‘I Scream for Ice Cream’

I OFTEN wonder whether I will ever redeem the cost of my education. In a lean moment, having being rejected by John Lewis’ lighting department, I resorted to handing my heat-bound C.V. to a similarly dejected-looking ice cream vendor in central Milton Keynes. I never heard more, which was deeply unflattering.

I have, I suppose, always harboured an interest in matters soft scoop, probably because of my Italian mother. Although New Zealanders are supposed to eat the most, Italians consider good gelati a birthright. In my TV production days, I even pitched a profile on Rhyl legend ‘Degsy’, then ‘mobiler of the year’. I kid you not, his van bears the prose: ‘Forget the rest – lick the best’ and ‘Don’t Skid on a Kid’. There’s sage advice within those catchy rhymes…

The rain then did little to dampen my spirits for the launch of ‘Freggo’, a Mayfair parlour in receipt of some 7000kgs of frozen Argentina. Timely for our heat-wave(!) Bedecked in purple, marble and mirrors and brought to you by ‘Gaucho’ it represents the first U.K. outlet of the South American staple, known there as ‘Freddo’. The future was licked four decades ago when an exotic fruiterer in Buenos Aires thought to save over-ripe stock by churning it into ice cream.

Apparently the traditional way to serve it is high upon (rather than in) the cone, which takes practice. Having walked past the day before, I spied a fair few accidents meet the Swallow Street pavement. From the safety of a tub, I enjoyed grainy chocolate, which tasted slightly savoury with a suggestion of ‘Ex-Lax’ (which from memory tastes good). My friend was so moved by her generously fruity Banana Split that she said it ‘went deeper than licking.’ Goodness me. After two each (that’s 300g), not to mention curdling, celebratory flutes of Champagne, we laid down our plastic spoons and conceded victory. These are wonderful ice creams, but dense nonetheless... I plan to return to sample other decadent flavours like Malbec and Berries and of course Dulce de Leche, the sweetened milk beloved by any Argentinean with a tongue.

A chat with Freggo’s manageress revealed their late opening philosophy – providing a sweet alternative to our booze-culture…

FREGGO: 27–29 Swallow St., London. W1B 4QR

Mon-Weds: 8am-11pm; Thurs-Fri: 8am-2am, Sat12pm-2am, Sun: 12pm-11pm

FOR: Foodepedia

Rowley Leigh: Toast (anchovy)

“It’s a good, strong Essex bird,” said Rowley Leigh as he took me through his Label Anglais chicken. “Points to note: long, deep breast, good line of fat, a muscularity of drumstick which shows that it’s moved,” (he repeatedly pinched it) “and strong skin. There’s protein in that. When a French butcher came to flog us some kit, I showed him one of these and he gasped, ‘Ca c’est undeniably artisanal!’”

We sit on eau de nil banquettes facing the uncooked bird at ‘Le Café Anglais’, Leigh’s Bayswater restaurant famous for its rotisserie-spun poultry. “‘The Wallace’ does London’s second best chicken, and ‘La Petite Maison’, comes third. But we’re number one. And we use everything, including the heart, liver and carcass, which makes fantastic stock.”

What was a sprawling McDonald’s complete with a “dark paedophile’s corner” was rehabilitated into deco splendour by designer, Jane Ormsby-Gore, “the ‘Lady Jane’ of the Rolling Stones.” She elevated ceilings and unmasked windows, replacing plastic and polystyrene for chrome, oak and bird’s eye maple. Despite its shopping centre location and daunting scale (the liner like space seats 170), Leigh approached the project as instinctively as one “who would have been an architect in another life”. However the buoyant economy of 2007 “seems a long time ago,” when the project was actually oversubscribed by half a million pounds.

Now nearing 60, it seems that the chef portrayed by peers and critics as a ‘founding father of modern British cooking’ has taken his time to realise the dream of owning a grand restaurant. His unconventional patience is qualified by a brigade, “of journeymen and young kids, not all wannabe head chefs at age 22.”

Leigh studied English at Cambridge before dabbling in farming, enjoying “philosophical speculation going around a field on a tractor”. After an aborted attempt as a fiction writer and “afternoon man” he discovered a passion for cooking, “falling into” the role of grill chef at Covent Garden’s celebrity den, ‘Joe Allen's’. He learnt the grammar of cooking with the Roux brothers at the ‘Gavroche’ of Sloane Street, becoming buyer and “general factotum”. He quickly progressed to head chef at their city staple, ‘Le Poulbot’. Leigh still visits Le Gavroche for game, “proactively looking past the printed menu” for “woodcock, saddle of hare,” or “an offal lunch at the set lunch price.”

At weekends he moonlighted in the kitchen of university friend, Alastair Little, the self-taught chef celebrated for his then radical, ‘keep it simple’ approach. At “K.P.” (‘Kensington Place’) Leigh was foremost in placing as much emphasis on dining room design as food. He spent two decades crafting “enduring” British food, “stronger than fashion.” Amongst the legendary dishes were griddled foie gras and sweetcorn pancakes, beloved by a media clientele and locals alike. In addition to Little, he rates Mark Hix, a “creative spirit, who is brilliant at mining British food” and “making things better.”

As the first of three bottles arrives, we discuss his defiantly European list. “A savoury menu needs savoury wine; it underplays sweetness.” His liquid epiphany occured in the wake of the 1973 ‘Winegate’ scandal, when an esteemed shipper was found guilty of ‘improving’ Bordeaux with Rioja.

“My father bought some cheap bottles with damp labels - who knew what we would find? The first was a ‘62 Latour - most were first growths. The heavens opened. Blushful Hippocrene! But when I tried the same vintage a few years back, it didn’t recall quite the same magic...”

On the subject of critics, Leigh trusts “Adrian” (Gill) although finds “Giles” (Coren) by far the most funny. Despite broadly favourable appraisals for the Café Anglais, he jokes of bloggers, “I want to get a T-shirt printed saying, ‘Fuck-off - I don’t read you!”

Leigh himself is an established writer and three-time winner of the Glenfiddich award. Asked about the process, he quotes Thomas Mann, “...a writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people...” In addition to his column in the Financial Times, he is author of ‘No Place Like Home’, a celebration of domestic dishes on which “no restaurant can improve.”

Despite a sustained profile, when I ask if he is a celebrity, he vehemently denies. “It was the turn of photographers in the ‘60’s, hairdressers in the ‘70’s, bankers in the ‘80’s and chefs in ‘90’s. But we’ve had our day.” He briefly pauses for a sip of Claret, “if you want a real superstar, talk to accounts about ‘Roger the Egg Man’ – our only supplier to demand weekly payments!”

Waiting staff, including Leigh’s children, Ruth and Daisy collage our table with a rainbow of hors d’oeuvres. A dexterous, smoked kipper pate is my favourite (and it transpires, also his wife’s). When I ask what’s in the game terrine, he tut-tuts, “a gentleman doesn’t ask what’s in a terrine!” Whilst cooing over his signature Parmesan custard and anchovy toast, I suggest that the title of this dish could grace his gravestone. He immediately agrees and draws words in the air, “I see ‘Rowley Leigh’ - then in brackets, ‘Toast’...”

With such nurturing appetisers, then pike boudin, kid and lemon-scented chicken, I propose that the Leigh ‘genre’ could be described as ‘temperate bourgeois’. “How dare you!” he chides, “my situationist inner-self is not quite ready to take on the bourgeoisie’s mantle just yet!” This secret fanatic of the ‘Fray Bentos’ pie is however, “toying” with the idea of bringing back ham mousse, “last seen in ‘62.”

