There's a pitiful scene which is played out every day in the Willesden Green Sainsbury's - and probably in thousands of supermarkets across the whole country.
About 8pm, a crowd of people starts forming around the bread aisle. They hover, blank faces, empty baskets, on edge and alert, fidgeting and shuffling. Tonight, perhaps, she is late. They seem more restless than usual. No words are spoken, but if they were, they would not be English.
Suddenly, a door swings open, a trolley comes into view, the crowd braces itself. She has arrived with the stale rolls and bagels which have not been sold and will be reduced to 20p for a pack of four. One by one they have the yellow sticker attached. She can't keep up. No sooner has the sticker been added, than the packs are snapped up by waiting hands and shovelled into the baskets.
It's a nice feeling, being able to grab a bargain at the end of the day. Products that would otherwise be a luxury come into range - free range chicken, perhaps tuna steaks, or some posh ham. But this isn't canny bargain-hunting. This is a subsistence economy. Baskets fill up with rolls and little else. One man has a basket full of bagels and two tubs of Basics yoghurt. Carbohydrate and protein. Enough to keep a family of eight alive for another day. And at a total cost of less than £2.
There's no need to try and imagine what food banks are like. You can see this pathetic scene, just a baby step above food banks, every evening in the supermarket. Where are they from? Judging from appearance probably Kurdish, Albanian or Romany but that's by-the-by. They're trying to keep their heads above water in Britain and sinking fast.
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Wednesday, 19 June 2013
Monday, 16 April 2012
Sarashwathy Bavans, Wembley - review
I made my first trip up to Wembley this weekend since my walk-about three years ago. This time we went hunting for a meal out - some prior research seemed to point to a couple of potential places at the top end of the Ealing Road: the popular chain Chennai Dosa, Palm Beach, and the one we opted for, Sarashwathy Bavans. It's a Sri Lankan/South Indian restaurant which has a second branch in Tooting.
If you're the sort of person who's bothered by the decor of a restaurant then you're unlikely to be the sort of person considering a trek up to Wembley for a meal, but suffice to say it's basically a white-walled, strip-lit diner. Not first date material unless your date is in the top percentile of interestingness and/or open-mindedness.
On the Saturday evening we were there, several Asian families were dining, some with young kids; to our left seemed to be a large family party with about fifteen people, mostly guzzling dosas, which the restaurant professes to specialise in. We've ordered dosas the last few times we've been in South Indian places (although a mate and I ordered a couple of lovely spinach dishes recently for a home delivery from Kovalam on Willesden Lane) so this time decided to go for different options.
To start we went for idly (a light ground rice/lentil cake) and methu vadai (lentil doughnuts) which came with a selection of chutneys. The methu vadai, in particular, were delicious: a strong nutty flavour - possibly a mixture of cumin and mustard, but I couldn't be sure.
Crucially, though, the waiter (who perhaps detected a little hesitation when we came to ordering) confidently asked "May I make a suggestion?" EXACTLY what I like to hear. He suggested reducing the quantity of idly and adding some "mushrooms 65". We had no idea what these were but were happy to place ourselves in the hands of the expert - wisely so: the mushrooms were excellent. Fried in a mixture of spices, they were very dry and packed some proper heat - mango chutney provided relief. Apologies for the appalling photography.
To follow we went for mutter paneer which was spectacular: cheese and peas in a subtle rich sauce. . Aloo jeera was really a side rather than a main - basically potatoes in cumin seed. Once again, when I asked for chapatis, the waiter swiftly suggested that we run with a combination of chapatis and parathas. The chapatis were excellent, the paratha a little greasy for my taste.
We shared an excellent gulab jamun for dessert and finished with masala tea.
If you're the sort of person who's bothered by the decor of a restaurant then you're unlikely to be the sort of person considering a trek up to Wembley for a meal, but suffice to say it's basically a white-walled, strip-lit diner. Not first date material unless your date is in the top percentile of interestingness and/or open-mindedness.
On the Saturday evening we were there, several Asian families were dining, some with young kids; to our left seemed to be a large family party with about fifteen people, mostly guzzling dosas, which the restaurant professes to specialise in. We've ordered dosas the last few times we've been in South Indian places (although a mate and I ordered a couple of lovely spinach dishes recently for a home delivery from Kovalam on Willesden Lane) so this time decided to go for different options.
To start we went for idly (a light ground rice/lentil cake) and methu vadai (lentil doughnuts) which came with a selection of chutneys. The methu vadai, in particular, were delicious: a strong nutty flavour - possibly a mixture of cumin and mustard, but I couldn't be sure.
 |
| The wreckage of an idly with various chutnies in the background. Far left: salt lassi |
Crucially, though, the waiter (who perhaps detected a little hesitation when we came to ordering) confidently asked "May I make a suggestion?" EXACTLY what I like to hear. He suggested reducing the quantity of idly and adding some "mushrooms 65". We had no idea what these were but were happy to place ourselves in the hands of the expert - wisely so: the mushrooms were excellent. Fried in a mixture of spices, they were very dry and packed some proper heat - mango chutney provided relief. Apologies for the appalling photography.
 |
| Mushrooms "65" hidden somewhere underneath the onion rings! |
 |
| Mutter paneer: fantastic food, not-so-fantastic photography |
 |
| Aloo jeera - potatoes in cumin seed |
 |
| Something hot, sweet and delectable...and Rachel. |
All-in with drinks, the bill came to £30.50 minus service - fantastic value for one of the better meals I've had in London. I burst out laughing at the note on the bill, presumably for the chef, underneath our starters, which stated ***ALL VERY MILD PLS*** !
Overloaded with carbs and clutching the paneer and cinnamon bark which we'd picked up in Fruity Fresh on the Ealing Road, we stumbled back out, stuffed and happy. Highly recommended and worth the trip.
549 High Road, Wembley
HA0 2DJ
Saturday, 23 July 2011
Willesden Green: on the up (1)
Willesden Green. It's not the sort of place that inspires emotions of hope, creativity and joy, right? And the truth is, that Willy G could easily be overlooked. But there are some gems to be found.
Walm Lane and the east end of Willesden High Road are starting to become a bit more gentrified, with a Costa and new Foxtons sprouting near the tube station (the latter, sadly, taking the place of the highly regarded Shish), and a couple of deli-cum cafes; all these have appeared in the last few months. This all suggests that the area is becoming a bit gentrified. Here are a selection of my favourite Willesden Green spots.
 |
| Nest: take the Sunday papers |
Forget about Costa and head for Nest (Willesden Green station, Walm Lane) instead. It's a straightforward café beside the tube station, offering a standard array of paninis and sandwiches, full breakfasts (excellent), coffee, cakes and croissants, with large windows and comfortable sofas. No, not somewhere to make a trip to, but as a local café it's an excellent option: independent, rewarding and cheap to the point that you wonder where their profit margins are coming from - coffees are less than £2 and croissants £1, with a full English breakfast just £5.50. A solid Sunday papers option.
Another good place for a bite is Petra (19 Walm Lane).
 |
| Petra: best of the kebab options |
Petra used to be known as Shawarma Express which was by far the best of the kebab options (although I never went to Shish). With a new name and, seemingly, new management, Petra is more expensive than it was in its previous incarnation but continues to offer good Lebanese food - ignore the Willesden Charcoal Grill down the road and come here instead. I tend to go fairly late when some things have sold out, but this isn't a kebaberie just for when you're drunk - they have tasty Lebanese options like sambousek.
