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Oxford. The dreaming spires, the Bridge of Sighs, the rarefied heady air of academic excellence. The collective, almost palpable legacy that’s conjured up by some of the finest minds this country has ever produced being educated here. And me, striding purposefully through the grey mist of torrential rain pounding the Oxford pavements, a striking figure absorbing, pondering, head bulgingly intelligent, handsome, yet sensitive. But something is up, my face contorted in agony; tortured by the newly discovered linguistic contortion that Magdalen (to my mind, always literally verbalised as ‘Mag-Da-Len’) is actually pronounced as ‘Mawd-Lin’.
Errr what?
This is of course extremely important. I’m headed to The Magdalen Arms, an Oxford gastro pub with something of an interesting pedigree. The owners having worked at what many consider to be one of the best gastropubs in London, The Anchor & Hope.
Taking over, by all accounts, what used to be a seriously rough old boozer and completely transforming it into a gastropub, The Magdalen Arms opened last year to rave reviews from bloggers and critics alike. Matthew Norman of The Guardian declaring it ‘among the very best of its kind in Britain’. Having read all this at the time, I’d stored it away for when I happened to be visiting Oxford again, and behold, here I was.
The pub itself is only a little way out from the centre, but it seemed a much longer trek when damp and trudging along in the pissing rain with ‘E’ loping along beside me, cursing the distance walked and moaning about the weather in a constant stream of misery. Nevertheless I was excited.
The trouble with reading mounds of positive reviews beforehand is that your expectation level soars ridiculously, so unless you have an almost religious eating experience you’re often left feeling a bit cheated. I am of course aware of this, and try and rein it in a bit, but it’s true to say I was expecting great things.
The pub itself is a pleasant large period corner building, with a surprisingly massive interior; a bar runs the full length of the room with a dining area towards the back. The connection with the Anchor & Hope and Great Queen St obviously extends to the décor style, with walls painted in a striking colour (Plum in this instance) and the battered mismatched furniture, if you’ve ever been to the connected London gastropubs, it all feels very familiar.
The menu could be best described as British with Spanish touches, (Spanglish?) Padron peppers, and tapas plates mingle comfortably with steak pies and bread and butter pudding. Again the A&H influence is evident in the sharing dishes. Sadly, ‘E’s accursed pescatarianism once again wedged firmly into the spokes of my rampant carnivorousness and I could only sadly mouth ‘I want you’ whilst pawing softly at the entry for Hereford Steak & Ale Pie for three-ish to share on the menu.
I’ve tried brawn a few times, and despite being always being slightly repelled at the actual idea of eating a pigs head, when served up, pressed and thinly sliced it doesn’t actually resemble anything remotely head’ish and is actually quite pleasant in a surprisingly subtle way. If you’ve never tried it, do. If only to say you’ve eaten it once. (Which is often my raison d’être when tucking into something a bit strange). The brawn as served at The Magdalen Arms is the best I’ve had. Streaked with a punchy mustard sauce and scattered with capers, sliced shallots and parsley, it was really very good and I happily stuffed the lot in no time.
‘E’ ordered a whole globe artichoke, which came with a bowl of the same mustard sauce for dipping. I’ve never eaten artichoke like this before, plucking off petals and sucking and scraping the leaves to get at the understated vegetal goodness. So simple, but really quite lovely. With ‘E’ going at it industriously, it wasn’t long before the artichoke had become a scrapheap pile of green on the plate.
Considering the bloody awful weather outside, a somewhat autumnal sounding dish of Wild Rabbit, Chorizo Fennel and Puy lentils drizzled with aioli struck a chord, and the real testament to how good this rustic dish tasted, was the plate going back a steaming carcass, utterly devoid of any meat at all, picked so bare and dry it looked like it’d been sitting in the Arizona dessert for years. I absolutely love a nice bit of Thumper, Cottontail or Flopsy. (Word of advice, if you own a rabbit, and I ever come round…hide it).
Crab ravioli and salsa cruda arrived swimming in a bowl of tomato and fish broth and despite eliciting fairly content noises from ‘E’ didn’t really seem to hit the spot like the other dishes had for me. This sudden discordant note in proceedings wasn’t helped by an accompanying side salad that had to be sent back as it was overdressed, smothered in a pungent mustard dressing that overwhelmed everything else.