Whilst Leigh always intended the Café’s dining room to be democratic – purveying “affordable luxury”, from the moment it opened it attracted a “distinguished” clientele: royalty, sports stars and the “literati”. But despite the veil of civility, there will always be problematic customers. Leigh agrees with Anthony Worrall Thompson that the worst diners are unhappy couples, “incredibly impatient, wanting dinner over as fast as possible.” But he is rarely the Diva, having only thrown out one couple. “A chap called me ‘reprehensible’, with ‘appallingly greasy long hair’. Whilst I hadn’t had a trim in a while, it wasn’t ‘greasy’. So I tore up his bill and told him to ‘fuck-off’. But that was a failure. I prefer Michel Roux Senior’s method of sending-in commis waiters to remove the table.”

As I excavate Leigh’s lemon meringue pie, the ‘Queen of Puddings’ - a possible sign of his emerging “geriatric sweet tooth” - he explains the saga of ‘The Tropical Forest’, an enormous “botanical orgy” gracing the far wall. “Just after we opened, a customer put their elbow right through the canvas. At great expense, we had it repaired. I’m not sure whether or not it was the same chap, but it promptly happened again, almost immediately.” Other art includes sculptor Kenneth Armitage’s “scatological” sketches of ‘The Reeves Tale’, which hang in the bar. Whilst some people complain about the scene of copulating horses, Leigh is unfazed. “I’m thinking of buying a dysfunctional dolls house for the private room. The host has been flattened by marauding guests...”

Despite Leigh’s compelling and often dark humour, he remains a man of purpose. “I hope I’ve created something meaningful here, providing work for many people who look to me not only for money, but guidance and leadership. Le Café Anglais is not just a sweatshop, but a workshop, and we’ve built it to last…”

CAFE ANGLAIS: 8 Porchester Gardens, London. W2 4DB

FOR: Foodepedia

Waffling Onwards

AS A STUDENT, I toiled in an English vineyard, untangling tendrils, snipping windbreaks and scything through as much prejudice as weeds. It was hard, wet work, but kept me fit. Only cash caused problems. It took 300 hours to score £1,000. But nine years on, that still beats writing… Q. What do you call a commissioning editor? A. Writer’s block.

Its owner, Sam, was a prime salvager of pedigree tat. Guarding the drive, coade lions came from Nonsuch Park, the pillars propping the winery from Waterloo Station, and the winery barn (moved brick by numbered brick) from down the road. I really liked another find, a slender shop-front, tacked to the visitor centre. It had come off a little Cambridge café, famous before the bulldozer, for its Belgian waffles. Lighter, crispier and deeper pocketed than the thinner American, chewy Liège, heart-shaped Scandinavian and Dutch syrup sandwich.

Sam dreamt of bringing back dishes from the original menu: the bacon and egg ‘May Ball’ breakfast, the Ratatouille (ordered as ‘a Rat’) and the wildly hedonistic, Crème Chantilly with maple syrup. Having preserved the range and gimballed irons, he planned to install them in this idyllic new home, firing them up to a fortune. But family politics blocked the way.

I found a good ‘Waffle House’ whilst at UEA University. At the time, Norwich had become a national joke with kind regards to Alan Partridge. Unravelling behind a Georgian exterior was an intoxicatingly scented bohemian burrow: wicker shades, earthenware plates, organic batter and a sign advising patrons to ‘please wait to be Eated’.

Inspired by Sam and the Waffle House, I wanted to buy an iron of my own. But cook-shops could only offer me flimsy contraptions which crimped waffles in gaudy shapes. I set my sites further. £100 (3o hours in the vineyard) bought both a return flight to Brussels and a beautiful Teflon-coated machine capable of baking two waffles at once. I have since crafted mixes that smell sublime enough to sell a house.

Last Sunday I discovered that Norwich’s Waffle House has siblings. One in South Africa; the other, St. Albans. Established 25 years ago, the one closer to home takes the heavenly setting of a sixteenth century mill where the river Ver still turns the paddles.

Catching jasmine scents beside a stream, I sipped a thick malty milkshake from a narrow straw, which thoughtfully slowed the flow. Organic flour is ground upstream between French Burr stones. These contain quartz crystals meaning sharp grinding edges which won’t chip into the flour. With every tinkle of the service bell, hungry anticipation grew.

I started with brittle wholemeal, buried under a nourishing pile of chilli con carne, cool sour cream, ripe guacamole and tangy cheddar. Although a glutton for gluten, my friend suffers intolerance to wheat. But she loved her specially prepared, nutty spelt waffle, generously overloaded with mint pesto bound lamb, braised celery and green beans.

But by dessert, she naughtily gave way to a craving for plain flour. Into every quadrant of an already lavishly dressed waffle - vanilla ice cream and strawberries with an uplifting fragrance - she decanted smoky, sticky maple syrup, topping-up where it leaked away. It looked like amber. She was in ecstasy, scooping textures and temperatures, repeatedly uttering, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Having been moved to make a Belgian recce years ago, I understood her reaction.

The 70-space car park was full. The queue for tables stretched beyond the mill, towards the epic Verulamium Park. It seemed that everyone wanted a bite of those waffles.

After a pristine macchiato to calm sugar shakes, I thought back to Sam, since freed from this mortal coil. If his family had had time for his vision, his vineyard waffle restaurant could have earned them a fortune. He had nostalgia in his heart, but business in his brain…

THE WAFFLE HOUSE: Kingsbury Water Mill, St. Albans. AL3 4SJ

Open daily, 10am-6pm (5pm, winter). No licence; £2.50 a bottle, BYO. No bookings.

Watch a film I made about the vineyard HERE

And, should you enjoy that, HERE is a pitch about one of the characters featured

FOR Foodepedia

Fish Works in Focus

IN JANUARY, a brush with administrators saw ‘Fish Works’ streamline its sites from ten to six. Craving crustaceans for not much cash, I stopped by their Swallow Street flagship to check its recovery...

Despite taking this snap under soothingly low light, I hope you can see just how lavish a platter it turned out to be. Beyond the parsley was a large crab, legs intact. After an uncompromisingly spiced Bloody Mary, it took me an hour to methodically work through. For £22.50, this must offer the best value in London. I doubt that neighbour, Bentley’s could (or would wish to) compete.

I used to enjoy fruits de mer at Butler’s Wharf Chop House, although on recent visits I became stressed by tedious service and a crudely cost-cutting kitchen. After terrine bound in raw bacon, the aftertaste of a fried strawberry dessert clung around like a toxic aftermath. I hope the Thames covers it.

By any comparison, Fish Works works.

FISH WORKS: Swallow St., London. W1B 4DJ

Bathed in Sauternes at 180m

WHENEVER I take the lift to one of these high-rise hospitality pens, two images come to mind. They both involve the Twin Towers of ‘9/11’ infamy. As I feel my ears pop, the first is of Philippe Petit, brave lunatic genius who dreamt of walking a wire between the towers even before foundations were sunk. He finally realised his lofty ambition on a breezy August morning in 1974, achieving eight crossings over 45 minutes. After being arrested (and stealing the policeman’s watch) Petit declared that if he had lost balance, he would have died “doing what he loved”. Shudder. The other concerns a photograph so sinister that some media banned it. Jonathan Briley, an employee of the ‘Windows on the World’ restaurant, was identified as ‘the falling man’. He sought salvation from heat, smoke, and hopelessness in a short rush of air. Free at last from the shackles of service.

As you would accurately surmise, I prefer my food without a side order of vertigo. But having heard that the cooking of Michael Lynch (who survived Richard Corrigan’s training) could rival the view, I found myself foregoing fear to sample his fare. Despite not being a member, without a trace of deceit, I politely blagged my way into bagging a table at ‘4030’, the bar and restaurant at the top of the ‘gherkin’ (30 St. Mary Axe, London).

To allow for the beautifully latticed dome under which one dines/does business/does the business of dining, the main lifts stop at floor 34, where another, propelled from below, darts to 39. This design ensures no heavy-duty machinery eclipses the view. Unlike rival, ‘Rhodes Twenty Four’ at ‘Tower 42’, which rises in parallel like a razor blade, the gherkin’s glass panels are big with relatively slender frames. But despite a curvaceous exoskeleton, it features just one pane of arched glass - the lens at the top.

