The Green Man and French Horn

It was a dark and stormy night when a memory crossed me on Savile Row and I felt the ghost of summer.  Perhaps it wasn’t even actually dark: hard to imagine now.

The Green Man and French Horn (or Green Horn and French Man, as it became after a few drinks) is a tiny, incongruous place on Garrick Street. The bowed window is mullioned and the only thing that tells you it isn’t another touristy pub in the ratruns around Leicester Square is the light level.  It glows into the night; gold spilling through each portion of the window and sparkling in the headlights of the traffic in the rain.    

It does the restaurant a disservice to say it has a ‘concept’, because it really isn’t trying to be à la mode, but its food and wine are from the Loire valley.  I am a big fan of the Loire: they speak proper French there, the chateaux are beautiful and I went to Tours on my French exchange and ate pigs trotters with the local chief of police.  He was the father of my French exchange; I wasn’t in custody.  The only thing that worries me about the area are the river fish.  They all taste muddy to me, and I was hoping not to be confronted with quenelles de brochet (pike); on which French people seem inexplicably keen. Michel Roux Jnr, who is currently being beamed by satellite into my sitting room, once had the pike things on the Masterchef classic recipe test; which I thought was unfair as even the good versions don’t taste very nice. 

Luckily, as rivers are wont to do, the Loire lets out into the sea, so there were some nice fish on the menu.  We started with fresh cheese and beetroot, and leeks in vinaigrette with brown shrimp and chopped egg.  These were both light and refreshing, the cheese sharply lactic and the shrimp salty on the fresh leeks.  Brill in beurre blanc was the star; an old fashioned plating of just the fish and sauce on the plate (it reminded me of the Gavroche, not to labour the MRJnr connection), it was fantastic. The sauce was just incredible; thick with shallots and wine.  The other main course was hare with girolles and parpadelle in a deep, glossy sauce. The hare was a little dry (I’m sitting on my hands to stop moving into a terrible interlude of hairdryer puns), but again the sauce was exemplary. There are people here who know their stuff, and it was a cosy place to be on a Thursday evening, hiding from memories. 

Ode to a Smoked Salmon Sandwich

with specific reference to its application the morning after the night before

My head aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
  My sense, as though of vodka I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull beer to the drains
  One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
  But being too happy in my happiness,—
    That thou, Pret smoked salmon sandwich,
          In some melodious plot
  Came to me, the morning after,
    Singing of the night before, with ease.

2.

O, for a smoked salmon sandwich! that hath been
  Cool’d a long age in the Pret open fronted fridge cabinet,
Tasting of butter and the salty sea,
  Waves, and fisherman’s song, and last night’s mirth!
O for a beaker full of black americano,
  Full of the true, the miraculous caffeine,
    With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
          And purple-stained mouth;
  Showing what I was drinking, which should be to the world unseen,
    And fade away with toothpaste and/or gum.

3.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
  the embarrassing memories of yesterday evening,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
  Here, where we sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, hangovers,
  Where youth grows pale, and the opposite of spectre-thin, and dies;
    Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
          And leaden-eyed despairs,
  Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
    Or new friends pine at them beyond to-morrow.

4.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
  Pret smoked salmon sandwich,
But on the jaded wings of paracetamol,
  Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the salmon,
  And chilled the butter on the wholegrain bread,
    Cluster’d around by all her nutritious seeds;
          For here there is no light,
  Save what from Pret is with the breezes blown
    Through urban gloom and winding Mayfair ways.

5.

I cannot see what shoes are on my feet,
  Nor what coat hangs from my chair,
But, in what I wish was embalmed darkness,
  I gaze on my smoked salmon sandwich,
The pink flesh, surely wild not farmed;
  Golden butter, with its high fat content;
    Soft brown bread covering both;
          And mid-morning we feel alright,
  Life begins to return, less full of dewy wine, to
    The cacophonous strains of Friday morning.

6.

Salmon I listen; and, for many a time
  I have been half in love with you,
Call’d you soft names in the queue to pay,
  To take into my hands your quiet, triangular perfection;
Now more than ever seems cheap for £2.95,
  To cease upon the rest of the day with no pain,
    While thou art pouring forth thy salmony goodness
          Through my muddled synapses,
  Still wouldst thou exist, and I have a ravenous hunger—
    So I will eat you, at 10.30am.

7.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Pret smoked salmon sandwich!
  No hungry generations tread thee down;
Everyone prefers the artisan baguettes,
  The fashionable hot wraps or, lately, the popcorn:
Perhaps the self-same people
  Also think the sword is mightier than the pen,
    It’s not.
          You stand alone, slimmer than your counterparts,
  Monochrome, almost, in a profusion of rocket, cranberry sauce
    And packets of inferior sushi.