There are loads of really good local food shops around - a mixture of long-established and new places. Two Middle Eastern supermarkets stand out. One is Al Thmarat (21a Walm Lane) - blink and you'll miss it; it's a tiny, cramped, shadowy place right next to Petra - the sort of Platform 9 3/4 place your eye slides past, but a treasure trove of pulses, spices, and jars of olives. Just up the road is Hamada (25a Walm Lane) - slightly larger and brighter, and a good spot to pick up some bread, baklava or a big bag of monosodium glutamate (no, really).
 |
| Hamada |
 |
| Khan Halal Butchers |
More interesting still is Willesden Fisheries (1b Walm Lane). I keep forgetting to ask the guys who run it where they are from but my guess is possibly Mauritius, or maybe somewhere like Sudan. Anyhow, they have a great selection of fish - and it's different from most fishmongers in this country: there's no cod, haddock or sole - indeed there's hardly any flatfish at all - instead they have bass, bream, grey mullet and snapper, as well as African fish such as the river-dwelling tilapia.
 |
| Willesden Fisheries |
 |
| Moura Meat Centre |
So while the Foxtons and Costa might suggest that Willesden Green might at last be starting to turn into a bland middle-class suburb, which can only be a good thing for house prices, let's hope that the more esoteric options stay in place. In the next few weeks watch this space for a little review of a few more local options.
What the area badly needs, though, is a decent pub: Angie's is fun but not for the faint-hearted, while the Queensbury is just a sterile yuppie cliche. Hopefully we'll see a better option appearing in coming months.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Ham, gruyere and mushroom crepes
I love Shrove Tuesday.
I was pretty hacked off that two supermarkets and three health food stores between them couldn't muster a bag of buckwheat flour, but consoled myself with vast quantities of crepes. And you can't beat a classic ham-based filling for a crepe.
Easy really: make a bechemel sauce, saute an onion and some sliced mushrooms, grate some gruyere, and add the cheese, onions and 'shrooms to the sauce. Make the crepes, keep them warm, put two thin slices of ham on each and smear liberally with the sauce. Then whack them in a hot oven for a few minutes.
Wow.
I was pretty hacked off that two supermarkets and three health food stores between them couldn't muster a bag of buckwheat flour, but consoled myself with vast quantities of crepes. And you can't beat a classic ham-based filling for a crepe.
Easy really: make a bechemel sauce, saute an onion and some sliced mushrooms, grate some gruyere, and add the cheese, onions and 'shrooms to the sauce. Make the crepes, keep them warm, put two thin slices of ham on each and smear liberally with the sauce. Then whack them in a hot oven for a few minutes.
Wow.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
5 year old Gouda tops bill at cheese party
Last Thursday I hosted a Cheese, Port & Chess night. It was a throwback to uni halls, where a few of us used to waste all manner of late-night time playing chess and necking cheap port - most of the same crew were in attendance again. The eventual winner was a guy who wasn't part of that original Linstead crew but used to be some kind of U12s champion back-in-the-day.
We added a cheese element to the night and boy did the lads make an effort. Pretty much everyone turned up not only with a bottle of port but with a piece of cheese or two. we ended up with nigh-on twenty cheeses to choose from. A week later and my fridge is still rammed. Rachel and I emptied our wallets in Whole Foods Market, coming away with a selection of things. Others ventured elsewhere including Borough Market. as someone pointed out, there was almost no doubling up.
Highlights included:
We added a cheese element to the night and boy did the lads make an effort. Pretty much everyone turned up not only with a bottle of port but with a piece of cheese or two. we ended up with nigh-on twenty cheeses to choose from. A week later and my fridge is still rammed. Rachel and I emptied our wallets in Whole Foods Market, coming away with a selection of things. Others ventured elsewhere including Borough Market. as someone pointed out, there was almost no doubling up.
Highlights included:
- a 5 year old Gouda - with almost fudge-like colour and texture, and an incredible dark nutty flavour
- some knock-your-face-off Gorgonzola
- something prehistoric wrapped in leaves, mould and stench, which must have been smuggled past customs
- Brie de Melun (puts your normal Brie de Meaux to shame)
- a lovely light creamy cheese from Borough laced with chilli
- some tasty Gruyère
- Saint Felicien
- Fourme d'Ambert
- Camembert
- a nice Caerphilly
- a massive chunk of Manchego
- a Crottin de Chavignol
- and an excellent Stilton.
Port highlights included a nice white port, and a Dow's 1991 which I'd been saving up for a while. Sadly, there aren't any photos of the night, but a lot of good memories.
The only problem is, if I ever have the good fortune to have a stag night, how can I top it?
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Edinburgh's recent heavyweights: The Plumed Horse vs The Kitchin
Mainly thanks to having the bestest parents in the world, I've been fortunate to eat out in two of the hotshot restaurants of the time in Edinburgh in recent months. Edinburgh's restaurant scene has been described as "burgeoning" since the middle ages, with dockland Leith, in particular, the focal point. Both The Plumed Horse, and The Kitchin are in this area. Both lived up to their illustrious reputations.
The Plumed Horse is in real Trainspotting territory. On an unpromising street in...well, nowhere to be honest, it's an inauspicious start. We went there courtesy of my mum as a joint celebration for differing successes for myself and my dad. The atmosphere is robust and lively. In a side room there was a group getting loudly and enjoyably smashed; happily, the staff didn't look embarrassed or apologetic, but got on with their jobs amicably. The rotund maitre d' provided exceptional banter, of the sort that makes you feel at home and at ease. Enjoyment was the name of the game here.
The food, though far from cheap, was excellent. Canapés and amuses bouches were a cracking start, but my foie gras terrine took things to the next level - lush, rich, but not over the top. An undoubted highlight. We universally agreed that the main courses were oversalted, but that was a minor detail; I plumped for a pork offering, consisting of pork fillet (superb) combined with belly (less so). The fudge and ginger parfait for dessert was highly inventive and tasty, although I felt it was overly chilled.
Fast forward a few months to today. We've been meaning to go to The Kitchin for years now, but have always been foiled either by circumstance or lack of space. It's always been top of our "must do" list, and finally today was the day - in my birthday honour, no less. It's a different experience. Part of the "trendy yet bleak" Commercial Quay restaurant development, which is the sort of place you parachute yourself into for a meal, then escape from in a taxi forthwith, the decor is a stylish and well thought out charcoal grey, in a spacious, modern interior. Very impressive. The canapés, this time cheese pastries and parsnip crisps, were forgettable, however the amuse bouche of cock-a-leekie soup was superb; clearly a showboat for the chefs' broth-making skills, it did the job perfectly. From then on the quality was uniformly high. I had langoustine ravioli in a langoustine bisque for starter. I had a slight quibble that the foam on the bisque would have been better removed as the texture wasn't quite right, but the flavour was wonderfully rich. Julienned and grated vegetables in the bisque added interest. Elsewhere "thumbs up" reports came for the ox tongue and pig's head terrine.