After sipping some fizz at the panoramic bar, we were ushered to the restaurant. Chrome chairs on glossy black marble represent a modern take on the classic ‘Thonet’ version of brasserie fame. Apart from the odd Tweetie Pie coloured sunflower and blue tongue table centrepieces, the room’s colours (or lack of them) clearly signal this as a project of architect, Lord Foster. But a sharp, grey building built for grey suited occupants did not mean monotone food.

Each course is ‘headlined’ in a word. I started with ‘Trout’ – a coral pink ballotine nudging a pressed stack of disembowelled cockles and cubed potatoes, licked by clam vinaigrette. This was wispily topped with acerbic coriander and earthy cress. Considering the setting in which it was served, the dish appeared appropriately architectural and tasted pristine: urgently appetising.

Expecting ‘Pea’ and mint soup, my father looked startled when he received almost bare crockery (albeit by Thomas Keller). He soon relaxed when this was flooded at table with chilled, softly textured liquid that captured the verdant spirit of an English garden. It came with a crusted tuille of polenta and fresh, yielding Parmesan custard, served separately. Inspired and invigorating.

Attempting a kind of financial de-tox, £25 bought the cheapest bottle from a sheer priced list. Edgy, with scents of bitter-berry and forest floor, the four year-old Loire Pinot Noir was drawn from an ice bucket on my request (I like light reds cool).

To follow, ‘Salmon‘ fillet was carefully seared, served with a remarkably complimentary slab of gracefully smoked foie gras, as tender as sweetbreads. Other components comprised sprightly fennel, cosseting apple, fresh noodles and a caramelised shard of bacon. It bathed in frothed Sauternes. A stylish medley.

On sending him a photo later, ‘young gun restaurateur’, Charlie McVeigh described my dessert as a ‘thing of beauty’. An Elderflower jelly carried a fleeting paraffin whiff, and captured crisped, petrified flowers. It nudged a gooseberry sorbet with the aroma of Sauvignon Blanc and a brittle almond biscuit.

The agile wine had dissolved my vertiginous thoughts. Pitched against a remarkable view, Lynch had won our attention, coaxing more flavour than I thought possible from tenderly treated ingredients. Should there be another lunch, I won’t be troubled by a fear of heights, but fear of finance. 4030’s £1000 a year membership is enough to make non expense diners dizzy…

4030: 30 St. Mary Axe, London. EC3A 8EP

FOR: Foodepedia

A Taste of Personality

ASIDE FROM Bayswater’s graceful ‘Café Anglais’, I rarely get ‘keyed-up’ at the thought of a meal à la mall. Restaurants are havens. Banked between feet, bags bulging with fevered purchases bring commerce into calm. But the prospect of an Australia week showcase of two of its greatest culinarian exports - Shane Osborn of ‘Pied à Terre’ and ‘The Ledbury’s’ Brett Graham - made an in-store eatery suddenly irresistible. Alongside the ladies who lunch here as an interval to shopping, I took my cream leather chair at Selfridge’s ‘Gallery’. Framing the view of horrifically pricey handbags, Corinthian columns rose to the roof of this cool, catwalk-like space.

From the ‘island of inspiration’, flutes of Tasmanian Brut were an ideal tone-setter - ripe, bright and furiously bubbly. Taking in the menu, we broke granular multiseed, fleshy green olive and dusty baguettes from ‘Armani of bread’, Rocco Princi. It read like a cook-off: designer dishes by Osborn and Graham versus those of Gallery chef, James Newton-Brown.

To open, O&G’s ceviche of kingfish united silky slithers with the freshness of verjus, orange and lime-spiked avocado crème fraîche. Almost sliced to translucence, radishes matched the colour of the fish. Combined with shaved carrots and coriander knots, the sprightly effect built gently - and lasted. The suggested match, a wet slate, lime flower and key lime scented Eden Valley riesling, wove beautifully.

If the kingfish was feminine, then you can probably guess the gender of Brown’s bush boar ‘salad’ with nutty faro, lightly toasted Macadamias and plate and palate staining roast beetroot. Incidentally, my friend, an Argentine, knows his beasts. As a teenager, his dad blanked him for days after he illegally slayed a deer. He described wild hog as ‘stunningly ugly’ and ‘hard to cook’. But with moistness and ‘a whiff of game and tobacco’, the yielding, dark medallions delighted him. The dish also stood up to a lush Dolcetto/Lagrein from South Australia’s Limestone Coast, by protégé of über critic/Bacchus incarnate, Robert Parker JNR. Regardless, round one over, it was for the kingfish that we felt love at first bite.

Considering the good value of this lunch (£23 for three courses) I dared not expect much from O&G’s rump of Australian Wagyū, it being considerably cheaper up here than as a raw ingredient from the food hall. But it was grilled to perfection. Beneath a 1mm crust, the blushing flesh was meltingly tender. Expressions of ‘oleaginous’ and ‘unctuous’ escaped between mouthfuls. Bathed in a heady truffle mayonnaise, then scooped with butter-sodden racing green spinach, the effect verged on being erotic. And what lustrous gravy! But a pouting Barossa Shiraz seemed overweight and simplistic a match, landing us again in reality.

Despite exotic sounding ingredients and a tasty salt crust (courtesy of the Murray River where I determinedly kept a dinghy horizontal when all around others capsized) Brown's fillet of sea bass felt far from brave new world Oz. Curiously, the overall taste from pools of wild blood-lime olive oil with crunchy basil was ketchup... A Sauvignon/Semillon from Western Australia was fittingly bland. I suppose most must opt for the wagyu.

We had arrived at the final act and I wondered who would secure sweet victory: O&G’s bush thyme crème brûlée or Brown’s Tasmanian honey and ginger tart?

Whilst the delicately torched brûlée satisfyingly crazed to light custard, Brown’s exuberant Queensland ‘Buderim’ ginger and eucylptus honey tart, with creamy, pudgy lemon myrtle posset, was clearly outstanding.

A retail lunch had become a sensuous journey: not only a celebration of the flavour in geography, but a taste of a trio of personalities. Where Osborn and Graham’s creations were artistic and refreshing, Brown’s represented a mainly moreish, idealised take on home cooking.

To borrow the slogan of ‘Foster’s’ lager, and only because it works, I would strongly advise going to the Gallery and ‘getting some Australia into you’. But don't hesitate too long: the ‘G’dayuk’ menu runs until Friday…

GALLERY at Selfridges, Ground Floor Mezzanine, 400 Oxford Street, London. W1A 1AB

Il Gran Bollito Misto

IN PRAISE of Cappelletti di Vitello in Brodo, then specially prepared Bollito Misto by Theo Randall for a table of gluttons.

Don ‘Cornicione’ of Crusts?

NOISILY CHATTING in a great many accents, the long queue of hungry customers snaked towards a funk of odours. Amidst the scaly perfume of a fish counter beached in sunshine and the hippy fug of joss-sticks, a waft of heaven prevailed. They came for this: the cosy, welcoming, tempting aromas of sourdough momentarily torched at 500 degrees…

Since last April, ‘Franco Manca’ has risen, like and because of its pizza crusts, to become one of London’s best-loved restaurants. It should be said that ‘restaurant’ seems a formal term for such a humble-looking pizzeria. Leading off Electric Avenue – inspiration for the Eddy Grant hit – it briefly spans two sides of Brixton’s covered market. Now a colourful labyrinth, the area was amongst the first in London where current and filaments replaced gas mantles and lamplighters. That was in the 1880s, over a century and a half after the ‘criscito’ (or starter culture) that makes these pizzas so special was kneaded into life at an Ischian bakery.

Dressed in a lived-in T-shirt with a Pepsi logo, manager Roberto admirably pepped queue dwellers spirits with, “it won’t be long” before fending-off passing preachers hell-bent on talking Jesus. Alas, the one aflame with the most lucid rhetoric had his argument undermined when he swigged a Special Brew potion.