8.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
  To toll me back from thee to my salmon self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot eat so well
  As she is fam’d to do, deceiving fish.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
  Past the near alley, over the road,
    Up Bond Street; and now ’tis buried deep
          In Piccadilly:
  Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
    A Pret smoked salmon sandwich is my music:—Do I wake or sleep?

London je t'aime

Dear London,

It seems to be in vogue to write open letters at the moment, so I’m writing one to you.

I take you for granted.  You are like my family. You are meant to be there, always, in the background.  I don’t visit your galleries or check out your museums or do anything beyond tread my quotidian path across a tiny corner of your vast face, and I’m sorry for that.

I know we’re not meant to like the Shard.  Its only point is the one at the top of it, and it has been seen as a totem pole of the forces that conspire to make London cold and expensive and hated.  But have you spoken to anyone who has looked out from it and seen you? I have never seen anything like it.  Everything is so familiar; the gentle hills of Hampstead Heath, the spider webs of the train tracks around our feet at London Bridge and the vast, urban sprawl to the left and right, as far as you can see. Canary Wharf looking unimportant.  Traitors Gate steeped in the blood of hundreds of years. And the shimmering brown river winding all the way through it like a piece of ribbon. It was wonderful.

I don’t think I’m wrong about East London (she said, darkly) but I tried it again last week, because of seeing my city from a different angle.

We went to a pop up restaurant in a photographic studio in Stepney.  It was called Chateau Marmot and the chef, Laurent Quenioux, and his team had come over from LA for 10 sittings.  We sat amongst hipsters, old couples, young couples, some suits, a goth…. Funnily enough it couldn’t have been more London, in the best sense of the word. 

It was a six course set menu with matched wines. We hid the menus so everything was a surprise.  The food was impeccable.

First came a teeny tiny razor clam with guacamole, pico de gallo chipotle and spots of black corn.  It nodded at Mexico on its way to Ceviche on Frith Street.  It was spicier than you might have thought for the first plate of the evening.

Next up was a bright venison tartare with a cute little quail's egg to mix into it, some chocolate rubble that added crunch and a smooth liver pate that was heavenly.

Raw halibut came with cubes of root vegetables, a little salad and splashes of a spiky, herbal tarragon ‘varnish’. 

A light broth came after that – it tasted of autumn, with chestnuts, pumpkin and a poached egg.  It was polite and cleansing.  On the side was a little croquette which I couldn’t decipher and some cubes of foie gras, which I could.

The main event (although all the dishes were equivalently small, really) was a slow cooked pork cheek ‘parmentier’ with confit shallots and mash. I know how chefs make mashed potato (butter butter butter butter butter butter), so I’m always excited by it in restaurants, but when they put it in front of me they said it had been made with bananas.  As I said, I’m trying to be more open to new things but mashed bananas is baby food.  Conceptually it may have been a pork and bananas Caribbean idea?  Luckily, I couldn’t really taste it and everything else was delicious.

The pudding was a persimmon cake with barley ice cream and corn panna cotta.  I really don’t like panna cotta (it wibbles and wobbles too much) and my flatmate really doesn’t like corn (sweetcorn freaks her out to a hysterical degree) but of course we both tried it and you know what? It wasn’t that scary at all.

London, I love you.  You mean the world to me.

Laura

I don't get paid for this

Two quick recommendations:

1. Chosen Bun are delivering burgers of seriously great quality and seriously hot temperatures in south west London. The deep fried macaroni cheese bites are like crack - really moreish*. We had the Viking burgers and a rum milkshake; the grown up equivalent of milk before bedtime. I also think it's cute that they named a lot of things on their menu after friends who helped them get started.
@chosenbun on twitter
www.chosenbun.com

2. If you're central and want a healthy lunch at your desk, email iwant@fittata.com and a man on a bike will arrive with 2 or 3 delicious little carb-free baked frittatas with a salad of your choice.  Last week the 'fittata' flavours were mushroom and parmesan, chorizo and chilli or salmon and dill. £5 for two or £6 for three.

*that's a Peep Show reference, not a cry for help.

From breakfast with love

The best chat up line I’ve ever heard is ‘my chef does a great breakfast’.  The only reason it didn’t work was because I was young and I thought I wasn’t that type of girl.  In fact, it remains true that I don’t eat breakfast, but for James Bond I can make an exception.