The service was the downer. Identikit skinny, twenty-something males promoting the Auld Alliance with their peculiar brand of Franco-Scottishness, were overly obsequious - one even bowing as he introduced the canapés. It was all a bit much and a hint of personality and even individuality would have been nice. They do have the natural advantage, however, that they are serving top grade food, and the main course of mutton did not disappoint. Consting of a chop, a herbed and spiced croquette of minced pork, and what was either a sweetbread or even a piece of veal, all sitting on a bed of cumin-enhanced aubergine caviar, this was a real winner, with the croquette the highlight. Other corners of the table expressed their approval of a squid dish. The chocolate soufflé was a knockout winner - with superb caramel ice cream just taking the mickey. A nice glass of Australian Muscat rounded off the meal admirably. The set menu was unusually interesting and didn't make you look longingly at the expensive a la carte.
So - which to go for? The Plumed Horse was one of the best all round restaurant experiences I've ever had - only slightly let down by slight basic errors like over salting and over chilling. At this level, anything less than perfection can be a let down. The Kitchin, on the other hand, edged it on the culinary front, but suffered by comparison where ambience was concerned. I'll call it a (high-scoring) draw; if you can see past the "yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir" slender youths serving your food, the the Kitchin may be the best bet; personally, I had a slightly more enjoyable time at the Plumed Horse. This is all hair splitting though; both are exquisite.
The Plumed Horse is in real Trainspotting territory. On an unpromising street in...well, nowhere to be honest, it's an inauspicious start. We went there courtesy of my mum as a joint celebration for differing successes for myself and my dad. The atmosphere is robust and lively. In a side room there was a group getting loudly and enjoyably smashed; happily, the staff didn't look embarrassed or apologetic, but got on with their jobs amicably. The rotund maitre d' provided exceptional banter, of the sort that makes you feel at home and at ease. Enjoyment was the name of the game here.
The food, though far from cheap, was excellent. Canapés and amuses bouches were a cracking start, but my foie gras terrine took things to the next level - lush, rich, but not over the top. An undoubted highlight. We universally agreed that the main courses were oversalted, but that was a minor detail; I plumped for a pork offering, consisting of pork fillet (superb) combined with belly (less so). The fudge and ginger parfait for dessert was highly inventive and tasty, although I felt it was overly chilled.
Fast forward a few months to today. We've been meaning to go to The Kitchin for years now, but have always been foiled either by circumstance or lack of space. It's always been top of our "must do" list, and finally today was the day - in my birthday honour, no less. It's a different experience. Part of the "trendy yet bleak" Commercial Quay restaurant development, which is the sort of place you parachute yourself into for a meal, then escape from in a taxi forthwith, the decor is a stylish and well thought out charcoal grey, in a spacious, modern interior. Very impressive. The canapés, this time cheese pastries and parsnip crisps, were forgettable, however the amuse bouche of cock-a-leekie soup was superb; clearly a showboat for the chefs' broth-making skills, it did the job perfectly. From then on the quality was uniformly high. I had langoustine ravioli in a langoustine bisque for starter. I had a slight quibble that the foam on the bisque would have been better removed as the texture wasn't quite right, but the flavour was wonderfully rich. Julienned and grated vegetables in the bisque added interest. Elsewhere "thumbs up" reports came for the ox tongue and pig's head terrine.
The service was the downer. Identikit skinny, twenty-something males promoting the Auld Alliance with their peculiar brand of Franco-Scottishness, were overly obsequious - one even bowing as he introduced the canapés. It was all a bit much and a hint of personality and even individuality would have been nice. They do have the natural advantage, however, that they are serving top grade food, and the main course of mutton did not disappoint. Consting of a chop, a herbed and spiced croquette of minced pork, and what was either a sweetbread or even a piece of veal, all sitting on a bed of cumin-enhanced aubergine caviar, this was a real winner, with the croquette the highlight. Other corners of the table expressed their approval of a squid dish. The chocolate soufflé was a knockout winner - with superb caramel ice cream just taking the mickey. A nice glass of Australian Muscat rounded off the meal admirably. The set menu was unusually interesting and didn't make you look longingly at the expensive a la carte.
So - which to go for? The Plumed Horse was one of the best all round restaurant experiences I've ever had - only slightly let down by slight basic errors like over salting and over chilling. At this level, anything less than perfection can be a let down. The Kitchin, on the other hand, edged it on the culinary front, but suffered by comparison where ambience was concerned. I'll call it a (high-scoring) draw; if you can see past the "yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir" slender youths serving your food, the the Kitchin may be the best bet; personally, I had a slightly more enjoyable time at the Plumed Horse. This is all hair splitting though; both are exquisite.
Friday, 26 March 2010
Patogh, Crawford Place - review
The Edgware Road area is rapidly becoming my favourite part of London. Following on from my recent visit to Abu Zaad, I found myself back in the area on Wednesday meeting my dad. We needed a quick bite and although, once again, it was "no chance" of a table at Mandalay, we managed to get ourselves into Patogh, tucked away in Crawford Place.
There are only four tables. It was full when I did my recce, and although I was told that I'd be able to get a table between 9 and half past, I thought it prudent to nip in at 9:05 and tell then that we were still finishing our pints next door. Prudent it was: when we arrived ten minutes later, we were in the nick of time, as we swept past a group who were about to be given our table. They departed hissing and snarling.
Patogh serves simple Iranian cuisine. The menu is limited, and I was slightly taken aback by the choice of main courses - basically a choice of lamb or chicken cooked in "special sauce". This sounded deeply unpromising. The choice of starters isn't enormous either - it's mostly salads.
We plumped for a mixed starter option, consisting of hummus, yoghurt and a sort of cucumber-and-tomato salad, and another salad option which was mostly feta and walnuts. It's definitely out-of-doors, summer food - refreshing stuff. They seemed to have a run on mint: I ate more of the stuff in one sitting than I normally consume in a year. Simple, satisfying fare.
The real star of the show was the bread - order a "large bread" and you'll be presented with a behemoth of a flatbread that takes over half the table. Between three of us we made a manful effort but barely got through half of it, and another one appeared with each of our main courses. The bread itself was wonderfully flavoursome and textured, with a heavy preponderance of sesame seeds; Perfect for mopping up yoghurt and throwing some mint leaves onto.
The main courses were simple grilled meat, with salad and more mint leaves, with more of that bread. Again, it was simple, with just the right mix of tenderness, smokiness and flavour. As grilled meat goes, it was up there with somewhere like Tayyabs.
As for the service and atmosphere, it wasn't much to speak of. The cramped space stifles the ambience somewhat, and compared to Abu Zaad and other larger places around the corner on the Edgware Road, it's not nearly as much fun. The staff were friendly enough - no complaints.
It's not a place to go for elaborate Iranian cuisine, but as a place to get fresh, rough street food it's another great arrow to have in the quiver. A place to check out if you're looking for a west London meal for less than £20 a head - but worth storing their number and calling ahead if you want a table. Recommended.
Other reviews from the Standard here and Time Out here.
There are only four tables. It was full when I did my recce, and although I was told that I'd be able to get a table between 9 and half past, I thought it prudent to nip in at 9:05 and tell then that we were still finishing our pints next door. Prudent it was: when we arrived ten minutes later, we were in the nick of time, as we swept past a group who were about to be given our table. They departed hissing and snarling.
Patogh serves simple Iranian cuisine. The menu is limited, and I was slightly taken aback by the choice of main courses - basically a choice of lamb or chicken cooked in "special sauce". This sounded deeply unpromising. The choice of starters isn't enormous either - it's mostly salads.
