More French leave

La Petite Auberge, Rouen

This was my first visit to Rouen and I was blown away by the medieval buildings - and the wonderful little alleyways and doorways like this one. Though true to form, most of the most impressive buildings seemed to be swathed in scaffolding and in the process of renovation. Or shut. They obviously knew I was due to arrive, possibly acting on information from Tourist Information in Rome, where we were told the Coliseum was not due to re-open until the day we had left. (Sneakily, they opened it the day before. But I had staked it out, having got the measure of the disdainful Romans and this, combined with the Lawn Ranger’s eagle eye - “there’s people in there!” he cried - ensured we were amongst the barbarian hordes invading the place yet again. But this time armed with nothing more warlike than a Roma Pass.)

La Petite Auberge initially looked unpromising, one in a row of restaurants that had a distinct feel of the tourist trap about them. But we only just managed to get a table as they were almost fully booked, and almost every other diner turned out to be a local, or French, at any rate The exception was a very nice American family sitting at the next table, who were completely bewildered by the menu. I translated and saw their looks of horror and incredulity at some of the dishes on offer (salad of duck giblets? Seriously?). Their youngest son only ate chips, or rather, French fries, to the equal incredulity of the staff. But they gave him his plate of French fries without demur.

The exterior was all ancient timbers, painted in shades of ochre and rust, and the interior was typically French, with dark beams, old wooden tables crowded together and spotless white cloths and napkins. Service was relaxed, and we had plenty of time to pore over the menu over a couple of kirs. I decided on the 20 euro offering whilst the Ex went for the 24. Both offered four courses and plenty of choice, even for the faint of heart.

My bowl of fish soup was good - OK it was probably bought in, but so what? The tiny bowl of aioli packed a garlicky punch; whatever might go wrong with the rest of the night, I wouldn’t be worrying about vampires. Croutons and grated gruyere completed the traditional ‘garniture’ and it is one that always feels deeply satisfying when it is done properly. As it was here.

On the other side, a huge plate of crevettes flambees didn’t arrive in flames and they didn’t set me on fire either – they may have been recently flambéed but they had been already cooked beforehand, and the effect was to toughen them. The shells appeared to have been stuck on with superglue, (that second cooking again) and it would have been much better to have served a smaller portion but cooked them fresh. Having said that, the sauce they were swimming in was perhaps a little over-salty, but it was satisfyingly prawny and the base of shellfish and tomato really shone through. The Ex was struggling to peel them, as his fingernails were not up to the job. This reminded me of an occasion some years before when he had been wounded by a lagoustine; the blood had spurted alarmingly out of his pierced finger in front of a dining room full of French families. None of whom seemed off-put in the slightest.

A confit of duck was full-flavoured and falling off the bone, which again, was as it should be. Pommes Sarladaise were lying limply in a visible pool of duck fat, which was not. The other side of the table had ordered entrecote grille, which was pretty ordinary and slightly tough, despite having been belted soundly with a meat tenderiser. It came with frites and a pixie-sized mound of what looked like cooked chopped tomatoes. French restaurants seem to have an antipathy to vegetables other than green salad, though every market is a cornucopia of the most wonderful fruit and veg imaginable. Where do they all go? The five-a-day thing is ignored completely and a vegan would starve, if he or she had not been stoned to death first, and put out of their misery by the carnivorous locals.

The Beaujolais Villages was slipping down nicely, and there was still a glass each left when cheese time arrived. The French habit of serving the cheese before the dessert is such a sensible idea for that very reason. The cheeseboard was excellent, with all the usual suspects available and in perfect condition. A very smelly Camembert was deliciously oozy, for example. A well-dressed green salad came as well, and then dessert was offered.

Feeling like Mr Creosote, I watched as the Ex scoffed down a gateau de riz (I always think rice pudding cake is a very odd idea but this one was said to be perfectly acceptable). I passed on coffee but had an Armagnac. The bill came in at 74 euros which was pretty staggering considering what had been consumed, and the fact that this was a restaurant in a big tourist destination, on the main drag. Not a faultless meal by any means, but a very creditable one in terms of value.

Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 8/10 quality of food 7/10



Le Cabestan, 70 Rue du Port, Granville

The day was glorious, more like May than November; it was Sunday on a bank holiday weekend, and a trip to the seaside was irresistible. In Britain, the seafront would be lined with what in Yorkshire are called ‘tat’ shops, ice cream parlours and amusement arcades, with people trailing around them like lemmings looking for a cliff. But this was France, and the restaurants down by the Granville quayside were patrolled by anxious, hungry French of all ages and sizes, all walking up and down from one to another trying to read the menus and cartes displayed outside.

