September 2009
The George and Dragon, Wentworth, South Yorkshire
This is a smashing little pub in an historic estate village (the estate in question belonging to the Wentworth family) but unfortunately whoever is responsible for the catering has decided to embrace the kind of pretentiousness that makes Polyanna's blood boil (and perfectly illustrates that fine word butter no parsnips). I make no attempt to reproduce the descriptions of the food (written up on blackboards above the bar) but if I say that someone had clearly decided to have a go at South Yorkshire 'fusion' it may give some indication of what was to come.
I had lunch here with a couple of friends, one of whom happened to be out celebrating his 90th birthday. Not having an enormous appetite, he passed on the starters but I decided I could manage a bowl of vegetable soup and his son could not resist the lure of wild mushrooms in a creamy sauce on toasted brioche. The soup came with some kind of dark brown slobber running in zigzags across the top, and was thick enough to use as wallpaper paste. Which it largely resembled. Or rather, wallpaper paste with salt in it. If I had been a vegetarian I would have worried about the dark brown stuff as well, but as it was, I just worried that I would have to eat some of the enormous bowlful, if only to show willing.
The wild mushrooms were said to be excellent. As we had waited over half an hour for them and the soup, I was glad, but Birthday Boy was ready to eat a scabby donkey by this time. When the mains finally came (and only after I pursued the waitress to ask where they were), we had been waiting for an hour and fifteen minutes and Son of Birthday Boy was driving and could not have another pint. Which was a problem as he had ordered pork medallions on Thai potato salad (no, seriously) with a sweet chilli sauce. And the chilli sauce was hot. Even the dragon would have thought it was hot. It was light-blue-touchpaper-and-retire hot. Which would have been nice to know for those who are of faint heart when it comes to chilli. What the potato salad idea was all about was a mystery, especially as the spuds in question were also hot (by which I mean not cold, as in 'salad').
BB had gammon and egg, which arrived with the egg sitting on top of "pea puree" which in turn completely covered the (gristly) piece of gammon. We had seen this on the menu and thought it was a joke, but someone in the kitchen must have had a warped sense of humour. There was a bowl of chips that would have fed St George for a week, even after a particularly hard stint of slaying.
My beer-battered fish was so ordinary that it made me wish I had opted for one of the other jokes on the blackboards, just to have a laugh, but by now we were all desperate to get home before Son of BB spontaneously combusted. We could not have ordered a pudding in any case, as we had not brought our pyjamas.
I wanted to go into the kitchen and say, "Look here, this is a pub. A pub, right? So whose idea is it to serve up fourth-rate restaurant food of the weirdest kind, and muck up pub standards like gammon and egg? Not to mention make the punters wait this length of time for it." But anyone who could devise that menu and put posh mushy peas under a fried egg has got to be too bonkers to approach, especially as there would have been sharp implements about.
The bill came to over fifty quid, with three glasses of wine, and two pints of beer.
Verdict: value for money - 3/10 service - 0/10 quality of food - 2/10 (for the mushrooms)
Monday, September 21, 2009
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Catching up time....
August 2009
A miscellany
It's been a long time since I had time to think about eating - or rather, write about it. Moving house is not only stressful but it's time-consuming and leaves no room for anything else. The dust still hasn't settled: I have one slipper, the pyjamas are in a box I haven't unpacked yet and most of my cookery books are yet to be located. The plumbers have left, and I now have hot water, but they will be back in a week (and then I will have no loo!). The electrician will be in residence after that. So in the meantime, I will do a quick roundup of meals eaten - usually in haste - over recent months.
The southernmost reaches of God's Own Country provided a couple of surprises. The George and Dragon, in Mexborough of all places, is a lovely homely pub with a friendly landlord, charming bar staff, good beer and a very acceptable pub food menu with real chips, proper shortcrust pastry pies (and a gravyboat) and a steak that is worth eating. Five minutes up the road in the oddly-spelt Cinamon restaurant in Swinton I ate a surprisingly good Lamb Haandi, which was tender, well-spiced and succulent. The Royal Electric Theatre (a former cinema unpromisingly grim from the outside but light, airy and modern within) offered the golden oldies of the Chinese restaurant world - crispy duck, beef with ginger and spring onions and honey roast pork - cooked and served competently.
Further North, the Black Horse at Asquith also offered proper chips. But their steak and kidney pie was almost inedible, with dry, tough, gristly meat, in gravy so salty that I could feel my blood pressure spiralling upwards with every mouthful. Waiting 35 minutes for a puff-pastry topping on a pre-cooked pie filling was not acceptable either. The sad little side dish of tasteless vegetables had clearly been reheated, and there was not a single spud. The excellent chips, strangely, came with the sandwich ordered by my mother-in-law (who kindly donated them to me). The waitress who served us was clearly trained in the Genghis Khan School of Charm. Definitely one to drive past in future, which is a pity as the views are spectacular and in days past it was a hostelry worth making a detour for.
After years of rural living, the idea of having a restaurant on the doors is a novelty. Brio's at Hornbeam Park, on the outskirts of Harrogate, was a Godsend after a stressful stint of unpacking boxes the day after the move. I had an excellent pizza (with my favourite toppings of ham and artichoke obligingly supplied), some good house wine and swift, friendly service. But how much pleasanter it would have been without the horrible brats at the next table! The father and doting grandparents of these spoilt little horrors allowed them to run amok noisily, climb on the comfy seats in a side area with their dirty feet, and throw food onto the floor, entirely unrebuked. In fact, the whole party simply ignored the hideous children as though they were not their responsibility.
