Léon de Bruxelles

There are certain things that it’s not hard to cook. Mussels are one, provided they’re fresh. Chips are another, provided you have a good fryer. So when I went along to the newly opened Léon de Bruxelles (a franchise of Chez Léon, one of Brussels’ oldest restaurants specialising in moules frites) I thought we were probably in for a good meal. I mean, they’re Belgian, it’s their national dish…and it’s not hard, is it?

Our first impression of the huge restaurant on Cambridge Circus was that it was absolutely freezing. There were a few other diners here and there, but we were shown to a booth in an empty corner that was even colder than the rest of the restaurant. We asked to be moved, and were seated next to the window. With a nice draft. Although no explanation was offered about the temperature, we overheard the lady next to us (swathed in scarves) saying that that their heating was broken. Excellent. And so on to the food…

Now imagine eating them in a fridge

I ordered ‘creamy fish soup’ to start, put off by the hideous adjective, but heartened by the sourdough bread, rouille and cheese that went with it. I was expecting a typical fish soup, rich and velvety, comforting, deeply flavoured, with Gruyère to melt on top and crusty bread to dip in. What arrived was anaemic, flavourless, carelessly blended, with no cheese or rouille, just three sad looking croutons, coated in badly seasoned garlic butter. This is one of my restaurant pet-hates. If you’ve run out of something, or someone’s cocked up the ordering – come clean. Don’t assume I’m moronic enough to have forgotten what I ordered in the 10 minutes it’s taken to heat it up. King prawns cooked in chilli and garlic butter similarly turned up without the promised French bread, and with a side of straight-out-the-bottle Thai sweet chilli. And here’s me thinking we were in Belgium…

And so on to the main course. The restaurant prides itself on its mussels, of which it has 10 preparations, from traditional Marinières, to slightly bizarre Madras curry cooked with white wine and crème fraiche. Are alarm bells ringing yet? Moules Dijonnaise came in a generous cocotte, fresh, tasty mussels, but totally let down by the sauce, which was curdled and tasted of cheap, uncooked white wine. The frites, Belgium’s gift to gastronomy, were about the most disappointing part of the meal. Powdery, pre-frozen and lifeless, any true Belgian would have felt ashamed. A side salad was similarly uninviting, with fridge cold green beans (although it could have been the temperature of the room), and a salad dressing that had the decided aroma of concentrated lemon juice. French sourdough had, I suspect, been frozen and defrosted – although not completely – the inside was even colder than we were. An entrecôte steak with red wine sauce was perfectly adequate, but I’d rather pay the extra fiver and go to Hawksmoor.

The sea? Or seawater?!

I must confess, we ordered pudding just to see if it would get any worse. It did. A banana split waffle was like the kid’s dessert at Little Chef – aerated whipped cream that dissolved the minute it touched your lips, under-ripe banana and strawberry, and an average waffle only saved by some actually rather good strawberry ice cream. ‘Warm melting chocolate cake with chocolate sauce’ came with a thick skin on top from sitting under the heat lamp (lucky thing), and was heavy with cocoa, but light on actual chocolate.

And don’t think you can just go there for the beer. If you’re expecting an exciting list of Trappist brews and obscure Belgian varieties, you can forget it. It’s terribly pedestrian (Corona is one of the choices) – you’d get a better selection in a decent bar.

So what can I conclude? I honestly don’t know what they’re playing at – there’s a Belgo’s just round the corner doing this sort of cooking extremely well, with more atmosphere and a much more exciting drinks list. What annoyed me more than anything is that this food is so easy to get right – good mussels, good chips, good bread, decent salad dressing and some interesting beers. It’s not exactly Adrià is it?! What I had hoped would be a welcome change to the chain catering horror that is WC2 has in fact just turned out to be a Belgian Café Rouge. I’m very, very sorry Léon. But nil points.

The Dreaded Set Menu

Watch out for him in the stripy jumper...

It’s that time of year again. The office party creeps around the corner, ambushing you with daytime drinking, organised fun and ill-advised emotional outbursts in front of the boss. Magicians are being booked, set menus passed around, and Secret Santas discreetly swapped with cries of ‘Oh no, I pulled my own name out!’. Don’t pretend you’ve never done it.

Drinking and avoiding Creepy Geoff from Accounts aside, the highlight for many of us at this annual event will be the food. And as I recently discovered when I dared to try and book a table for more than 6 in December, the set menu rules the roost at Christmastide. I can understand this – with kitchens under extra pressure, and 25 people needing to be fed at the same time, it makes sense to limit the choices. Why make the poor commis peel 10 different types of veg if you can get away with just three? From a cost point of view it’s sensible too, as if everyone’s left to their own devices there will always be some poser who orders the lobster. For the poor old PA who has to sort the bill, this presents quite a problem.