Despite it being July, the unseasonably dismal weather prompted me to go for something traditional and stodgy (I don’t need much excuse). Warm Marmalade Bread and Butter Pudding encircled by a moat of cream ticked all criteria. A donkey-choking sized portion, so massive it barely fitted into the bowl, I couldn’t help but rise to the challenge and eat it all…. making myself feel absolutely bloated and sick in the process. Disregarding my excesses, it was very good – just a subtle hint of marmalade, not too overpowering.
A warm chocolate pot, topped with cold cream was admirably simple and well made. ‘E’ loves chocolate-based desserts and seemed immensely pleased with this one. So, big thumbs up from her.
Ignoring the fact that I blundered out into the daylight in an almost complete food coma (curse that marmalade pudding), The Magdalen Arms provided a pretty damn good lunch. Expectations met. The overdressed salad and the so-so crab ravioli aside, some of the magic of its London based parent gastropubs has certainly rubbed off here. I think Matthew Normans ‘among the very best of its kind in Britain’ statement is maybe a tad exuberant, but there’s certainly no doubt that it’s very good. The next time I’m in Oxford, I’ll be heading back.
The Magdalen Arms
243 Iffley Road
OX4 1SJ
Telephone: 01865 243159
http://www.magdalenarms.com/
If one day, you hooked me up to some brain monitoring equipment. You could be forgiven at first for thinking the equipment was broken. Surveying the absence of any activity on the screen, you’d unplug and re-check every connection again and again, mystified as to what could possibly be wrong. You may eventually, patience stretched to snapping point; exasperated; punch the equipment violently. Meanwhile, I’d look on with a docile expression, serene, with not an actual thought in my head to register a blip, for herein lies the problem. Suddenly, without warning, the screen explodes into a frenzy of activity, you’d glance around at me excitedly to see my countenance, fraught and positively terrified as neurons and synapses frantically engage. I may even howl in distress as a crescendo of activity is reached. And then, as suddenly as it began, a silence that seems to draw out…forever….
I speak.
You’re stunned.
“Celery Ice-Cream”
Every now and again, dull mediocrity is punctuated by genius. That genius is celery ice cream and hot Stilton fritters.
*Needle skids across record*
Ok, not Stilton fritters. I tried making them, I thought they’d partner the ice cream perfectly, they didn’t. At all... So lets just forget I even mentioned that idea.
But celery ice cream standing alone, strong and proud, worked. It was beautiful, creamy, vegetal, and slightly peppery. And, the only recipe I could find for it online was an incredibly cheffy type one, for which you’d need a centrifuge, a team of bespectacled scientists and a chemistry set. Staring at these instructions uncomprehending, I gradually went boss eyed and gave up. Deciding instead to make up my own recipe.
Celery Ice Cream
(Makes about 1 litre)
You’ll Need: -
1 Bunch Celery, washed, trimmed and cut roughly into chunks
250ml Whole Milk
500ml Double Cream
3 Egg Yolks
100g Sugar
In a saucepan, add the celery to the milk and double cream. Bring to the boil. Turn off the heat, and allow to infuse for 1 hour.
Strain into a bowl, discarding the celery but giving it a good squeeze to get all the flavour out.
In another bowl, whisk the egg yolks with the sugar.
Add the celery milk and mix. Return to the pan and over a low heat; stir constantly until it coats the back of a wooden spoon. Don’t allow it to boil, or you’ll end up with scrambled celery eggs.
Remove from the heat, and cool (I use the sink full of cold water and some ice cubes). Continue stirring until its cooled right down.
Put the cool custard into the fridge, with Clingfilm directly covering the surface to stop a skin forming. Leave to rest overnight (I left it for a good day and a half before churning).
Churn in an ice cream maker, until firm, smooth and creamy. Transfer to a plastic tub and freeze until needed. Voila – Celery Ice Cream.
Now, to my mind, the only question is, what goes well with it? Believe me, Stilton fritters definitely don’t. I’ve canvassed opinion amongst friends and colleagues, and suggestions have included a Bloody Mary sorbet, chocolate, more celery in the form of a granita, and a Stilton ice cream.
What do you think?
Naming a restaurant after an obscure but entirely relevant line in a poem is an extremely clever thing to do. ‘The Runcible Spoon’…it’s just so perfect. (It’s from Edward Lear’s ‘The owl and the pussycat’, but then, you probably knew that already. I didn’t). Anyway, thank God I’ve never been asked to come up with anything along the same lines. After staring at the wall blankly for ten minutes, the only thing that popped into my luxuriously minimalist brain was ‘Hey diddle, diddle, my cat did a piddle’, which probably doesn’t project quite the image any dining establishment would be seeking. (In case I’m wrong, and you successfully open a restaurant called ‘Diddle My Cat’ or ‘Cat’s Piddle’ or any combination of the above, royalty cheques in the post please).
