Honey Trap

‘When you go in search of honey, you must expect to be stung by bees…’

[Joseph Joubert, Writer]

I DO NOT intend to amplify the ‘buzz’ surrounding Mayfair’s Wild Honey. I think that the fact this dim, sullen priest hole has been garnished with a Michelin star is peculiar, rather than weird and wonderful. The annex to sister Arbutus, a ten-minute stroll away, it occupies Marco Pierre White’s former Drones Club. Incidentally, a drone is a lazy bee which lives off the labour of others. Vicarious connotations aside, whilst Wild Honey is a reference to the site's heritage, Pyrenean honey also makes a welcome appearance with cheese and is the focus of the signature dessert.

The Arbutus touches are plainly in evidence: dining at the inherited onyx bar is possible; the bound table mats imported from New York too, even though they darken an already oppressive room and would look more at home on the beach. Mounted Rubenesque Edwardian postcard nudes also hang in the gents.

In both venues (and I fear more are in the tripe-line) relatively economic ingredients are spruced, preened, collaged and eventually destroyed. The result: menus which seemingly every professional critic lauds as unequivocally effervescent value. But how? -Dip into one of their famous carafes before spluttering the word ‘urologist' (really a large glass of wine poured into a price), unscrew some water and sip a coffee (without any chocolates), and dinner will easily creep north of £60 per person, even if you are an omnivore. I don’t mind spending money on good review reconnaissance. Even though I earn sufficiently little to be affected by Alistair Darling’s latest tax pleasantries, eating and drinking and thinking about drinking and eating are my raison d'être.

But here (and there), covers are shoehorned so close that the next generation is probably - accidentally – conceived within the walls of this claustrophobic panelled corridor. These are decorated with floppy, distracted art, which somehow echoes the disparate parts arrogantly positioned on the plates.

Six of us sat secluded in an oak cell near the spiral to the musty loos. My sister chose good old English Snails, presumably happy in their damp, homegrown lives. These were extruded from their shells and strewn a la Farinette on a pancake. Serving these bravely naked was a mischievous irony considering that Wild Honey’s signature font echoes that of the Slug and Lettuce pub chain. My Braised Pig's Head with Potato Purée and Caramelised Onions smelt of testosterone: musky sweat, ordurous and feral.

Only after we had embarked on our plated profanities did bread arrive, preceeded by no amuse bouche and shovelled onto our plates from a great height, like everything else. Dover Sole Terrine with wild Mushrooms and Golden Sultanas simply wasn’t a terrine in construction, tepid and persistently sweet to boot. A bottle of indigenous Portugese, Post Scriptum '06 (made by Bruno Prats in association with the Symington port family) was too young, but promising, suggesting scorched red earth and passably rustic.

Waiters wear dull light institution blue shirts and determinedly fail to listen. My mother is on a medically imposed diet: frustrating for her, but simple for chef. She asked for English Asparagus to be prepared plain, without Parmesan. It arrived underneath a grated snow drift. She requested her Elwy Valley Spring Lamb to be cooked well-done. What landed was haemorrhaging. Our Brittany waiter was also of the ‘grabby’ school of service. My father was reading the back label of the Post Scriptum until waiter snatched it from him to kill the contents, (en)forcing us to order more. Moreover, not content with my brother in law’s next wine choice, he set up an apparently random blind taste test. Even professionals quake at this. However his either-or was £20 apart.

Polemical, unsupervised service.

A bottle of easy going, but clearly manufactured millennium Lealtanza Rioja Reserva was simple, rested, with subdued cherries, but inappropriate for the big, but often fractious flavours encountered.

My main course of Icelandic Cod, Spring Onions, Razor Clams and Smoked Pancetta smelt of arthritic breakfast kipper. Purée shaped into leaves was a nice touch; soft, cut clam, replaced in the long shell resembled scallop. My sister pointed out that the cod was simultaneously dry and moist, and the pancetta very salty, however. My father liked his Bouillabaisse, served from a copper pan, like at Arbutus. However the dish I would have rushed to: Limousin Veal, was not on this menu (although it re-appeared when we were re-issued menus to choose pud).

My mum’s small, cooked tomatoes, which she made do with whilst the lamb was given a blast, were delicious.

Ignoring our waiters unprovoked, but provocatively intrusive second taste test, in which he brought a chilled red out when I requested a white, two carafes of stickies followed. Castelnau, the second wine of Suduiraut was appropriately (lightly) honeyed for a Sauternes with cleansing acidity. From Sauternes' neigbour, Château Fayau’s Cadillac was leaner, with no obvious signs of botrytis.

Three of us chose from a cheese installation, displayed under a skylight in a Perspex cube. The ten strong selection from La Fromagerie, offered in pristine condition, were all French, except for Montgomery Cheddar. They were portioned amidst bittersweet grapes (the waiter either couldn’t, or couldn’t be bothered to tell me what they were) and lashings of wild honey. The texture of thick, melting, churned ice cream, with a delicately floral aroma and pungent but limbering, lingering palate, this was Grand Cru quality – the bees knees, if you like.

When my mother appealingly joked to the waiter that we would steal the jar, he rushed it away.

I should have phoned the ambulance before attempting my Chocolate Soup with Milk Ice Cream. You could have weatherproofed a roof with it. It was patronisingly sprinkled with white and pink candy. I have had much better at Café des Amis. Fortunately, everyone swooned over the Wild Honey Ice Cream sprinkled with Crushed Honeycomb. Whilst astonishingly light, it delivered: full, buttery luxurious, almost haunting. Indeed, I would happily have skipped the culinary steps to this moment. My mother’s fruit salad was clean and fresh.

Why I would never go back...

The tomatoes were delicious, the honey would inspire bee-keeping and the cheese if spread on a trap, enticing enough for a kamikaze mouse. However the latter two required no intervention from the kitchen, and the former would have probably tasted better uncooked. What does this tell you about a restaurant droning out messy, jarring concoctions? It strikes me that the employed contents of this dark vault of a room and those who cook beneath it are so deafened by the tinitial wall of unhelpful critical praise that they forget to look after the honey pot public who make it all possible.

Wild Honey: I wish you the wilderness; recess into recession! You have achieved the unthinkable - L'Autre Pied suddenly seems an appealing alternative...