But why, why why why do Christmas set menus always have to include Christmas lunch?! Why does eating overcooked, under-bred turkey six times before the big day sum up the festive spirit? Are Brussels sprouts really that moreish?

Now don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas lunch. I love cooking Christmas lunch. Let’s face it, given that I start cooking it in August, I sort of have to love it. But I’m not wild about the excessive amounts of food all on one plate. You put all this effort into cooking the perfect turkey, then suffocate it in a mixture of cured pork, chestnuts, stuffings and condiments. It’s American in its excess, and we want to be careful about going down that route, lest we end up with candied yams.

Pass me the baguette and the salad cream.

Christmas lunch is just a bit showy for me. I prefer the more restrained spread of Boxing Day – turkey has a starring role in a sandwich, vegetables are re-incarnated into divine bubble and squeak, and pigs in blankets can be wolfed straight from the fridge. And I think, deep down, most people do prefer the day-after meal. So why this need to eat Christmas dinner in restaurants? It won’t be as good as your mum’s, you’ll feel sleepy for the rest of the evening, and people will glare at you as they get school dinner wafts of overcooked sprouts. If Christmas lunch is such a big event, shouldn’t we save it for Christmas day?

Of course I might be over-ruled. There might be hundreds of people out there who love dry turkey, soggy roasties and bread sauce that looks like a Victorian cure for sickness. You may be on the cusp of ticking the ‘xmas-dinner’ option on the office spreadsheet as we speak. But can I make a plea to restaurateurs nationwide that next year, if they must mass-produce a Christmas feast, can they do Boxing Day instead? It’s a very poor chef who can mess up a bubble and squeak.

And as for me at the Christmas party this year, I’ll be tucking into fish and chips. I’m saving my turkey quota for the 25^th, when, surrounded by Christmas joy and sparkle I know that it will taste every bit as good as I remember. From when I ate it back in August.

Salt Beef

Russell Norman. The man appears to be unstoppable. Having brought us Venetian, then American diner, his new venture – Mishkin’s  – opening on Friday promises Jewish comfort food – matzo ball soup, knish, and what I’m most excited about – salt beef. I truly am the grand daughter of a butcher. 

Made from brining and then boiling a rolled beef brisket, salt beef is mainly credited with Jewish origin, although versions of it were around in Britain as early as the 1600s. Tender, juicy and, (you guessed it) salty, there are few things better in a sandwich, slathered with mustard and piled with gherkins and sauerkraut.

Although it’s mainly found in sandwiches, salt beef is surprisingly versatile. To give a for instance, a friend of mine served it at her winter wedding with mash, green beans and gravy. When I first heard about it, my forehead wrinkled a little, but it worked perfectly – it tasted delicious and was a crafty way of serving over 100 people perfectly cooked beef without having to worry about it being pink. It’s fab with fried eggs and chips if you fancy a truck-stop dinner and I also love it in a hash – much the same as you’d have corned beef, or on its own, cold, with bubble and squeak. And gherkins. Always, always gherkins. Salt beef and gherkins are like Pippa Middleton and the Daily Mail. Without one, the other’s existence becomes pretty meaningless…

Salt beef is sadly missing from many menus in London and I can’t understand why, since it’s such a universally popular, cheap preparation of meat. Plus it keeps for ages, so the wastage must be significantly lower than fresh roast beef. But fret not, because it’s extremely easy to make your own. You will need… 

About 1kg beef brisket

200g salt

75g sugar

couple bay leaves and garlic cloves, bashed and peeled

15g mixed pickling spices (I like to use mace, star anise, allspice, juniper, couple of cloves and coriander, but whatever you fancy)

flavourers, for simmering (leek, onion, bay, carrot, thyme etc)

1 Put the beef brisket in a large saucepan with the salt, sugar, bay, garlic and pickling spice. Cover with about 2 litres water, bring to the boil, remove from the heat and leave to cool.

2 Take the brisket out of the liquid, place into a double lined heavy -duty freezer bag and add the brine over the top. Get rid of as much air as possible, then seal the bag and chill for up to 10 days.

3 When you’re ready to cook, remove the brisket from the brine, rinse and pat it dry. Put back in a saucepan with your flavourers (a mix of any of them is fine), then bring to a very gentle simmer and cook for 2-4 hours, keeping the water topped up to cover the meat until you can run a skewer through it very easily. Remove from the water and eat while still hot, or allow to cool and carve. It will keep for about a week.