After they had left, the poor waiter had to move the table and chairs to clear up the mess, using a dustpan and brush, and then clean the floor as well. When I commented, he said that they were regular customers who behaved like that on every visit. Come on, restaurant managers, put your collective feet down and refuse to put up with this! Customers like me are going to stop going to restaurants when other people's children make eating out a misery.
Further south, an evening flight meant a late arrival at the Premier Inn in Southampton in the pouring rain. With no desire to get wet feet again (and wearing my only pair of dry socks), I broke the habit of a lifetime and ate in the hotel restaurant. The very helpful waitress assured me that the dauphinois potatoes had been made that very day. Who could resist? (The alternative was boiled new potatoes, presumably cooked by Sir Walter Raleigh, and chips frozen at the last ice age.) Indeed, the dauphinois quite possibly had been made within the past 24 hours, but unfortunately with freshly-prepared wallpaper paste. After possibly the worst steak I have ever attempted to eat, I left a plate that looked as though it had received the loaves and fishes treatment - i.e., there was more left on it than when I started.
Breakfast was a more pleasant experience, which was fortunate as I was so hungry that - as one of my cousins used to say - I could have eaten a scabby donkey. Probably the one I pushed round my plate the night before. The croissants were fresh, crisp and I managed three, though I mourned the lack of anything resembling real jam.
That night it poured with rain again and after plodding round Southampton in search of anything more appealing than a kebab shop, a helpful passer-by told me that something resembling a restaurant quarter could be found on Oxford Street, and gave me directions. And so it proved, as the street concerned was almost continental in its dedication to food. After much indecision, I ate at Oxfords - which seemed to be buzzing with happy diners and had a jolly, bistro-type atmosphere.
As usual, when the starter arrived I felt that an invisible short straw had somehow been shoved into my soggy little hand. Surely anyone can produce a decent bruschetta which after all, is little more than tomatoes on toast? These tomatoes were lava-hot and soggy, with that total absence of flavour that only the British seem to be able to achieve. The belly pork that followed was reasonable enough, being tender and moist, with a genuinely crispy layer of cracking on top. But what idiot decided that it should be served on a mound of potatoes and cabbage, with not a drop of gravy or any other kind of lubrication to help it down? The glass of wine I had ordered had to be re-ordered, twice. It only arrived finally after I had almost brought the waitress down with a flying tackle as she passed my table, en route to flirting with the party of blokes at the next one.
The next morning, I looked forward to breakfast only to find that the croissants were dry, hard and were obviously left over from the day before.
Sometimes it's hard to be Pollyanna.
A miscellany
It's been a long time since I had time to think about eating - or rather, write about it. Moving house is not only stressful but it's time-consuming and leaves no room for anything else. The dust still hasn't settled: I have one slipper, the pyjamas are in a box I haven't unpacked yet and most of my cookery books are yet to be located. The plumbers have left, and I now have hot water, but they will be back in a week (and then I will have no loo!). The electrician will be in residence after that. So in the meantime, I will do a quick roundup of meals eaten - usually in haste - over recent months.
The southernmost reaches of God's Own Country provided a couple of surprises. The George and Dragon, in Mexborough of all places, is a lovely homely pub with a friendly landlord, charming bar staff, good beer and a very acceptable pub food menu with real chips, proper shortcrust pastry pies (and a gravyboat) and a steak that is worth eating. Five minutes up the road in the oddly-spelt Cinamon restaurant in Swinton I ate a surprisingly good Lamb Haandi, which was tender, well-spiced and succulent. The Royal Electric Theatre (a former cinema unpromisingly grim from the outside but light, airy and modern within) offered the golden oldies of the Chinese restaurant world - crispy duck, beef with ginger and spring onions and honey roast pork - cooked and served competently.
Further North, the Black Horse at Asquith also offered proper chips. But their steak and kidney pie was almost inedible, with dry, tough, gristly meat, in gravy so salty that I could feel my blood pressure spiralling upwards with every mouthful. Waiting 35 minutes for a puff-pastry topping on a pre-cooked pie filling was not acceptable either. The sad little side dish of tasteless vegetables had clearly been reheated, and there was not a single spud. The excellent chips, strangely, came with the sandwich ordered by my mother-in-law (who kindly donated them to me). The waitress who served us was clearly trained in the Genghis Khan School of Charm. Definitely one to drive past in future, which is a pity as the views are spectacular and in days past it was a hostelry worth making a detour for.
After years of rural living, the idea of having a restaurant on the doors is a novelty. Brio's at Hornbeam Park, on the outskirts of Harrogate, was a Godsend after a stressful stint of unpacking boxes the day after the move. I had an excellent pizza (with my favourite toppings of ham and artichoke obligingly supplied), some good house wine and swift, friendly service. But how much pleasanter it would have been without the horrible brats at the next table! The father and doting grandparents of these spoilt little horrors allowed them to run amok noisily, climb on the comfy seats in a side area with their dirty feet, and throw food onto the floor, entirely unrebuked. In fact, the whole party simply ignored the hideous children as though they were not their responsibility.
After they had left, the poor waiter had to move the table and chairs to clear up the mess, using a dustpan and brush, and then clean the floor as well. When I commented, he said that they were regular customers who behaved like that on every visit. Come on, restaurant managers, put your collective feet down and refuse to put up with this! Customers like me are going to stop going to restaurants when other people's children make eating out a misery.