Roberto shrugs his shoulders and pulls a face of mock-woe when I ask how long he has worked at this quirky site, overseeing this and previous pizzerias. A baker’s dozen, it transpires, “and I came here as a young man!” He has become as famous locally, if not more so, as the Positano ex-pat, Giuseppe Mascoli, who enhanced the site last year.

From a list of just six pizzas (plus a tomato-free, ‘Bianca’ special) my friend and I ordered whilst still in the queue. Once seated on church pews at unexpectedly handsome, shared marble tables, the pizzas landed immediately. My tomato, chorizo and Somerset ‘Mozzarella’ looked like the face of Mars - a red, glistening, bumpy sphere. It was charred with dots from the authentic wood-fired oven. Underneath informally scattered toppings, the moist base was as slim as papyrus, fringed with a gently fibrous, sour lip - the ‘cornicione’. My friend’s was generously strewn with long, oily anchovies, juicy, tangy capers, slightly hemp-like oregano and subtle, smoked garlic.

The colour of golden poppies and cloudy, a sip of the still, homemade lemonade coaxed the yeastiness of the pizza. It smelt of verbena and tasted of barley sugar with a tacky texture and uplifting acidity. Like a snow-globe, I found myself shaking the bottle to catch the dregs.

Whilst others carved triangles, we tugged with cutlery – the best way of lengthening lunch against the hungry faces of the perma-queue. As our pizzas cooled, we both agreed how there is something so rightly wrong about cold pizza, especially when spiked with a splash of feisty oil.

Wine plays second fiddle to the lemonade, the choice being ‘red or white’, Dolcetto or Cortese. Poured from a clear, T-stoppered bottle, the Dolcetto transported me to my relatives’ vineyard in Alessandria, the same province from where this one is grown. I recalled their curiously named dog, ‘Camilla’, munching the ripest grapes straight from the vine.

Darting from oven to table, busy staff were good-natured. When chasing what turned out to be unbeatable malty Monmouth espressos, Roberto asked who had taken the order. “The girl with the symmetrical face,” I said. As I became aware of the weirdness of my sentence, Roberto laughed, “Ah Bella! ‘Bella’ for beautiful. Bella - the girl with the metric face!”

With generously laden, artisan pizzas priced between £4 and £6, caffeine at £1 and a bottle of wine at £7.50, the bill kneaded no apology. We gave them some dough and left, as stuffed as those crusts, but still tempted to re-join the queue...

Incidentally, Mascoli co-owns ‘Wild Caper’, a café/deli a few doors down. From there we liberated obscenely cocoa rich, dark chocolate truffles. To apologise for inadvertently creating a nickname which I fear will stick, I spared one for the metric-faced waitress…

FRANCO MANCA: 4 Market Row, Electric Lane, Brixton, London. SW9 8LD

OPEN: Mon-Sat 12-5 (no bookings)

FOR: Foodepedia

Strawberry Carpet

AN AFTERNOON spent strawberry picking followed by a soothing pint of Rebellion at The Royal Oak, Marlow.

Spiritual Adviser

‘Am early – sipping bitter French 75,’ read my friend’s text message. I salivated. Having been trapped on a hot train, I mouthed “cocktail” before “hello” when I finally arrived.

Past 3D cameras and an increasingly famous commissionaire, ‘No. 20’ is the restaurant at Soho’s ‘Sanctum’ Hotel. This is London’s answer to Paris’ boutique ‘den of opulence’, the Hôtel Costes. Chic and shiny, dining room details include crocodile-skin chairs (not crocodilette), taut, bronzed banquettes, glass sheathed pillars and positive photo panels by the MOD’s official artist, Xavier Pick. Rather apt for a building once occupied by MI6.

Visible in the open kitchen, Gavin Austen cooks classic British. Served in a scalding tin, an odd number of sweet rolls provoked a fight for the third – brawl for brioche. Starters were precise. In answer to my diva-like request, fresh pea and mint soup was served ice-cube cold. My friend’s crunchy nest of quinoa, pomegranate and grapefruit was bound by avocado slithers on lily pads of spinach. Tidy, tasty and healthy.

I had veal stew for the main act - the RSPCA approved rosé version. Ethics aside, my palate tells me that this isn’t the veal-deal compared to the white. Lacking its succulence, a peppery, gooey gravy at least went some way towards moistening the meat. Baby carrots carried a nervy, vinegar tang – but I’m not sure why. My friend chose the odd dish out. Wagyu burger (confusingly pronounced “veggie” by the waiter) is fast becoming Austen’s signature dish. The tenderly cooked patty jutted beyond the clamp of sesame-studded brioche. This amusingly induced an illusion of two giant Portobello mushrooms. Without wishing to cast aspersion, pencil thin fries were as addictive as Ronald McDonald’s.

Despite resting at the end of a brushed chocolate skid-mark, a shared dessert of upside down banana cake was tackily caramelised, with an aftertaste reminiscent of banana ‘Nesquik’. Infantilising comfort food.

With shades of Anthony Worrall Thomspon’s original trendsetter, ‘Ménage à Trois’, going on the precision of the starters, and the pudding’s opulence, we could gladly have enjoyed an unconventional two course meal.

From a short but playful wine list, I noticed that Champagnes ‘Cristal’ and ‘Armand de Brignac’ are equally priced. After alleging that Cristal’s Chief Exec made racist comments about his support, hip-hopping businessman ‘Jay-Z’ famously deserted the brand for the gold-plated Brignac. I worked their U.K. launch last year, pouring him a sleek Super-Tuscan rather than fizz – a puzzling endorsement? There are also two English wines. I doubt I would find ‘Chapel Down’s Nectar’ aboard Jay-Z’s rider, though.

After lunch, we begged a tour. Despite Grade II listing, the design is ambitious. There is a cinema downstairs and classy loos with black ceramics. Upstairs, 30 sound-proofed bedrooms with plenty of gadgets are accessed by tasselled keys and Swarovski handles. These range from rent by the hour wardrobeless ‘crash-pads’, to suites with bars and circular beds.

In trying to cultivate a naughty celebrity clientele, Sanctum’s room service carte goes beyond ‘arranging an extra pillow’. Not only are guitar amps available, but for no extra charge, a ‘spiritual adviser’ can be summoned 24 hours to merge a martini.

In view of envious office workers, the top floor terrace is a suntrap with a Jacuzzi, bar and game cube table. We rounded our afternoon off with a tall, slow-sipping mango, orange and lemon grass cocktail. Curiously, a film about nuns unravelled on a plasma nearby, fitting I imagine, for a hotel named in honour of the Catholic Church’s sanctuary next-door.

Regardless of religion, if Sanctum is serious about seeking hell-raising A-Listers rather than the more tender Joss Stone (the most notable check-in so far) then I suggest that this Design Hotel member needs to play a little harder to get. At the moment, short of providing TV sets on bungee cords, they pander so pleadingly that I wonder what would actually happen if J-Lo, Li-Lo and Doherty stopped-by and made themselves at home…

No. 20 at Sanctum Soho Hotel, 20 Warwick St, London. W1B 5NF
FOR: Foodepedia

Is Prosecco Worth Prosecution?

Beyond the bubbles in the land of Prosecco...

“Prosecco has become Prosexo” purred producer Bisol’s venerable PR, Dacotah Renneau. I smiled, admiring her rhetoric, but secretly thinking differently. In my Champagne snobbery, anything pressed from the Prosecco grape was little more than cheapish party ammo: easily pronounced and therefore easily ordered, sipping somewhere between Alka-Seltzer, soda and shaving foam. A Paris Hilton endorsed buttress for the ‘Bellini’, originating from the foothills of the Alps, now reproduced like a commercial cover of a classic song on Italy’s lesser sites, as well as South America, Asia and Australia.