Wild Honey - 12 St George Street. W1S 2FB. T. 020 7758 9160
Nearest Tube: Oxford Circus

New Chop on the Block

'I can see a growing trend for places that offer traditional cuts of meat on the bone...'

[Mark Hix recreates the 18TH century Chop House]

RESTAURATEUR AND comedian (I will qualify later) Mark Hix, has obviously had a lot of fun with his latest joint. Joint, T-bone, hanger steak and shin, in fact. Beneath a bling sign, his plain-tiled dining room immediately fits within the Smithfield scene. Think exposed floorboards, old-fashioned canteen globes that glow, paper tablecloth guards, pillar box red pepper cellars, chunky Duralex water glasses and stationary fans. In fact this retro rejuvenation of a former sausage factory is all a little St. John (Fergus Henderson is his friend).

A dark wood bar dispenses artisan beers, porter and ciders (warning: the wine list is devastatingly poor and corkage is forbidden).

As an aside, I once worked with a pig farmer turned winemaker who in another life accidentally tipped a black bag of what he thought were hops, but what proved to be stale cigarette butts into a Bungay brew. No matter, it improved the blend (or so he said). Maybe the definition of the well-intentioned artisan is to be able to make mistakes but still charge for them at the end?

Anyway, Hix, who spent 17 formative years with Caprice Holdings, evidently values his army of suppliers. You can taste their dedication along the adventure that is lunch. In fact at least one of the more surreal cheese suppliers, Blur bassist, Alex James, was quietly lunching within when two friends and I arrived. This 'dandyish, elegantly wasted alcoholic genius of Soho', who purportedly 'blew a million quid on champagne' now nurtures a herd of goats in the Cotswolds. Apparently the Oasis duo also harbour hardened lactic ambitions.

Despite being seated in an unremarkable corner by a striped chubby oaf who was about as much fun as running cross country with a flattened slug in one’s plimsole, the charming, knowledgeable, unpretentious Scot who took over put us at ease. So impressive was his service that we would have been very happy for him to join us.

Our waistlines already widening in anticipation, we begun with shell-on oysters berthed on seaweed: tiger striped, nervy, mineral and crisp Lindisfarne, and creamier Maldon. I dipped into the homemade Cabernet Sauvignon shallot vinegar. I normally hate this concoction, but the sweet, blackcurrant scented version was clearly superior. According to our waiter, “the oysters are so good we open a bottle for them”.

A bottle of '05 White Rioja by Finca Allende from the village of Briones, home to Dinastia Vivanco’s famous wine museum, is allegedly crafted in the modern style. Bolshily sturdy, tropically fruit-driven and simultaneously green, with lanolin and overt, but appropriate, heavily charred oak and eventual acidity.

Softened ‘soldiers’ of Cornish Asparagus were served prostrate on a porous antique silver rack with tepid Hollandaise which lacked lemon tang. Incidentally, critic Marcel Proust once claimed that asparagus transformed his chamber-pot ‘...into a flask of perfume.’ He later qualified it as Believe, by Britney Spears.Hard boiled Gulls Eggs, the shells mottled like quayles, only larger, were picked from a wooden bowl and served with salt. The yoke, still slightly runny, had a longer aftertaste than their clucking counterparts, and was not even vaguely fishy.

My companions enjoyed a salted Ox Cheek Salad, although I thought the twist in that tail was the fact it resembled Spam. Uncomfortably acutely.

The final starter, chilled to the point of being killed, was a Rabbit Brawn terrine with mustard. Tasty, bound with plenty of moisturising aspic glue, the mustard knocked it back into submission too dramatically.

A trip to check on Marcel Proust’s poetic claim via a Marcel Duchamp installation revealed the aesthetically horrific depths plundered by Hix’s humour. On the loo doors, intimately close-up photographs of gender specific body parts have been hastily hung. If anyone requires qualifcation, E-MAIL ME for an image. Returning, I noted a neon squiggle on the wall. When reflected in a carefully placed mirror, it spelt out an expletive seasoned sentence.

We battled on, choosing a bottle of '05 Amsfield Pinot Noir from middle earth (Central Otago). Spicy, softened by bright, bulging, buoyant raspberry fruit and a shaving of dark cooking chocolate, it was depressingly under-powered for our Porterhouse, carved at the table. Sealed toastily and almost blue within, this very mature, rested meat Uluru was beyond reproach the finest protein ever to enter my mouth. Partnered with butter infused with more shallot vinegar, almost foie gras in feel, the bloody succulence had us in awe. The neon phrase reflected in the mirror suddenly made sense. We exclaimed it! Our waiter smiled as he caught me almost archaeologically excavating the final remnants. Entrancing.

Blur’s youthful cheese, wrapped in vine leaves was served too cold, with overpoweringly sweet, Hob-Nob style crackers and a tiny glass of depthfully refreshing Maury (although we were initially over-charged for a bottle).

Close-by, Glasshouse chef Shaun Hill and his companion came to the end of a long lunch, seemingly sated.

Once the curiously regular temperature issues are rectified, and a thoughtful wine list devised, I think this very valid new opening will soar into the scorebooks. Whilst every conceivable critic has bibbingly hurtled there, this is actually an eatery which ought to eschew them, luring in the less parasitic public with its gnawable simplicity and witty flounces...

Hix Oyster & Chop House - 35-37 Greenhill Rents, Cowcross Street, London EC1M 6BF. T. 020 7017 1930.

Nearest Tube: Farringdon

Tirami Su = Pick Me Up

'There is as much difference between a mackerel and a red mullet as there is between a miller and a bishop...'

[Baron Léon Brisse, 19th century food journalist]

ENCOUNTERED WHILST working as Sommelier for agile Chef Enrica Rocca at a team-building evening: a leviathon. This striking Red Mullet was baked with cherry tomatoes and spring onions (fortunately Enrica has a large oven). Slipping easily from the marrow, eleven students and I devoured almost every morsel (I think someone scooped an eye). I partnered it with a muscular, but sneakily acidic Barbaresco. When quizzed on its maturity, Enrica told me that she "hadn't seen its birth certificate".
We were universal fans of Ca' de Pipa's '04 Amarone. To borrow Andrex's slogan, it was 'soft, strong and very, very long'. Arriving in time for irresistably sloppily creamy Mascarpone coffee infused, cocoa dusted lady fingers, this pitch bleak, dense, meditative wine was softly undulating with a sweetly-bitter, persuasive finish. Combining moist raisins with dark cherry liqueur chocolates, it provide clean, well-priced support (£22, Majestic).