Further south, an evening flight meant a late arrival at the Premier Inn in Southampton in the pouring rain. With no desire to get wet feet again (and wearing my only pair of dry socks), I broke the habit of a lifetime and ate in the hotel restaurant. The very helpful waitress assured me that the dauphinois potatoes had been made that very day. Who could resist? (The alternative was boiled new potatoes, presumably cooked by Sir Walter Raleigh, and chips frozen at the last ice age.) Indeed, the dauphinois quite possibly had been made within the past 24 hours, but unfortunately with freshly-prepared wallpaper paste. After possibly the worst steak I have ever attempted to eat, I left a plate that looked as though it had received the loaves and fishes treatment - i.e., there was more left on it than when I started.
Breakfast was a more pleasant experience, which was fortunate as I was so hungry that - as one of my cousins used to say - I could have eaten a scabby donkey. Probably the one I pushed round my plate the night before. The croissants were fresh, crisp and I managed three, though I mourned the lack of anything resembling real jam.
That night it poured with rain again and after plodding round Southampton in search of anything more appealing than a kebab shop, a helpful passer-by told me that something resembling a restaurant quarter could be found on Oxford Street, and gave me directions. And so it proved, as the street concerned was almost continental in its dedication to food. After much indecision, I ate at Oxfords - which seemed to be buzzing with happy diners and had a jolly, bistro-type atmosphere.
As usual, when the starter arrived I felt that an invisible short straw had somehow been shoved into my soggy little hand. Surely anyone can produce a decent bruschetta which after all, is little more than tomatoes on toast? These tomatoes were lava-hot and soggy, with that total absence of flavour that only the British seem to be able to achieve. The belly pork that followed was reasonable enough, being tender and moist, with a genuinely crispy layer of cracking on top. But what idiot decided that it should be served on a mound of potatoes and cabbage, with not a drop of gravy or any other kind of lubrication to help it down? The glass of wine I had ordered had to be re-ordered, twice. It only arrived finally after I had almost brought the waitress down with a flying tackle as she passed my table, en route to flirting with the party of blokes at the next one.
The next morning, I looked forward to breakfast only to find that the croissants were dry, hard and were obviously left over from the day before.
Sometimes it's hard to be Pollyanna.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Mayfair madness
Corrigan's, Mayfair - a wet Wednesday night in January
I have to confess that I lurked outside the door of Corrigan's for several minutes feeling like a fourth-former waiting outside the head's office for a bollocking. Perhaps it was the carpet on the steps leading up to the restaurant (does someone actually hoover it?), or maybe it was just that the place looked generally too posh and intimidating for a nondescript female of slender means (but not personage).
I took courage from the fact that the night was young (just after 6.30 pm to be precise) and the place deserted, and that in the midst of a credit crunch, surely a few bob would be welcome even from the likes of Wurzel Gummidge. So I sidled in as unobtrusively as possible and requested "a table for one". (I always attempt to utter these words in a tone of ringing confidence, but they invariably seem to emerge in a craven whisper that suggests I am terribly sorry to put them out, and do feel free to sit me down next to the gents' toilet, and prop the door open with the bog brush whilst they are at it.)
The impossibly glamorous blonde girl with the pen and the Bob Cratchit ledger studied the latter gravely and then told me that as long as I was out by nine I could be accommodated. I sneaked a look round the cavernous interior, as yet entirely deserted, and assured her that by 9 p.m. I would be tucked up in bed watching the telly. She tried not to laugh and handed me over to another sublimely soigné individual, who seated me at a perfectly nice table nowhere near a toilet, but next to a lamp with ostrich legs and feathers but no head. I wondered if ostrich featured on the menu.
Numerous waiters wandered round looking supremely efficient and starched to the eyeballs. You only had to glance at the entire staff to know, with certainly, that there was not a single of flake of dandruff between the lot of them. A lovely young French lad made an appearance, all smiles, and I felt I would have been quite happy to adopt him or failing that, coat him in thyme and breadcrumbs and serve him pink.
Just as I began to think I had been transported to Stepford, a few reassuring little cracks appeared. Human beings did work here after all! I had ordered fish soup, and it arrived followed by a plate of undistinguished amuse bouches. When my bouche was already giddy with enjoyment. And when I had almost finished, bread, with some creamy, luscious unsalted butter. Heavenly bread, which was said to be soda bread by one of the Stepford brigade, but was totally unlike the putty-coloured doorstop dished up by my Aunt Julia in County Mayo. This was dark brown and speckled, moist, moreish and possibly more addictive than the stuff people pay good money to shove up their noses. But it should have come earlier. Much earlier.
The fish soup itself was quite simply the best I have ever had, better than the many bowlsful I have polished off in St Malo, Cancale, and various parts of the Brittany coast. It came in a plain white bowl, a rusty-coloured pool of fishy intensity with a depth of crustacean flavours, a crabby, shellfishy concoction to make one give thanks for living on an island. Every spoonful sang in the mouth. With it there was a bowl of garlic mayonnaise and a couple of perfectly golden, crisp slices of toasted French bread (three would have been better). I tried to make it last, I resisted the urge to lift the whole bowl up to mouth level and slurp it down, and I even managed to swallow the shrieks of delight that threatened to emerge after each spoonful. But I failed to curb the idiot grin that spread across my face, a grin that I was completely unaware of until the couple at the next table started to look at me nervously and mutter. In fact, if the Stepfords had carried in George Clooney reclining on a silver salver and clad only in a strategically-placed crouton, I am afraid I would have reached for the crouton and slathered on the last spoonful of mayonnaise.