There was an air of controlled panic: if we each found the one, the menu offering the perfect combination of entrée and main course, would we have left it too late and discovered that everyone else on the same mission had got there first and filled the place?

Only when safely seated at the table, stake claimed and occupied, could we all relax. Le Cabeston was chosen simply on the basis that it was the only one offering fresh mackerel as a special and that seemed particularly appealing on this particular day. This restaurant, like most on the seafront in France, survives mainly on its fishy offerings. Unlike most of the others on the same frontage, it is unashamedly modern in décor and style. But the menu was traditional. There were oysters, mussels, both brown crab and spider crab, fish and shellfish of all descriptions and huge plateaux de fruits de mer.

So of course I chose the fish soup. After all, it was a full two days since I had last eaten any and withdrawal symptoms were well developed. (In fact, I knew that I would not be back in France again for some time and needed to get my full fish soup fix.) I also wanted the mackerel and this meant ordering from the carte, rather than a fixed menu, not something I do much in France as the latter usually offers much better value for money.

The fish soup came with the usual grated cheese, croutons and a version of rouille/aioli that was less garlicky than the Rouen version but just as good. The soup itself was even better, with a definite bisque-like quality and even greater depth of flavour. (Possibly the best fish soup I have ever eaten was at Corrigan’s in Mayfair when it had only been open for a week. I went back two months later and ordered it again, only to be disappointed, as it seemed to have been watered-down. The portions on both occasions were tiny. But I digress.)

The Ex had chosen an odd-sounding starter of baked eggs with smoked fish. After talking in a saintly manner about eating lightly, the dish arrived and it was huge, with two baked eggs and a combination of smoked salmon and smoked haddock. He ate the lot, and wiped the plate with bread. I didn’t try any as I am an eggophobe, or whatever the word is. But as eggs go, it certainly went.

We had both ordered the mackerel with mustard sauce.

A whole small fish arrived, well-cooked, meaty and fresh. The mustard sauce was a little sharp and the whole was perhaps very slightly over-salted (I minimise my use of salt and accordingly am very sensitive to it). The plate was garnished with a perfectly cooked, turned saffron potato, and a little timbale of carrot topped with shredded leek, which was flavoured with a hint of curry spices. Vegetables! But not as we know them. Possibly better than we know them, if a little over-seasoned.

All the way through, service had been impeccable. A slim, energetic dark-haired waitress zipped about the room, full of cheerful energy, taking orders, serving food, checking that everyone was happy. She clearly loved her job and the whole room felt the benefit. We were in the hands of professionals who enjoyed their work.
The desserts on offer were a bit of an afterthought, being mainly ice creams, a dessert du maison and a patisserie du jour – tarte Tatin. I ordered the latter and the Ex the speciality of the house. It turned out that I had been pipped to the last slice of the tarte so was proffered a charlotte au chocolate as the booby prize. This was delicious, the rich, dark chocolate mousse encased in a sponge both moist and light at the same time. It was the work of a moment to make it disappear without trace. I was a very happy booby.

The house speciality dessert was warm caramelised fruit in a caramel sauce, served with Chantilly cream and a scoop of coffee ice cream. It met with a somewhat unenthusiastic response, though every scrap disappeared from the plate. The desserts did rather let the whole lunch down, being a bit pedestrian in terns of choice.

Two tiny coffees, aromatic and string, completed a good lunch and one that came in at around 75 euros – the set menus were better value and offered three and four courses for 20 and 24 euros, if I remember rightly.

Le Cabestan, rue du Port, Granville (no website)

Verdict: value for money 7/10 service 9/10 quality of food 7/10



Le Broche D’Argent, Ouistreham, Caen

I have eaten here before, but there were indications that it was under new ownership.

I had hopes: they were dashed. Especially when my Bearnaise sauce arrived in a little pot so frigid that it numbed my fingers. When I complained, it was borne away with an expression of distaste, microwaved and brought back without a hint of an apology. A place to avoid. Car ferry terminals generally are, but the fault of eternal optimism will prevail.