“You’ve probably tried the wrong stuff,” said an Italian friend on hearing my jaded sentiments. He often told me how his family used to make “buonissimo” Prosecco from the increasingly steep hills between the towns of Conegliano and Valdobbiadene – a kaleidoscope of greens just 30 miles from Venice. “Real Italians don’t have time for burly foreign imitations and realise that much of what is made on the fen-flat foothills stretching all the way to Slovenia is merda…”

With that in mind, I accepted an invitation from the Consorzio di Conegliano-Valdobbiadene, who are responsible for reinforcing the wine’s identity. They were in an optimistic mood, celebrating 40 years of protected origin status whilst announcing another overhaul. As with the Douro, UNESCO appeared poised to grant the vineyards world heritage status. And as of the next vintage, wines produced outside the Veneto would be forced to use the grape’s unglamorous and unappetising ancient synonym, ‘Glera’ for European sale. With prosecution the alternative, this move effectively trounces the competition.

The Grassy Knoll

“Up here it takes 150 hours a year to cut an acre of grass,” said Enrico Valleferro, Export Manager from Adami estate. “Down there,” he gestured to land outside the Consorzio’s control, which was once seabed then forest, “it takes eight. But the vines don’t work as hard, the yields are higher and the terrain less ventilated and therefore prone to mildew.” We had driven quite fast along fragile tracks to a steep, sunny, vineyard-rigged amphitheatre. A mixture of old and new vines clamoured to the sky, their roots binding terraces buzzing with crickets and teeming with butterflies. Not inappropriately, Prosecco happens to be a thirsty variety and the sheltering Dolomites conveniently regulate rainfall. This fine wine friendly terrain must make backbreaking work. Regardless, locals toil the patchwork of castle like mounds “for the love it,” said Enrico, “absolutely refusing to sell” their often tiny plots.

Aside from proud peasants and decent weather, the Conegliano-Valdobbiadene region boasts two further assets. It is home to Italy’s first winemaking school, founded in 1923, and the revered hill of ‘Cartizze’. At 1,000ft high, 160 owners control the 260 acres of this vertical suntrap. It is reputed that a single hectare can fetch over a million Euros – if anyone would sell, making it one of Italy’s most valuable vineyards.

Having thankfully walked down, rather than up it, my thirst for the revered wine was quenched at ‘Villa Sandi’. The estate’s emblem is the Palladian palace with its candy like Murano chandeliers. A reminder of a time when Venetian nobles sought refuge within these hills from Venice’s oppressive humidity. Being made from particularly ripe grapes, Cartizze wines tend towards sweetness. Sandi’s had an inviting nose of pear blossom, giving way to a characteristically chalky, Bitter Lemon stained palate.

Making a Meal of Prosecco

I wondered what foods it would work with. Venetians generally partner Prosecco with ‘cicchetti’ - little stuffed bready parcels shaped like these hills. But an impeccable lunch at the splendid Castello di San Salvatore provided a real eye opener into its versatility, where seven of the regions top chefs had devised a flamboyant menu.

Incidentally, the most popular style of Prosecco is ‘Extra Dry’, which confusingly, tends towards being slightly sweet. Continuing this twisted logic, ‘Dry’ is the sweetest style. If you actually seek less sugar, buy ‘Brut’. Made by two sisters and a philosopher turned enologist who happens to look like an Italian Jamie Oliver, producer Sorella Bronca’s version added a precise, citrus vibe to a croquette canon ball of salt cod and crystallised lemon peel, designed by Chef Giovanni Ciresa of Venice’s Hotel Bauer.

Sandi’s Cartizze added moisture and texture to a cocktail of local speciality, long-boiled, cow tendons calmed by horseradish ice cream (Ivan Mestriner, ‘Dal Vero’, Treviso). Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a style solid enough to cleanse away the aftertaste of the finest Tiramisu of my life, infused with olive oil, brittle dark chocolate and finished with salt and chilli (Alessandro Breda, ‘Ristorante Gellius’, Treviso). A more conventional match considering the proximity to Venice’s lagoon could be the vicious little Canocchie crabs with their skimpy, but sweet flesh. I later learned that Bisol’s bravely packaged, sulphur free, blotter-dry, crab apple scented wine, ‘NoSO2’ was a deft match with sushi.

Income: the Bubbles

Considering Prosecco’s popularity not only as an anytime, anywhere Italian staple, but increasingly the world’s aperitif, I was surprised to learn that it used to be almost exclusively ‘tranquillo’, or still. Whilst the grape dates back to Roman times, and even lends its name to a village, it wasn’t commercially available as a sparkling wine until after the Second World War. Apparently locals grew to love the hazy spritz when some bottles spontaneously re-fermented come the warmth of spring.

Whilst a little of that style remains, the best of today’s Prosecco is freshly fermented to order in pressurised tanks. This process is different to Champagne, which gets its bead of bubbles from hungry yeast added to the bottle you buy at least 15 months before. Prosecco is therefore cheaper to produce, always delivering a youthful, fragrant fruitiness rather than Champagne’s yeasty, toasty richness. Deliberately a less formal drink, it is best enjoyed from a wide brimmed glass. A producer told me, “putting Prosecco in a Champagne flute is like caging a tiger.”

Over a long weekend, I had ingested my weight in bubbly wine. Whilst the best examples had a directness and minerality not seen outside the region, I still found them flirtatious - never quite satisfying my need for something more pervasive. I wondered whether all the toil upon those deceptively restful looking, balmy hills was worth it. “Absolutely,” said Giancarlo Vettorello, Director of the Consorzio. With shades of the proverbial outwardly calm, but actually furiously paddling duck, he added, “If we didn’t all work so hard, the wine wouldn’t taste so effortlessly enjoyable. That’s our skill.”

It was time to leave behind Italy’s blazing sunshine and board the Blighty-bound plane. On the way back, glancing from a plastic-looking sandwich packed in a factory, to the clouds outside which signalled an imminent entry into British airspace, a strange thing happened. I began to crave a glass of the pretty, polished, only moderately alcoholic wine that I had played at resisting.

I wanted, urgently, to taste those hills again…

See also Walter Speller's account
FOR Foodepedia

Déjà Loo

“WHERE HAVE you been for the past 20 minutes?” demanded my friends, keen to tuck into jellyfish and abalone, delivered in my absence.

“Listening to John Betjeman’s life story,” I explained. “Did you know that the IRA put a price on his head?”

Just past Pope John Paul II (one of many disconcerting oils) the Male, Female and Unisex facilities are an impressive distraction. With glossy veneers, isometric tiles and piped prose, they upstaged the windowless, mirror-pillared dining room. Despite Chinoiserie, this resembled a nightclub so strongly that even after three hours with silver chopsticks and hot towels, I couldn’t ditch the feeling that we were sat on a dance-floor.

Five months after the event, I was being treated to a birthday dinner at The Dorchester’s Cantonese, ‘China Tang’. It takes its name from founder, Sir David Tang – designer, gold-miner and cigar aficionado. Cuba’s Honorary Consul no less.

In the deco bar, we dived straws into cleanly prepared filthy martinis. Despite having to duck a hopefully accidental ice cube missile, this contrives to be a more civilised space then the five star’s main bar. There, what was a subtle, limed-oak haven, has been ‘upgraded’ into a vulgar cave of coloured stalagmites and moody music.

Even though their product is pleasure, Sommeliers can be terribly earnest, probably because they are relied upon to generate so much of a venue’s profit. Thankfully, Tang’s was amicable, patting me on the back when I agreed his suggestions. China, incidentally, is no stranger to the vine, being the sixth largest producer. Having encountered troubled Beijing bottles at ‘Vinopolis’, our pickings today came from closer to home. These included a strikingly opulent, oak-matured Austrian white, a lush Chilean three vintage blend and a chilled North Island, New Zealand Pinot Noir. The latter was served not only with a back pat, but a back-story. When on Penury Way, its producer planted pumpkins between vines to raise funds at market.

Fuzzy winter melon fruit swam in a clean consommé - not just an appetising starting pistol to the meal, but apparently good for weight loss too. Loathing their kind when encountered alive, I forked the jellyfish vengefully. This culinary first revealed a texture of crimped coleslaw or “rubber bands” as a hollow-legged friend later put it, adding, “I love them!” I think I agree, although a muddy sauce mired this version's tagliatelle-like strands.