At this point the man himself (Corrigan, not Clooney) emerged from the kitchen and sat down with a group of people at the table across the room, a picture of bonhomie. Here was the creator of this paragon of soups, a soup I would gladly eat every day of my life and never tire of. I briefly contemplated making an offer of marriage, discounted it immediately and then weighed up the possibility of kidnapping. With a smaller, lighter chef it might have been an option but this man clearly enjoyed his food - as who would not?
The smiling French lad appeared and enquired if everything was all right. I told him that should I ever be on Death Row, this would be my last order the night before the needle. He looked mystified, as well he might, not being aware that plans had almost been afoot to incarcerate his boss and force him to produce fish soup for all eternity to satisfy the appetites of a crazed Polyanna.
With reluctance I turned to my game suet pudding. Not because it was a disappointment but because the fish soup was now but a memory. The pudding was actually a thing of beauty in its own right, but compared with the soup it was like following Jane Austen with Bridget Jones. It was light, and the thin but plump little mound of suet pastry - full of tender morsels of game - sat in a bowl of rich brown gravy. Very nice. The buttered kale was fine. But the urge to sandbag the chef and drag him back to a hidden lair equipped with a fully-fitted kitchen (and an endless supply of conical sieves) was fading. And a good job too. If I had been able to afford the partridge, it might have been next stop Holloway.
I passed on the desserts, fearing not just the calorie content but the possibility of a life of crime.
I drank a glass of Chablis with the soup and one of Minervois with the game pudding.
The bill came to fifty quid, which seemed quite a lot (but then I am a Yorkshirewoman).
Verdict: value for money - 8/10 service - 7/10 (marked down for the bizarre mix-up over the amuse bouches and the bread) quality of food - 9/10 overall (15/10 for the soup or up there with the angels)
Le Boudin Blanc, Shepherd Market - the following night
Busy, buzzing and much less formal than Corrigan's, this place was full to bursting by 7 pm on the Thursday night I ate there. They managed to squeeze me in and I ordered, guess what, fish soup, more to simply reassure myself that the sublime concoction of the previous night really had been that good.
This time the bread arrived smartly, and the soup followed without much of a delay. With it was some not very gutsy rouille, some rather bland gruyere and some croutons, and it was all perfectly OK. The soup was fine, exactly the same standard as I last had in Granville in a restaurant overlooking the harbour. But it did not make me want to jump on the table and do a song and dance routine.
The confit of duck with a chorizo cassoulet was also pretty good, the skin crispy, the duck meltingly tender. There was possibly a little too much of the cassoulet and the beans could have done with an extra half an hour of cooking, but overall it was a toothsome plateful. With a side order of spinach, and a couple of glasses of wine, I ended up with a bill of forty quid, which is probably good value for Mayfair. And the place itself was jolly, with bags of atmosphere and a buzz.
Verdict: value for money - 8/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 8/10
I have to confess that I lurked outside the door of Corrigan's for several minutes feeling like a fourth-former waiting outside the head's office for a bollocking. Perhaps it was the carpet on the steps leading up to the restaurant (does someone actually hoover it?), or maybe it was just that the place looked generally too posh and intimidating for a nondescript female of slender means (but not personage).
I took courage from the fact that the night was young (just after 6.30 pm to be precise) and the place deserted, and that in the midst of a credit crunch, surely a few bob would be welcome even from the likes of Wurzel Gummidge. So I sidled in as unobtrusively as possible and requested "a table for one". (I always attempt to utter these words in a tone of ringing confidence, but they invariably seem to emerge in a craven whisper that suggests I am terribly sorry to put them out, and do feel free to sit me down next to the gents' toilet, and prop the door open with the bog brush whilst they are at it.)
The impossibly glamorous blonde girl with the pen and the Bob Cratchit ledger studied the latter gravely and then told me that as long as I was out by nine I could be accommodated. I sneaked a look round the cavernous interior, as yet entirely deserted, and assured her that by 9 p.m. I would be tucked up in bed watching the telly. She tried not to laugh and handed me over to another sublimely soigné individual, who seated me at a perfectly nice table nowhere near a toilet, but next to a lamp with ostrich legs and feathers but no head. I wondered if ostrich featured on the menu.
Numerous waiters wandered round looking supremely efficient and starched to the eyeballs. You only had to glance at the entire staff to know, with certainly, that there was not a single of flake of dandruff between the lot of them. A lovely young French lad made an appearance, all smiles, and I felt I would have been quite happy to adopt him or failing that, coat him in thyme and breadcrumbs and serve him pink.
Just as I began to think I had been transported to Stepford, a few reassuring little cracks appeared. Human beings did work here after all! I had ordered fish soup, and it arrived followed by a plate of undistinguished amuse bouches. When my bouche was already giddy with enjoyment. And when I had almost finished, bread, with some creamy, luscious unsalted butter. Heavenly bread, which was said to be soda bread by one of the Stepford brigade, but was totally unlike the putty-coloured doorstop dished up by my Aunt Julia in County Mayo. This was dark brown and speckled, moist, moreish and possibly more addictive than the stuff people pay good money to shove up their noses. But it should have come earlier. Much earlier.
The fish soup itself was quite simply the best I have ever had, better than the many bowlsful I have polished off in St Malo, Cancale, and various parts of the Brittany coast. It came in a plain white bowl, a rusty-coloured pool of fishy intensity with a depth of crustacean flavours, a crabby, shellfishy concoction to make one give thanks for living on an island. Every spoonful sang in the mouth. With it there was a bowl of garlic mayonnaise and a couple of perfectly golden, crisp slices of toasted French bread (three would have been better). I tried to make it last, I resisted the urge to lift the whole bowl up to mouth level and slurp it down, and I even managed to swallow the shrieks of delight that threatened to emerge after each spoonful. But I failed to curb the idiot grin that spread across my face, a grin that I was completely unaware of until the couple at the next table started to look at me nervously and mutter. In fact, if the Stepfords had carried in George Clooney reclining on a silver salver and clad only in a strategically-placed crouton, I am afraid I would have reached for the crouton and slathered on the last spoonful of mayonnaise.