Can’t kick the habit! Pasta Plus again

Back in London, I could not resist another visit to my beloved Pasta Plus which could not have provided more of a contrast. This little gem is tucked down by the side of Euston station, in what appear to be unpromising surroundings. The proximity of ‘adult stores’ and massage parlours can be the only reason this family-run restaurant is not packed every lunchtime and evening. This may be changing now, as it was full to bursting the last time I was there. I eat here almost every time I am in the capital, though I always feel I should be trying new places. But the lure of Pasta Plus is hard to resist; it is the culinary equivalent of getting into a hot, deep bath when the rain is falling outside and the wind howling, and you have had a hard day.

To the first-time diner, the restaurant initially appears a little stark and unwelcoming, with an uncluttered interior, no tablecloths (and certainly none of the red check variety) and only a few monochrome photographs on the walls. But every surface is spotless and shining, seats are surprisingly comfortable, and in the summer the tables at the bottom end of the restaurant look down to a tiny garden bright with red geraniums. Now, after countless visits, I see the lights shining out onto the grubby pavement and hurry towards them thankfully. Once I toiled along the road, footsore and grumpy at the end of a particularly irksome day, to find the place was shut; I almost burst into tears on the pavement. (They had gone on holiday, the thoughtless creatures.)

Having pigged out on croissants and toast on the train down, I felt that a reasonably healthy starter was called for, so opted for the tomato bruschetta. The tomatoes were as tomatoey as they can possibly be in November, the crisp, freshly-toasted bread had been rubbed with garlic and liberally dribbled with good olive oil, and the portion was big enough to satisfy a Yorkshirewoman. Having now had a couple of my five-a-day (I was counting the rocket on the bruschetta) I turned to the signature Tagliatelle Zia Teresa with the appetite of the just. I was not disappointed. I have eaten this dish at least a dozen times (possibly more) but I still love the combination of the finely chopped, caramelised onion, tiny slivers of button mushroom and the saltiness of the pancetta, all embraced smoothly by the saffron cream sauce, generously anointing the pile of tagliatelle, topped off with a couple of spoons of grated parmesan. (I considered a healthy side salad but rejected it; it would have been a distraction.)

I confess to never having had a pudding at Pasta Plus. I am convinced that if I had ever eaten one, I would have been happy with it, but unless there is something really sinful on offer, I can usually resist the temptation. This is one reason why I have never looked at their dessert menu: there may well be puddings at PP requiring many hours of penance, and if I were to try one I might then be tempted eternally. So I have always thought it better not to begin. But one day when I have lost all belief in the worth of a waistline, I may well start to order a dessert.

Service was helpful, charming, friendly and efficient. Most evenings the front of house duties are divided between the mother and daughter team, but the last time I visited, both were on hand to supervise the occasionally diffident (but always friendly) young Italian waiters. Dad is in the kitchen and sends up plate after plate of unfailingly consistent food.

With a glass of Prosecco and two of the house wine, and including the service charge, the bill came in at just over thirty quid. Two restaurants in two capital cities within the same fortnight, but what a difference in atmosphere and quality of service. I have only one problem with this little place, as I have said already - I can’t tear myself away as it is a real home from home. One last point to mention – as a lone female diner (often), I always feel welcome here, unlike some much more expensive and pretentious outfits where I have sometimes felt like a carrier of bubonic plague.

Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 9/10 quality of food 9/10

Roman Holiday

We flew into Leonardo da Vinci airport (aka Fiumicino) on the tail of a terrific thunderstorm, and arrived in the city to find shopkeepers sweeping water out of their doorways. The Coliseum was flooded, and a small, lopsided handwritten notice on the entrance declared that it was “closed, due to unforeseen circumstances”. I had a temper tantrum and felt like biffing one of the centurions hanging around the place (trying to persuade everyone to have their photos taken with one of the Ninth Legion – one had a bit of orange feather boa on top of his helmet). The Lawn Ranger was calm as always, and said it all looked in very good nick considering how old it was, and he was sure there wasn’t much inside anyway.

Fortunately for us, the apartment we had rented was on the third floor and not in a basement. Unfortunately for us, the word “apartment” was not an accurate description, as it consisted in total of an en-suite bedroom and a balcony. The “kitchen” was a fridge in a cupboard with a two-burner gas ring on top and a sink next to it. The bathroom was bizarre, almost the same size as the bedroom with a huge washbasin big enough to wash a ten-year old in, a loo and bidet, and a miniscule shower that dribbled tepid water one minute, scalding the next, and then an ice-cold jet. As it turned out, the weather was so warm that we spent most of our time there worn out from sight-seeing, and sitting on the balcony overlooking the neighbours’ gardens.