Blintz

BEHIND A pretty Georgian façade, Baltic extends. A long vodka bar opens onto a wider platform, where Eastern European jazz bands regularly perform. This is flanked by an Alizarin coloured brick wall, under a fibre optic amber mobile. The journey finishes in a large sunken square: white walls, black floor, flooded from skylights forty feet up.

I have been wanting to eat in this former coachbuilders since spotting it en-route to an interview in nearby Valentine Place a few years ago. I was interested in working with Optomen at the time, the pixellating force behind the ‘F-Word’.

This unusually chic Eastern European restaurant is the brainchild of Jan Woroniecki, restaurateur behind Wodka and most recently Chez Kristoff. It is an impressive, if aloof space.

At £17.50, the set Sunday menu, available all day, offers the best value. Three courses and a Bloody Mary or Bellini. Our waitress, who is either shy or a little bored, arrives with a pot of beetroot ‘caviar’ spiced with horseradish and a dish of tangy, but not vinegary pickles. She offers obviously fresh bread from what must be one of the most beautifully presented selections in the capital. I opt for Baltic black: sturdy, chewy, with moist, almost caramelised crusts. Unfortunately no side plates ensure a fair amount of mess. But maybe this is Workoniecki’s way of saying it’s okay to cut loose on the crusts, “relax”.

A la Carte, I choose a small Blini of Keta Salmon Caviar (aka ‘dog’ salmon) for £9. The small bright orange marbles are inappropriately served with a lemon wedge. I enjoy spooning little pots of ground boiled egg, crisp onion and fluffy sour cream onto the soft pancakes.

Stepping back onto the set menu, I eagerly scoop my vibrantly fresh Salmon Tartar, crowned with more Keta and dusted with dill. My Polish companion likes her monochrome marinated Artichoke, Broad Bean and Rocket salad.

My lamb meatballs with meaty, glossy cherry sauce are pressed into a mash concealing occasionally gristly porky cubes. Nourishing and heartily against the minimalistic surroundings.

Pan Fried Pollock beached on whole chicory leaves, infested with pomegranate seeds which look like poisonous beetles, is designed more for the eye then the palate. The bitter endive and sweet seeds fight. A dramatic oily onslaught had been applied in an attempt to bind everything together. A serious miss.

Lusciously ripe Mango Sorbet topped with a faworek (pastry ribbon) and coffee-chocolate scented Pistachio Ice Cream revived the spirits.

The loos are amongst the darkest I have ever seen and confusingly arranged. Infra red probably wouldn’t help. Tables are too close (although the place is not exactly heaving). Office fabric grey chairs are beginning to wear. The room needs colour, even if only from some flowers on tables. Service lacks warmth. Many people who walk through the door, along the dark corridor, and into this blank canvas will be trying Eastern European food for the first time.

Obliging staff, prepared to lead new customers through the culinary window of their world, would leave a lasting impression.

Baltic - 74 Blackfriars Road, London. SE1 8HA. T. 020 7928 1111
Close to: Anchor & Hope & Waterloo Bar & Kitchen
Tube: Southwark

*

I am off to Poland next week, so expect more Eastern European eating...

Moet's Imported Landscape

I WENT to Il Bottacio again a couple of days ago. It had been radically transformed from Les Caves de Pyrene's 'Real' wine tasting a month ago [HERE]. A gazebo showcasing the wines of Cape Mentelle was surrounded by sand; this required constant brushing back into shape. A privet hedge shrouded a fountained courtyard, mimicking the beauty of Newton (Spring Mountain). Escalating steps, signifying altitude, and cowskin-cubed seats represented Terrazas in Mendoza. A fun idea, and surprising, although little room was left for serious tasters in the already tight space.

Fortunately, I secured a place on the 'Chardonnay around the world' masterclass away from such gimmickry. It was hosted by Robert Mann, lean, confident Chief Winemaker at Cape Mentelle, who comes from an impressive dynasty. My favourites follow.

Cape Mentelle's '06 was expressive, with resolved oak, a hint of rhubarb, but a slightly hollow final note on the nose. The palate was engaging, however: comprehensive, with a hint of gingerbread. The finish was clean, fresh and fine.

Cloudy Bay's '05 had a slight sweetness to the juicy pineapple, tangerine and graphite scented nose. The palate echoed the nose, albeit backed-down by insufficient acidity. Richness forced upon a nervy base. Both wines used the small berried Mendoza clone, ironically uncommon in South America. Robert said this clone "leads to success".

Between those wines, a non-LVMH Chardonnay was uncomfortably inserted: Oliver Leflaive's 1er Cru '05 Puligny Montrachet. Oily, curious, smelling of fungal growth on wet cave wall with a backstory of old wood. A stale wine from an area where grapes "hang too long". Not Burgundy's best ambassador. Robert defended its minerality however, claiming to "always look for inspiration" in a wine.

Finally, Newton's '05 Chardonnay, from Spring Mountain, California. Described as "a pick-up with a V8 engine", it had a smoky nose mingled with plantain and molasses. On the palate, Rubenesque with a surging texture evoking crème brûlée. Sumptuous. This is California's "benchmark opulent style" - far from Robert's stylistic preference.

Ellen, Newton's representative, who spent the day competing in volume with the diuretic fountain in her yew courtyard, described the portfolio as properly proportioned - built like "a female opera singer". In the audience, Decanter's online editor made the point that really built, oakily soupy Chardonnay's (Chard's in the U.S.) were unloved outside of the states. "North America vs. the rest". I thought it was a marvellous rendition, however, and to agree with Ellen, a perfect match for a hog roast. Bring it on.

*

A duo of blogs worth exploring:

1). Cheese & Biscuits: written by a hungry chap just a year older than me, but with the appetite for both of us, this is unpretentious, informative, current and very funny.

2). Art Review: an engagingly philosophical look at exhibitions in the capital.