Braised abalone provided another first. A chef friend once told me that these rock snails are a delicacy because of the difficulty harvesting them at considerable depths. £60 bought one livery, chewy splodge which squatted hauntingly bad oyster sauce. Despite our initial excitement, the result reminded me of the tenderised conch meat endured on a Caribbean holiday - best liberally cleansed with anaesthetising Smirnoff.

Less successful still, salt and pepper lobster claw was spongy, having drowned many deaths in a deep fryer. And vim-less scallops lazed on re-used shells.

Thankfully, in braised pork belly, we reached the dish of the dinner. Beneath a 10 Yen coin thin crust, which could have been caramelised by blowtorch, its flesh was near sinfully moist and fattily tender.

All around, signature Peking Ducks were wheeled towards an A-Z of celebrities. The colour of emergency and puffed like bagpipes, these disconcertingly complete specimens perhaps explained the bitter mood of the waitress who carves some 50 a day. (Incidentally, my well-intentioned question - had she visited ‘The Peninsula’, a humble, but “legendary Chinese”, at Greenwich’s Holiday Inn – was met with incredulity).

Overall, even to a relative rookie of China’s Eight Great Traditions (or regions), it had become clear that China Tang serves sloppy, nursery slopes Cantonese. There must be a myriad of better options dotting the High Street. Its appeal, I suppose, is its discreet location, allowing a chichi clientele to sate their cravings far from autograph addicts and phone-photo hunters.

We revolved onto Park Lane, glimpsing our fleeting reflections in a gliding Rolls. What, I wondered, would encourage my return? In a positive effort, I will end by awarding it ‘W1’s best WC’. Rather than flex the credit card to snapping point for middling plates, I will definitely be back to spend a penny...

CHINA TANG: Dorchester Hotel, 53 Park Lane, London. W1K 1QA.

TUBE: Park Lane
FOR: Foodepedia

Hunger Management

“INDIA HAS made me, and now is the time to give something back,” said Atul Kochhar, the spice-savvy, Michelin-starred Chef of London’s ‘Benares’ and Hampshire’s boutique vineyard restaurant, ‘Vatika’. The roomful of critics, chefs and editors had been clapped to order to hear about ‘Food for Thought’, an initiative born by charity ‘Find Your Feet’ to help stave off hunger and malnutrition in rural Northern India. 6,000 families are expected to benefit.

To fund it, a group of the capital’s best-known Indian restaurants will be levying a voluntary £1 donation on diners’ bills this month and next. Whilst the figure might seem diminutive (apparently 350million Indians live on significantly less than that every day) it is nonetheless a bright candle in a dark room. Indeed, through previous campaigns, the charity has already reached 26,000 people, providing ‘lasting solutions’. These include: access to clean water, sustainable farming, literacy, advice on starting small businesses, the introduction of bank accounts and perhaps most significantly, female empowerment.

Brave objectives. But it was the personal stories that opened my eyes to the life-changing work achieved. How someone learnt to sign their name, for example, or, more shockingly, the deeply impoverished lady “overwhelmed with joy” because “she no longer had to sell her son into slavery.” Whilst breakthrough economic reforms started in the early ‘90’s have transformed India into being one of the fastest growing economies, these human snippets highlighted a dark conundrum. As the country emerges a richer trader, ironically its poorest meet with an ever meeker future.

That reality felt incongruous amidst the lavish setting of The Cadogan Hotel’s restaurant, Langtry’s, once part of the home of supreme strumpet and Jersey lily, Lily Langtry. It has recently become as famous for its weekend unlimited Champagne lunch as for the fact that Oscar Wilde was arrested upstairs in Room 118.

But luxury is very tempting and therefore a good vehicle for benevolence. The trays of moist monkfish and chutney licked foie gras canapés, prepared by the participating restaurants, would tempt me into the venues. Indeed, partly because I was known by The Cadogan’s Maitre’d as a regular, and partly because of the ingenious trick learnt from Bloomberg’s ‘investigative’ food critic, Richard Vines of standing, caryatid-like by the kitchen door, I secured a good quantity.

As a minimum, three times a week, semi-professional diner, dislocated from the concept of a real daily struggle, I see nothing but benefits from this elegant idea. Such an easy way to give is worth making a meal over…

The participating restaurants are: ‘Benares’, ‘Cinnamon Club’ and ‘Cinnamon Kitchen’, ‘Dockmaster’s House’, ‘La Porte des Indes’, ‘Quilon’, ‘Mela’ and ‘Mint Leaf’.

Click HERE to find out more.

FOR The London Word

Pandora’s Pantry

LONDON OFFERS a Pandora’s Box of ingredients. I harbour a particular fascination for back of store freezers in its more dubious shops. Looking for ‘hope’, I have found a foodie’s farrago. From calf's brain, carp and blubber to Nigerian snail and God-willing, something’s, rather than someone’s genitalia!

A friend recently organised lunch to celebrate a near miss with inappropriate employment. Trialling at a celebrity Chef’s eatery, he found transient staff including a black-eyed, liberally bruised Chef in the job for two days, pictures and descriptions of the major critics (as if only they warrant a decent meal – or perhaps Strychnine), a Larousse of dishes described by wipe-clean pictograms, and a preference for pre-portioned, pre-cooked dishes (the desserts being the least appetising culprits). Chips came pre-cut.

Whilst the venue concerned calls itself foremost a pub, and accepting sous-vide can bear positive results, and that chiselling chips is frankly laborious, my friend’s criticism, as an aspiring chef was that the kitchen atmosphere was de-skilling and therefore de-motivating.

From an E1 chest freezer, he excavated these alarming prawn-stars, alleged to originate from the warm waters off Madagascar. First he flambéed their armour in brandy, simmering-out a stock. Their obstinate, aged flesh – mutton of the decapods – was then severed into cuttlefish ink tinted paella. Once absorbed, the rich stock sweetened the project.

Far away from dubious chiller cabinets sapping the capital’s circuits, we also enjoyed water buffalo rib eyes from Laverstoke Park (in his interview, Francesco Mazzei mentions their Mozzarella). We chose frying, resulting in steaks that were clean, tender and easy to chew. Seeking more of a crust, I would be tempted to barbecue them next time, scattering coals with wood chips. Wild Willow seems an appropriate variety – good for ‘meats and sea foods that are delicate in flavour’ according to fanatical web site, ‘Barbecue Party’.

Incidentally, Laverstoke Park seemed to capture people’s imagination with their docile buffalo ‘Petal’, at last month’s Real Food Festival. I took this amusing photo of Raymond Blanc OBE and Paul Kelly (Corporate Affairs, ASDA) at the opening ‘Future of Food’ debate. Some called it a pantomime. ‘Civilian’ blog, ‘Famine or Feast’ provides thoughtful commentary.

L’Anima Magic: Francesco Mazzei

An extended version of an interview which originally appeared in The Guardian

The renowned chef of the top London restaurant discusses technique, training and his signature tagliata...

“You look like you’ve just woken-up. Take a coffee and we’ll start in five minutes,” said Francesco Mazzei, executive chef and patron of Broadgate’s ‘L’Anima’ restaurant.

Lanky, with a resemblance in face and spirit of adventure to Anthony Bourdain, Francesco is probably London’s hottest chef. Square Meal and Tatler declared his restaurant best newcomer, and The Independent called it ‘ravishing’. Most recently Gordon Ramsay voted him one of Britain’s ‘faultless’ chefs.

As I waited for him to return, sipping the velvet crème from my Musetti latte, I became mesmerised by staff tenderly sponging the rice-white leather chairs in the slate and travertine, porphyry and plate glass dining room. They made a daily responsibility look balletic.

“It’s the way they make it”, said Francesco when I complimented the coffee, before shooting his in one. He is fuelled by five espressos a day, but never later than 3pm, because his 18 chefs “might become frightened” of him.