When in Rome...so we tried to do as the Romans do, eating in a local restaurant in a residential area rather than a tourist trap. As the apartment happened to be in a residential area, the one we were told was the best turned out to be literally round the corner. La Carbonara (no, not the one in Campo de’ Fiori) was tucked away on the Via Panisperna, its modest frontage belying the size of the interior, which stretched back deep inside the building. Inside it was traditional, with a lot of dark wood, and not very comfortable chairs. The walls were literally covered with handwritten comments, cartoons and signatures – a very good excuse for never decorating again. (Might try it at home, if I can ever get the anaglypta off the walls.)

After too much breakfast, we had been careful about lunch and just eaten paninis, but we failed to resist the lures of the gelateria and overdosed on triple scoops (yummy, but surprisingly filling). So neither of us could manage an antipasti. The menu featured dishes that never appear on your friendly neighbouring trattoria in Torquay, and there was no English translation. Neither was there time for speculation or, it appeared, explanation, as the staff did not regard patience as a virtue. After agonising over a whole section of apparently interesting main courses, only to discover from the stern-faced servitor from hell that they all featured tripe, we both opted for pasta.

I went for the eponymous carbonara as it seemed the obvious choice, and the Lawn Ranger went for a shape of pasta I had never seen before with a sauce of tomato, Italian sausage and peppers, which he said was delicious. In the interests of accuracy, I checked out his assessment with a forkful, and I can vouch for its veracity. The carbonara was good but not a million miles better than some I have had in the UK, which was a disappointment, but maybe I have just been eating in all the right Italian restaurants.

Couple of cowards that we were, we bottled out on the tripe and ordered scallopine with a Marsala sauce. The veal was tender enough, but its flavour was indeterminate; the lake of sauce which smothered it was over-seasoned and acidic, tasting as though white wine had been added as well as the Marsala and then not sufficiently cooked off. A shared Tiramisu (OK, a cliché but almost unavoidable in this situation) was again, perfectly acceptable, and with a good espresso kick, but was otherwise unremarkable.

Inoffensive if not memorable food, and the bill was very reasonable (for a capital city) at about 65 euros for two of us, including a bottle of Montepulciano (not the wine already place on the table, which the sommelier was trying to bully us into having). But the whole experience was let down by service that was impatient and peremptory. It was a Saturday night and the place was packed with regulars (we had booked a table the night before) so one could understand that they would want to have a second (or at this rate, even a third) sitting, but we definitely felt rushed and not particularly welcome.

The pressure to order meant that there was no chance of a leisurely aperitif, let alone a thorough study of the menu. We were in at 7 pm but out in the street well before 8.30, feeling a sense of anti-climax. A couple of Aussies at the next table (the only non-Italians in the place apart from us) were clearly terrified of the waiters, especially the dominatrix of a sommelier, and scuttled out into the night, puddingless, even earlier than we did.

Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 3/10 quality of food 7/10

La Carbonara, Via Panisperna 214, 00184 Roma.
Tel: 06 482 5176

North of the border - Glasgow and Edinburgh

I was looking forward to a nice cosy dinner chez Fat Ladies with a friend on my last trip to Glasgow, but it was not to be. For reasons too complicated to explain, I found myself eating alone in the restaurant of the Malmaison. This is not usually a hardship, but this particular night proved to be an exception.

The trip had got off to a bad start when I checked in and was told I had been upgraded to a posher room. Naive enough to be delighted by this, my face fell when I opened the (as usual, funereal) curtains to discover that the posh windows of the posh room looked out onto the much less posh headquarters of Strathclyde police. Who entertained guests all night but not of the posh variety.

Worse was to come. Said friend and I were booted out of the Malmaison bar as the hotel had been booked for a wedding and the bride, groom and assembled party obviously took precedence over us mere hotel guests. This would account for the paucity of waiting staff in the dining room and the fact that those of us eating there – those idiots who should have known better – were pretty much treated like leftovers on the plate of life.

A couple next to me had ordered some food which took so long to arrive (I am talking beefburgers here) that they asked if they might just be allowed to leave without bothering. Certainly not, the food was coming at any minute. And it did, and so did mine, which was inexplicably cold. Or lukewarm if I am to be accurate. I can only assume it had been left on the pass whilst the waiting staff were otherwise engaged with the wedding party.

I have to confess that I was fascinated by the sartorial mix of this bunch, especially the small boys, who wore kilts teamed up with black trainers. One little carrot-top glared about him every time he ascended (or descended for that matter) the spiral staircase by the bar, holding down his kilt and shooting venomous looks at those below.

