Eat Petite

In a rare display of decadence I ate out twice this weekend. Two meals, but about 18 dishes. And no, I’m not a compulsive over-eater, I was just eating the way that most of London seems to be eating right now… small plates.

 The small plate phenomenon has been quite astounding. What started quietly with Barrafina and The Salt Yard has over the last year developed into a dizzying array of small-plate eateries, thanks largely to Russell Norman, who in the space of 2 years has opened Polpo, Polpetto, Spuntino and now Da Polpo. The group behind Terroirs are also doing fantastic business (try getting a table there on a Friday), and opened Brawn on Columbia Rd this year.

So why is this method of eating such a success? I put it down to several factors:

1. Food Envy. How often have you been left coveting someone’s lamb round the table when your chicken arrives? Food Envy has spoiled many a decent meal, but if everyone’s sharing their food the problem is eradicated. A bad dish can simply be skimmed over, with diners judiciously choosing to forget who insisted on ordering it.

2. Indecision. The pork belly. No, the goat’s cheese. No, the beef. Oh stuff it, it’s all tiny, I’ll have everything. This is the main factor that keeps me going back to these places – I usually want to try everything. And if it’s half the size, in the words of the immortal Marjorie Dawes, you can have twice as much!

3. Cost. Now, this is a double-edged sword. Small plates are obviously cheaper than main meals, and you generally don’t order starters so in theory this works out better for your bank balance. However, if (like me) you have a tendency to want to order the whole menu, you may find your eyes watering when the bill arrives.

4. Informality. Post-Jamie, Britain has steadily been moving away from stuffy, formal dining. Ever since the Essex-born life coach told us it was ok to let guests help themselves, a new generation of dinner-party-throwers has grown up, who think it’s much more fun to get your fingers dirty than to daintily nibble your filet mignon over a starched linen tablecloth. Small plates allow everyone to get stuck in, they’re conversation starters, they break the ice of first dates and business dinners.

Polpo. Usually rammed to the gills...

So, if you haven’t tried it yet, I really recommend making a reservation at one of the above. Gone are the days of indefinable meat swimming in oily tomato sauce (I’m looking at you, La Tasca). Today’s restaurants know what they’re doing, and the food is like an endless round of really great starters, which we all know are better than the main course any day…

And so it begins…

Pity me, dear reader, on this sweltering Tuesday afternoon in early July, for I am about to enter a winter wonderland of festive cheer. That’s right, Christmas season in magazine world is in full swing. There’ll be mince pies, frosted fruit, pigs in blankets, and chestnuts roasting on an open…well, pavement probably, it’s so hot.

Although it feels extraordinary when you first experience it, it is surprising how quickly you get used to it. And although I sit here eating sushi and dreading the thought of a turkey tasting session, I know that after 10 minutes of over-zealous air con and Christmas tree room spray I will accept my fate…and all the canapés they throw at me. It’s this time of year when I experience food hangovers – there’s only so much smoked salmon you can eat before your body goes into lockdown.

It’s lucky, I suppose, that I love Christmas so much, since it starts for me in July and continues right up until the rest of the world catches up, when I join in with that one too. As a child I used to wish that it could be Christmas every day. Well, I got my wish for half of the year, although unfortunately it doesn’t come with a stocking each morning, which I imagine was the main reason for the wish in the first place. As a five year old, I certainly didn’t have an overwhelming urge to eat Christmas dinner for six months, or plan boxing day buffets and homemade gifts. But it’s worth it by the time the Christmas issue finally appears, and it always makes for a good dinner party discussion!

So when you’re enjoying a crisp glass of Sauvignon after work this evening, perhaps a gin and tonic and some olives, think of me smiling through the pain of my 10^th mince pie, Bing Crosby buzzing mercilessly round my head and pine needles stuck in my sandals. Whoever said that Christmas was about Christ has clearly never been to a press show in July…

Because they’re worth it

Although I’m pretty hot on free-range farming for all meat, for some reason it is the humble pig that really gets my moral juices flowing. There’s something about their demeanour that is rather noble, and if you spend any time with them, you can’t fail to be struck by how intelligent they are. More intelligent than my manic pointers, and I cannot even conceive of locking them up in crates.