Francesco’s C.V. reveals a butterfly. From eight, he worked in his family’s pastry and ice cream shop in Calabria (Italy’s toe). Ten years on, he established a fish restaurant with the President of his catering college before moving to the deluxe Grand Hotel, Rome in his early 20’s. Inspired by the international environment, he took a sabbatical to learn English, landing at The Dorchester under luminaries, Willi Elsener and Henry Brosi. He soon fell in love with London’s vibrant restaurant scene which “has the best of all cultures and is a great place for a chef to be – I couldn’t have realised my dreams in Italy.”

He has since opened legendary restaurants. He was head chef at Jeremy King and Chris Corbin’s ‘St. Albans’ and “thanks them” for teaching him “commerce behind cooking”. He launched the restaurant for Thailand’s Royal family, touring Cambodia and Bali, and opened venues for long-term mentor, Alan Yau. Their paths remain intertwined with projects underway in Istanbul and Miami. The gently burbling water feature besides the bar bears testament to an awareness of Feng Shui learnt from the master restaurateur who is the force behind ‘Sake No Hana’, ‘Hakkasan’ and the original blueprint for ‘Wagamama’.

Despite being so tucked away that my terminally lost cabbie waived the fare, Francesco no longer worries about L’Anima’s furtive location. “If anything, it’s made me work harder. Where I come from people are prepared to travel two hours for suckling goat.” When L’Anima opened last May after five months of planning delays, during which Francesco twice overhauled the menu, he put in 22hour days. “Although my hands were burnt blue, I kept going. This is the realisation of my dreams so far. I put my heart and soul into this.” Hence ‘L’Anima’, Italian for ‘soul’. But I wondered whether he can switch-off. Apparently “only on Sundays, the family day” devoted to Maria, his “Sicilian rather than Italian” wife and their two year-old girl, Mia Sofia.

Nonetheless, it is a difficult time to run a restaurant, especially of this calibre. Unlike ‘The River Café’, another high profile Italian, Francesco acknowledges the credit crunch and keeps prices sane. Whilst he is delighted to “accommodate expense diners who wish to spend £1,400 on Super Tuscans,” he also offers a tender £25.50 set-lunch. “But there are good buys on the a la carte, like the Sicilian rabbit (£16.50).”

Talking of relative bargains, one of Francesco’s favourite pit-stops is Brixton’s ‘Franco Manca’. He loves talking to Giuseppe Mascoli, the passionate pizza chef from Positano who is “as obsessive about ingredients” as he is, and makes a feature of British cheeses. “Giuseppe bakes 500 pizzas an afternoon using just two ovens, with only four tables!”

Cheese, incidentally, is something that seriously interests Francesco. He helped launch England’s own buffalo mozzarella at Laverstoke Park, Hampshire, and intends to serve it alongside Calabria’s finest. “We’ve had good reactions in the restaurant. Where possible, my philosophy is to cook British ingredients with an Italian accent.”

Through a clear door, I am taken into L’Anima’s cellar where guests can dine amongst the tantalising racks filled with obscure treasures from Calabria. Francesco loves these concentrated wines, with their ancient Greek influences. For example, he sourced the rarely exported, black fruit and leather scented Polpicello from Scavigna’s steep slopes as dramatic collaborator to his signature dish, aged beef tagliata. “I feed potatoes with truffles, chives, Parmesan and then stuff a marrow bone and lay the beef on top.” Built like a mushroom, the beautifully balanced dish delights aristocratic fans like Lady Hamlyn and legions of serious foodies alike – The Times called it ‘knock-out’. Other curios include an English sparkling wine, endorsed by the Queen, and a breathtakingly mineral Corsican, harvested to the lunar cycle.

I was curious to find out what Francesco might have done in another life. “Mafioso,” he half-jokes, “or a footballer, if I didn’t have banded legs! But seriously, this is it. I have a passion for my team. My head chef, Luca has been with me 12 years.”

The interview moves into Francesco’s immaculate kitchen. We taste as we tour. He is from a family that makes their own salami, right down to raising and killing the pig. Everything in sight is prepared from scratch. To a soundtrack of Pavarotti, I see a cauldron of fish bones bubble into stock, whole carcasses, bat-shaped turbot, hefty salt cod and long octopuses. Another fridge contains white roses from the tables, “protected overnight.” There are at least six trays of different pastas. From the cedar sweet wood oven (in front of the charcoal josper) I taste a warm breath of ciabattini with precise, emerald Calabrian olive oil. Francesco “doesn’t like it too fruity.”

“Spring is the best season for a chef,” says Francesco. “Just look at the vegetables: pea shoots, borage, nettles, wild asparagus… I find myself taking 25 ideas at once to my head chef. I even love simple soups made from greens.”

What is in his cupboard at home? “Moorish cardamom. Look at me, I look Moroccan – I’m always first to get searched at the airport! The influence is in my blood. I crave sweet and sour, nuts, sultanas, and aubergines. I was in Istanbul a week ago to help set-up ‘Zuma’. It was a re-discovery! Their pita stuffed with vegetables, honey, onion, paprika and oregano is so similar to Southern Italy’s version. And I tasted lamb brochettes which, although more finely ground, reminded my of my mum’s.”

Over the interview, I’ve noticed how difficult it is to eek criticisms from Francesco. Probably wisely, he is frustratingly diplomatic and sincerely charming, “it’s key to respect people in this industry. As a teenager I was in charge of much older people. I learnt quickly that you learn from everyone, including you, Douglas.”

But what does this polished chef of rustic food think of the likes of Blumenthal and the ‘molecular gastronomy’ movement? “There is only one Ferran Adrià. I met him once although he was hard to understand, even in Spanish. I’m not sure about the others. Technique is important. There is a lesson I want to stress for every chef starting out: do it step-by-step. You can’t leapfrog legwork. If we’re not careful, we’ll end up with no one able to cook a steak properly or prepare a jus. Everyone will be eating fucking pills!”

I couldn’t agree more, which is just as well - my Italian mother taught me that it’s nearly impossible to make a Calabresi change their mind.

So what of the future? Whilst Francesco refuses to give details of another major project in London, expect to see him in print. He is writing a semi-autobiographical book about Southern Italian food. But thinking a little wider, if this dynamo of the kitchen keeps focussed on making the finest food rather than the trappings of television, I foresee a day when an endorsement of Ramsay, rather than Ramsay’s endorsement will mean much more…

See: The Guardian for the version published

My Weekend in Pictures

Aldeburgh - fish shop sheds
Southwold - Swan Hotel, Antiques Shop

Walberswick -The Bell Inn
Apparently the dog of former ferryman, David Church, used to swim alongside the boat for almost every crossing.

Orford - Butley Oysterage

Snape Maltings

Drunk Crabs Walk Straight

IF KIRSTY Young invited me to name my desert island dish rather than disc, I would probably say “shellfish”, which seems apt. A recent craving for crustaceans took me to Essex (but not as you know it). Colchester’s Mersea Island is just five miles by two of tidal salt marsh. Whilst far from the dreamy paradise of Radio 4’s flagship programme, it boasts old world atmosphere in bucket loads. There is a vineyard, pub, seven B&B bedrooms and a peeling family-run shack known as ‘The Company Shed’. With fluorescent strips, kitsch ornaments and efficient rather than effusive service, this wet fish shop with tables has become a favourite of Michelin-jaded restaurant critics…
Perhaps it was ambitious to have headed down on a bank holiday weekend, misguided an hour off course by a deceptive Sat Nav. Regardless, our (misspelt) name chalked on the waiting list, it wasn’t hard for three friends to while away an appetite building hour at the water’s edge, where lines against masts provided percussion. We liberated a bottle of rock-pool mineral, oak bevelled ‘Gavi di Gavi’ from Northern Italy (so good, they named it twice).
Once inside, we shared a Formica table wrapped in cheerful plastic with glinting-eyed locals. They in turn shared a paper plate of ‘Gigas’ (rock) oysters, suggestively introducing the gift with, “we hope they work!”
From a waiter in wellies, I eagerly took charge of ordering. The iodine, brine and ozone whiff of the sea continued onto the plate. We methodically worked our way through the last of the season’s saline fragrant, native oysters famous from these parts since Roman times, whole sweet, roe-laden lobster sliced in two, meaty, tangy, hairy crab, soft, succulent, springy prawns, silken mussels and fat cockles doused in vinegar. We followed on with gently grilled buttery scallops, garlic sodden langoustines and elegantly smoked salmon and mackerel. No vegetables were authorised to trespass this fishy spectacular.