The Bank Job

RESTAURATEURS LOVE installing eateries in former banks. 1 Aldwych, 1 Lombard Street, and even my local 'Indian' continue the tradition of collecting cash - albeit more tastefully - in converted sites. The Old Bridge, Huntingdon is another relevant example, although you wouldn't recognise its former use judging from the idyllic riverside location (scratch the proximate dual carriageway) and ivy-wired frontage.

In many ways this could be looked upon as the UK's original Hotel du Vin. As well as a colonial style bar and the snug, wintery version, it encompasses two restaurants: the large breezy Terrace and a formal, panelled dining room. An alluring 400+ strong wine list devised by John Hoskins, passionate Master of Wine owner prevails, with low mark-ups on the more exceptional bins. There are also 24 bedrooms.

Unlike another local chef patron, Steven Saunders, who thought it was a grand idea to have at least one bedroom in The Sheene Mill splattered by Linda Barker (with a shower so complex its operation required clarification), these tend towards traditional country elegance rather then succumbing to becoming achingly trendy.

My parents and I dined amidst pastel murals in the Terrace on Sunday evening, not normally a good time considering that ingredients and enthusiasm inevitably deplete following a prolonged weekend peak. An unattractive pot plant was dying to join us.

After tall flutes of Billecart NV, lightly, pleasantly, slightly soapily appetising rather than densely flavoursome: a stewed Pea Soup with Mint, Crème Fraiche and a submerged, overly thick strip of Pancetta. Even though I managed the bowlful, one sip convinced me that it would clearly work better cold, enhanced by a couple of cubed icebergs.

My mother’s Corn-Fed Chicken and Leek Terrine was carefully made, although the slushy Pear Chutney barbed with - I think - cardamon was too sweet. A confusing suprise, although excellent, home baked, brittle Melba toast accompanied. Bread from the basket, also baked on site was tremendously good, particularly the darker slice of pelt and rye which was malty, almost chocolatey; not punishing health food. Hildon, the most limp of the mineral waters, was the only choice other then chalky, scaly Cambridgeshire (or that from the River Ouse).

I chose a bin end: Sonoma icon Ridge Geyserville ‘95, outstanding value at £36. In fact I found myself actually nervous in anticipation that it may no longer be available. Immediately gratifyingly fruit driven, after a few moments vanilla coated cherry, sweet plum, concentrated blackcurrant and raspberry warmly wafted, evoking Dr. Pepper. After about thirty minutes, the ‘Zinfidel’ became crisper, showing balance, open collared elegance and disarming charm.

When the main courses arrived, we soon forgot the lacklustre Sunday starters. My father (whose appetite I inherited) and I shared a generous Char-grilled Aberdeenshire Côte de Boeuf, classically sprinkled with lots of pepper-prickly watercress (it is after all national watercress week) and a big, gnawable bone. Thick Béarnaise was supplied separately, allowing us to taste the flavour of the moist, easily cutting, bloody meat undisguised. Huge onion rings and outsize chips that were almost too wide for my lens were presumably intended to play on scale. I would have preferred frites. Incidentally, did you know China is the world’s largest onion producer?

My mother enjoyed her Grilled Lemon Sole with Runner Beans, Fresh Peas and Sautéed New Potatoes, which was prepared with oil rather than butter to her request, without fuss.

As cutlery came to rest, an older gent at the other end of the conservatory became concerned with the manufacturer of his chair. Getting up and lifting it, looking for a clue. When the waiter glided over he explained both defensively and wistfully that he had known such a chair in his youth. Regardless, the offended waiter proceeded to flog him with a damp towel quickly unwound from the ice bucket. (Naturally, I jest).

A plate of three cheeses from Neal’s Yard came prostrate upon a plank with home baked biscuit neighbours (the baker here is marvellous). Dorstone Ash goats from Herefordshire had a foie gras mouthfeel, whilst Berkswell ewes from Warwickshire provided a fruitier, mellower alternative to Manchego. Durrus cows from Ireland was uncompromisingly filthy, tarnished, compacting itself with ripeness and bolshily pungent.

A wildly hedonistic, creamily whipped bittersweet Blood Orange (I predict 2008 will be the year of the Blood Orange in restaurants) and Campari Trifle followed, as did a complex, Christmas orange and spice scented Armagnac (a customer once asked me for a bottle of Almanac) from Domaine de la Brette, Tenareze. The price reassuring echoed the year, £6.90 for a shot of 1969. It also, seemingly, included the barely provoked, not uninteresting life-story of our waiter.

Overseen by the former owner of three other gastropubs in the region, including the Three Horseshoes [REVIEW], this has long been a favourite visit. The staff are elegant, attentive, but never pushy, nor prone to up-selling. When my father and I kept a boat on the river, we used to moor outside and enjoy Bloody Mary’s in the bar, which is also filled with real ales. I think deserved success lies in its broad appeal. Families, businessmen, wine lovers and river-boaters frictisously co-exist.

One thing is certain: The Old Bridge dispenses more pleasure to its customers in this incarnation then any triple-a institution.

I would bank on it.

The Old Bridge - 1 High St., Huntingdon. T. 01480 411017

*
Thank you for those lovely beings who voted for my review of Galvin at Windows over at Londonelicious. I am delighted to report that I won the chance to dine with author, Krista, to take place in June!

Punctuating a Night Out

ON SATURDAY, thirsty friends and I visited Farringdon's Vinoteca, an efficiently multi-tasking venue: wine bar, restaurant and merchant. We initially perched on stools against a shallow oak shelf until the waitress, taking pity, offered us the only spare table. This was a charming gesture considering we were only stopping for a glass on their busiest evening.

Beneath labouring fans, a straightforward Bourgogne Rouge arrived curiously chilled whilst a blissfully ample Manzanilla did not. A request for water automatically produced a jug brimming with acqua of the commune.

Despite concerns over wine temperature, this venue is clearly a caringly devised, modern classic. In two and a bit years of trading it has become established as a relatively reasonably priced, variously stocked 'embassy' of the wine trade. Having said this, it will not please every guest. Echoing St. John opposite, it is deliberately coarse edged, lacking cosyness. Perhaps, therefore this is more of a stopping point then a destination.