But I digress. I ate a steak at the Mal and very good it would have been if a bit warmer. It was perfectly cooked and very tender. But not cheap. In fact, the hotel itself is not cheap and I used to be happy with this as it was still a pleasant experience. Now the rooms seem run-down, the service is sloppy and a TV that doesn’t even have Freeview channels in 2011 - for a room price well in excess of £100 - is just bonkers.

Two weeks later I found myself at the Royal Scots Club in Edinburgh. Arriving at lunchtime, I found that my room wasn’t ready so I waited in the very clubbish lounge. A upright Scottish lady sat on a large sofa opposite me, waiting for her husband to return from the bar with their drinks. An elderly gentleman made his way haltingly round another (empty sofa), and lowered himself down next to her – on top of her handbag. She leaped up, tugging the bag out from under him, and flew off towards the bar, looking back over her shoulder in horror. After he had cleared his throat a few times and smacked his lips (inexplicably), pebble-dashing everything in the vicinity with undigested matter (including me), I got up and moved with all my baggage – there was a lot of it, as it included work-related gubbins of various kinds.

Eventually the room was ready and it turned out to be at the furthest extremity of the building, in a labyrinth of doors, corridors and turnings. It was dark, dismal, smelled unbearably of stale cooking fat and the window wouldn’t open more than a crack. The bathroom had been designed for either a small child or a dwarf, so that I had to bend down to wash my hands (from the dizzy height of 5’ 2”). The corner bath was actually a slight depression, to accommodate a corner puddle. Was this some kind of water-saving exercise? If so, it was entirely successful as no-one three-dimensional would have attempted to bathe in the thing.

It took several attempts to find my way out and after walking round the city in the pouring rain for an hour, I returned to the Chip-fat Suite and rang reception. The large and lovely, softly-spoken man who had just taken over said he quite understood and would I like a room in the basement? – the only one left. By this time I would have been happy with an oubliette that didn’t smell like Harry Ramsden’s. I lugged everything out and down the stairs (unable to find the lift apart from the first time I went up in it – perhaps after that, it dematerialised?) and down to reception. The room in the basement was perfect, bright, airy, beautifully furnished and with a real bathroom and a real bath. Oh joy!

This travel lark is not what it is cracked up to be.

Having left North Yorkshire in a heatwave, I was unprepared for the Scottish weather having come without my waders and thermals. Nevertheless, I struggled out to find a watering-hole and had actually intended to eat at La Garrigue in the New Town. I stopped at ask directions from a lady in a frock shop who said, “Oh, I it’s round the corner if you want to go there.” The implication being that she would not. Could she recommend anywhere nicer? She could indeed, The Saint on St Stephen’s Street.

Congratulating myself on finding a hidden gem, I went in search of The Saint. I found it eventually, though its signage was so low-key that one would suspect it didn’t want to be found at all.

What can I say other than the reason some restaurants get awards is because they are better than others? The Saint had a lovely fire (which I am pretty sure was gas but a good imitation) and a lovely Australian waitress, but the food was mediocre. A soup that I think was said to be butternut squash, just tasted very sweet and was far too thick. Venison stew on mash with persillade was not quite what it said on the tin as the persillade was more like a small puddle of parsley-infused oil. The mash was all right, the stew was all right (though slightly over-seasoned), but you could eat better at home any night of the week. And the point of going out is that you eat better than you would at home, surely? The whole thing was just underwhelming, so I felt obliged to have another glass of wine to cheer me up. The bill was £33.80 for two courses and three glasses of wine.
Verdict: value for money - 7/10; service - 8/10; quality of food - 5/10.

On the train home, I was delighted to find that the all-day menu did not include the horrible Onion Bhaji Sandwiches. The staff tell me that these are “very popular” but I can only assume that a particularly high proportion of East Coast travellers are masochists. Or do the East Coast management have shares in drugs for diabetes treatment? Perhaps they are aliens who are attempting the downfall of the human race? There must be some explanation for the presence on the menu of these hideous comestibles. The whole idea of a sandwich made from cold fried batter with a bit of onion in it is not only bizarre and unhealthy but an insult to those of us who want a bit of value for money – who came up with this wheeze? They should be made to eat Onion Bhaji Sandwiches and nothing else for a week.

They’ve got guts, these Loiners….(but are they eating them?)

Red Chilli, Leeds

A Loiner is someone from Leeds. Bet you didn’t know that! And if you don’t know about the small but growing restaurant chain that is Red Chilli, now is the time to find out.