We plumped for a mixed starter option, consisting of hummus, yoghurt and a sort of cucumber-and-tomato salad, and another salad option which was mostly feta and walnuts. It's definitely out-of-doors, summer food - refreshing stuff. They seemed to have a run on mint: I ate more of the stuff in one sitting than I normally consume in a year. Simple, satisfying fare.
The real star of the show was the bread - order a "large bread" and you'll be presented with a behemoth of a flatbread that takes over half the table. Between three of us we made a manful effort but barely got through half of it, and another one appeared with each of our main courses. The bread itself was wonderfully flavoursome and textured, with a heavy preponderance of sesame seeds; Perfect for mopping up yoghurt and throwing some mint leaves onto.
The main courses were simple grilled meat, with salad and more mint leaves, with more of that bread. Again, it was simple, with just the right mix of tenderness, smokiness and flavour. As grilled meat goes, it was up there with somewhere like Tayyabs.
As for the service and atmosphere, it wasn't much to speak of. The cramped space stifles the ambience somewhat, and compared to Abu Zaad and other larger places around the corner on the Edgware Road, it's not nearly as much fun. The staff were friendly enough - no complaints.
It's not a place to go for elaborate Iranian cuisine, but as a place to get fresh, rough street food it's another great arrow to have in the quiver. A place to check out if you're looking for a west London meal for less than £20 a head - but worth storing their number and calling ahead if you want a table. Recommended.
Other reviews from the Standard here and Time Out here.
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Abu Zaad, Edgware Road - review
This is the first time I've written a restaurant review on here, although it won't be the last! At the weekend we rather naively turned up at Mandalay without a reservation: don't even think about it. Another time we'll be more organised. Anyhow, Edgware Road is hardly short of places to eat...the question was WHERE without just defaulting to one of the Maroush/Ranoush chain (which seems like half the street). Don't get me wrong, the shawarma from Ranoush Juice (under £4) is as good as you'll get, but it feels like a bit of a cop-out to go there every time. The only other place I'd heard of, Patogh, a Persian place on one of the side streets, was also rammed (Saturday evening at primetime!) so we were forced to go offpiste and just plump for somewhere on spec.
We were tempted by a large Iraqi place (on one of the main corners, with neon lights, can't remember the name) as it had an interesting looking menu and was packed out with Arabic-looking people (a cliched way of choosing somewhere, but I always swear by it). It was slightly pricier than other places. One to check for the future.
In the end though, we went for a place called Abu Zaad (the website only mentions a Shepherd's Bush branch, but it's undoubtedly the same chain). It describes itself as being "Damascene" cooking, in other words Syrian. It was very busy and looked promising, so we gave it a go.
It was just my kind of place. Bright lights, plastic tables, groups of (mostly) Middle Eastern men speaking Arabic, Middle Eastern football on the telly, no alcohol baby! Between the two of us we opted for three mezze - hummous (a little bit rich for my taste, I perfer a little bit more zing and texture), some kofta-style meatballs (I always forget what the name of them is) and some moutabal - a very typical Middle Eastern dish - pureed aubergine with a hint of sesame and lemon juice, with the completely liquidised texture that us so typical of that cuisine. All were good.. My freshly squeezed apple juice was excellent (bits of peel in it were a bit offputting!). I then had Sheikh Almehshi: courgettes stuffed with mincemeat, all cooked in yogurt. I had half expected this would mean it was in a creamy yogurt sauce, like a mild curry - I was slightly taken aback when I saw several baby courgettes swimming around in sour, watery yogurt. It was very nice, admittedly slightly too much of the sourness of the yogurt for my taste, but well done nonetheless. Rachel's mixed grill was solid.
It's interesting to note the (far more professional) review of Bellaphon, who seems to go regularly and drew similar conclusions to me. Overall, I was very happy with the choice - exactly what I was hoping for in terms of experience, less sterile than Maroush/Ranoush and while the food might not have been quite as slick, for me it was a much more interesting & enjoyable. Food 7/10, atmosphere 10/10, overall: recommended, and a good one to have in the armoury if you're standing lost on the Edgware Road.
We were tempted by a large Iraqi place (on one of the main corners, with neon lights, can't remember the name) as it had an interesting looking menu and was packed out with Arabic-looking people (a cliched way of choosing somewhere, but I always swear by it). It was slightly pricier than other places. One to check for the future.
In the end though, we went for a place called Abu Zaad (the website only mentions a Shepherd's Bush branch, but it's undoubtedly the same chain). It describes itself as being "Damascene" cooking, in other words Syrian. It was very busy and looked promising, so we gave it a go.
It was just my kind of place. Bright lights, plastic tables, groups of (mostly) Middle Eastern men speaking Arabic, Middle Eastern football on the telly, no alcohol baby! Between the two of us we opted for three mezze - hummous (a little bit rich for my taste, I perfer a little bit more zing and texture), some kofta-style meatballs (I always forget what the name of them is) and some moutabal - a very typical Middle Eastern dish - pureed aubergine with a hint of sesame and lemon juice, with the completely liquidised texture that us so typical of that cuisine. All were good.. My freshly squeezed apple juice was excellent (bits of peel in it were a bit offputting!). I then had Sheikh Almehshi: courgettes stuffed with mincemeat, all cooked in yogurt. I had half expected this would mean it was in a creamy yogurt sauce, like a mild curry - I was slightly taken aback when I saw several baby courgettes swimming around in sour, watery yogurt. It was very nice, admittedly slightly too much of the sourness of the yogurt for my taste, but well done nonetheless. Rachel's mixed grill was solid.
It's interesting to note the (far more professional) review of Bellaphon, who seems to go regularly and drew similar conclusions to me. Overall, I was very happy with the choice - exactly what I was hoping for in terms of experience, less sterile than Maroush/Ranoush and while the food might not have been quite as slick, for me it was a much more interesting & enjoyable. Food 7/10, atmosphere 10/10, overall: recommended, and a good one to have in the armoury if you're standing lost on the Edgware Road.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
A tourist in Wembley: something I wrote a few months ago
I actually wrote this in December last year, never got round to putting it up though...
The idea sprang into my mind as I brushed away the cobwebs of a three-star hangover (in film review speak: there were moments where it asserted itself, but hardly memorable). It being a while since I had the time to do so, I indulged in all the essential pursuits of the lone hungover male (shuffling around in tracksuit bottoms, yesterday’s boxers and Moroccan slippers – check; copious scrotum scratching in front of Saturday Kitchen and Sky Sports News – check; bacon sarnie, cup of tea and, joy of joys, the discovery of a leftover microwaveable choccie pudding – check). Selflessness not being one of Eoghan’s greatest virtues, I was desperate to find something to take the place of Christmas shopping, so I was relieved to remind myself that I’d been meaning to have a poke around Wembley for some months.
The arch of the stadium dominates the skyline for miles around, but upon exiting the tube station one is confronted by the sleek, elegant behemoth of the structure itself. Corporate messages and pseudo-inspirational guff (Bobby Moore this, Beckham that) are everywhere, and the vast swathes of huge glass windows give an uncomfortable feeling that behind each one is a skipload of prawn sandwiches accompanying the signing of contracts with backs turned to the on-pitch action, but it’s an undeniably beautiful monster.