So while you’re enjoying that at home, I’m booked into Mishkin’s for lunch at the weekend. And since those corporate swine seem intent on closing the lovely nearby Gaby’s deli who’ve been serving salt beef to the stars since the 60s, (try saying that with your mouth full), I hope that Russell Norman can provide me with a suitable alternative. I have faith. And I’ll keep you posted.

A cuisine that doesn’t wok my world

Potential for rotten puns notwithstanding, I’ve never been a fan of Chinese food. That is, not sober, anyway. And even when intoxicated, I’ve only ever been able to manage a couple of bites of that cloyingly sticky, syrupy sauce that everything seems to be drenched in before accepting defeat and going to bed. For a good long while I was convinced lemon chicken was an evil combination, having eaten a takeaway once that tasted like misery soaked in Fairy liquid. It was only when I squeezed fresh lemon juice over crispy roasted chicken thighs that I realised it was the stuff of dreams.

I feel the MSG hangover already

But given that I’m so rude about fussy eaters, it didn’t seem right that I could write off an entire cuisine based on a few takeaways and pot luck dinners in Chinatown. After all, you’d be forgiven for thinking British food was beyond the pale if you only ever ate at Wetherspoon’s. And I’ve mentioned before how I feel about La Tasca…

So when I was invited to try out Min Jiang – a very upmarket Chinese restaurant at the top of the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington, I accepted immediately. With a new chef straight from Hakkasan and side dishes whose price would make Abramovich shudder, this, I thought would change my mind about Chinese food.

Except that it didn’t.

It started well enough – the restaurant has that expensive hotel air to it that makes you feel like you’re in Lost in Translation – a sort of timelessness that means it’s ok to sit up all night drinking. Couple that with a 10^th floor view over Hyde Park, an excellent watermelon mojito and Matt le Blanc sitting next to us and I was practically Scarlett Johanssen.

The menu caused us few problems, although I did note that I wasn’t thrilled by the sound of any of it and we settled for crispy squid, and crab steamed dumplings with pork broth to start. It may well be my palate’s lack of sophistication but I honestly couldn’t taste the difference between these dumplings and the ones from Ping Pong. They were a little lighter, but the flavours tasted exactly the same to me. And the crispy squid, though perfectly cooked was utterly bland, until you bit into a dried chilli at which point your head nearly came off. These courses were followed by ostrich in Mongolian sauce (made with curry leaves) and double cooked Sichuan pork belly with Chinese leek. We were told we’d need side dishes so we also ordered egg fried rice, four seasons vegetables and noodles with chives.

My first observation when everything came out was that it was all, down to the last stick of celery, fried or coated in oil. This is my main problem with Chinese food – there isn’t the balance of flavour you get with, say, Vietnamese, where their sticky, rich sauces are off-set by pickled vegetables, fresh herbs and limes. There’s no let up, nothing fresh to counterbalance the sickliness and very soon everything starts to taste the same. The dishes were technically well executed – the ostrich incredibly tender and the pork belly thinly sliced to exacting uniformity, and there was something interestingly seaweedy amongst the veg that gave me some relief, but after eating less than half I was already feeling rather sick. The boy fared a little better, but he gave up soon after me. By the time it came to pudding I devoured the faultless passion fruit ice cream, mainly happy that it didn’t taste like the inside of a wok.

So what to conclude…I don’t want to do the restaurant down, because aside from my prejudices the staff were helpful, the wine was delicious and it was so squeaky clean I would have eaten in the loos. I can’t fault it for not being authentic either and it was quite buzzy for a fancypants place on a drizzly recession Monday, and not just with expense account diners. I think that, however unwillingly, I have to surmise that I just don’t like Chinese food. And this doesn’t make me picky, it just makes me really like fresh herbs. And salads. And citrus juice. And steamed vegetables…

Breakfast like a king…

I’ve often thought that dragging myself out of bed for breakfast with friends before work is a good idea. A coffee, a croissant and a good gossip would start the day off the right way, as opposed to the usual routine of dropping toast crumbs all over my dressing table, or worse, the keyboard of my desk. But more often than not, as the alarm goes off, the duvet’s charms are just too great, and the snooze button is pressed futilely every five minutes for an hour.

But not this morning. This morning, the lure of breakfast at the new branch of Hawksmoor dragged me out of bed at 6.30, into a rainy and dark street and a rush hour journey from hell.

Since I reviewed the last Hawksmoor at Seven Dials, the British steakhouse chain has gone from strength to strength, and has recently culminated in a) a new book, and b) a new restaurant in Guildhall.  Undeniably designed to cater to the city crowd, this vast polished wood dining room, unlike its brothers, also opens at seven for breakfast. We shuffled in at 8.30, wet and bad tempered from the tube, and were greeted with a warm welcome and an espresso so strong I felt like I was drinking a shot.