At this point the man himself (Corrigan, not Clooney) emerged from the kitchen and sat down with a group of people at the table across the room, a picture of bonhomie. Here was the creator of this paragon of soups, a soup I would gladly eat every day of my life and never tire of. I briefly contemplated making an offer of marriage, discounted it immediately and then weighed up the possibility of kidnapping. With a smaller, lighter chef it might have been an option but this man clearly enjoyed his food - as who would not?
The smiling French lad appeared and enquired if everything was all right. I told him that should I ever be on Death Row, this would be my last order the night before the needle. He looked mystified, as well he might, not being aware that plans had almost been afoot to incarcerate his boss and force him to produce fish soup for all eternity to satisfy the appetites of a crazed Polyanna.
With reluctance I turned to my game suet pudding. Not because it was a disappointment but because the fish soup was now but a memory. The pudding was actually a thing of beauty in its own right, but compared with the soup it was like following Jane Austen with Bridget Jones. It was light, and the thin but plump little mound of suet pastry - full of tender morsels of game - sat in a bowl of rich brown gravy. Very nice. The buttered kale was fine. But the urge to sandbag the chef and drag him back to a hidden lair equipped with a fully-fitted kitchen (and an endless supply of conical sieves) was fading. And a good job too. If I had been able to afford the partridge, it might have been next stop Holloway.
I passed on the desserts, fearing not just the calorie content but the possibility of a life of crime.
I drank a glass of Chablis with the soup and one of Minervois with the game pudding.
The bill came to fifty quid, which seemed quite a lot (but then I am a Yorkshirewoman).
Verdict: value for money - 8/10 service - 7/10 (marked down for the bizarre mix-up over the amuse bouches and the bread) quality of food - 9/10 overall (15/10 for the soup or up there with the angels)
Le Boudin Blanc, Shepherd Market - the following night
Busy, buzzing and much less formal than Corrigan's, this place was full to bursting by 7 pm on the Thursday night I ate there. They managed to squeeze me in and I ordered, guess what, fish soup, more to simply reassure myself that the sublime concoction of the previous night really had been that good.
This time the bread arrived smartly, and the soup followed without much of a delay. With it was some not very gutsy rouille, some rather bland gruyere and some croutons, and it was all perfectly OK. The soup was fine, exactly the same standard as I last had in Granville in a restaurant overlooking the harbour. But it did not make me want to jump on the table and do a song and dance routine.
The confit of duck with a chorizo cassoulet was also pretty good, the skin crispy, the duck meltingly tender. There was possibly a little too much of the cassoulet and the beans could have done with an extra half an hour of cooking, but overall it was a toothsome plateful. With a side order of spinach, and a couple of glasses of wine, I ended up with a bill of forty quid, which is probably good value for Mayfair. And the place itself was jolly, with bags of atmosphere and a buzz.
Verdict: value for money - 8/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 8/10
Friday, December 26, 2008
Christmas 2008
Roast at Borough Market
There were a lot of happy, smiling Christmas revellers at Roast on the day of my visit and it wasn't long before I was one of them. As a fully paid-up carnivore, there was nothing not to like about the place, and plenty of lovely meaty choices to go at. Though I did start with crabcakes and squid, and jolly nice they were too, the squid being very rapidly cooked in a crunchy, crispy coating so that it was perfectly tender. I hate the overcooked rings of inner tube normally dished up as squid but this was the real deal and the crabcakes were yummy little morsels too.
I am happy to say that the belly pork (yes, how predictable I am) was pretty much up to my own standard, tender, moist and rich, cooked so that the fat had melted away and the crackling was, well, cracking. I can also report that the partridges were perfectly cooked as colleague to the left of me ordered them and was somewhat overfaced by the two that appeared so I helped out. There is nothing quite like gnawing on a partridge leg to get one in a Christmassy mood, not a pear tree in sight and a bloody good job too.
Side dishes of veg were universally liked, the red cabbage being a particular favourite. When it came to puddings most of us were too stuffed to even contemplate the menu but I managed a few darkly degenerate spoonfuls of chocolate pot, again to help out a work colleague (I call it teambuilding myself - and now have the waistband to prove it) and it packed enough of a cocoa punch to satisfy even me.
I didn't pay or even see the bill so it would be unfair to give marks out of ten, but I will simply conclude by saying that if anyone out there is going to Roast and wants an extra body to make up the numbers, GET IN TOUCH NOW.
And the view from the windows, no matter where you sit, is great.
There were a lot of happy, smiling Christmas revellers at Roast on the day of my visit and it wasn't long before I was one of them. As a fully paid-up carnivore, there was nothing not to like about the place, and plenty of lovely meaty choices to go at. Though I did start with crabcakes and squid, and jolly nice they were too, the squid being very rapidly cooked in a crunchy, crispy coating so that it was perfectly tender. I hate the overcooked rings of inner tube normally dished up as squid but this was the real deal and the crabcakes were yummy little morsels too.
I am happy to say that the belly pork (yes, how predictable I am) was pretty much up to my own standard, tender, moist and rich, cooked so that the fat had melted away and the crackling was, well, cracking. I can also report that the partridges were perfectly cooked as colleague to the left of me ordered them and was somewhat overfaced by the two that appeared so I helped out. There is nothing quite like gnawing on a partridge leg to get one in a Christmassy mood, not a pear tree in sight and a bloody good job too.