A 20 minute walk takes you into Wembley proper – which at first sight seems like any other north London suburb – all the usual suspects. Wandering down the high street, a human crosswind nearly blew me off my feet; I flailed around, grabbed onto a lamppost and managed to escape the tempest of bodies – which, from a safe distance, I ascertained was the swarm of locust-humans piling into the Woolworths closing down sale.
Death came even closer as I leapt unwisely in front of a bus en route to the haven of an Oxfam. A Jonathan Raban book on his travels in the Mississippi looks brilliant after only a few pages – and contains the phrase “inefficient pornography” which was worth the price alone. This was joined by a small Madhur Jaffrey compendium, a cocktail book and some Shakespeare (Twelfth Night). Then it was time to peruse the records, and with my digger hat on, I wondered what the casual observer would make of my haul which consisted of Tchaikovsky’s first piano concerto, a High Contrast drum & bass 12” and…Rick Astley. The shopkeeper remarked that there were more through the back and would I like to take a look; I nearly hugged him when I found the very un-chazza Urszula Dudziak’s Magic Lady (with “Samba Ulla”) for 59p, as well as Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis.
The real reason I was in the area was to visit Indian London. I had a vague idea – from past information gleaned from my friends Sanjiv and Paul and a short googling session – that Ealing Road was the place to go, so I sallied forth in that direction. The High Road meanders along, with pound shops and mobile fascia stores aplenty. I was impressed by the spectacularly vulgar suits sold in a local tailors; a gold tailcoat, I’m sure, would look fantastic on a pair of shoulders originating from the subcontinent, but the thought of one adorning the fragile frame of yours truly is just too horrific to bear. Although, I must say, I’m sorely tempted.
Wembley is, apparently, the most un-English area in London; more than half its residents were born outside the UK. I’m not an expert on the subcontinent, but from what I could glean from shopfronts and restaurants, there are a lot of Gujeratis and Sri Lankans around. It has a very different feel from, say, the Edgware Road. The latter has a romance about it – just by watching the groups of men chatting over shisha until 2am at the outside tables, you could easily imagine yourself drifting off to Beirut, whereas in Wembley one is still undoubtedly in London. In truth, wandering down the Ealing Road, I had expected the stretch of shops and restaurants to be larger, but contented myself to wandering back and forth along the street, taking in the sights, from the stunningly gorgeous girls behind the counters of the jewellery shops to the amusing sign over a shop proudly announcing Fireworks: Buy 1, Get 2 Free!
Food shops, however, were aplenty, and I visited several. Of course, I had to give the impression that I was on a buying mission and not a mere tourist, so I loaded myself up in each one. The first thing that surprised me was that Indian shops are not dominated by spices. In fact, although you can pick up enormous bags of fennel seeds, turmeric and cumin very easily, there were some spices conspicuous by their absence (I didn’t spot and mace or saffron, for example, all day). On the other hand, literally scores of different kinds of flour and ground pulses adorn the shelves of every place; First I entered a butchers. Staying true to my mantra to never pass a lamb’s heart without buying it, I also picked up some stewing mutton, and fennel seeds and garam masala which I later saw identical bags for half the price elsewhere. I drank a carton of a mango drink which slipped down nicely, although I’ve never been a massive fan of mango juice.
There are plenty of small shops and takaway joints selling both savoury and (especially) sweet snacks; when I saw a takeaway offering 3 dal wada for £1, my spirits rose. These were not dissimilar in texture to falafel, but had a delicious sweet, nutty, spiciness and I wolfed them down. Next up was a trip to one of the many cash-and-carries, where I emerged with cumin, whole coriander seeds, fenugreek and mustard seeds. I was thirsty again from the dal wada, and despite having an inherent dislike of coconut milk, was seduced by the thought of “when in Rome” and bought a can of the stuff, which had a little water and sugar thrown in to make a drink.
At the first sip, I was pleasantly surprised: it was pure and refreshing and, injecting myself with stereotypes and easing my imagination into fourth gear, I was able to imagine myself on a Goan beach, pouring the nectar down my throat. This reverie was cut short by the angry snarl of an old woman with numerous shopping bags, whose path I blocked. Sadly, the drink rapidly lost its appeal and the sudden appearance of lumps with the texture of feta almost made me deposit the aforementioned bacon sandwich, pudding and dal wada into the gutter.
Undeterred, I found my way into another shop where I filled up with all kinds of junk with which to clutter up the kitchen (any advice on what the hell to do with tamarind paste gratefully received). I was about to turn for home when on a hunch, I decided to explore a little further down the Ealing Road and, sure enough, the beating heart of Indian Wembley revealed itself past the houses. Vast cash-and-carries with rows of beautifully arranged fresh vegetables, street stalls selling sweet potato curry surrounded by youths consuming the same. There was no sign of either of the restaurants I was looking for as recommended by Paul and Sanjiv, though; any ideas, chaps? I plumped for the undisputed king of supermarkets, VB & Sons – a vast Lidlesque affair with row after row of sauces, pulses and spices. I emerged with some chapatti flour (no, I don’t know why either), cornflour, and dried coconut milk, the latter with an unpromising Nestle logo.
In VB, I’d say there were about 200 people shopping; I did a quick scout of each aisle and concluded that I was the only white face. London it might be, but this was another world. I was enlightened – the happiest I’d felt for a while. On the face of it, this was a walk around a grotty London suburb; for me, though, it was a micro-holiday, a few hours of forgetting everything else and getting lost in the atmosphere. The bus back to the tube station sailed past McDonalds and screaming police vans and my romantic blinkers were reluctantly ripped off.
The idea sprang into my mind as I brushed away the cobwebs of a three-star hangover (in film review speak: there were moments where it asserted itself, but hardly memorable). It being a while since I had the time to do so, I indulged in all the essential pursuits of the lone hungover male (shuffling around in tracksuit bottoms, yesterday’s boxers and Moroccan slippers – check; copious scrotum scratching in front of Saturday Kitchen and Sky Sports News – check; bacon sarnie, cup of tea and, joy of joys, the discovery of a leftover microwaveable choccie pudding – check). Selflessness not being one of Eoghan’s greatest virtues, I was desperate to find something to take the place of Christmas shopping, so I was relieved to remind myself that I’d been meaning to have a poke around Wembley for some months.
The arch of the stadium dominates the skyline for miles around, but upon exiting the tube station one is confronted by the sleek, elegant behemoth of the structure itself. Corporate messages and pseudo-inspirational guff (Bobby Moore this, Beckham that) are everywhere, and the vast swathes of huge glass windows give an uncomfortable feeling that behind each one is a skipload of prawn sandwiches accompanying the signing of contracts with backs turned to the on-pitch action, but it’s an undeniably beautiful monster.
A 20 minute walk takes you into Wembley proper – which at first sight seems like any other north London suburb – all the usual suspects. Wandering down the high street, a human crosswind nearly blew me off my feet; I flailed around, grabbed onto a lamppost and managed to escape the tempest of bodies – which, from a safe distance, I ascertained was the swarm of locust-humans piling into the Woolworths closing down sale.