Vinoteca - 7 St. John St., Smithfield. EC1M 4AA. T. 020 7253 8786 (no bookings)

Also pictured, the console of a moodily lit, dramatically efficent geysering and air blowing loo at Saki, nearby.

*

A trio of short reviews:

Books
‘Noble Rot: A Bordeaux Wine Revolution’ (William Echikson)
The quality of research never clunkily impedes this fast moving, compelling insight into the dynastial celebrities behind a powerful clutch of Bordeaux’s Chateaux.

‘The Vines of San Lorenzo’ (Edward Steinberg)
A fan of Angelo Gaja illuninates his life’s mission using a vintage of the famous eponymous Barbaresco vineyard as the rivulet. Occasionally approaching sycophantism, but overall an expressive, dynamic narrative which made me care.

Film
‘A Good Year’ (Peter Mayle/Ridley Scott/Russell Crowe)
Despite ‘winning’ a Rotten Tomato award, this warmly coloured film soothed me after a long day of city life. True, the storyline is transparent, although performances reveal the actors investment and are contagiously enjoyable. An almost inspiring story of a British bastard broker’s accession into an albeit idealised vineyard culture.

*

In anticipation of English Wine Week, read ‘Château England’ in the Southwark News HERE.

Brown Derby Day

‘The mouth, after all, is a sex organ. It's an intimate place to ask someone to trust your skills enough to allow passage and an open mind, enough to savour, chew and swallow. N'est pas?’

[Shuna Fish Lydon, Eggbeater]

RESTAURANT REVIEWERS should encompass the whole gamut. From missions chez Michelin to a date with tripe, or even a purging combination, a breadth of focus is more interesting then a widening waistline gleaned solely from the hottest tickets. I fondly remember Victor Lewis Smith’s scythe-sharp critique of a Little Chef somewhere in Lancaster. In his distalgic departure into the roadside institution, the ‘satirist, prankster’ describes an encounter with ‘two sad, sad sausages, surely the wurst I've ever eaten, with less flavour than roadkill stuffed into a condom.’ Adding to the tangible pain, Smith probably had to fight the Guardian’s proofreader to playfully scribe ‘wurst’.

In homage to Lewis’ fearless foray, I picked my way through a labyrinth populated by summery sixth form students and mild-mannered security guards. The objective: to have lunch at ‘Phoenix’, training restaurant of Lewisham College. I discovered the venue whilst Googling The Phoenix in Putney last week, and within days the idea to visit galvanised into an ever so slightly nervously anticipated reservation...

The dining room is a large bright rectangle. It is minimal with one lime coloured wall, a soundproofing grey-blue carpet and chairs which nod to Charles Rennie Macintosh. A tub of lilies adorn a reasonably equipped brushed metal bar. Deep oblong windows are just too high to see out of when seated and are in shape reminiscent of a cross-channel ferry. They frame elegant Edwardian houses and mature trees. Whilst awkardly dispensing doughy rolls, our endearingly giggly waitress, from NVQ level One (Two were in the kitchen) tells us she would like to see these demolished. She refuses to elaborate.

Music is taught classical, filled with punchily arresting detail. We have gin and tonics, or rather too much tonic and a flinch of gin; thirst quenching but lacking that almost tranquillising effect a good G&T can provide. We look at a menu offering a couple of starters, five main courses and four desserts. It becomes clear that if the written descriptions come true, we will be eating well for about £10 each.

A smiling waiter pours a little Malvern to taste, a charming idea and something I occasionally do in jest to enliven jaded customers, although I think irony was missing in this gesture. I nod politely and glasses fill.

Two salmon fishcakes arrive, small, burger like patties, pretty pink inside and succulent. On top, a fringe of salad pricked with chives and beside, three reservoirs of diced olive oil licked vegetables. This appetite-awakening starter is rinsed by half a bottle of pert, flint struck Pouilly-Fumé from 'purist' Claude Michot (picture). At £6.50, the mark-up is approximately three pence on everywine. The downside is that it takes an intervention from teacher to open the bottle. It is then poured from within the airborne cooler, presumably to catch drips. We see the sweetness in this gauche manoeuvre.

The music morphs into a light salsa. There are about ten other diners including a slightly portly Pumblechook who looks like a regular.

We are asked if we would like to plunder the main courses straight away, or take time out. A few moments won’t harm a waiting braised lamb shank or fish stew, so we open the wine list. Laurent-Perrier NV is £25 (£14.99 less than Majestic). I spot a Crozes-Hemitages from the supreme ’99 vintage in the Northern Rhône, from the large but reliable Caves des Clairmont. The ’05 is available from Waitrose for £9, and so this rested version offers prime value. Subtly minted, with a little bloody game and still impressive damson jelly fruit, it retained just enough power to efficiently coalesce with my succulent shank. This was served with crisp deep fried cauliflower and braised fennel which kept its crunchy integrity.

I have a sweet tooth. I will never turn down pudding, and I believe I hanker after chocolate more then many women. I even buy slabs of cooking chocolate, believing this offers secretly great value.

I was particularly impressed with my father’s tidy glossed strawberry tart. A big bite of this, and then a rapid clear-up of the profiterole like choux base of my Brown Derby, named after the landmark restaurant in L.A. which featured a dome shaped like 'a brown derby hat', showcased the pastry chef’s talent. The foundation of this indulgence was skilfully, airily baked, demonstrating a lightness of touch, decorated with smaller turrets of piped cream.

Excellent coffee served in elegant crockery with cream and hot milk drew the meal to a close.

Overall, within the bounds of a state subsidised budget no doubt leading to the limited ingredients available (salmon appeared first in fishcakes, then secondly in my father’s fish stew which seemed to be bound within an albeit lighter version of his soup) the cooking was carefully assured. Whilst not demonstrating seriously honed flair, what I ate was flavoursome, aesthetically well-groomed and offering tremendous value and a rounded sense of promise. The waiters however, although good-humoured, desperately lack polish. They were uneasy in their roles, partly as a result of constant supervision by their tutors.

Arriving in anticipation of errors, I left feeling that I may have unearthed the best value eatery in the capital.