Side dishes of veg were universally liked, the red cabbage being a particular favourite. When it came to puddings most of us were too stuffed to even contemplate the menu but I managed a few darkly degenerate spoonfuls of chocolate pot, again to help out a work colleague (I call it teambuilding myself - and now have the waistband to prove it) and it packed enough of a cocoa punch to satisfy even me.
I didn't pay or even see the bill so it would be unfair to give marks out of ten, but I will simply conclude by saying that if anyone out there is going to Roast and wants an extra body to make up the numbers, GET IN TOUCH NOW.
And the view from the windows, no matter where you sit, is great.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Spa town blues
Oxford Street Brasserie, Harrogate
Apropos the last review, these were the very waiting staff. A young lad who was keen to please but seemed unsure of himself, and a women who gave the impression that she couldn't give a toss, quite frankly, are not the best combination for a restaurant with these prices. Suffice to say that a goat's cheese salad was supplied by a caprine so Lilliputian that one almost needed a microscope to find it on the plate. When it arrived (thankfully not on the table setting in front of me) we all had to resist the urge to burst into guffaws - and then tears. No wonder the miniscule bread rolls disappeared instantly (and were not replaced until asked for, repeatedly).
A ham hock terrine (£6.50) was not particularly hammy or in any way memorable (though at least there was more than one mouthful of it). The only starter that was clearly passing muster was a risotto with lobster or some such, and I vaguely remember that it was the most expensive one ordered. My slow-cooked belly pork was OK, but longer cooking still would have rendered out the remaining fat and made the pork more tender. In short, the stuff I cook at home is miles better. And it costs a fraction of the fourteen quid charged here.
The beef fillet at 25 quid was supposed to be served with truffles but they were of the shy and retiring variety, though the beef itself apparently was "tender". Ah, tenderness - we all need some of that. But doesn't a woman expect that bit more at the top end of the market? At 25 pounds for a portion I would have wanted mine to stride out of the sea like Daniel Craig and transport me with delight. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
I have lost the will to describe any more of this meal as it was a less than delightful experience and one that I am happy not to revisit (especially when the bill arrived and we spotted a charge of £5.50 for the initial tiny rolls with butter - which was taken off the bill after spluttering indignation).
As the place was almost empty I would have though a bit of cosseting of customers might have been the order of the day but the milk of human kindness is not the USP here. In fairness, part of the problem was that all four diners were accustomed to eating in France, where bread is offered freely (in every sense of the word) and not doled out as though there had been a massive run on the local bread-bank and only shareholders need apply.
Disappointing.
Verdict: value for money - 3/10 service - 4/10 quality of food - 6/10
Apropos the last review, these were the very waiting staff. A young lad who was keen to please but seemed unsure of himself, and a women who gave the impression that she couldn't give a toss, quite frankly, are not the best combination for a restaurant with these prices. Suffice to say that a goat's cheese salad was supplied by a caprine so Lilliputian that one almost needed a microscope to find it on the plate. When it arrived (thankfully not on the table setting in front of me) we all had to resist the urge to burst into guffaws - and then tears. No wonder the miniscule bread rolls disappeared instantly (and were not replaced until asked for, repeatedly).
A ham hock terrine (£6.50) was not particularly hammy or in any way memorable (though at least there was more than one mouthful of it). The only starter that was clearly passing muster was a risotto with lobster or some such, and I vaguely remember that it was the most expensive one ordered. My slow-cooked belly pork was OK, but longer cooking still would have rendered out the remaining fat and made the pork more tender. In short, the stuff I cook at home is miles better. And it costs a fraction of the fourteen quid charged here.
The beef fillet at 25 quid was supposed to be served with truffles but they were of the shy and retiring variety, though the beef itself apparently was "tender". Ah, tenderness - we all need some of that. But doesn't a woman expect that bit more at the top end of the market? At 25 pounds for a portion I would have wanted mine to stride out of the sea like Daniel Craig and transport me with delight. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
I have lost the will to describe any more of this meal as it was a less than delightful experience and one that I am happy not to revisit (especially when the bill arrived and we spotted a charge of £5.50 for the initial tiny rolls with butter - which was taken off the bill after spluttering indignation).
As the place was almost empty I would have though a bit of cosseting of customers might have been the order of the day but the milk of human kindness is not the USP here. In fairness, part of the problem was that all four diners were accustomed to eating in France, where bread is offered freely (in every sense of the word) and not doled out as though there had been a massive run on the local bread-bank and only shareholders need apply.
Disappointing.
Verdict: value for money - 3/10 service - 4/10 quality of food - 6/10
More North of the Border
Two Fat Ladies, Glasgow
A friend who works in Glasgow booked us in here for the earlybird dinner and very glad I was that she did. At £16 for two courses it's not the cheapest offer in town but my grilled sardine fillets were succulent, tasty and fresh, and their pesto dressing was fragrant - though I could have done with a bit more, given the quality of the bread I used to mop it up. Scottish Spice's mushroom tart with goat's cheese was pronounced to be excellent, though I hardly noticed it as I was too interested in my own plate.
The roast breast of chicken in port jus was quite simply the best I have had since the Goods Shed in Canterbury. Tender, full of flavour, perfectly cooked and moist, is how I would have described it if I had not been so busy gobbling it down before shamelessly using my pudding spoon to slurp up all of the posh gravy (OK, jus) which was simply too good to leave on the plate. And the veg was tasty as well - the carrots actually tasted like carrots used to taste when I was a child back before the Black Death.