I’m going off on a tangent here. The Runcible Spoon is a modern British bistro situated in the Stokes Croft area of Bristol, which you may recognise from recent news as the charmingly bohemian neighbourhood where they don’t like a Tesco much. (Despite this, Stokes Croft normally feels very relaxed and safe, the riots were definitely not the norm, so don’t be put off).
Interestingly, The Runcible Spoon is a co-operative (Which all sounds a bit “Wolfie” Smith, Tooting Popular Front, but as I’ve found out, is very Bristol, so bear with me and I’ll explain). The five owners (4 chefs and 1 gardener), own the restaurant jointly. It’s not run for profit in the way a normal restaurant is, but just to cover overheads and pay the owners a salary. Additionally their focus is on locally sourced, seasonal, foraged and homegrown produce. In fact, they own an allotment nearby and their goal is to eventually make the restaurant self-sufficient.
So less Wolfie Smith perhaps, and more ‘The Good Life’ then. Either way, it’s extremely admirable.
The restaurant opened earlier this year, and despite living a five-minute walk away in Montpelier, ‘E’ and myself have just been so manically busy, it wasn’t until the other week that we managed a visit.
From outside at night, the exterior looks warm and welcoming with a real neighbourhood bistro feel to the place. The interior is styled in a similar fashion, with a small dining room and bar upstairs, and a larger dining room downstairs.
Grabbing the upstairs corner table, the evening’s menu was handed to us, hand written on a piece of paper. A short selection is nearly always a good sign, it’s indicative of spankingly fresh ingredients and dishes made with care. With a choice of two starters, two mains and two desserts, I took it as a decent indicator. In fact, it was actually quite refreshing to relax and not agonise too much over the menu choices.
‘E’ ordered the gazpacho and basil sorbet. Chilled soup has to be a perfect choice for a warm summer evening. The gazpacho was nicely seasoned and was portioned correctly for greedy bastardos like us.. The accompanying basil sorbet was a superbly fresh addition and as you’d probably expect from a herb with such an affinity with tomato, it worked beautifully.
Pork rillettes & cornichon on toast were as good as I’ve had anywhere. Happily the portion was suitably massive. I liked the way it was presented, with the shredded pork heaped on the toasted bread rather than having to scrape through a fat covered pot myself.
Squid and chorizo stew main, piled up with a chunk of bread on the side looked suitably rustic and was pretty good. To be honest, I’ve never been a big fan of squid – call me a fishy philistine but I think it doesn’t actually taste of much and in addition it’s an horrendously ugly bugger…. I’m not sure anyone should be putting anything that looks like that in their mouth. That’s not to say this dish wasn’t good. It was. I stuffed the whole lot. I’m just having a general squiddy rant. I’ve never eaten a squid dish that’s truly impressed and would have probably been just as happy if the squid was left out altogether.
Meanwhile ‘E’ was admiring the beautiful presentation of her courgette and ricotta cheesecake, tomato & oregano salad, new potatoes and burnt butter. (Bit of a mouthful) It looked frigging awesome. I had a sneaky nibble, and yep – it was great. ‘E’ was absolutely chuffed with it.
A dessert of elderflower poached gooseberry crumble with clotted cream, was good, the flowery summer scent of the elderflower adding a nice sweet note to the tartness of the gooseberry.
The chocolate and raspberry truffle pot with soft caramels had ‘E’ cooing and ‘oh my God’ing’ appreciatively, so chalk that one up as a winner too, although to be honest the accompanying caramels were a bit on the hard side of ‘soft’. Happily our dentures were upto the task.
So, 3 courses, £16. That’s right, sixteen quid. In anyone’s book, that has to be a bargain.
The Runcible Spoon has a rough rustic charm all of it’s own. The food is good with touches of real flair, generously portioned and interesting with its admirable emphasis on seasonality and Britishness. That it’s all so fantastically cheap caps it off nicely.
Anyone who likes eating out would love to have this bistro in their neighbourhood, and I count myself lucky that it’s in my mine.