Death came even closer as I leapt unwisely in front of a bus en route to the haven of an Oxfam. A Jonathan Raban book on his travels in the Mississippi looks brilliant after only a few pages – and contains the phrase “inefficient pornography” which was worth the price alone. This was joined by a small Madhur Jaffrey compendium, a cocktail book and some Shakespeare (Twelfth Night). Then it was time to peruse the records, and with my digger hat on, I wondered what the casual observer would make of my haul which consisted of Tchaikovsky’s first piano concerto, a High Contrast drum & bass 12” and…Rick Astley. The shopkeeper remarked that there were more through the back and would I like to take a look; I nearly hugged him when I found the very un-chazza Urszula Dudziak’s Magic Lady (with “Samba Ulla”) for 59p, as well as Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis.
The real reason I was in the area was to visit Indian London. I had a vague idea – from past information gleaned from my friends Sanjiv and Paul and a short googling session – that Ealing Road was the place to go, so I sallied forth in that direction. The High Road meanders along, with pound shops and mobile fascia stores aplenty. I was impressed by the spectacularly vulgar suits sold in a local tailors; a gold tailcoat, I’m sure, would look fantastic on a pair of shoulders originating from the subcontinent, but the thought of one adorning the fragile frame of yours truly is just too horrific to bear. Although, I must say, I’m sorely tempted.
Wembley is, apparently, the most un-English area in London; more than half its residents were born outside the UK. I’m not an expert on the subcontinent, but from what I could glean from shopfronts and restaurants, there are a lot of Gujeratis and Sri Lankans around. It has a very different feel from, say, the Edgware Road. The latter has a romance about it – just by watching the groups of men chatting over shisha until 2am at the outside tables, you could easily imagine yourself drifting off to Beirut, whereas in Wembley one is still undoubtedly in London. In truth, wandering down the Ealing Road, I had expected the stretch of shops and restaurants to be larger, but contented myself to wandering back and forth along the street, taking in the sights, from the stunningly gorgeous girls behind the counters of the jewellery shops to the amusing sign over a shop proudly announcing Fireworks: Buy 1, Get 2 Free!
Food shops, however, were aplenty, and I visited several. Of course, I had to give the impression that I was on a buying mission and not a mere tourist, so I loaded myself up in each one. The first thing that surprised me was that Indian shops are not dominated by spices. In fact, although you can pick up enormous bags of fennel seeds, turmeric and cumin very easily, there were some spices conspicuous by their absence (I didn’t spot and mace or saffron, for example, all day). On the other hand, literally scores of different kinds of flour and ground pulses adorn the shelves of every place; First I entered a butchers. Staying true to my mantra to never pass a lamb’s heart without buying it, I also picked up some stewing mutton, and fennel seeds and garam masala which I later saw identical bags for half the price elsewhere. I drank a carton of a mango drink which slipped down nicely, although I’ve never been a massive fan of mango juice.
There are plenty of small shops and takaway joints selling both savoury and (especially) sweet snacks; when I saw a takeaway offering 3 dal wada for £1, my spirits rose. These were not dissimilar in texture to falafel, but had a delicious sweet, nutty, spiciness and I wolfed them down. Next up was a trip to one of the many cash-and-carries, where I emerged with cumin, whole coriander seeds, fenugreek and mustard seeds. I was thirsty again from the dal wada, and despite having an inherent dislike of coconut milk, was seduced by the thought of “when in Rome” and bought a can of the stuff, which had a little water and sugar thrown in to make a drink.
At the first sip, I was pleasantly surprised: it was pure and refreshing and, injecting myself with stereotypes and easing my imagination into fourth gear, I was able to imagine myself on a Goan beach, pouring the nectar down my throat. This reverie was cut short by the angry snarl of an old woman with numerous shopping bags, whose path I blocked. Sadly, the drink rapidly lost its appeal and the sudden appearance of lumps with the texture of feta almost made me deposit the aforementioned bacon sandwich, pudding and dal wada into the gutter.
Undeterred, I found my way into another shop where I filled up with all kinds of junk with which to clutter up the kitchen (any advice on what the hell to do with tamarind paste gratefully received). I was about to turn for home when on a hunch, I decided to explore a little further down the Ealing Road and, sure enough, the beating heart of Indian Wembley revealed itself past the houses. Vast cash-and-carries with rows of beautifully arranged fresh vegetables, street stalls selling sweet potato curry surrounded by youths consuming the same. There was no sign of either of the restaurants I was looking for as recommended by Paul and Sanjiv, though; any ideas, chaps? I plumped for the undisputed king of supermarkets, VB & Sons – a vast Lidlesque affair with row after row of sauces, pulses and spices. I emerged with some chapatti flour (no, I don’t know why either), cornflour, and dried coconut milk, the latter with an unpromising Nestle logo.
In VB, I’d say there were about 200 people shopping; I did a quick scout of each aisle and concluded that I was the only white face. London it might be, but this was another world. I was enlightened – the happiest I’d felt for a while. On the face of it, this was a walk around a grotty London suburb; for me, though, it was a micro-holiday, a few hours of forgetting everything else and getting lost in the atmosphere. The bus back to the tube station sailed past McDonalds and screaming police vans and my romantic blinkers were reluctantly ripped off.
Sunday, 30 August 2009
Real British food: up with the best
The problem with comparing national cuisines is that too often people just miss the point. The great foods of the world aren’t the banquets; they’re not the restaurant dishes. Rather, they’re the peasant dishes, the street food, the things Mama made when you were small.
On that count, British food is up with the the best of anywhere. But you have to be selective with what you choose.
Ask your average Joe “what is the quintessential British dish?” and you’ll get “Roast Beef and Yorkshire pudding” trotted out time and time again. The problems with RB&YP are manifold. For a start, it’s not universally eaten. These days it’s more often served in pubs than at home (more on pub grub later); Yorkshire pudding isn’t always served (and when it is, its usually out of a packet); and it’s not particularly unique (Britain isn’t the only place roast meat is eaten). Far more importantly, perhaps, it’s just not a great dish. Yorkshire pudding itself is both unique and delicious, and therefore a British classic, but the most British aspect of a Sunday roast is, perhaps, the traditional appallingness of the vegetables. Putting RB&YP to one side and considering the “Sunday roast” more generally (a tired, middle-class tradition if ever there was one), apart from some accompaniments, there’s nothing British about it.
It’s the “veg” part of the “meat-and-two…” that strikes fear into the hearts of the Frenchies, and practically anyone else who drums up clichés of awful British cooking. Boiled carrot. Boiled sprouts. Boiled cabbage. Boiled peas. Boiled broccoli. You get the trend? All served with no seasoning whatsoever, cooked to within an inch of their lives and sitting, limply and sadly, swamped in gravy. Only the mighty roast potato can hold its own.
As a side note, the exception to the “boring roast” rule is Christmas dinner which is a world-class affair, but even then it thrives from occasion rather than cuisine. The sprouts-and-chestnuts combo perks things up, but it’s all a prelude to Christmas pudding (of which more later).
I swore to myself that when I wrote this I wouldn’t get bogged down with the Sunday roast, so instead I wanted to think about what THE great national dish would be. There are some criteria which I think are vital for something to be a truly national dish:
1. It must be unique to that country, or at least have an association so strong that when the name is mentioned, the country instantly leaps to mind.
2. It must be accessible. The ingredients have to be easily obtainable, not over-expensive, and perhaps most importantly, it must be easy for unskilled cooks to concoct.
3. It must be universal – geographically (not a speciality so regional that only a couple of counties consume it) and it must be something that’s eaten regularly by young and old, working class and middle class.
