol.  This time I have had it twice in a month and as a result of some complications (from being happy and carefree and not maintaining my usual constant vigilance towards googling my health) I am sick sick sick.  The less said about it the better, but the long and the short of it is that I’m convalescing at home.

Being an independent, post-modernist ironic joke of a woman in my mid to late 20s, I realise I should be doing this at my flat, but I am nothing if not relentlessly realistic, and I know it would have been about 2 hours after the first of my flatmates got home from work before I was saying it was fiiiiiine to have a drink, and yes I probably would love a Marlboro light because you know you really can’t smoke in hospitals, they’re pretty strict on that, and actually I’m very much ok now so if I don’t take these antibiotics tomorrow maybe my stomach won’t feel so shit and I can go to that party on Saturday. My flatmates wouldn’t have pressurised me by the way, I just have no will power. And I really don’t want to feel like this anymore.

At home, at least two sisters will be scandalised, disappointed and possibly stop thinking of me as their ultimate role model -footage not found- if they see me hoofing down the codeine with a white wine chaser. 

It also means that I am under my mother’s tender loving care. This is exceptionally annoying, but I’m almost certain that for once this is mostly my fault not hers. I am exhausted and sleeping most of the time, but am finally feeling just human enough to wake up to argue and be rude. I am eating nursery food.  Shepherds’ pie, macaroni cheese, boiled eggs, soups, yoghurts...  You may be surprised that all of these are suitable for someone with such a tender, recently compromised throat.  You may be thinking of crispy mashed potato with the pie, or crunchy bits of bubbling cheese on top of the pasta; rest assured, the way my mother makes the above, they are all the same consistency.

She is currently whipping up a broccoli and stilton soup whilst listening to The Archers.  Sister number 4 has just emerged from her study leave pit and come thumping down the stairs shouting, ‘What are all the bad smells? Why does everything smell of manure?’ 

I’m not sure lunch is going to go down so well. I can’t wait to go back to work.

Buona Sera at the Jam

Before I was ill, I had one of those days when you just need to be by yourself.  Of course, now I am by myself and craving friends and post-work drinks and pub suppers and train travel and conversation, I can’t imagine wanting to spend any more time with my own thoughts (untroubled and superficial as they are), but the other week I distinctly remember that being the case.  I spent much of the age of 17 in the same mindset.  One Saturday in the early 2000s, I went to the French bookshop on Bute Street in South Kensington, bought a slim Folio edition of a book by Jean-Paul Sartre called ‘L’existentialisme est un humanisme’ and carefully placed it at an angle, poking out of the top of my handbag in what I hoped was a passive aggressive ‘do not talk to me, I am an intellectual’ manner, but actually just meant that people took the piss. It was especially galling to realise I could only actually understand one word in about sixty five. 

Anyway, I left work, bought an ill-advised but successful bright red dress, downloaded a new book to the kindle, walked almost all the way home and then decided to have a quiet, solo supper somewhere nice. You need to pick the kind of place to do this carefully. You don’t want somewhere you’re going to be made to share seating space and (horror) possibly have to talk to strangers, just because you’re alone e.g. Wagamama.  You also don’t want somewhere they’re going to try to make it look like their restaurant is full by putting you and your book in the plate glass window like a freak show display (I don’t think it’s freakish, you understand, but a lot of people do), and, lastly, eating by yourself in a chain – Byron, Pizza Express... – is all kinds of depressing (they even have vouchers so you bring more people, could you really not rustle anybody up?) so avoid those too.  To recap, I was looking for cosy, noisy, secluded, not too big, not too small (they’ll turn your table in favour of 2 or more covers), and probably pasta.  It’s almost always probably pasta if I’m by myself. Not a huge amount to ask.

To cut a very long story short (and skipping out the 20 minutes I spent walking up and down the Kings Road in a welter of indecision), a little restaurant called Buona Sera gave me a superlative plate of salmon and courgette pasta – sparklingly fresh fish and veg, al dente pasta, lovely vibrant seasoning- with a glass of Pinot Grigio, friendly, non-judgemental solo-eating service and 45 unhurried minutes with my book which was, at that point, the most perfect evening I could imagine. As soon as I am restored to sociability, I’ll be coming back with friends.

Buona Sera at the Jam

289 King's Rd, SW3 5EW

020 7352 8827

G'day

A friend of mine, previously known to these pages as Richard O’Brien, emigrated to Australia last year and recently came back for a triumphal visit.  Understandably sick of ricotta, sunshine, avocadoes and optimism, what he really wanted was dark ale, carbohydrates, sarcasm and scotch eggs.  Luckily, all of these things can be found in abundance in South West London’s many pubs, so over the two weeks he was back, we did a mini tour of them.

We started with the old Parsons Green favourite, the White Horse: time and space vortex of a million lunches that have inexplicably turned into evenings.  Unfortunately, having gathered 20 of his nearest and dearest to the pub for a long afternoon lunch and drinking session, it appeared that the place was having an off day. It pains me to say it, but the food was average (scotch egg excluded) and the service was slow.  There was a beer festival on (isn’t there always) but they weren’t allowing people to taste any of the ales before buying; surely more crucial than ever when many of the range will be unfamiliar, and I’m sure the pub used to allow you to do this.  Being Australian now, instead of saying everything was fine, thank you very much, and shuffling off to complain about ‘the time the Horse was bad’ whenever someone mentions going there, Richard wrote an email letting them know it had been slightly disappointing. So casual, so grown up, so New World. I don’t know if they responded but I hope it was just a bad day.