The shed provides cracking utensils, Tabasco, the occasional lemon segment and kitchen roll. You bring bread, wine and glasses (no corkage) and if you must, mayonnaise.
Afterwards, we begged a behind-the-scenes tour. Tall purifying racks of oysters gurgled behind shower curtains where coloured threads distinguish different types. Just landed and under ice, a beautiful, bony-spined, stingray-like skate tingled. Disorientated crabs grabbled - apparently the shed gets through 50 stone a week. I was encouraged to sniff a ‘smelt’, a small, pretty silvery fish imbued with the scent of an allotment fresh cucumber. Apparently it is best fried then eaten whole.

Having amassed a charnel house of spent cartilage, we left, comfortably full, to stroll off lunch along the shore. It had been a lavish meal at a bargain price.
Close-by, a boy showed-off the biggest of his in truth rather small bucketed crabs and variously patterned mongrels growled at eachother before reconciling the row with a dogged attempt at humping.
Apparently Giacomo Casanova slipped 50 bivalves a day. My record is 30 at ‘Wright’s’ in Borough Market, although a rising bill and a waitresses’ disapproving look stopped me from ordering more. I used to have coffee at a greasy spoon whose owner boasted of the time he swallowed over 100 in the company of supermodel Kate Moss. It was a tale so outlandish that I half believed him...
Check the tide tables

THE COMPANY SHED 129 Coast Rd., West Mersea, Essex. T. 01206 382700.
FOR Foodepedia

Liquid Type

ON THE eve of the International Wine Fair, I ventured to ‘Terroirs’, the newish restaurant masquerading as a bar by super-indie wine supplier, ‘Les Caves de Pyrenes’. Behind a forgivably corny title, which describes the influence of soil, site and climate, a tantalising array of ‘blood of the soil’ bottles extends. These often tend towards organic, even biodynamic viticulture – the holistic approach to farming outlined over seven lectures by philosopher and scientist, Rudolf Steiner.

I was guest of Andrew, author of ‘Spittoon’, for the annual ‘Circle of Wine Writers’ dinner. This was preceded by a charcuterie and wine-matching workshop hosted by responsive and accurate gastronomy writer, Fiona Beckett. According to her website ‘Matching Food & Wine’, Beckett wrote her way into professional journalism ‘out of sheer greed’...

The question posed via ten bottles matched with translucent Jamon, robust saucisson, positively fatty duck rillette and garlic sodden terrine, was: does rustic wine work best with rustic food? Cutting to the chase, I think it did. Consequently a musky, blueberry-scented Lambrusco triumphed a polished Riesling with ivory architecture worthy of its own dish, an edgy, unpronounceable Greek white and a soggy-sweet but compelling sherry-style from Lanzarote lava.

Why was this marriage a success? According to Fiona, the post-modern Lambrusco provided ‘a great hit of sour cheries’, ‘acidity’ and ‘gentle effervescence’ which made it a ‘particularly good’ collaborator with the rillette. Agreed. Also, its coarse fizz melted the fat, and the drying trace of musky, black tea-like tannin added grip, developing the satisfying, salty-savoury umami present in the meats.

Over dinner, I witnessed professional wine blogger, Gabriella Opaz (‘Catavino’) receive an albeit polite dressing down for her spirited letter to ‘Off Licence News’ penned in response to Chairman of the Circle, Julie Arkell’s comment that ‘we do not accept applications from wine bloggers if this is all they write, however well they do it.’

Terroir's cooking veered from cool to burnt, revealing their unsuitability for en-masse catering (for 50). However, on account of the moist, moreish charcuterie and carefully kept aged Gouda, I would be curious to revisit for a more in-depth review.

Appropriately given the volume of liquid writers, Dali-esque ‘dripping’ typewriters lined the stairway to our private room. A cynic could read such an image as a statement on the future of print...

For full details of the wines tasted during the workshop, and stockists, visit Fiona's site.

Tunnel Vision

“I'm very sorry Sir, but we can’t turn the music down. It’s preset to this level, or off.”

That statement spoke volumes.

‘222’ (or ‘twotwentytwo’ as the menu advises) is the basement restaurant at London’s ‘Landmark Hotel’ (222 Marylebone Road). It reopened a month ago, victim of a makeover more about vanity than sanity.

As part of the £1m spent, a full-sized horse statue stands watch at the entrance, symbolically casting light onto a time when carriages pulled-up at the grand Victorian pile. Perhaps to reinforce such sentiment, a lampshade sprouts its mane.With dark panelling and bulky, jester-print armchairs, the dining room resembles ‘Hélène Darroze at The Connaught’, although the menu, which has already changed several times, is timid. Its broad genre could best be described as ‘room service highlights’.

I was surprised to be here. The unexpectedly slim Richard Harden (his review) who publishes the restaurant guide with brother Peter, had kindly invited me to the nearby ‘Swan and Edgar’, an intriguing pub with a literary theme, which doesn’t serve beer. Unfortunately it turned out to be shut at lunchtime which explains how we came to be sitting on ergonomically challenging leather seats imbued with that new car smell, enduring strident muzac, whilst perspiring in no doubt similarly unadjustable, suffocating heat.

We started with a sharing platter: Parma ham which was thick and dry, so probably peeled from a packet, wan bresaola, crisp but painfully (as)salted Calamari with bought-in dip and a dense but otherwise acceptable pea and mint samosa. Despite side plates, we had to chase bread which it appears, meanly, isn’t normally provided.

To follow, Richard’s damp risotto of shaved asparagus, green beans, broad beans, mint and chervil oil was uninspiring, clearly made without the obligatory tenderness of touch. It smelt of posh washing-up liquid.

The £10 cod and glass of Sauvignon Blanc deal was better. Served on a sheet of mock newspaper carrying headlines about the hotel, the crisp batter sarcophagus insulated moist, flaky fish. This was served with a side of chef’s humour. Again aggressively salted chips were plunged in a pannier – a ridiculous, passé garden detail. Unadvertised mushy peas the colour of wasabi had the texture of porridge.A shared tiramisu, rather cutely plated in two portions was suspiciously pert, cutting so sheerly as to resemble the white cliffs of Dover. It was disappointingly almost caffeine free.

As a bastardised version of ‘Take Five’ pan-piped into proceedings, I wondered what type of clientele ‘twotwentytwo’ is seeking outside of captive guests staying above. It is too noisy for businessmen, too uncomfortable for a tête à tête and despite the presence of ice buckets submerged like outsize inkwells into some tables, too fuddy for fashionistas hunting pretty cocktails and ultra brut bubbles. And foodies won’t flock: the cooking is boring.

I recalled the story of a person who visited a fortune teller for fun only be told that their life will be entirely ordinary. They never recovered. Incidentally, the hotel was originally named the ‘Grand Central’, built at the turn of the nineteenth century as a show-off to French passengers emerging journeys from an earlier attempt at a channel tunnel, meant to connect at Marylebone. Going on the evidence of the culinary beige that they are peddling at the grammatically questionable ‘twotwentytwo’, it is just as well that over a century later, the tunnel opens elsewhere….
twotwentytwo 222 Marylebone Rd., London. NW1 6JQ. 020 7631 8230

NEAREST STATION Marylebone

FOR The London Word

Aperitivo at Conegliano