The Runcible Spoon
3 Nine Tree Hill
Stokes Croft
Bristol
BS1 3SB
Telephone: 0117 329 7645
http://the-runcible-spoon.com
My relationship with Spain, (or ‘España’ as us people more au fait with it’s ways like to call it, I mean – look, I’ve even used a frigging wiggly accent mark) has matured as I’ve grown older, especially my relationship with it’s food.
As a young man, oft visiting Spain on holiday, I was indifferent to their fine culinary culture and traditions. Dining? Well when I wasn’t seated in a plastic stackable chair in a beachfront café scoffing knock off versions of British dishes, with the obligatory mound of chips and bemoaning the lack of ‘decent sausages and bacon’, I could probably be found in a McDonalds, contentedly tucking into a ‘taste of home’ in a completely non-ironic fashion. I was the epitome of a Philistine and looking back I’m almost embarrassed at how unsophisticated I was in my tastes.
Fast forward 20 odd years, and I stand before you a sophisticated gastronome. A seasoned culinary traveller. Some might say handsome and rugged and I have often been accused of being sensitive and perhaps far too intelligent and impossibly beautiful. It’s a cross I have to bear. But the point is, nowadays I’d no sooner eat pseudo British food abroad than casually take a bite out of my own hand and wash it down with a swig of warm fruity, vintage urine. (I think you’ll all agree, the age is important).
All of which leads me to new Bermondsey Spanish tapas bar José (well not all, ignore the tucking into hands and the imbibing of piss bit, you silly).
It’s good, bloody good in fact. Which isn’t entirely surprising as José Pizzaro, ex head chef of the cracking Tapas Brindisa and extremely nice bloke, is running the show.
It’s certainly one of the most authentic tapas bars you’re going to find in London. It’s small. A short bar runs down one side, with a very compact but beautifully put together open kitchen at one end. There are a couple of tables, some barrels and a few stools lining the bar. A few Jamón swing lazily from the ceiling, a glass chiller cabinet built into the counter displays spankingly fresh fish. A chalkboard announces a handful of specials based on what’s available that morning at nearby Borough Market. That’s it. Entirely authentic in it’s simplicity and the freshness of the ingredients. There’s no booking, it’s very much first come, first served and not unsurprisingly, by all accounts it’s been absolutely packed since it opened a few weeks ago.
‘E’ and I turned up as the doors opened for lunch at 12 o’clock, and straight away pounced on the large central table whilst almost simultaneously ordering a chilled glass of Fino. I love, love, love a nice glass of cold dry sherry, Fino or Manzanilla purlease. It’s the absolute perfect accompaniment to tapas, and happily at José, there’s a nice selection on the wine list.
At this point our friends arrived for lunch, and we promptly ploughed into ordering . Between the six of us we managed to cover a hell of a lot of ground, and spanked the menu heavily.
To begin, a plate of salted Marcona almonds were the perfect nibble to accompany our second glass of sherry. Quickly followed up by a cracking slice of Tortilla.
As I’ve got older, the intense fishy saltiness of anchovy has grown on me. Boquerones in cava vinegar (Fresh anchovy fillets marinated in vinegar until they become white) that we were served at José were by far the best I’ve ever tasted. Subtly meaty and tangy. Absolutely cracking.
A glass of gazpacho with crab from the specials board was phenomenal. I could have eaten it all day long. It was probably one of the best things I ate, and if you go there I urge you to order it.
Not far behind in terms of sheer enjoyment, hake with allioli. A perfectly light, almost ethereally battered piece of fish with a generous accompanying dollop of rasping creamy garlic tang. Superb.
About this point, we started to crack into the Manzanilla – did I mention how much I love sherry?
The croquetas which, when bitten into slowly oozed liquid béchamel and ham were beautifully done.
A generously heaped plate of mackerel escabeche followed, and although not one of my favourite dishes was very good in its fresh clean tangy taste.
A cracking bowl of patatas bravas draped with dual slicks of allioli and a smoky brava sauce are incredibly moreish. I could sit and drink gallons of sherry whilst picking at these for hours.
Lamb meatballs in a tomato sauce are good; although the accompanying toasted bread feels perhaps a bit redundant in that it’s far too thin and crisp to mop up the accompanying sauce in a satisfactory manner. Or maybe, that's just me.
From the special board again, chicken livers in Oloroso are excellent. The sweetness of the sherry complimenting the subtle soft, almost smoky taste of the livers fantastically well.