The Phoenix - Lewisham Way Campus, London. SE4 1UT T. T. 020 8694 3294

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Smells Fishy

I SPENT Bank Holiday drinking on the stone-dappled beach at Brighton, that great big middle aged whore of a city proud to wear a greased, fishy, saline fragrance. Like the hordes drawn almost magnetically to stuff their boots from grim-staffed D.I.Y. sheds come the public holiday, a vast swathe of Londoners cannot resist the kiss me quick pilgrimage to our crappy seaside towns. Occasional opulence in the architecture stands out amongst a concrete cancer ridden shock of ludicrous 60's and 70's buildings which should have met with the demolition ball shortly after completion. As a warning to further edificial spawn.

Dragged along by six friends (French, American, Polish and Italian), despite my intent perverse snobbery, I had fun, albeit fetishistically perhaps...

Of that consumed in view of the perma-tortured West Pier: Gamay from Touraine. Henri Marionet's '05 Vinifera comes from ungrafted wines. A serious, purple wine, deeply flavoured, with peppered cherries on the nose, cassis-coated strawberries on the palate, and evoking boutique balsamic in its finish. I partnered it with mischievously pickled octopodes sold to me as fresh.

From the fourth year of production, '03, Galil Mountain's Yiron acted meditatively as Amarone would (it approaches 15p/c). From the heights of Upper Galilee near the Lebanese border, this Kosher blend of Cabernet and Merlot with a dimple of Syrah, delivered a filling, cedar and ironically bacon scented aroma tally wine with a palate of lush black fruits, particularly blackcurrant, bevelled by vanilla and stroked by melting, but still slightly coarse tannins. The albeit one dimensional aftertaste hung around eagerly.

Pizza at 'Al Fresco' followed where we were marched to a slightly rusting terrace by an elderly gent in a manicured, dying red sports jacket.

No one really talks about "the walk" - the moment when Sherpa leads diner to their fate. If I have booked a special offer via a concierge site, I worry intensely where the seater will put me.

Anyway, the dried frisbie had the texture of de-humidified drift wood. A Pisco sour at Browns rounded off an overall pleasurable day.

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18th Century Lasagne

'It's best to have failure happen early in life. It wakes up the Phoenix bird in you so you rise from the ashes.'

[Anne Baxter, Actress]

RISING THE morning following ‘The Phoenix’ was staggeringly difficult. Despite implementing a mandatory tie policy to try to instil decorum into Will Gau’s ‘Gaustronaughts’ dining club, the sheer volume of our tasting line-up shunned modesty.

It is hard to find the entrance to the large bleached villa. Eventually I recognised a familiar face in a blazing jumper, beckoning me around the corner, through a discreet door. Inside: a small bar and a topography of tables meeting Christine Keeler chairs. Fairy lights twinkled by the coveted terrace. A dramatic art collection lines the walls. I am faced with what initially looks like a dislocated parachutist moments from his death; his shoot somehow landed before him. Appetising.

Franco Taruschio lends a tangible Italian influence via Head Chef Roger Brook, his Sous at the Walnut Tree Inn, Abergavenny.

Gordon Ramsay famously televisually savaged that controversial venue four years after it changed ownership.

It eventually closed, rising from the bitter embers this year under ‘distinctive’ Irish chef, Shaun Hill (Glasshouse). Part of the rejuvenation includes a tirade of ‘@’ symbols on its menu.

Back in Putney, after clinking Cornish oysters, and then glasses of pomegranate prosecco, crisp, simple antipasti arrived. Breasoalo was ‘ruddy’ good, accompanied by a cross-section of artichoke. Softened asparagus with imminently runny egg was lightly seasoned and sprinkled with Parmesan. A lunar landscape of Vitello Tonnato, correctly chilled and studded with capers, lacked sufficient salty tuna intensity. Rumours of an oxtail ravioli failed to materialise...

The best part of the meal by far was the Vincisgrassi Maceratesi, described by one critic as ‘a veritable Maserati of pasta’. This almost corruptly creamy lasagne was filled to the brink with wild mushrooms, truffles and Parma ham. A Taruschio authored dish with eighteenth century roots. Sticky swordfish was overpowered by a clotted tomato ragu: meaty and correct, but more fuel then thrill – I forget how boring this dish generally is.

To culminate, a pudding which made me nervous. I remember little other then the fact it rolled around my mouth like latex. Not that I regularly suck on latex (or would wish to).

I accidentally left my notebook behind, meaning I cannot elaborate on all of the wines we sampled. And despite a circular to fellow sommeliers, nor it seems, can they. However I do remember two of the vinous highlights which we brought with us, including Gaja’s ’90 Sugarillo Barolo, which was beginning to creep past its apogee. It was graceful, layered with a perfume of peppermint tea, cherries, dried roses, feint mushroom, exotic spices and blessed with smooth, resolved tannins.

The very best wine provided friction to our Italian theme, coming from Moulis: Château Maucaillou ’98. With a very dark, small core and a nose suggesting feint incense, cigar and sweetened black tea, what really struck me was its beautiful texture. Close to perfection, its lithe, finely balanced contours transcended flavour, resolving in a feint, final tannic filigree.

Overall, whilst the building is far from cosy and the décor a little IKEA, the food carried a strong element of honesty: reassuring, traditionally combined flavours collaged from excellent ingredients. Incidentally, as well as there being issues with art, some of the signage is awkard. The disabled loo sign, for example, features two people, one on crutches, his friend in a wheelchair. Maybe this is the aftermath of the parachute incident?

The Phoenix - 162-164 Lower Richmond Road, SW15 1LY. T. 020 8780 3131.

FURTHER LINK: Franco Taruschio’s Cookery School

Orchard Arcadia

'I am in the Country, in Arcadia. It is a village two miles from Cambridge, up the river. You know the place; it is near all picnicking grounds. And here I work at Shakespeare and see few people.

'In the intervals I wander about bare foot and almost naked, surveying Nature with a calm eye. I do not pretend to understand Nature, but I get on very well with her, in a neighbourly way.

'I go on with my books, and she goes on with her hens and storms and things, and we're both very tolerant. I live on honey, eggs and milk, prepared for me by an old lady like an apple (especially in the face) and sit all day in a rose garden to work...'

[Rupert Brooke writes to his girlfriend about the orchard, Grantchester, July 1909]

The Orchard - Mill Way, Grantchester, Cambs, T. 01223 845 788

Sheltering Dolomites

‘…wine moistens and tempers the spirit and lulls the cares of the mind to rest. It revives our joys and is oil to the dying flame of life...'