It feels a little like a public school dining room, but in a good way

The menu is, as you would expect, pretty meat heavy. There’s a steak and eggs section, as well as the full English, but also pancakes, pastries, yogurt and granola, which I imagine is for the dainty ladies on the arms of the city boys. But I am no dainty lady, and so my city boy and I plumped for the Hawksmoor breakfast for 2.

Deep breath…smoked bacon chop, sausages made with pork, beef and mutton, black pudding, short-rib bubble and squeak, grilled bone marrow, trotter baked beans, fried eggs, grilled mushrooms, roast tomatoes, toast and HP gravy. Oh, and hash browns. Don’t tell anyone, but we ordered those on the side.

Service was friendly, quick and efficient, and within 10 minutes we were sitting in front of an embarrassing amount of meat. 8 different types on one plate to be exact. The bone marrow, I could have done without – I love it in the evening with salad, but in the morning, it was just too much for me and I gave up after a small bite. (Although apparently the gin in the Buck’s Fizz I also ordered in the morning wasn’t too much for me, so I’m not sure what that says…) The bacon chop was an experience – done on the charcoal grill for a lovely smokiness, but the size defeated us somewhat. The sausages were unbelievably meaty and full of flavour and the hash browns were guilty perfection. The short rib bubble and squeak was divine and the star of the show for me – both crisp and fluffy, with melt in the mouth beef morsels running through it – I could have eaten a whole bowlful with just the homemade ketchup to accompany it. The trotter baked beans were also very tasty, although we were divided on this – he felt that something as sacred as baked beans shouldn’t be tampered with. But I have to disagree. My main criticism is that the toast needed to be much more toasted – done on the grill but not for long enough it was pretty much warm bread, and with such delicious sourdough it’s a pity not to treat it with proper respect. But it hardly ruined the meal, and the (quite large amount) we couldn’t finish was happily bagged up by the staff, and as I write the fashion team are tucking in with glee.

Overall conclusion -  excellent. Possibly a little too much meat on one plate for my taste, but I think they know their audience, as every other table in the restaurant (mainly men) ordered the same thing. The cocktail list is eye opening and had I not been working, would have been happy to sit there and get merrily trashed before lunch. I just hope it catches on…but with bubble and squeak that good, I can’t see how it can fail!

Lunch by the Seaside

Has anyone been to Whitstable? It’s lovely. A little fishing town with a rich heritage of shellfish, I visited for the first time last week and liked everything about it. Even the slightly mucky looking beach that was littered with people cockling and crabbing and the Mr Whippy van on the concrete harbour.

It turned out we’d arrived in Whitstable slap bang in the middle of the Oyster Festival, and this could have accounted for why everyone seemed to be in such a good mood. For two jaded Londoners it was quite a spectacle to see people actually smiling as they went about their days. But then, when you live by the sea, eat a lot of shellfish and pubs play live jazz in the afternoons I see no reason to be miserable.

After a leisurely stroll around the town and the sea front, a chuckle at the predominance of seaside tat (painted pebbles, ‘To The Beach’ signs and some hilarious clam puppets), we settled down for lunch at Wheelers, which I’d been told by several people was absolutely unmissable.

 In the middle of the high street, pale pink and chocolate boxy, Wheelers seats only 14 people with room for another 3 or so at the fish bar. It’s BYOB and cash only, and though I don’t see how they can make much money without the wine mark-ups, I’m not complaining! The food is…amazing. I can’t really think of a better adjective. You’d be happy eating it at a Michelin restaurant, except here you feel like you’re in somebody’s sitting room – there are bits of old ship on the walls, dusty lamps and faded pictures.

It took us a good half hour to decide what we wanted since absolutely everything on the menu sounded delicious, but we finally settled on scallops with maple glazed pig’s cheeks, a Thai crab cake and 2 sets of John Dory with prawn stuffed courgette flower, fennel puree and samphire. Everything was beautiful, from the presentation, to the prawns perfectly cooked in the courgette flower, to the way they’d rendered every bit of fat in the pig’s cheeks so all you got was succulent, sticky pork. I would quite happily have paid double. And I loved the fact it was so small, it made it feel like we were in some exclusive pop up restaurant. One that had been there for 150 years.

Neither of us could manage pudding, so we settled for a bracing walk and a Mr Whippy once the main courses had settled. Yes, that’s right, I ate a Mr Whippy. It’s something about the childish nostalgia of the seaside – it demands ice cream flavoured chemicals.

So if you’re down Whitstable way, I would really recommend booking in at Wheeler’s. You need to plan ahead though. Those 14 seats get bagsied early. And if you can find the clam puppets, your day might just come close to perfect.

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…

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.

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.