Racine - London

I’ve wanted to eat at chef Henry Harris’s South Kensington restaurant, Racine for a couple of years now. Notwithstanding the fact that every food blogger and critic in town has eaten there, (and for the most part, rated it highly). Henry is a former apprentice and later sous chef of the legendary Simon Hopkinson. This influence has obviously rubbed off, and Henry is considered a bit of a cooking legend in his own right.

Just to torture me further, on my frequent visits back to London, my route into town often passes Racine, (blurrily viewed through fogged up coach windows). I always resolve that I ‘must’ visit. Well, finally, it is done.

But first a question… where does your comfort level for eating offal lie? I’ve tucked into a few choice bits and pieces over the years, and for the most part am always pleasantly surprised by how tasty these seemingly indigestible animal parts are. Trotters, tripe, sweetbreads, pig’s head in the form of brawn. They’re all good. But for me, the old grey matter, a bit of juicy brain… has always been just a step too far. I’m not sure why, it’s just another part of an animal, as valid to munch on as a rare steak. But it just seems so far removed; almost alien… other people eat them, but not me.

I’d heard that famously Racine served up the Gallic classic, fried calf’s brains with capers and black butter. I imagined what it’d be like to eat. No doubt, a tiny cauliflower like brain. Fried and crisp on the outside, white and creamy on the inside, like an overripe cheese. I imagined biting in, a pop and my mouth suddenly flooded with the creamy unctuous brain, finding the hard twig like brain stem in the middle, pulled from the mouth clean with a flourish, like an empty grape stalk.

Excuse me while I retch.

I just couldn’t imagine brain would be pleasant to eat. But I was intrigued. As is now traditional in matters such as this, I decided to throw the question into the rather lively forum that is Twitter. A couple of immediate ‘Eurgh’s’ and about dozen much more positive replies assuring me that calf’s brain is a real treat. It seems most of the food types I follow have had a nibble in the past, and all had apparently survived the experience relatively unscathed.

No one was more surprised than me when I found that I was slowly coming around to the idea of eating brain. I decided that I’d order it, and have a go. Just so I could say I’d been there, I’d done it and feasted on a bit of thinking matter.

Stepping into Racine feels very much like stepping into a high-end Parisian bistro. The banquette-seating running the length of the room, the immaculately laid tables with crisp white tablecloths, the waiter’s dressed in classic black and white uniform. Happily, the often snooty and distinctly aloof Parisian service ethic hasn’t been replicated and the front of house team was extremely welcoming, friendly and professional. I can think of a few restaurants that could take much needed lessons in front of house service from Racine *cough* Riding House Café *cough*


After ordering some wine and nibbling on bread and beautifully packaged French butter (I’m easily impressed by nice packaging)…my moment finally arrived.


Cometh the hour, cometh the brains. A starter of Calf’s brains, black butter and capers looked much more appetising than I expected. I plunged right in, and took an exploratory forkful. Crisp on the outside, giving way to a slightly soft and subtly flavoured interior, it wasn’t actually bad at all. The capers cut through it nicely giving a much-needed sharpness. I ate away happily…I was eating brains…errr…. yeah…I was eating calf’s brain… munching on flabby brain …chewing…. is it getting hot in here or is it just me?

I started to sweat, and I could feel the bile rising. I stopped and looked at the last forkful sadly. I’d been beaten. No more. Bizarrely perhaps, I could eat brain; even enjoy it, up until the point where I started to think about what I was actually eating, and then I felt nauseous. But the main thing is, despite discovering it’s not for me, I’d given it a go and I can see how other people rate it as a dish. I just can’t get over the whole brain thing. Maybe it’ll be easier next time.


Meanwhile, oblivious to this cerebral drama, ‘E’ was happily consuming a more conventional starter of soft-boiled egg with creamed smoked cod’s roe, from the rather bargainous Prix Fixe menu.


After my self-inflicted brain trauma, I’m happy to say that the rump of lamb was without a doubt the best piece of lamb I’ve ever eaten…. anywhere. It was ridiculously good. Beautifully cooked pink, soft, tender meat. With the accompanying pea puree, runner beans and mint, I could have eaten it all day…and I almost did, the portion size was surprisingly huge. Not that I’m complaining.


‘E’s fillet of mullet, fennel, radish and watercress salad was also a fantastic dish. A superb fennel puree cut through the oiliness of the fish beautifully and combined well with the freshness of the aniseed, peppery kick of the salad. It was so good in fact; we’re planning on having a go replicating it at home.