[Socrates]

ON APRIL 29th, I whooshed up to floor 29 of the Millbank Tower, ‘one of the few London office towers to have won affection’ according to the Pevsner guide. My reason: a tasting put together by 'Hunt & Coady', not as the name might imply a crack private detectives partnership, but a wine events company whose philosophy is neatly summed by the Socrates quote found on their web site.

The altitude of the architecture reflected the high (1,000 metres and counting) aspect of Italy’s smallest wine region, the Alto Adige. Also known as the Südtirol, reflecting the period of Austria's irksome tenure, winemaking is thought to date back to 500BC.

New Zealand Master of Wine, Peter McCombie sobersidedly introduced. A glance at his neglected web site hints at his dexterity in achieving wine and food synergy. The high acid, often strong wines encountered certainly demanded nourishment alongside.

I quite liked the poured produce from this sunny, in parts climatically Mediterrenean region, comprising porphry, limestone and glacial soils, although I fell in love with none.

My favourite comes from the Meran winery, named after the sun-soaked spa town. Ironic, considering the pavement gray sky in the capital. This was further exacerbated by this floor of Millbank's freezing decor: a whitewash, from floor to ceiling. The scheme must have been created by an interior designer given 'Purgatory' as the theme.

The '07 Sauvignon Blanc, fortunately labelled as such (many producers use German names) had lemon verbena mingled with a little butter on the nose and a silicon palate with firm acidity. No U.K. importer presently exists.

The most unfortunate experience involved Abbazia di Novacella's Sauvignon (also '07), a monstrous, turbulent wine evoking 'dog sweat'.

Without mopping, meaty food, I didn't understand Lagrein, a local celebrity with high international expectations. This ancient variety seems to contribute dense, blood transfusion coloured wines that are powerful, with dark berries and violets and soft, but simultaneously bitter tannins. Some 'Tyrolean dumplings' might have tamed the harlot-scarlet nail polish coloured curio.

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I am greatly enjoying Jay Rayner’s gastro-chronicle, ‘The Man Who Ate The World’. I am however bothered by his attitude to exercise. Whilst admitting ‘never being thin’, he appears to have developed a punishing rhythm in tandem with his eating habits. The morning after an extravagant restaurant experience, he massochistically purges himself on his ‘huge Nordic cross-tracker’. Perhaps this is tantamount to an eating disorder, or simply in fear of eventually turning into the nameless critic who ‘put on almost eight stone’ in twelve years (or both). He specualtes whether the professional critics were originally thin, and ‘like curious virgins unacquainted with the clap, had no ideas of the consequences…’

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Time Out has published a substantial chapter on wine culture, past and present in this week's issue. I am delighted to see that my words about Bedales have taken top billing on their merchant rundown (p.34). Incidentally, before going to press, I received an e-mail by accident in which their critic brutally criticised the English wine I sent them.

The Sun Shines Alongside 'Brunellogate'

'Suddenly, just as we were leaving Florence the morning sun started to shine on the top of the roofs... I thought... Light, Luce, that's it! ...the right name for this great wine.'

[Margit Biever Mondavi]

I WENT to a fascinating tasting of six vintages of Montalcino Sangiovese/Merlot Super Tuscan, Luce della Vite this afternoon. This joint venture, started in the mid 90's, represents Robert Mondavi's quest to make a formidable Italian icon - a way of tracing his roots. It was facilitated by Leonardo Frescobaldi, head of a family firm which spans 30 generations.

The tasting, held around a large oval banquetting table with silver Bacchanalian centrepieces, took place within the classically beautiful Italian Embassy. It was hosted by Serena Sutcliffe MW, an elegant but intimidating lady. William Eschikson, author of the excellent 'Noble Rot' describes her as having 'aristocratic bearing', 'tall and thin, dressed in designer clothes, perhaps even Dior' and with 'striking white hair'.

These are big, tightly structured, charismatic wines which develop much needed grace with age.

It is stylistically worth noting that the '01 signified a move from partial Slavonian oak maturation to entirely French, which made a tangible impact on its signature.

The beautifully maturing, shiny '94 threw a snowglobe of sediment with aromas of cedar, hanging game, eucylptus, compost and subtle sweet, smoked Havanna. On the palate, present, but soft tannins and a long, defined aftertaste. A monument, rather then monumental, it was thought to have reached its apogee, although I think its charm will grow further over a few more years.

From a vintage which started with a terrible frost, the '97 was the odd one out in the range, a fattier wine with raw veal on the nose and more chocolate on the dense, angular, well-powered palate.

The '99 was glossy, with a crisp, smart, leafy, even herby nose suggesting unsmoked tobacco. Refined with deep, dark fruit aromas (cassis) and a little cream beneath. On the palate, grasping, but welcoming tannins. Overall, fresh, and in arrested development. The strong alcohol (14.5p/c) was fully integrated. Serena Sutcliffe thought this wine showed a "perfect recipe".

The 'o1 had a dramatic, quality scheme of colour with a more formal nose, perhaps even more French, with a light lavender perfume and a touch of salty minerals. Plushly textured with sweeter fruit and a crisp, designed finish.

The '04 was my least favourite, a purple tinged, but already accessible, vanilla, clotted cream and raisin scented wine. Staggering, seductive, with less fruit, but more richness. Leonardo put this down to vintage variation: "vintages are different, as are humans". Serena Sutcliffe thought there was a spiciness within, which I didn't delve.

The '05 was a survivor from an Italian vintage which in others hands "suffered from a lack of financial backing". However, Leonardo ensures that "the vineyard is looked after like a baby". This wine had the most staggering concentraton, with more sweet oak, lush, soft tannins and sturdy but reconciled alcohol (14.97p/c). Impressive, like a Napa Cabernet, with hardly any Italianate intrigue, although it did retain a distant family resemblence to the glossy '99.

The event also saw the launch of Leonardo's Brunello di Montalcino from '03, a wine so reassuring and complete that it made Serena Sutcliffe "nostalgic" about this "native". Serious, herbacious, minted, "vinimitable", with cinammon, "ink" and blackcurrant tea on the nose. Also a little barnyard. The palate was expressive and refreshing, with a ripe sweetness and fennel on the finish. It was not considered something for the U.S. which would "prefer Merlot/Sangiovese blends".