A few days later, my suspicions that Richard had changed were confirmed as we sat in the Harwood Arms. They bought out a canvas basket of hot, freshly baked soda bread and he asked me if anybody was on Paleo here. I assume most of you know what that is but, in case you live under a stone (IRONIC), it’s basically eating like a caveman.  I believe this to be slightly spurious as cavemen didn’t live very long, weren’t very clever and I’m sure would have loved someone to show them how to make bread. They were probably thin though (yes, I’m being facetious; please don’t write in). Anyway, proteins and veg and nuts and grains like spelt or keeeeeen-waaaaa or however you’re meant to pronounce it. Very good for you, but please eat the soda bread, it’s delicious.

The Harwood has always been a really exciting thing to have in Fulham and remains so on my third visit. Richard is a demon for a scotch egg but managed to restrain himself and went for the milder ‘crispy hen’s egg’ starter.  I had cod cheeks with crab and asparagus, which made me wish bitterly for a spot of sunshine and a seaside holiday in Cornwall (not that I’ve ever been on one of those).  I chose the wine, which Richard didn’t like, but I described it is as ‘flinty’ and pretended it was meant to taste like unripe gooseberries, so there wasn’t much he could say. This is in no way a reflection of the Harwood’s wine list; as mentioned before my wine expertise is still a work in progress.

Main courses were rolled pork belly and cheek, which was a big hit, and my brill with smoked cauliflower, which I absolutely loved. Richard said it tasted like being kissed by a Dick Van Dyke chimney sweep from Mary Poppins; a trauma memory so startlingly specific that I could only sit in silence and eat more bread as the bill came.

Last in our round up of Nice Pubs ™ was the Pigs Ear, where we went for Richard’s last evening out before he headed back to his horrible life of sunshine, holidays, recognition in the workplace and cool new friends.

The Pigs Ear is a lovely, traditional pub in Chelsea with a small menu, so between the 6 of us we pretty much tried everything they had on that evening.  There was a slight altercation as some members of the group, including a Psychiatrist, attempted to order the wine based purely on the fact its name was ‘Boom Boom’, but other than that the evening progressed smoothly. Richard had his customary scotch egg, as did a few others, and then there was a lobster bisque and a goats cheese crème brulée that, weirdly, tasted very much as it sounds except not hot. I had thought it would be hot. Main courses were particularly good, with steak tartare, braised pig cheeks, moules marinières and a gigantic côte de boeuf for two all great examples of what is fantastic about the admittedly long overhyped and overused ‘gastropub’ appellation that, when done properly, just means you can catch up with your friends in a relaxed, pub environment whilst eating food that would normally require a separate reservation.  What’s not to love?

 

Sydney Style

The Pigs Ear

35 Old Church Street
SW3 5BS
020 7352 2908

The Harwood Arms

Walham Grove SW6 1QP 020 7386 1847

Marcus Wareing at The Berkeley

I’m not sure how much of the excitement it’ll take out of the piece I’m writing for the Good Food Guide & Waitrose competition if you read it here first, but I don’t think it would be too much to say that the dinner I had with my godfather at Marcus Wareing was exceptional.  Something approximating the below review will hopefully appear in the 2014 edition of the Good Food Guide but, for now, here’s the unabridged, unedited, warts and all version.

The room is like a giant, red velvet jewellery box, meaning that you feel pleasingly cosseted, expensive and sparkly all evening, although I suppose that depends on the conversational skills of your dining companion.  It is a hushed tones and tablecloths kind of place, but manages to avoid feeling anachronistic or at all redolent of the ‘hotel restaurant’. Much as I love hotel bars; the transience, the glamour, the anonymity and the invariably low lighting all combine to imbue them with a special charge of excitement and potential- hotel restaurants are normally a bit less atmospheric.  This cannot be said of Wareing’s room here, and the knowledgeable, friendly team only add to the experience.

The menu is £80 for 3 courses, with 4 choices at each stage.  The food is written out in a staccato fashion - just the ingredients in a list – which is slightly jarring (‘autistic’, my godfather said) against the elegance of the table.  ‘Foie gras, rhubarb, brioche’ was warm and fried, rather than a cold terrine version. It came with brioche, brown butter (a revelation), rhubarb jelly and ginger yoghurt – the innovative, lactic sharpness of the yoghurt against the richness of the liver made it truly memorable.  This is especially impressive because I HATE yoghurt, and wouldn’t have ordered the dish if I had known there was any possibility of yoghurt coming anywhere near it.  So, my eyes have been opened.  It turns out I will eat yoghurt, but only with foie gras poelée. I think that’s my favourite of all the sentences I’ve ever written. 

‘Herdwick lamb, broccoli, wild garlic’ was the apogee of a spring dish, whereas ‘Venison, January king, almond’ owed more to the winter months we’ve now hopefully left behind. Both had reached the levels of concentration in flavour that mark this kind of food apart.  The attention to detail in the sauces, stocks and garnishes are what makes these plates astounding – nothing is superfluous and everything contributes to make it the most superlative example of lamb, venison, or I daresay fish or fowl, that you’ve ever eaten.  Portion sizes are generous for this type of food.  This is definitely not a complaint, but the robustness of the flavours left us flagging as we contemplated the cheese; an excellent selection including a stand out livarot. 

The amuses-bouches that appeared in between – light gougères, ‘cauliflower cheese’, agnolotti with pumpkin velouté, salt caramel truffles – were invariably clever and well judged. The pasta in particular was heavy with floral, vegetal flavours, and perhaps unexpected in an environment that, on balance, owes more to the French than Italian culinary tradition.

Wines were truly multicultural.  We went by the glass, matched to each course, and explored new finds such as a Macvin du Jura and a Santa Monica Pinot Noir, as well as a more classic Chassagne-Montrachet and Spanish tempranillo.

Marcus Wareing at The Berkeley is producing perfectly executed, thoughtful and interesting food, and must constitute one of the best evenings out in London this year.