I’m afraid to say the classic French dessert, Mont Blanc, (chocolate sauce, meringue, cream all topped with chestnut puree), wasn’t a great choice. Incredibly sickly sweet from the off, the meringue was ridiculously tough and chewy; I had trouble breaking it up with a knife and fork, let alone a spoon. Despite it being the first time I've eaten it in a restaurant, I have a sneaking suspicion it’s not supposed to be quite like that. Eventually I gave up for fear of my efforts sending a chocolate covered piece of rock hard meringue skittering off and spattering the white shirt I was wearing.


But, rising triumphant like a phoenix from the ashes of the Mont Blanc, the best crème caramel I’ve ever tasted. Absolute manna from heaven. Squat and firm but with a melting creamy spoonful filling the mouth, subtly coated with bitter sweet caramel. Absolutely beautiful. A classic simple dish, done incredibly well. Tres impressive as we say in Essex.

Racine is a great restaurant. There’s a legend cooking in the kitchen. The set menu is a complete bargain at £17.75 for 3 courses (although I have to point out, I ordered off the standard menu, and my portion of the bill came to £50) And despite not being to my taste, they’re serving up interesting dishes like calf’s brains. Admittedly the Mont Blanc was a bit of a disaster, but this can be easily forgiven when the mullet, lamb and the crème caramel were nothing short of bloody amazing. It obviously deserves its great reputation. I’d happily recommend Racine to anyone.

Racine

239 Brompton Road
London
SW3 2EP

http://www.racine-restaurant.com

Pontack - An Elderberry sauce

Pontack is a venerable old English sauce that has been knocking around for at least 300 years. A slightly sharp but sweet reduction made from elderberries and spices. It’s the perfect accompaniment to rich gamey meat

It appears to have been first served in London’s Lombard Street in the 17th century. Named after its originator, Monsieur Pontack, proprietor of the eponymous Pontack’s Head Tavern, which according to André Simon was ‘London’s first fashionable eating house’. Jonathan Swift (author of Gulliver’s Travels) "found the wine dear at seven shillings a flagon". Proving perhaps that some things in London remain eternal.

We came across Pontack whilst researching what to serve with pigeon breasts at last weekend’s ‘Montpelier Basement’ (Our Bristol supper club). Elderberries are everywhere around our area right now, and it seemed like the perfect choice.

Famously Pontack is supposed to keep incredibly well, up to seven years in fact, maturing and mellowing with age. This fact is what actually put us off following any of the published recipes…we wanted to use it the next day and we weren’t entirely sure how it would taste after such a comparatively short time.

So, after much umming and ahhhing we ended up making a semi-bastardised recipe of our own, a sort of Pontack’esque elderberry reduction. Success! It was absolutely bloody gorgeous.

Montpelier Basement Pontack

Makes (after being reduced by half to serve) …350ml

You’ll need: -
450ml Water
650g of de-stalked and washed Elderberries
180ml Red Wine Vinegar
200g Golden Caster Sugar
5 Shallots – finely chopped
4 Cloves
4 Allspice berries
¾ Whole Nutmeg – grated
2 tsp cracked black peppercorns
Pinch of salt


First strip and wash your elderberries from the stalks (The stalks are actually slightly toxic, small bits are fine, but don’t leave any large bits in). Dan’s first rule of cooking is ‘don’t poison yourself’…. perhaps you should mutter this gently to yourself as you carry on making the rest of the sauce. By the way, the easiest way to strip the berries is to use a fork. Easy.

Next, put the sugar and red wine vinegar in a pan, and heat gently until the sugar dissolves. Turn up the heat slightly, and boil until it slightly thickens and becomes ‘syrupy’.

Add the water, elderberries, shallots and all the spices. Stir and simmer for 5 mins and strain through a fine sieve.

If using straight away, reduce by half.


If not, pour into a prepared sterilised jar, it should keep for a good while (maybe even seven years…. but seeing as we’ve messed with the recipe, don’t hold us to that!). But, and this is the main thing…. It’s absolutely cracking to use right away, just reduce it a bit before serving… to get it nice, thick and glossy. You’ll only need about a tablespoon per person, so this amount makes about enough for 30 odd portions. Its a perfect accompaniment to game birds and also supposedly very good with liver or kidneys.

The Magdalen Arms - Oxford

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/

Celery Ice Cream

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?

The Runcible Spoon - Bristol

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

José - London

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/

Roganic - London

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/