You might remember the ‘Jamie Saves our Bacon’ campaign in 2009, that highlighted the need to eat British, outdoor-reared pork. It was certainly effective – there has been a noticeable increase in British pork on the supermarket shelves since then, and the labeling has become a lot less confusing. But the problem isn’t fixed, and with astonishingly high feed prices, most pig farmers are now averaging a £10 loss on each pig they sell. Almost 70% surveyed said they were seriously considering giving up in the next 2 years if the situation didn’t improve. Which would mean a return to inhumane, flavourless, imported meat. Hardly ideal from a moral or a gastronomic standpoint.

 So what can we do to help? Well, we can eat more British pork. Bangers, bacon, belly pork, pork loin, pork ribs, a slow-cooked shoulder or a quick-cooked steak. Boil it, barbie it, roast it or braise it, just eat and enjoy it, safe in the knowledge you’re doing good, and your meat will taste infinitely better than anything from Denmark. Even if they do have a catchy jingle.

And download the new recipe booklet ‘Choose it and use it’ from the Pigs Are Still Worth It campaign. It’s full of fabulous pork recipes from celebrity chefs of the likes of Raymond Blanc and Aldo Zilli. Or of course, you can log on to our little website for some of my own offerings in the pork recipe department.

Right, I’m going to step down from my soapbox. I’m off for a suckling pig sandwich at Taste of London…

Want to critique Taste of London? Then read on…

So, to continue in the restaurant critic vein, an email landed in my inbox today about Toptable’s latest venture with Taste of London. They’re offering one lucky foodie the chance to officially review every restaurant at Taste of London, for free. There are 40 restaurants at Taste of London. That one lucky foodie had better be very hungry.

 I think this is a pretty amazing prize, and one guaranteed to appeal to the almost slavish fanaticism with which food enthusiasts can talk about restaurants. Ask your gastro-friend (every circle has one), about the last meal they had out and you’ll rarely get just a couple of sentences. Everyone who likes food, it seems, is a born restaurant critic.

And before I’m lambasted for completely contradicting myself after my last article, I should point out that I think constructive restaurant reviews are always useful, as long as they’re not some excuse for an over-inflated ego to flap about. I’m also very much in favour of getting ‘ordinary Joe’ in to review the restaurants at Taste. Who knows, they could end up being the next Mr Coren.

So if you feel like this is your time to shine, click here to go to Toptable’s entry page. All you need to do is review a restaurant of your choice and send it off. The winner will be judged, and then they’d better start stomach stretching. It’s going to be a marathon, not a sprint…

To review or not to…

After reading a damning review in the Times of Jason Atherton’s new venture last week, I was left wondering what purpose is served by a bad restaurant review.

Certainly they’re funny, as long as they’re well written. It gives us a delicious sense of schadenfreude, as we shudder to think about the poor chef whose livelihood is about to go up the spout because someone didn’t like their steak. But are they really fair?

In English lessons we were told that no opinion was ever wrong, because literature was subjective to the reader. One man’s Hardy is another man’s Jilly Cooper. Surely the same thing can be said about food?

Admittedly, it’s unlikely that anyone is going to argue that bad service, or a cold main course, or a forty minute wait for a cocktail is ever acceptable. But when restaurant reviewers begin to criticise the dishes, is when I begin to question the point of the review.

So what if you don’t think that vanilla salt goes with a chocolate pudding? Or if you don’t like the size of the sharing plates. Evidently someone did, which is why they’re on the menu, and who knows, maybe quite a lot of other people like it too. It’s hardly fair for one person’s taste, simply because it’s put into print, to influence the number of people that it can.

And chefs, like everyone else, are subject to human error. Imagine you had a bad day at work, and somebody wrote a double page spread about how hopeless you’d been. And since reviews are mostly about new openings, imagine that this was your second week in a new job. It’s not really on, is it? Surely it’s far better to say nothing at all?