4. Ideally, it should be a dish to be proud of and worth celebrating.
There’s only one obvious answer that fits all these criteria, for me. It’s the BREAKFAST. Our true national dish is surely the fry, the “full English”, the all-day breakfast. It’s universal across Britain and Ireland, eaten regularly by all (the Breakfast transcends class divisions), easy to do at home, indeed it’s a highlight of many people’s weekend. Whether it’s (apologies in advance for resorting to clichés) working men in a caff having an all-day fry on their break from the site, or 2.4 children family having their breakfast with the Sunday papers, it remains an institution.
One of the great things about the Breakfast is that it can be as simple or elaborate as you like. The basics: bacon, fried eggs, toast (preferably white, and usually out of a packet…bread isn’t a British speciality) and a drink, normally tea; coffee just doesn’t go with grease.
Then there are the sundries, which it would insult the reader’s intelligence to go into in detail, but for the record must be listed. Sausages – unlikely to be of great quality, but the next-most-essential participant after bacon and eggs; fried mushrooms; grilled tomato; baked beans; black pudding (a truly magnificent dish on its own but sadly less common these days); hash browns; chips; orange juice.
I’m not well travelled at all, but when I go abroad what I like best is to ignore the flashy places, the tourist traps and the gourmet stuff, and head for the local joints and the market stalls. In Marrakech, my second favourite meal was at a market stall on the main square, the Jamaa el Fna. This square (it’ll be the one on the postcard from your sister) is heaving with stalls selling excellent ranges of meatballs, sausages and so on – but not a single Moroccan to be seen eating there. My girlfriend and I picked out a stall populated exclusively by Moroccan men – there were only two dishes on offer: a bowl of bean gruel, or cow’s head. I regret to report that neither of us had the stomach for the head and opted instead for the gruel – an uplifting, warming dish, served with the ubiquitous mint tea – which had a ratio of one large box of sugar cubes to every pot.
In a similar way, it’s the caffs of Britain where our culture really lies, and the Breakfast is the dish of choice there. My weak efforts are shameful in comparison to Russell Davies’s wonderful eggsbaconchipsandbeans blog which says all that has to be said. Whether chips have a place in a Breakfast is a mater of debate, but it’s a minor quibble with such a fantastic piece of work. It’s a labour of love and the enthusiasm he projects is something to die for.
The sandwich
Again, it ticks all the boxes: universal, accessible and definitely British. It’s so universal, in fact, that it’s easy to wolf one down without noticing that you’re eating it; I mean, when was the last time a sandwich was the highlight of your day? (I know the answer to that one actually – it was the last time I had a roast lamb sandwich, with Yorkshire pudding, roast spuds and mint sauce as well as various other trimmings, at Fuzzy's Grub).
The twin pillars upon which the reputation of the sandwich stands are the ham sandwich and the cheese. Not being a huge Cheddar fan, cheese sandwiches have never appealed to me personally – but I’ll never underestimate their importance. Throw in a bit of pickle, and you have the Ploughman’s. The ham sandwich has become terribly debased but a good thick slice of ham with a touch of mustard – sandwich heaven.
Spare a thought for a couple of sandwich oddities: the cucumber – part of that bastion of the bourgeoisie, Afternoon Tea, of which more later – and the jam sandwich, sadly a dying breed.
Then, of course, let’s not forget the bacon sandwich. As Nigel Slater points out, you need white bread from a packet for this one. Margarine, bacon, a small squirt of ketchup or brown sauce and there you go. It’s a distant cousin of the Breakfast. The all-day-breakfast-sandwich is a bit contrived for me and gets marked with a big Fail.
Britain is a country that loves carbs in general in serious quantities. In Ireland it’s the same with an even heavier slant towards the potato, but this side of the water, we get through a load of bread, rice, pasta, and potatoes in various forms. The execrable boiled, the glorious roasted, mash (especially with sausages), and of course chips. Fish and chips isn’t a dish eaten at home but is an institution. Crunchy fluffy chips, light batter on the fish, please. Oh, and can I have mine from Edinburgh, with sauce. If you don’t know what I mean, then get up to Edinburgh. But I’m at the risk of drifting into regional specialities here. Whilst on the subject of carbs, another fatty way to get our calorific intake is through…
The pie
The pub classic. Now pub grub is a relatively recent phenomenon; pubs used to be for drinking (and smoking) in, and if you could get hold of a pickled egg or packet of pork scratchings you were doing just fine. For better or for worse (better, I reckon) you can get a meal in most pubs, although most places reckon they can get away with charging restaurant prices for distinctly under-par food. Central to pub food is the pie & pint. Meat pies are as English as you can get – everything from the Cornish pasty through to the pork pie. All are gluttonously decadent. None are healthy. All are enjoyable. A special mention to something which I’ve never tried but is next on my list – the classic East End “pie & mash” with liquor on the side. Manze is acknowledged as the best place in London to get your pie & mash – need to take a trip there soon.
Dessert
Many countries don’t “do” desserts. The Italians manage pannacotta and panettone. The Germans have various tasty pancake things. Even the French struggle, with tarte tatin, crème brulee and a handful of others. But I don’t think any cuisine celebrates sweet things as much as British. Puddings! Cakes! Pies! Sweetmeats! Visions of tea parties and picnics, of jelly-and-ice-cream birthdays, of chocolate decadence. British desserts are simple and delectable. The plain cake is the cornerstone of our desserts: good old-fashioned Victoria sponge, from which so many good things stem. Then there’s apple pie. Scones with jam and clotted cream. Talking of cream, there’s strawberries and aforementioned. Bakewell tart. Lemon meringue pie. The list goes on, and on, and on. Other countries may think that cheese is a sophisticated end to a meal, but that’s only because their desserts are rubbish. Long live the British dessert.
What of other classics? Many are bastardised versions of foreign dishes. Our huge immigrant population makes this country one of the most exciting places to live in the world, but sadly our acceptance for low standards means that those immigrants don’t always produce great food themselves. Tikka masala may be hailed as “the true national dish” but ultimately tikka, Chinese takeaways and rubbery pizzas are just poor imitations of great dishes from elsewhere. Debased versions of foreign cuisine are not British cooking at its finest. Rather, the old traditional dishes, the universal home-comfort favourites, are timeless and on a par with any bouillabaisse or paella.
On that count, British food is up with the the best of anywhere. But you have to be selective with what you choose.
Ask your average Joe “what is the quintessential British dish?” and you’ll get “Roast Beef and Yorkshire pudding” trotted out time and time again. The problems with RB&YP are manifold. For a start, it’s not universally eaten. These days it’s more often served in pubs than at home (more on pub grub later); Yorkshire pudding isn’t always served (and when it is, its usually out of a packet); and it’s not particularly unique (Britain isn’t the only place roast meat is eaten). Far more importantly, perhaps, it’s just not a great dish. Yorkshire pudding itself is both unique and delicious, and therefore a British classic, but the most British aspect of a Sunday roast is, perhaps, the traditional appallingness of the vegetables. Putting RB&YP to one side and considering the “Sunday roast” more generally (a tired, middle-class tradition if ever there was one), apart from some accompaniments, there’s nothing British about it.
It’s the “veg” part of the “meat-and-two…” that strikes fear into the hearts of the Frenchies, and practically anyone else who drums up clichés of awful British cooking. Boiled carrot. Boiled sprouts. Boiled cabbage. Boiled peas. Boiled broccoli. You get the trend? All served with no seasoning whatsoever, cooked to within an inch of their lives and sitting, limply and sadly, swamped in gravy. Only the mighty roast potato can hold its own.