Red Chilli is a Chinese restaurants full of Chinese people so you know it’s the real thing. You also know it’s the real thing when you read the menu and it makes the exponents of “nose to tail eating” look like a bunch of wusses.

Forget kidneys or pig’s trotters - this is the real, real thing. Stir-fried pig’s intestine? How many would you like? Five-spice pig’s head is another option, or if you are a fan of surf and turf, you could go for the shredded chicken with jellyfish and spring onion.

For red meat eaters, there’s a stew of sliced ox heart, ox tongue, ox tripe, and “Pork’s Blood” (sic) with beansprouts. So there’s one of your five a day. And four of your worst nightmares. I’m never quite sure whether frog’s legs count as meat or fish but Big Grandma might know – her chilli sauce is all over them on the “home-style” dishes section. There’s not much for vegetarians on the menu but they could try the black fungus with spring onion and garlic. (They could, but I doubt that they will.)

I’m a bit worried about Big Grandma now that I’ve taken her name in vain but at least she won’t know who I am – there were seven of us eating there on Saturday evening and the place was buzzing. We had the crispy duck with pancakes for starters along with some very slippery pork dumplings which were gingery and moreish.

For the mains, we all failed to go the whole hog and copped out by ordering the less scary stuff. Sliced pork belly with chilli was paper-thin pork, all the fat rendered out, deliciously spicy and not at all what we expected – I had imagined an unctuous mass of braised belly in a soupy sauce, but this was even better. A bowl of sliced beef fillet crispy fried in Cantonese sauce was possibly the best dish on the table, the texture of the meat satisfyingly crunchy, with slices of red and green pepper providing a counterpoint. Stir-fried mutton with spring onion was tender and with a depth of flavour which stood up well to the robust saucing.

A bowl of sliced duck with sliced leeks in hoisin sauce was good but not up to the standard of the other dishes (and we chose badly in ordering it, having had the hoisin with duck for a starter) whilst another of chicken was unremarkable.

Portions were generous, even for side dishes such as the soft noodles with beansprouts, and a dish of bok choy (which was slippery enough for a piece to shoot out of the grip of my chopsticks and fly sideways to the floor).

Utterly sated, we passed on the offer of pudding but some of us descended like locusts on the plate of orange segments offered as a (free) palate-cleanser.

Abstention from alcohol is always rewarded by a surprisingly small bill, and tonight was no exception. After several pints of beer in a couple of Leeds city centre pubs, we were all happy to stick with either Chinese tea or water. Consequently, the bill came in at just under £100 for six adults and a very well-behaved child, excluding the tip. Which was generous, like the portions....

Verdict: value for money - 10/10; service - 8/10; quality of food - 8/10.

A weekend on Holy Island - Eric the Lead and friends.

The attraction, I assured my bemused companion, was that when the tide went out, we would be virtually alone on the island. Free to wander the seashore watching the sun descend into the sea behind the castle on the headland, against a sky of apricot and gold. Free to wander into one of the pubs in the village for a quiet pint and a chat with the locals. Free to listen to birdsong and the plaintive cry of seals massed out on the sandbanks….

So it was that we drove north, and further north, and turned right just before we got to Scotland.

And it could have been like that.

Indeed, it would have been like that if there hadn’t been several hundred Vikings camped out there, intent on pillaging and (dare we say it post-Tottenham?) looting, courtesy of English Heritage. Viking men, Viking women and Viking children (the latter clearly wishing they had been allowed to bring their Playstations) – and even the occasional Viking dog.

And with the Vikings came the spectators, their cars clogging up every little road, path and layby, their children shrieking and begging for ice-creams.

During the daytime, when the causeway was open, the Vikings did their Viking thing. They invaded the priory just like they did in AD 793 (when they must have been a lot thinner and consequently faster, or the monks would have had time to get away – even if it meant waiting for the tide to go out). They roared around fighting each other inside - admission charges applying, so that the massed ranks of spectators simply crossed to the opposite hill where they could get a free viewpoint. They set up a camp within the walls, cooking Viking food and making Viking artefacts. (I can’t vouch for the authenticity of these things as (a) I was too tight to pay to get in and (b) don’t remember my previous life as Pollyanna the Berserker.) Then, when the place was an island again, they were off-duty and did what they wanted. Which for most of them meant continuing to be Vikings, even though some of them (the thinner ones) had pink hair and the odd piercing.