Of course I’m not suggesting that if restaurants serve sub-standard food, or have waitresses who look at you like you might possibly be leperous they should be allowed to get away with it, I simply think that people should be able to form their own opinions.

So, in the spirit of that, I welcome yours.

Royal Wedding Watch

I’m sorry, I know you’re probably all a bit sick of it, but I’m going to talk about the royal wedding. For all my huffing and puffing as we get email after email pushing products with increasingly tenuous links to the happy couple, I can’t help but feel a little bit patriotic when I see all the bunting up everywhere. And I’m not going to lie, I’ve become slightly obsessed with the Daily Mail’s Royal Wedding page.

Sadly, well not sadly, very smugly, I’ll be in France on the day itself, and having been informed there’s no TV where we’re going, I will be holing up in a bar somewhere to watch the momentous occasion. But for those who are staying in Grande Bretagne, even if you’re not enamoured with Miss Middleton, the extra day’s holiday is undoubtedly an excuse for eating and drinking at otherwise inappropriate times of the day. So what shall you all be feasting on?

Well, surely Pimm’s has to factor into the equation somewhere. Not being a fan of sickly sweet drinks I always make mine with half and half lemonade and ginger beer, with an extra tot of gin. I’m sure the Queen Mother would have approved. At a recent work celebration I also added a load of fresh passion fruit to it, which went down extraordinarily well.

And as for food, I might argue that a royal wedding party without sausage rolls is no party at all. Have a crack at making your own, they’re so easy and seriously a lot better than anything bought. And in a nod to the royal lifestyle, these caviar and brioche fingers would also be rather appropriate. If you’re near a Waitrose, look out for a faux-caviar called Arenkha – it’s made by spherifying smoked herring (don’t ask) so it’s totally sustainable, very tasty, and a teeny tiny fraction of the price of the real stuff. Royalty for the middle classes, if you will. A bit like our future queen.

And to finish off, what could be more British than a sherry trifle?! If you really can’t face the thought, though, ditch the custard and sponge and try a slightly more updated version with crushed meringues, fresh raspberries and elderflower syllabub. A large splash of dessert wine in there finishes it off perfectly.

And how will I be celebrating? Well,  without a street party or a Union Jack in sight, I’ll be wishing Kate and William well in the true French style – with a large vat of rosé and several dozen oysters. Vive l’amour!

For more Royal Wedding foodie ideas, click here

A gourmet garden at Taste of London

I got terribly excited recently when I got the info through about this year’s Taste of London restaurant festival. A highlight of my June for the last few years, I love going along for an evening of gastronomic excess, trying out all the dishes from restaurants I can’t usually afford to eat at.

Being professionally greedy, I also enjoy meeting and talking to the producers who showcase their food and drinks – it makes my job a whole lot easier to have everything in one place. If you’ve never been before I’d definitely check it out, even last year when the rain was tipping down (ah the glorious British summertime), there was a great atmosphere of ‘we’re going to eat everything anyway’. A sort of Blitz-spirit of gluttony, if you will.

This year they’re launching their Secret Garden – a seriously exclusive hidden enclave where key holders will be treated to demonstrations, masterclasses and Q&As with some of the best UK chefs, including Michel Roux Jr and Theo Randall. It’s also playing host to the Laverstoke Park Farm British Barbecue Championships where 18 of the UK’s biggest chefs will be tossing sausages to try and impress a panel of fancy food critics. I might be cheeky and suggest some of our barbecue recipes…

To be able to enter the Secret Garden you need to a. be super quick and b. click here. Personally I will be begging, borrowing or stealing to get my hands on a key. See you in there!

Go to the Taste of London website here.

 

Dinner at Hawksmoor

Ever since an expert in Porto told me I had very masculine taste in their eponymous drink, I’ve come to the conclusion that accepted feminine sensibilities about food don’t quite ring true for me. Which is partly why I jumped at the chance to have dinner at the new branch of steak restaurant Hawksmoor in Seven Dials, Covent Garden. Having sampled their Spitalfields branch a few months ago, I knew that the quality of their meat is second to none, and their cocktail list makes Tom Cruise’s Brian Flanagan look like a child playing at potions. So could this second restaurant live up to its city cousin? The steaks, if you’ll forgive the unforgivable pun, were high.