As a side note, the exception to the “boring roast” rule is Christmas dinner which is a world-class affair, but even then it thrives from occasion rather than cuisine. The sprouts-and-chestnuts combo perks things up, but it’s all a prelude to Christmas pudding (of which more later).
I swore to myself that when I wrote this I wouldn’t get bogged down with the Sunday roast, so instead I wanted to think about what THE great national dish would be. There are some criteria which I think are vital for something to be a truly national dish:
1. It must be unique to that country, or at least have an association so strong that when the name is mentioned, the country instantly leaps to mind.
2. It must be accessible. The ingredients have to be easily obtainable, not over-expensive, and perhaps most importantly, it must be easy for unskilled cooks to concoct.
3. It must be universal – geographically (not a speciality so regional that only a couple of counties consume it) and it must be something that’s eaten regularly by young and old, working class and middle class.
4. Ideally, it should be a dish to be proud of and worth celebrating.
There’s only one obvious answer that fits all these criteria, for me. It’s the BREAKFAST. Our true national dish is surely the fry, the “full English”, the all-day breakfast. It’s universal across Britain and Ireland, eaten regularly by all (the Breakfast transcends class divisions), easy to do at home, indeed it’s a highlight of many people’s weekend. Whether it’s (apologies in advance for resorting to clichés) working men in a caff having an all-day fry on their break from the site, or 2.4 children family having their breakfast with the Sunday papers, it remains an institution.
One of the great things about the Breakfast is that it can be as simple or elaborate as you like. The basics: bacon, fried eggs, toast (preferably white, and usually out of a packet…bread isn’t a British speciality) and a drink, normally tea; coffee just doesn’t go with grease.
Then there are the sundries, which it would insult the reader’s intelligence to go into in detail, but for the record must be listed. Sausages – unlikely to be of great quality, but the next-most-essential participant after bacon and eggs; fried mushrooms; grilled tomato; baked beans; black pudding (a truly magnificent dish on its own but sadly less common these days); hash browns; chips; orange juice.
I’m not well travelled at all, but when I go abroad what I like best is to ignore the flashy places, the tourist traps and the gourmet stuff, and head for the local joints and the market stalls. In Marrakech, my second favourite meal was at a market stall on the main square, the Jamaa el Fna. This square (it’ll be the one on the postcard from your sister) is heaving with stalls selling excellent ranges of meatballs, sausages and so on – but not a single Moroccan to be seen eating there. My girlfriend and I picked out a stall populated exclusively by Moroccan men – there were only two dishes on offer: a bowl of bean gruel, or cow’s head. I regret to report that neither of us had the stomach for the head and opted instead for the gruel – an uplifting, warming dish, served with the ubiquitous mint tea – which had a ratio of one large box of sugar cubes to every pot.
In a similar way, it’s the caffs of Britain where our culture really lies, and the Breakfast is the dish of choice there. My weak efforts are shameful in comparison to Russell Davies’s wonderful eggsbaconchipsandbeans blog which says all that has to be said. Whether chips have a place in a Breakfast is a mater of debate, but it’s a minor quibble with such a fantastic piece of work. It’s a labour of love and the enthusiasm he projects is something to die for.
The sandwich
Again, it ticks all the boxes: universal, accessible and definitely British. It’s so universal, in fact, that it’s easy to wolf one down without noticing that you’re eating it; I mean, when was the last time a sandwich was the highlight of your day? (I know the answer to that one actually – it was the last time I had a roast lamb sandwich, with Yorkshire pudding, roast spuds and mint sauce as well as various other trimmings, at Fuzzy's Grub).
The twin pillars upon which the reputation of the sandwich stands are the ham sandwich and the cheese. Not being a huge Cheddar fan, cheese sandwiches have never appealed to me personally – but I’ll never underestimate their importance. Throw in a bit of pickle, and you have the Ploughman’s. The ham sandwich has become terribly debased but a good thick slice of ham with a touch of mustard – sandwich heaven.
Spare a thought for a couple of sandwich oddities: the cucumber – part of that bastion of the bourgeoisie, Afternoon Tea, of which more later – and the jam sandwich, sadly a dying breed.
Then, of course, let’s not forget the bacon sandwich. As Nigel Slater points out, you need white bread from a packet for this one. Margarine, bacon, a small squirt of ketchup or brown sauce and there you go. It’s a distant cousin of the Breakfast. The all-day-breakfast-sandwich is a bit contrived for me and gets marked with a big Fail.
Britain is a country that loves carbs in general in serious quantities. In Ireland it’s the same with an even heavier slant towards the potato, but this side of the water, we get through a load of bread, rice, pasta, and potatoes in various forms. The execrable boiled, the glorious roasted, mash (especially with sausages), and of course chips. Fish and chips isn’t a dish eaten at home but is an institution. Crunchy fluffy chips, light batter on the fish, please. Oh, and can I have mine from Edinburgh, with sauce. If you don’t know what I mean, then get up to Edinburgh. But I’m at the risk of drifting into regional specialities here. Whilst on the subject of carbs, another fatty way to get our calorific intake is through…
The pie
The pub classic. Now pub grub is a relatively recent phenomenon; pubs used to be for drinking (and smoking) in, and if you could get hold of a pickled egg or packet of pork scratchings you were doing just fine. For better or for worse (better, I reckon) you can get a meal in most pubs, although most places reckon they can get away with charging restaurant prices for distinctly under-par food. Central to pub food is the pie & pint. Meat pies are as English as you can get – everything from the Cornish pasty through to the pork pie. All are gluttonously decadent. None are healthy. All are enjoyable. A special mention to something which I’ve never tried but is next on my list – the classic East End “pie & mash” with liquor on the side. Manze is acknowledged as the best place in London to get your pie & mash – need to take a trip there soon.
Dessert
Many countries don’t “do” desserts. The Italians manage pannacotta and panettone. The Germans have various tasty pancake things. Even the French struggle, with tarte tatin, crème brulee and a handful of others. But I don’t think any cuisine celebrates sweet things as much as British. Puddings! Cakes! Pies! Sweetmeats! Visions of tea parties and picnics, of jelly-and-ice-cream birthdays, of chocolate decadence. British desserts are simple and delectable. The plain cake is the cornerstone of our desserts: good old-fashioned Victoria sponge, from which so many good things stem. Then there’s apple pie. Scones with jam and clotted cream. Talking of cream, there’s strawberries and aforementioned. Bakewell tart. Lemon meringue pie. The list goes on, and on, and on. Other countries may think that cheese is a sophisticated end to a meal, but that’s only because their desserts are rubbish. Long live the British dessert.
What of other classics? Many are bastardised versions of foreign dishes. Our huge immigrant population makes this country one of the most exciting places to live in the world, but sadly our acceptance for low standards means that those immigrants don’t always produce great food themselves. Tikka masala may be hailed as “the true national dish” but ultimately tikka, Chinese takeaways and rubbery pizzas are just poor imitations of great dishes from elsewhere. Debased versions of foreign cuisine are not British cooking at its finest. Rather, the old traditional dishes, the universal home-comfort favourites, are timeless and on a par with any bouillabaisse or paella.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)