There's a new Bond book in town and it starts with Bond having breakfast at the Dorchester, so the Dorchester decided to host 'Bond's breakfast', and got William Boyd in to sign copies of his book. My uncle procured four tickets but was being a sexist, misogynist dinosaur and said he couldn’t deal with three women at breakfast so I had to bring a boy, even though breakfast is normally a ‘date number three’ kind of thing, if that. I called up an old faithful (which sort of sounds like I took a dog) and off we went. 

Bond’s breakfast was half a dozen rashers of bacon and four eggs, scrambled.  There was a muesli and yoghurt option, which doesn’t really deserve any more of my time, and an omelette (Bond does eat them quite a lot – one of his favourite suppers is an omelette fines herbes), which I would have ordered but for the fact I wanted to see if I actually could eat six pieces of bacon and four eggs. It’s the same mentality that has led to me see how many pizza crusts I can fit in my mouth at a dinner where we were being introduced to a friend’s new girlfriend for the first time.

We ordered vesper martinis and were told the bar wasn’t open yet which was slightly embarrassing, or would have been if it hadn't been a WWJBD day.  They arrived anyway and were perfectly ice sharp, although I would note that they don't go down easily at 10am.

We were so involved in drinking and chatting and laughing and soaking up the atmosphere and all the other things that people do over breakfast (bearing in mind at least two of us are related) that we ordered late and our food arrived moments before William Boyd got up to read some of the book and kindly answer questions. Well. Dilemma. Do you eat through it, your fork squealing across the china in the dead silence of the velvet room as thirty pairs of eyes swivel, disapprovingly, in the direction of the table who are, clearly, half cut? No, probably not. James wouldn't have done it either; a low profile being essential in his line of work. So we waited, politely, as Boyd eloquently answered some interesting (and some fairly stupid) questions, and when he had finished I'd accidentally eaten six rashers of deliciously crisp bacon with my fingers and everyone's eggs were cold.

Chalk this up as yet another incredibly useful food review. 

Guo Yue's restaurant club

I never really eat ‘Chinese’ food.  If we ever went to a Chinese restaurant as children, my sisters and I would just sit at the end of the table munching away on prawn crackers and seaweed, leaving little crispy bits of green straw scattered over the table all around our plates, whilst the adults drank Tsingtao and ate weird, translucent, floppy things and talked about crumbling marriages.

 

Later on, it was a university takeaway staple.  The night after we’d drunk 800 alcopops, snogged people we hated and posted every single moment of the evening onto facebook in a epically detailed album of 60+ photos, all with their own captions (and I was so STRESSED all the time! I had so much to do! I was going to have a breakdown with the amount of work I did!), three of us would decant plastic containers of sweet and sour or chicken in black bean sauce and sit on the floor of one of our rooms, watching a gentle film. I’d never had sweet and sour chicken before university. I’d also never seen curry house rice with all the different coloured bits, or been called stupid so many times during one supervision that I’d snapped a pen in half and thrown it into a fireplace, threateningly (Golden Age of French Theatre my ass), but those are different stories.

 

Of course, this is because what I was eating (not the pen bit, the Chinese food bit) was a blanket English bastardisation of a thousand different culinary traditions.  But I didn’t know that.  The upshot is, it doesn’t really excite me, and whenever I read about a new place specialising in Sichaun spiced oiled pork belly, or Cantonese steamed buns, or duck gizzard skewers from somewhere else, all of which are delicious and different and interesting, I just think ‘sweet orange gloop’ and then ‘meh’. This happened most recently at Flesh & Buns, but I’m blaming that on the fact it was so loud I couldn’t hear myself think so forgot I wasn’t going to be interested. And then I went somewhere that changed my mind.

 

My godmother hovers in the background of these pages, always good for a cocktail or a fun evening out, but also a very good cook in her own right, and someone who is really interested in food to boot.  She makes spanakopita from scratch on weeknights, and she went on a course to learn how to make dim sum dumplings. That’s the kind of person she is.

 

The man who ran her dumpling course is called Guo Yue, and he plays the Chinese flute well enough to have a Wikipedia entry on the same (I promise I didn’t write it). He does occasional restaurant nights with set menus that he emails his contact list about in advance, and they are always fully booked. I can’t improve on the descriptions in the actual menu he emailed everyone ahead of the dinner we went to, in a small restaurant on Cleveland Street a few weeks ago.  It is beautiful. If this isn’t evocative of a time, place and culture ‘other’, I don’t know what is.  Everyone sat with strangers and shared everything out from plates in the middle of the table, Guo Yue played a flute made of jade and passed round rice wine. It was out of this world.