The Hawksmoor at Seven Dials is housed in the old Watney Combe brewery, and they’ve certainly got a reputation to live up to. The brewery’s original owner back in the 1800s set up an annual steak supper – famous for its generous beef steaks and servings of ale, it played host to several royals over the years. Owners Will Beckett and Huw Gott have stayed true to the original theme, furnishing the dining room with reclamation scuffed parquet flooring, doors and tables so the restaurant has none of the uncomfortable gleam you so often get in new establishments.

The menu is to die for – bold, uncomplicated dishes speaking of a kitchen so happy with the quality of its ingredients, it doesn’t need to dress them up. Six Cumbrae oysters were sweet, clean, everything they should be, and clams in bacon bone broth were full of flavour without being overly salty.

But of course, you come here for the steak. Sourced from Longhorn cattle reared in Yorkshire for butchers The Ginger Pig, the meat is almost embarrassingly well hung, with a rich gamey flavour and a pure hit of smoke from what must be a hellishly hot grill. Blackened and charred on the outside, it was the perfect pink inside that I have been striving for since cooking school. My rib-eye was as tender as fillet, and the sirloin, though rarer than we’d anticipated, was all the better for it. Bearnaise and their heavenly stilton hollandaise were faultless, and the herbed salad provided an excellent foil to the richness of the meat.

A word on the chips though. Go for the beef dripping – they’re infinitely superior to the triple cooked option; crisp, fat and fluffy, and just begging to be dipped into those butter sauces.

Sticky toffee pudding and quince crumble were both delicious, although to be honest we were pretty finished off by the steaks.

My only small criticism would be the service, which was rather too slow at the beginning (and there was quite a debacle about a cocktail), but picked up as the evening progressed so really wasn’t a big deal.

All in all, the best meal I’ve had in absolutely ages, and one of the most fun places I’ve been for dinner. The wine and cocktail lists are wonderful, a tiny bit light on the vodka, but they still rustled me up a bloody good martini. It’s not cheap, expect to pay around £150 for two with wine and cocktails, but then when the food is so exceptionally good, I really think the price tag is justified!

11 Langley St, WC2H 0207 856 2154, thehawksmoor.com

This diet will change your life.

Another day, another inflammatory article about Britain’s eating habits. This time it’s in the Daily Mail (shock horror), and concerns a new book entitled The Obesity Epidemic by Zoe Harcombe.

In her book, Ms Harcombe supposedly blows the traditional myths of what makes us fat wide open, advising that exercise doesn’t help you lose weight, carbohydrates are the dietary bad boys, and that the modern lifestyle is not to blame for our collective expansion.

Is it just me, or is the fad diet bandwagon simply groaning under the weight of the self-righteous and their bulging files of questionable research?

I think the problem seems very simple. A lot of people don’t know how to cook, and ready meals and junk food are the cheapest things you can buy. The manufacturers of these products pump them full of additives and sweeteners to compensate for the inferior ingredients. People eat them, develop a taste for over-sweetened and artificially-flavoured foods, and so keep eating them. Because the nutritional content is minimal compared to the sugar and fat contents, they eat more to keep feeling full, and the weight piles on.

I don’t know exactly when this series of events began, but it’s certainly been going on for many years. Frozen ready meals were around in the fifties – the era of the eponymous ‘TV Dinner’. When I was a child in the eighties, my all-girls high school had recently dropped home economics from the syllabus as it was considered, and I quote ‘not in-keeping with feminist principles’. How feminism dictates that there should be a generation of women who don’t know how to feed themselves is anybody’s guess. Whether or not for the same reasons, I know that most schools now don’t offer home economics, and subjects like ‘Food Science’ are often more concerned with teaching students how to market ready meals, than with how to cook basic dishes.