Also from the specials board, sardines cooked simply with lemon and parsley are delicious. I’m not normally a massive fan of oily fish, but these are obviously incredibly fresh and I’m surprised how much I enjoyed picking at them.
Saving one of the best dishes until last, once again, from the specials board – Pluma Iberica. A plate of thickly sliced, charred and salted pork loin cut from just about the best quality acorn fed pig you can eat. To be honest, its surprisingly rare appearance gave the impression of a good steak, and upon munching on a piece; it was decidedly strange to experience the taste of pork instead. It’s definitely worth ordering if you fancy trying something different.
Finishing up the sherry theme with a sneaky glass of PX, we decided against ordering puddings. José is admirably authentic in that the Spanish don’t really go big on desserts. As such, simple dishes, such as a bowl of seasonal fruit with a splash of sherry feature.
Leaving José’s a bit unsteadily, something to do with the gallons of Manzanilla we’d necked, we decided to head to Soho and the rather excellent Gelupo Gelateria for something sweet. It’s the first time I’ve been. I can’t recommend it highly enough if you’re in the area. The ice creams and sorbets are bloody amazing, and surprisingly reasonable considering the central location. Just so you know, because I’m sure you’re wondering, I had summer pudding sorbet with an accompanying scoop of cherry and yoghurt ice-cream and it cost just three quid.
Whilst I was licking the remnants from my tub of ice-cream and thoughtfully biting on the wafer, I considered lunch at José’s.
It was really enjoyable. The food is supremely simple, authentic, rustic and fresh. It has a great, relaxed vibe, and it all feels extremely close to the experience of dining out in say, somewhere like Barcelona. If I lived nearby, on a hot summers day, I’d be popping in for some of the excellent gazpacho, a bowl of patatas bravas and a couple of gallons of Manzanilla far, far, too often.
Loved it.
José
104 Bermondsey Street
London
SE1 3UB
http://joserestaurant.co.uk/
Gelupo Gelataria
7 Archer Street
London
W1D 7AU
http://www.gelupo.com/
Shocking as it may seem to my regular readers but when it comes to food, at heart, I’m a bit of a peasant. I know outwardly I’m obviously a classy guy. Seriously suave and if you’ve never met me, you could be forgiven for thinking I probably talk like Roger Moore (I do). But my real food love is very rustic, simple food made with excellent fresh ingredients. Although saying that, variety is the spice of life. I’m not opposed to a bit of posh ‘Up West’ as they often like to say in Eastenders.
So, when I read that Simon Rogan of Michelin starred L’Enclume had just opened Roganic, an outpost in London, and by happy coincidence I was due to be headed through London, back to the ‘Motherland’ (Essex). I booked a table for lunch straightaway.
I'd heard of L’Enclume of course. I always plan to visit someday, but its Lake District location is a bit of a schlep. If I’m ever in the area, inexplicably, I imagine this visit will include me arriving at the wheel of a small boat, perhaps wearing a captain’s hat at a jaunty angle and smoking a pipe. I’ll be laughing in a decidedly captainish way and surrounded by an entirely new, more wholesome circle of friends who will also be laughing heartily and sporting a selection of lightweight summer knits.
Until this eventually comes about (and it will), I’ll settle for Roganic.
This small London incarnation of L’Enclume is interesting for a couple of reasons. It only has a short-term 2-year lease, so is something of a temporary foray into the capital’s dining scene for Simon Rogan and somewhat unusually, like it’s bigger Lake District parent, only tasting menus are available, 6 courses, or a whopping 10. Although on my visit, I was told this may be tweaked and a more conventional 3-course menu also made available.
I met friend and fellow food blogger Niamh for lunch at Roganic on Friday. The restaurant itself is surprisingly light and airy for such a small space. Decorated in the fairly standard ‘fine dining contemporary bland style’, which is pleasant enough but is always slightly soulless and boring to look at. But then the food is the main event I guess and the sterile surroundings aren’t about to detract from that. I wonder if this inoffensive blandness in fine dining restaurant interiors is designed with this in mind?
It seems we’d struck lucky, it was still the soft opening, therefore a rather welcome 25% off the bill (Result), and Simon Rogan himself was cooking (Also a result). After a brief conflab, we decided to go for the rather interesting looking 6 course tasting menu, priced at £55.
But first, some wine. Niamh, knowing a hell of a lot more about quality plonkage than me, declared confidently that Slovenian wine is currently the absolute daddy with regards to quality and price. We went for a bottle of Quercus pinot bianco, and bloody nice it was too. You heard it here; (no doubt last), Slovenian wine is the way to go.