 

                                                                                                                               STARTERS

A PLATTER OF WU LONG TEA SMOKED DUCK, PAPER PRAWN ROLLS, CRISPY SALMON WITH YUE'S SPECIALLY MADE SAUCE 

                                                      HONEY GLAZED CHINESE WILD MUSHROOMS SLOW COOKED WITH ONE STAR ANISE AND RICE WINE

                                                    STEAMED AUBERGINE WITH FRESH GREEN AND RED CHILLIS, SESAME SEED PASTE AND FRESH CORIANDER

                                                                               TENDER BONELESS CHICKEN COOKED IN SICHUAN AROMATIC CHILLI SAUCE

                                                                                                                 MAIN COURES

FRESH TIGER PRAWNS COOKED IN CHINESE RICE WINE WITH WILD CHINESE GARLIC SHOOTS

                                                              BEEF COOKED IN A HOT POT WITH FRESH GINGER, SPRING ONION AND GREEN JADE MANGE TOUT

STEAMED LEMON SOLE (OR SEA BASS) WITH A VERY SPECIAL CHILLI BEEN PASTE, SPRING ONION AND RED BERRY

                                                        SILKY WOOD EAR, FRESH BAMBOO & VERY THINLY SHREDDED PORK COOKED IN MANY DIFFERENT INGREDIENTS

                                                                                             (THE NAME OF THIS DISH IS PERFUMED SILKY PORK)

                                                                   ONE OF THE DISHES I ATE THE MOST WHEN I WENT BACK TO CHINA AND WHEN I LIVED IN CHINA

                                                                       CHOY SUM COOKED IN A SPECIAL WAY WITH FRESH GINGER AND GARLIC AND RICE WINE

                                                                                              LIGHTLY COOKED CHINESE SILK MELON WITH LILY FLOWER

                                                                                                                        FRESH FRUITS AND CHINESE TEA

Honky Tonk- review

I was lying by the pool in the middle of a vineyard in France (which is pretty much like throwing a duck into the middle of a lake and giving it lots of bread) when I was seized with a pang of emotion for most of my immediate family and texted them to suggest having lunch on the Sunday I got back.  They were clearly not feeling the love, or just hadn’t started on the rosé at midday, and the only one who was interested was Sister Number 4.

 

Famed for her inability to organise anything, arrive anywhere on time, or respond to texts unless in her direct and immediate interest (a genuine feat given that her phone is superglued to her face), I wasn’t too concerned when she hadn’t replied to a single message on Sunday morning.  I finally got hold of her at about 11am.  She grumbled down the phone like the kraken for about five minutes before she grudgingly agreed to let me buy her lunch at Honky Tonk on Hollywood Road.

 

It started to rain as I left my flat so I was forced to break into the casual ‘I’ve been caught in a downpour!’ jog that you see in films, complete with waving a newspaper ineffectually in the air above my head. I got pretty into it and was therefore surprised to notice, from a fleeting glimpse in a shop window, that I didn’t look like an artfully tousled film star so much as a loping Neanderthal with mad hair. I put my jacket over my head and walked the rest of the way staring at the pavement, lamenting my own hubris.  Just another one of those things that isn’t true in the movies, like running through airport barriers to stop the love of your life getting on a plane. Don’t. You’ll get shot.

 

I loped into Honky Tonk, feeling as proto-human as I apparently looked, and waited for the sister at the bar. The restaurant bit at the back was empty but for a lot of balloons, which looked sort of sad in the clear, grey light of a rainy afternoon.  On reflection, given the hard liquor and rock music, this is probably more of a Thursday night kind of place than a Sunday lunch one, but they’ve tried to allay that with a good looking brunch and good looking staff. We asked for marmalade margaritas. Tequila is a struggle at 1pm, which is probably a good thing, but they were great.

 

The menu is full on Americana. Not completely Southern grits, not wholly the dirty burger thing, not just Tex-Mex, but a roll call of the greatest hits from the good old US of A that complemented the stars and stripes playlist perfectly. Sister number 4 didn’t know what a quesadilla was (she also doesn’t know what a bison is, incidentally) so we ordered those and some pork ribs to share for our starters.  They were eaten with glee.  The quesadillas were bite size and especially delicious. The ribs were not an overwhelmingly Desperate Dan style rack so were manageable, but this is still filling food.  I only just forced down my mac ‘n’ cheese (and I was so good last time at not ordering macaroni cheese!) and my sister’s little face crumpled when she realised that there was absolutely no way she could fit bourbon and dark chocolate s’mores into her jeans.  

 

There was a lot more to explore here in terms of cool American drinks (juleps, sazeracs, picklebacks, craft beers) but it felt a bit wrong to bomb through those at lunchtime, so I will be back one evening to do their menu justice: this is more a watering hole than a gastronomic temple, but none the worse for it.