There was no getting away from them. All day, their bellows drowned out the seals who gave up plaintively crying and shut up completely, their little faces glumly turning away from the racket. At night, they invaded the pubs so that almost every seat was filled, and amply filled, with a great big wobbly Viking arse. They used up nearly every glass in the bar – though some had brought their own drinking horns, which was obviously a point-scoring exercise.

Point-scoring and the odd bit of gentle pillaging was clearly the only exercise they ever got. Only the children and the younger ones seemed to be of normal size. The rest were not just clinically obese, they were so whale-like that one could not imagine the size of the loom used to spin their authentic garments. A loom that big would have to be housed in an aircraft hanger – one normally used for Jumbo jets.

Their desire for authenticity did not extent to food. Almost without exception, they opted for chips and I saw one (a Vegan Viking?) eat an aubergine. Had they no shame? Surely they should have brought plentiful supplies of sheeps’ stomachs and oatmeal with them?

But I digress. We ate two dinners on Holy Island, fortunately not in the company of Vikings, and both were memorable. Both were also very fishy, and none the worse for that.

The first dinner was at Café Beangoose, a tiny restaurant run by what I imagine to be enthusiastic amateurs rather than professional caterers. The service was a little nervous, the prices were confident – in fact, over-confident. We both had the same thing, a crab salad followed by sea trout. The crab salad was sublime; quenelle-shaped mounds of sparklingly fresh crabmeat, beautifully and simply dressed, with a few segments of pink grapefruit being its only adornment, and a leaf or two of greenery which was frankly superfluous.

The sea trout was fresh and well-cooked, though perhaps had been allowed half a minute too long in the pan. However, whoever plated it up either had a weird sense of humour or disliked me on sight. The piece of fish was placed on top of a heap of sweet pickled cucumber and then surmounted by three cylindrical dark brown shapes which would be instantly recognisable to any dog owner or street cleaner. Fortunately, they turned out on closer inspection to be potatoes (Pink Fir Apple, perhaps?) cooked in their skins and left whole. (Were there no knives in the kitchen?) But it was a nasty shock. The combination of textures and flavours did not delight – the sweet-sour cucumber pickle dominated the dish, and the sea trout and potatoes cried out for a sauce of some kind.

One of us had a pudding – the chocolate brownie - and it was OK. With two glasses of wine and a bottle of beer, the bill came in at £67. At least the place was Viking-free.

The following night we ate at the Manor House Hotel. We had crab again, and perhaps here the Beangoose had the edge; the mixed salad plonked on the side of the plate suggested that little or no thought had been given to how the flavour of the beautifully-fresh crustacean could be best enhanced. But it was nevertheless delicious. And the smiling Czech waitress was efficient and relaxed at the same time.

The fish and chips that followed were superb, though it was a pity that the chips were frozen. But the freshness of the fish and the lightness of the batter made up for this. And the fact that there was a decent pint of beer on handpump was a real advantage. The damage was a full twenty quid less than the previous night with the same drinks, so that was cheering too. And again, the dining room was full of normal-sized people (if the word “normal” is still allowed) who were not wearing homespun and brandishing drinking horns. Best of all was a truly breath-taking view of the castle and the sea. With not a longship in sight.

Verdict:

Café Beangoose
value for money - 6/10; service - 7/10; quality of food - 7/10.

Manor House Hotel
value for money - 9/10; service - 8/10; quality of food - 7/10.

A problem shared.....

Brio, Hornbeam Park, Harrogate

Hornbeam Park is a business park on the outskirts of Harrogate and the unlikely setting for a buzzing (perhaps too buzzing?) Italian restaurant of the kind beloved by families with young children. Lots of young children. You have been warned. If you are a primary school teacher, avoid this place like your would avoid the Early Learning Centre. If you are a Grumpy Old Woman (and I confess to having tendencies in this line myself) be sure to take a double dose of tolerance tablets before leaving home and a deep breath before opening the car-showroom style glass doors and submerging yourself in decibel hell.

In fairness, some of the families do demonstrate a vague awareness that other people are present as well as their own little darlings, though they make few concessions for these unfortunates. A few are downright boorish and inconsiderate. On one earlier occasion, I witnessed a family group of three generations create such a mess that once they had left, the staff had to move the table and get out a sweeping brush and a dustpan. The two children had also climbed over adjoining chairs and left the dirty marks of their adorable little feet, clad in designer trainers, all over the surfaces.

Waiters seem to take it all in their stride and are unfailingly charming, friendly and show no sign of gritted teeth. Unlike some customers, like me, who would happily have battered the whole family to death with a cold calzone.