An amuse of chickpea wafer, ox eye daisy spread, aioli and flowers was a really nice and light introduction to the cooking to come.
Right away I’m going to be honest here; the menu is absolutely packed with interesting and sometimes slightly baffling ingredients. With the benefit of hindsight (and Google) I now know exactly what I was eating, but at the time, with my food rapidly going cold on the plate in front of me, ingredients such as orache, ox eye daisy spread and chenopodiums had me scratching my head.
Nevertheless, that’s exactly what you pay for at this level of cooking, to be delighted, surprised and baffled at the artistry with unusual ingredients.
Speaking of bafflement. There was a solitary smooth stone on our table, and it puzzled me. What could it be for? Perhaps something to stick the bill under?
Our waiter arrived to answer the mystery by spreading a thick scrape of whipped butter, with Maldon sea salt onto it. Obvious really. Not.
Then the perfect looking bread rolls arrived. A whole tray, potato, spelt and pumpernickel. They were all superb but especially the soft malty pumpernickel. A big thumbs up for the complete lack of parsimony with regards to the fantastic bread. The waiter cheerfully offered us more, and then when we’d greedily polished that off, even more.
A rather dainty course of millet pudding, grains, burnt pear and Stichelton followed. It was good. Basically a risotto in all but name. Pear and Stilton is a classic combo, and Stichelton is an absolutely cracking cheese. A great start.
The next course arrived and my jaw dropped. It was beautiful and elaborate, absolutely the most gorgeous presentation. Seawater cured Kentish mackerel, orache (Which I now know is a foraged plant, similar to spinach in taste), broccoli and warm elderflower honey. Somewhat unsurprisingly perhaps, it tasted fantastic. The sweetness of the elderflower honey offsetting the tang of the onions, all balanced with the crispness of the mackerel and the vegetal notes of the broccoli and orache. Stunning.
The next dish, almost impossibly, was better looking than the last. Heritage potatoes in onion ashes, lovage and wood sorrel. Beautiful to look at and who’d have thought a dish based around potatoes could be so bloody amazing? Easily one of the best courses I ate, mostly in part to the incredible sharp savoury taste of the onion ashes. (Onions, dehydrated and reduced to dust using some kind of cheffy wizardry). Amazing.
Roasted brill, chicken salt, surf clams and rainbow chard was next. Something of an unusual combination to my mind, chicken and fish, but surprisingly it worked brilliantly. The sharp bite of the chicken salt, cutting through the softness of the perfectly cooked brill. Lovely.
Another bit of artistry arrived in the form of Cumbrian hogget loin, artichokes and chenopodiums (Which Google tells me is another foraged spinach like plant). The lamb loin, so rare and soft, presumably cooked using sous-vide, was superb. The addition of a lamb sweetbread gave a nice offal flavour to balance the sweetness of the hogget. Once again, fantastic.
Onto dessert, and sweet cicely with strawberry, buttermilk and verbena was, (to match the previous courses), appropriately beautiful in an almost architectural fashion. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted verbena before, and its flavour was a revelation. Unusual, flowery, and citrusy. The combination of tastes were interesting, light and fresh. A nice end to the meal.
A final course, in the form of a cherry shot with a cherry marshmallow, and for me this was the one thing that didn’t quite work. The marshmallow was pleasant enough, but my shot seemed to be a bit on the insubstantial side, it didn’t fill my mouth with flavour as I’d expected. Somehow, all of the foam remained in the glass, and I looked around in vain for a spoon to finish it off. Not to be thwarted and reverting to childlike behaviour, I stuck my finger in it. (You can’t take me anywhere). This action broke the offending vacuum, and the remainder slid into my mouth. It was ok, but didn’t wow me like everything else had.
Nevertheless, I absolutely loved Roganic. The food is just plain gorgeous. Easily the best looking dishes I’ve eaten all year, possibly ever. The menu is full of quality interesting British ingredients, some conventional, some (if you’re anything like me), you’ve probably never heard of. The staff were extremely relaxed, cheerful and friendly. In fact, it’s all so slick that it’s hard to believe Roganic has only been open for a couple of weeks.
Overall, I had one of the best lunches I’ve eaten for a very long time. Go.
Roganic
19, Blandford St,
London.