This vintage is currently the focus of what has been termed 'Brunellogate', an accusation by the Italian police that this, and other leading producers bottles contain grapes other than Sangiovese. Whilst Leonardo's vineyards are planted with other varieties, he insists that the wine is strictly Sangiovese. Preparing for the long haul legal process, he states "at least these wines have a tremendous ability to age..."

After the tasting, I was allowed to speak to Leonardo, although time was limited. Whilst I waited for him, I got stuck into a motifed plate of moreish little toasts with smoked salmon and sliced caperberries, a tasty, tangy combination. He confirmed that unlike other top end Super Tuscans, his are drunk by Italians (up to a third of the production, in fact). He compared the light in Montalcino to that in Napa. Both have "a certain purity". His one regret was studying Political Sciences rather then agricultue.

He told me that the most prized bottle in his personal cellar was the first vintage of another US/Europe joint venture, a certain Oakville wine with Grand Cru ambitions - Opus One. This was gifted in person by Robert Mondavi, signed.

The U.K. representative is Hallgarten.

Londonelicious CompetEATion

TODAY, Krista is hosting my REVIEW of 'Galvin at Windows' on her moreish restaurant blog, Londonelicious. There will be two further dining missions documented by other authors this week, leading to a lucky reader voted winner accompanying Krista on a Michelin meal.

For those visiting from her site - welcome - this is a blog with a liquid focus, although it would be impossible for me to partition creativity in the glass from that on the plate, so you will come across plentiful restaurant reviews. Some recently visited London eateries include:

• Tom's Place
• L'Autre Pied
• The Ivy
• Andrew Edmunds

Australia in 17 Wines

'...not precisely wines for connoisseurs...'

[A.J. Todd]

I HAVE had a pleasantly busy few days. On Saturday afternoon I took a look at the Wapping Project (above). Within, an occasional cushion softens decommissioned hydroelectric power generating machinery. It is abutted by a dark art gallery currently filled with dreary films, the unsmiling subject matter further subdued by the knowledge that the sun was shining outside. Dishes looked well crafted. I would have happily made friends with the Monkfish and its Scallop Roe had there been time. The wine list is, curiously entirely Australian.

That evening I headed to the damp sofas of the dubious Charlie Wright's International Bar to confirm again that they didn't serve the "best wine in the world" (what do I mean?). Jeremy Pelt eventually smoothly unwired in a power-cut.

On Sunday night, to soothe my nerves following a break-in to my car in a flood of daylight by two youths desiring my Sat-Nav (I have no sense of direction), Christoph von Dohnányi conducted two symphonies at the rejuvenated, but still slightly design flawed Royal Festival Hall. The triumphant Timpanist almost got a standing ovation.

Just before, I visited 'Fire & Stone', uncovering drab, mono-toned, near indigestible 'pizza' (really slippery foccacia). If you are in the mood for toppings of Tandoori Chicken and Cabbage, head on down. I guarantee there will be space. Personally, I think the fact that this place is still in business is a remarkable indictment on West End gastronomy.

Today I headed to the grand triangle of Australia House (aka. Gringott's Bank, Harry Potter) for a tasting of the best Australia has to offer. The Southern Hemisphere's first Master of Wine, Michael Hill-Smith led, a charismatic, stunningly knowledgeable presenter who first came to England during a gap year in '74. He reminisced about the embassy's reading room which was a haven back then. Inside the marbled cocoon, Australians 'overwhelmed' by London would flock to get their fill of the dailys from home, 'eat pies' and rendezvous with eachother.

The highlights, weaving the country's vinous narrative, included:

'05 Grosset Polish Hill Riesling from Clare Valley. An electric nose. Fresh lime flower, slate minerals, and an angular structure. Mouth-watering with a long, precise, pulsing finish leaving a dry residue of chilli spice. Smith said Riesling was thriving in Australia pre 1900.

'98 Tyrell's Vat 47 Chardonnay, Hunter Valley. Originally crafted by a 'visionary myopic', this was sweetly expressive and forgivably a little rough. Also enormous, hedonistic, with a determined finish. Sawed wood momentarily eclipsed butternut and plantain. Vanilla and caramel chews also came to mind. Smith said that this was not a wine to 'accuse of being elegant'. The 'grandfather' of Australian Chardonnays, it sunk Shaw and Smith's unexciting '06 Adelaide M3 wannabe Burgundy into the Indian Ocean.

Beloved of Robert Parker, Ben Glaetzer's Barossa '06 'Anaperenna' Shiraz/Cabernet leviathan was pitch-bleak in colour. An intense, juiced mammoth, fruit-filled, seasoned with sweet vanilla. Ripe, but balanced, spiced with herbal undertones. The aftertaste lasted so long, it virtually took root.

In terms of straight Shiraz, Penfold's '04 RWT ('red winemaking trial') Shiraz, also Barossa was fresh, lush and creamy. Hardy's '99 McLaren Vale Eileen Hardy was endearingly sweet, calm and balanced mingling pleasant pineapple and pepper, whilst Mount Langi's Ghiran Langi '04 (Victoria) had lifted almond aromas, reminiscent of (curiously) Pieropan's (white) La Rocca Soave and pepper. The most distinctive wine of the day.
During a lunch of gloopily chilli salsa spiked lamb , I again tasted Jacob Creek's Riesling from Steingarten, South Australia. The simplistic '96 had plasticated fruit, with jellied kiwi and the '98 was dusty. The '06 was better, however, but somehow posessive of a sludy, pond like texture. I don't know why people in the trade never mutter critical words about this vineyard. I wrote 'I'd prefer cocooning my tongue in cling film than another afternoon with this tart Tart...' in October '06. I feel the same today.

However, the majority of the wines sampled disproved any negative connotations from critic A.J. Todd (who penned those words in 1922). Excellent fodder for fanatics.

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Incidentally, according to Celebrity Chefs, Gordon Ramsay is to move into the hotel business, beginning with a ten bedroom 'boutique'.

Your Plaice or Mine?

'No good fish goes anywhere without a porpoise'

[Lewis Carroll]