Scottish Spice was on a diet so did the sensible thing and missed out on a main course, and zoomed straight into pudding with what looked like a pretty tempting take on that weird Scottish staple, cranachan. I passed on the pudding, having wiped my plate with bread to mop up the last tiny drops of the jus/gravy. And very fine bread it was too, all the more toothsome for not receiving a credit on the bill.
Adding on the wine and a bottle of water brought our joint bill up to 47 quid but I was heartened to see that instead of simply charging us for a couple of two-course earlybirds, they had done the decent thing and charged the starter/pudding meal off the a la carte. Without being told to do so. Who says the Scots are mean?
Service was friendly, charming even, helpful and unobtrusive. Though at the time we were there, it was not exactly bustling. But then again I have known places just as quiet, with waiting staff so keen to avoid eye contact that I have almost had to bring them down with a rugby tackle.
When can I go to Glasgow again? It can't be soon enough.
Verdict: value for money - 8/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 9/10
A friend who works in Glasgow booked us in here for the earlybird dinner and very glad I was that she did. At £16 for two courses it's not the cheapest offer in town but my grilled sardine fillets were succulent, tasty and fresh, and their pesto dressing was fragrant - though I could have done with a bit more, given the quality of the bread I used to mop it up. Scottish Spice's mushroom tart with goat's cheese was pronounced to be excellent, though I hardly noticed it as I was too interested in my own plate.
The roast breast of chicken in port jus was quite simply the best I have had since the Goods Shed in Canterbury. Tender, full of flavour, perfectly cooked and moist, is how I would have described it if I had not been so busy gobbling it down before shamelessly using my pudding spoon to slurp up all of the posh gravy (OK, jus) which was simply too good to leave on the plate. And the veg was tasty as well - the carrots actually tasted like carrots used to taste when I was a child back before the Black Death.
Scottish Spice was on a diet so did the sensible thing and missed out on a main course, and zoomed straight into pudding with what looked like a pretty tempting take on that weird Scottish staple, cranachan. I passed on the pudding, having wiped my plate with bread to mop up the last tiny drops of the jus/gravy. And very fine bread it was too, all the more toothsome for not receiving a credit on the bill.
Adding on the wine and a bottle of water brought our joint bill up to 47 quid but I was heartened to see that instead of simply charging us for a couple of two-course earlybirds, they had done the decent thing and charged the starter/pudding meal off the a la carte. Without being told to do so. Who says the Scots are mean?
Service was friendly, charming even, helpful and unobtrusive. Though at the time we were there, it was not exactly bustling. But then again I have known places just as quiet, with waiting staff so keen to avoid eye contact that I have almost had to bring them down with a rugby tackle.
When can I go to Glasgow again? It can't be soon enough.
Verdict: value for money - 8/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 9/10
Sunday, November 23, 2008
French Leave
November 2008
Le Relais de la Poste, St Hilaire du Harcouët, Manche
The Wednesday market at St Hilaire is more subdued than usual, probably because the town recently hosted its annual St Martin fair, which is the second largest in Normandy and enough to exhaust the entire population, never mind the market traders. It still puts a typical English market to shame and despite the grey and grizzly weather, the stallholders are busy grilling sausages and chops over charcoal fires, so that by the time I have worked my way round to the main road again, my stomach is protesting its emptiness.
The Relais de la Poste is one of those bourgeois, comfortable and unpretentious hotels that are so much a feature of French life and yet apparently unknown in Britain. Monsieur le Patron has been bustling through the dining room ever since I have been going there, meeting and greeting and showing diners to their tables. Two serious youngsters in spotless white shirts serve the food, supervised by a waitress of even more serious mien who makes sure they do it exactly right.
I have the fish soup, which I have had many times before, from a menu priced at just over 18 euros. For a little over 14 euros I could have started with the avocado and prawns, which is always a whole, perfectly ripe avocado, sliced across the plate and amply guarded by an array of small pink prawns, with a couple of larger, whiskery ones still in their shells, and lashings of mayonnaise. The menu du jour starts with warm goat's cheese salad, which looks great as well when my neighbours order it. But as I ate a variation of it the day before I go for the fish soup, with grated gruyere and crispy croutons, and a pot of creme fraiche because this is Normandy and the place is groaning with cream. There is a mini tureen of this soup all for me, with a ladle to spoon it into my bowl and I can't resist having two large helpings. It is a russet brown, satisfyingly fishy and with more than a hint of crabby depth and density.
Also on the menu du jour is pot au feu and this too is popular, great slices of beef with carrots and potatoes served with little pots of sauces to add some piquancy. But on my menu there is fillet of porc with sauce Normande, a creamy, cidery pond in which the slices of perfectly cooked pork jostle each other for room, flanked by slices of caramelised apple. Saute potatoes and a heap of tiny courgette cubes cooked with tomato and red peppers mean that by the end of the plateful I am regretfully having to turn down my favourite pudding, the white and dark chocolate mousse. I have eaten a hell of a lot of chocolate mouse and I think my own is pretty good but this one takes some beating. So does the Tarte Tatin, but there is no way that can be accommodated now. As I only have a kir to start with and no wine, I feel pretty virtuous, and clock up a bill in the mid-twenties.
Verdict: value for money - 9/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 9/10
The Lion d'Or, Fougerolles du Plessis, Mayenne
At 11 euros for a four-course lunch this has to be the best value anywhere given that the menu has a good choice and the price includes red wine or cider. The first course is a self-service buffet and there is an impressive array of salads, pate and cold meat, and fishy offerings. The trick here is not to over-eat, however tempting it might be to have just one more prawn with a dollop of mayonnaise.