W1U 3DH
Telephone: 0207 4860380
http://www.roganic.co.uk/
So, can you believe ‘E’ and myself have been running ‘The Montpelier Basement’ supper club in our home since October last year? errr what’s that? *counts slowly on fingers* eight frigging months! Unbelievable. Surprisingly for us, (as I’ve just counted the dates up), tomorrow’s ‘Basement’ will be our 23rd. Therefore I thought it was high time that I wrote about it a bit, and you know…. spill my guts in a sharing fashion.
First of all, utilising all my fingers, and some of my toes, I can tell you that we’ve had nearly 400 people pass through our doors and eat our food. Incredibly, considering that number, nearly all of these people have been absolutely amazing individuals. They’ve been no problem whatsoever, they’ve loved what we’re doing and in return, we’ve loved them dearly. *blows copious air kisses, mwah mwah fashion*
But, it hasn’t been all rainbows, cuddles and snuggums. A couple of people have, quite frankly, been very bad guests. But, only a couple, out of nearly 400, that’s actually quite amazing. Nevertheless these few individuals have blighted our ‘Basement’ with their presence, and we curse their collective memories.
The most ghastly of our few rubbish guests descended on our subterranean lair a few months back. Lets call her ‘Sharon’, (errr because that’s actually her name). ‘Shazza’ was basically the supper club guest from hell.
She came on her own, which isn’t unusual in itself, lots of people do and that’s fine. She was in her late 50’s I guess, and she seemed a little bit pissed when she arrived. She ended up sitting on a table with 4 other people who were in their early twenties. It wasn’t long before we realised that she was completely dominating the whole table’s conversation. She was one of those awful people, with a loud voice (slurred) and an opinion on pretty much everything, all of it backed up with a winding longwinded story. The rest of the table were sitting there stunned, in a complete verbal vacuum. Mere puppets as Shazza held court in the most awful fashion.
But, our guests are adults, they can deal with this…. Thought I naively, until ‘E’ came into the kitchen aghast, and told me that ‘Shaz’ was now regaling her new dining companions with a cheery tale about her friend who had apparently committed suicide. As you can imagine, they quite literally looked like someone had died. Four pairs of eyes pleading for help and framed by expressions of exquisite misery greeted me, as I was physically ejected by ‘E’ out of the kitchen and into the dining room with orders to ‘change the subject’.
I decided the best approach was to engage Sharon in conversation, and draw her away from the others so they could best make their escape. Coming, as I do, from Essex, I have much experience of chatting to drunkards and felt assured that I could deal with this confidently. Try as I might, I can’t remember exactly what I said, or what Sharon said in response. I can only conclude that part of my memory has been blotted out, in what is no doubt some kind of primal brain defence mechanism which I am confident will see me awaking in years to come bathed in sweat and screaming.
But, the main thing is, I took one for the team. I changed the subject.
The evening progressed, and Shazza hadn’t seemed to cause any more real trouble. Apart from provoking the odd look from other guests. She’d taken to moving around the room, sitting at the other tables chatting, and helping herself to wine. Eventually at the arse end of the evening, myself, ‘E’ and two other women who happened to be young Doctors were left drinking and chatting. They were lovely, extremely funny and quite obviously had enjoyed a great evening, which made us happy. Shazza was still floating around, and by this time was steaming drunk. She offered to ‘help with the washing up’. We politely declined. She looked restless. A couple of minutes later, I looked around and realised she’d wandered into the empty kitchen. As I got up to she where she’d got to, she came stumbling out mumbling incoherently. The Doctors, bless em, had at this point realised what a problem Shazza was and whispered that they’d take her with them when they left.
I could only admire their skill, obviously honed to perfection in dealing with troublesome patients as they expertly shepherded our ghastly guest, cheerfully crying ‘C’mon Shazza, you’re coming with us’. Somewhat surprisingly she obediently accompanied them up the stairs to the front door.
As the unlikely trio departed into the night, we relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. Immediately resolving that Sharon would never be coming to ‘The Basement’ again.
But my sorry tale doesn’t end there. The next day, whilst tidying up the wreckage in the kitchen, I found an envelope stuffed behind the radio. It was Shazzer’s payment envelope. Confused, I ripped it open. Instead of leaving the suggested donation of £25, she’d left £15, and hidden it. This despite raving how good the evening and the food was, necking a load of leftover wine and ruining the evening for her entire table with her complete boorishness.
Shazza, you’re a piece of work. If I ever see you again, it will be far too soon.To all our guests that night who may have been mentally scarred. We're truly sorry.