And, contrary to what Zoe Harcombe says, I do believe that the modern lifestyle is having an impact on our weight levels. With fewer and fewer women staying at home during the day now, the concept of a home-cooked family meal in the evening has dwindled alarmingly. There seems to be very much a grab and go attitude to eating which I find rather sad. Although my mother worked a (very) full-time job when I was growing up, she still insisted that we all ate together in the evening, and what she cooked was proper food. Not fancy, not time consuming, but balanced, filling and nutritious. This simple act of taking time to eat and appreciate what we were eating has stayed with me, and I believe is one of the secrets to maintaining a healthy diet. The times I find myself putting on weight are when I’m rushing around from one thing to another, grabbing a sandwich here and a croissant there, snacking all day to keep my energy levels up. It’s surprising how quickly you notice the difference.

So how can we help matters? I’m rather in the Jamie Oliver camp with this one. I think children need much more education about cooking and food, and they need to be encouraged to take an interest. And the prices of ready meals have to be raised. It’s absurd that you should be able to buy any complete meal with meat in it for £1. Where are they getting their meat from?!

And please, please, the next time you read an article claiming that it can change the way you eat, take it with a very large pinch of salt. As long as it’s not over 6g of course. We don’t want you getting heart disease…

Dining at Downton

I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s been gripped by Downton Abbey over the last few weeks. Always a sucker for a frilly dress and an excess of etiquette, I can’t think of a single costume drama that I haven’t liked and Julian Fellowes seems to have hit it spot on again with this one.

Overcome with a fit of curiosity about the formalities of the era, I decided to do some research about dining in the time Downton is set. And frankly, I’m stunned they ever fit into those tiny tiny corsets…

Upper class dinner parties around the 1910’s were considered the ultimate social test, and a hostess’s reputation could be ruined in a night if the meal or the service wasn’t up to scratch. The menus, either elaborate or simple, depending on taste, were sizeable, to say the least and contained a minefield of potential cock-ups for the inexperienced diner. They started with a soup course, usually accompanied by sherry. This had to be spooned away from the diner, preferably with no scraping of bowls. Try it, it’s harder than you might think.

Next came the fish course, served with a good white wine. A fish knife and fork were always used here, the knife being more for pushing the fish onto the fork than for actually cutting it.

After this, there was an entrée  – maybe a vol au vent, mutton cutlets or sweetbreads, served with Champagne or claret.

The ‘remove’ followed, a joint of meat or poultry perhaps, or maybe a meat pie. This was accompanied by potatoes, and seasonal vegetables, and might be served with a Burgundy.

Believe it or not, a game course then arrived, served with traditional game chips (a cross between a crisp and a roast potato) and washed down by claret. Then came three mini courses called ‘entremêts’, a dressed vegetable dish, something sweet like a cherry tart and a savoury like cheese, or, more revoltingly, devilled sardines…

At this point, the table was cleared, new glasses and cutlery were set out (the ladies were probably almost asphyxiated by their undergarments) and dessert was served, maybe ices, jellies or blancmanges eaten with a fork, followed by fruit and nuts which would be eaten by hand, the stones or pips being delicately spat out into the hand and laid on the plate. If you were still upright there would be port and Madeira, although ladies were never expected to take more than one glass with this course. Can’t say I blame them.

Once the food had been cleared, the ladies, at a discreet nod from the hostess would exit for coffee and idle gossip, with the highest ranking lady leading the way, and the hostess bringing up the rear. The men would stay behind, to drink yet more port and claret, and smoke cigars.

How the women got through that many courses is completely beyond me. And my heart almost stops thinking of the poor cooks below stairs, trying to get everything out hot and in order, with no electric help whatsoever. Imagine meringues for 20 without an electric whisk. I’m not sure I can.

It makes me rather glad that dinner party etiquette is now so much more relaxed. Although I can’t deny that a small part of me (oh alright, every part of me) would love to experience one of these old-fashioned, excessively decorated, appallingly decadent evenings. And yes, I’d take the dashing Mr Pamuk over the fritefly decent Evelyn Napier any day. Such a pity about his rather unfortunate demise …