There is usually a good selection of meat dishes with one fish and a pasta, weirdly all served with either chips, green salad or flageolet beans (in the winter. like now) or haricots (in the summer). I say weirdly because watching someone tuck into a dish of lasagne with flageolets on the side looks quite bizarre.
On Thursday the choice was roast pork, salmon fillet, pork chop, lamb chop, lasagne, andouillettes or confit de canard for a small supplement. So no need to dither there, then, as I am a sucker for duck (try saying that ten times after glugging down most of a bottle of cidre bouche and you will soon come unstuck and possibly bleeped out). The confit was rich, tender and dropping off the bone and I was unable to stop myself picking up the latter and nibbling every last vestige off with my teeth, no doubt looking like a mediaeval peasant whilst doing so.
The cheeseboard is left on the table for you to help yourself from half a dozen different cheeses, before you heave up your considerably increased bulk to totter across to the chiller cabinet full of puddings. The chocolate mousse here is a winner as well but today there was none, though there was plenty of other stuff instead, including some rather toothsome coffee profiteroles.
By 12.30 the dining room was full and people had spilled over into the bar. The entire room - and it is a large one - was nimbly served by a couple of waitresses who skipped around the place looking incredibly competent and never getting an order wrong.
Verdict: value for money - 10/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 8/10
Le Relais de la Poste, St Hilaire du Harcouët, Manche
The Wednesday market at St Hilaire is more subdued than usual, probably because the town recently hosted its annual St Martin fair, which is the second largest in Normandy and enough to exhaust the entire population, never mind the market traders. It still puts a typical English market to shame and despite the grey and grizzly weather, the stallholders are busy grilling sausages and chops over charcoal fires, so that by the time I have worked my way round to the main road again, my stomach is protesting its emptiness.
The Relais de la Poste is one of those bourgeois, comfortable and unpretentious hotels that are so much a feature of French life and yet apparently unknown in Britain. Monsieur le Patron has been bustling through the dining room ever since I have been going there, meeting and greeting and showing diners to their tables. Two serious youngsters in spotless white shirts serve the food, supervised by a waitress of even more serious mien who makes sure they do it exactly right.
I have the fish soup, which I have had many times before, from a menu priced at just over 18 euros. For a little over 14 euros I could have started with the avocado and prawns, which is always a whole, perfectly ripe avocado, sliced across the plate and amply guarded by an array of small pink prawns, with a couple of larger, whiskery ones still in their shells, and lashings of mayonnaise. The menu du jour starts with warm goat's cheese salad, which looks great as well when my neighbours order it. But as I ate a variation of it the day before I go for the fish soup, with grated gruyere and crispy croutons, and a pot of creme fraiche because this is Normandy and the place is groaning with cream. There is a mini tureen of this soup all for me, with a ladle to spoon it into my bowl and I can't resist having two large helpings. It is a russet brown, satisfyingly fishy and with more than a hint of crabby depth and density.
Also on the menu du jour is pot au feu and this too is popular, great slices of beef with carrots and potatoes served with little pots of sauces to add some piquancy. But on my menu there is fillet of porc with sauce Normande, a creamy, cidery pond in which the slices of perfectly cooked pork jostle each other for room, flanked by slices of caramelised apple. Saute potatoes and a heap of tiny courgette cubes cooked with tomato and red peppers mean that by the end of the plateful I am regretfully having to turn down my favourite pudding, the white and dark chocolate mousse. I have eaten a hell of a lot of chocolate mouse and I think my own is pretty good but this one takes some beating. So does the Tarte Tatin, but there is no way that can be accommodated now. As I only have a kir to start with and no wine, I feel pretty virtuous, and clock up a bill in the mid-twenties.
Verdict: value for money - 9/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 9/10
The Lion d'Or, Fougerolles du Plessis, Mayenne
At 11 euros for a four-course lunch this has to be the best value anywhere given that the menu has a good choice and the price includes red wine or cider. The first course is a self-service buffet and there is an impressive array of salads, pate and cold meat, and fishy offerings. The trick here is not to over-eat, however tempting it might be to have just one more prawn with a dollop of mayonnaise.
There is usually a good selection of meat dishes with one fish and a pasta, weirdly all served with either chips, green salad or flageolet beans (in the winter. like now) or haricots (in the summer). I say weirdly because watching someone tuck into a dish of lasagne with flageolets on the side looks quite bizarre.
On Thursday the choice was roast pork, salmon fillet, pork chop, lamb chop, lasagne, andouillettes or confit de canard for a small supplement. So no need to dither there, then, as I am a sucker for duck (try saying that ten times after glugging down most of a bottle of cidre bouche and you will soon come unstuck and possibly bleeped out). The confit was rich, tender and dropping off the bone and I was unable to stop myself picking up the latter and nibbling every last vestige off with my teeth, no doubt looking like a mediaeval peasant whilst doing so.
The cheeseboard is left on the table for you to help yourself from half a dozen different cheeses, before you heave up your considerably increased bulk to totter across to the chiller cabinet full of puddings. The chocolate mousse here is a winner as well but today there was none, though there was plenty of other stuff instead, including some rather toothsome coffee profiteroles.
By 12.30 the dining room was full and people had spilled over into the bar. The entire room - and it is a large one - was nimbly served by a couple of waitresses who skipped around the place looking incredibly competent and never getting an order wrong.
Verdict: value for money - 10/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 8/10
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