No one else has even come close to Shazza for sheer awfulness. In fact, as I said previously, we’ve been extremely lucky that nearly all save for a tiny minority have been an absolute pleasure welcome into our home and cook for. We love you all ‘Basementeers’.
So that’s our worst ever supper club guest.
I’d be interested to hear what’s the worst behaviour you’ve witnessed at a supper club, or even a restaurant for that matter.
Go on share.
PS: If you fancy coming along to a future ‘Basement’ (No Shazza – we promise – drop us an email at Montpelierbsmt@gmail.com)
I must have been living under a rock, because until I was sent a copy of the Momofuku cookbook a while back, I’d never heard of the New York restaurant group or David Chang, the chef and owner.
As regular readers know, I absolutely covet a cook book, and I had a quick flick through, thought it looked fairly interesting, but as is common with me – got distracted by other new shinier things, it went on the shelf, and I didn’t go back for another look.
In the meantime, as is often the way, Momofuku (Lucky Peach translated from Japanese) had registered on my consciousness and I started to notice it cropping up again and again, on Twitter, on the interweb and once on TV where I saw Anthony ‘Kitchen Confidential’ Bourdain eating his way through a whole shedload of their interesting looking dishes whilst chatting with David Chang, the chef.
I’m notoriously slow on the uptake, but eventually, with enough of this drip, drip, Momo drip Fuku drip feed bouncing off my skull, something had to give. Last Sunday, it was pissing down, torrentially, all day, without respite. With absolutely nothing better to do, I pulled the Momofuku book off the shelf for another, proper look.
It’s brilliant.
For starters, David Chang is brutally honest; about his food, his shortcomings as a chef, his business and the way he set it up. It makes for some fantastic and very funny reading. Chang has a real no nonsense, straight to the point style, much of it liberally sprinkled with ‘fucks’. It’s definitely not your average cookbook. I found it utterly compelling.
Then there’s the recipes. The Momofuku style is an incredible mish-mash of mostly Japanese and Korean food, sometimes mixed with a more classical cooking style thrown in with whatever seems to take Chang’s fancy. It’s almost impossible to define, with Chang himself describing his style hilariously as ‘bad pseudo-fusion cuisine’.
A lot of the recipes involve a fair bit of work, there’s often no real dumbing down or dilution for the home cook. But surprisingly it’s not off putting, as the technique and the thinking behind the dishes is what makes it all so interesting.
But, there is one recipe that is instantly accessible. It’s simple to make, it’s cheap, it’s bloody gorgeous, and I’ve made it three times this week.
Ginger Spring Onion Noodles.
It’s basically noodles, any noodles (I used the cheap ass ramen packet noodles you often see in Chinese supermarkets, 45p a pack), tossed with a sauce of finely chopped fresh ginger, sliced spring onions and soy. On top of this, you can add what you like – I piled it up with yet more sliced spring onions, oven roasted broccoli and cauliflower florets, fried beanshoots and more soy.
The basic recipe is this…
Ginger Spring Onion Sauce
250g Spring Onion – thinly sliced
50g very finely chopped, peeled fresh ginger
4 Tbs Neutral Oil (I used Vegetable).
1 ½ Tsp Light Soy Sauce
¾ Tsp Sherry Vinegar
¾ Tsp coarse Sea Salt
This makes enough for about 3 portions. Mix all of this up in a bowl, check for seasoning. It’s at its best 15-20 mins after making it, but will be fine for a day or two in the fridge.
Then, you cook your noodles (Chang recommends 170g of Lo Mein, rice noodles or Shanghai thick Noodles per person).
While the noodles are hot, spoon in 6 Tbs of the Ginger Spring Onion sauce, stir and then pile with Bamboo shoots, roast cauliflower, fresh veg, more spring onion, sliced chill and more soy, whatever you think works.
For my taste, I think the basic recipe itself has a bit too much spring onion in it, and not enough soy – so chop and change it as you see fit. As I said, I made it a few times this week, the first time following the actual recipe, and the other couple of times more in ‘the spirit’ of the recipe, and it was bloody nice each time.
It’s lovely stuff, and it feels incredibly virtuous to eat. Although it obviously isn’t quite as healthy as it seems with all the oil and the soy I tip over it. But what the hell. It’s superb and cheap.
Closing thoughts. Make this dish – and buy the Momofuku book. You wont regret either decision.