The food is what you would expect of an Italian restaurant of this kind. There is pasta, pizza, a reasonable range of daily specials and a choice of puddings. But so far I have not had a bad meal (and I have been there on perhaps five occasions) nor met a surly waiter. The service is not always completely efficient but it slips only rarely. But what prompted me to write this review was the last experience I had there, in the company of an old friend who is not quite a vegetarian (she eats fish) but might as well be.

We both fancied pizza but we both hankered after pasta as well. Not hungry enough for a starter after a very late lunch of home-smoked trout, home-grown tomatoes and cucumber and some very dense chocolate cake, we thought a shared main course would do the trick. After a fair bit of bickering, we settled on a dish of Pasta al Sugo Piccante (pasta quills, tomato sauce, peppers, black olives, touch of chilli) and a pizza Margherita with ham and artichokes – the ham on one side, the artichokes on the other.

The waiter had obviously arrived in time to hear some of these deliberations and asked if we intended to share. Yes, definitely.

We had been tucking in to the bread and olives, with some not-too-salty tapenade whilst the discussion had been going on, and glugging some very reasonable Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.

Then two bowls of pasta arrived and the offer of plenty of parmesan. Had they got it wrong? No, because immediately afterwards the pizza appeared, neatly sliced , on two plates. The pasta was neither swamped in sauce, nor insufficiently dressed with it. The sauce was zinging with tomatoey flavour and a chilli punch. The pizza was thin, light and crisp.

We were happy. Even the commotion at the next table seemed more bearable than previously; the small boy sitting in the middle of it squirmed in embarrassment as his friends sang Happy Birthday, and we laughed. We laughed even more when the waiters started another chorus, to embarrass him all over again.

So they do get their own back occasionally…..though the cold Calzone would still be my preferred option.

Verdict: value for money - 8/10; service - 8/10; quality of food - 8/10.
Ambience: 5/10

Oh, I do like to be beside....

Pier 17
St Peter Port, Guernsey

I spent the previous night in Paignton at a hotel straight out of a sitcom, where the average age of the clientele made me feel more like a teenager than a woman looking forward to the imminent arrival of her bus pass. There I ordered scallops as a starter but without the advertised chorizo. Once the plate arrived, the overpowering taste and aroma of paprika and the residue of orange oil immediately betrayed the fact that said chorizo has simply been removed from the dish. When I tasted it, I wished I had told them to keep the chorizo and get rid of the scallops. Or at least, just get rid of those grey, bouncy bits of rubber. The menu did not state that they were diver-caught but any diver attempting such a catch would need one of those American baseball gloves and a firm grip. They defied chewing and ricocheted around the mouth like sandy, sea-flavoured midget gems, reminiscent of the sweets beloved of Harry Potter and his classmates.

I came out of the restaurant shuddering, and then started back in horror to see a miniature baby elephant writhing in its death-throes in the foyer, bizarrely displayed on an enormous glass coffee table. It was horridly realistic and its position just outside the bar was obviously designed to make guests feel the need for a stiff drink. Or several.

So it was with a rush of optimism that I ordered scallops again the very next night at Pier 17, a crab and scallop Thermidor, to be exact. Though the crab was largely conspicuous by its absence, the glistening little scallops were a joy. Pearly and succulent, they were cooked just enough to render them opaquely toothsome but without any hint of that toughness which is the penalty of a moment too long in the pan. The sauce was creamy, unctuous, with a hint of marine saltiness and the faintest suggestion of parmesan. I mopped it all up with some very moreish bread.

Honey roasted duck with roasted vegetables followed and was devoured with appreciation. The duck was perfectly pink, and the vegetables cooked to complement the meat which perched on them, rather than the usual hideous microwaved side-dish of tasteless boiled rabbit food. I don’t remember what I paid but it wasn’t extortionately expensive. I would have had a pudding but I ate too much lovely bread with the irresistible sauce on my starter.

Service was helpful and smiling without being sycophantic, and efficient. What more could you want? A view of the sea. I didn’t get one of those but I did get the very last table on a walk-in at 7 in the evening midweek. Well done, Pier 17.

Verdict: value for money - 7/10; service - 9/10; quality of food - 8/10.

Great building – shame about the food!

Piazza by Anthony, the Corn Exchange, Leeds

A few years ago young Anthony Flinn came home to his Northern roots after a stint at El Bulli and opened a restaurant in the centre of the city. Praises were heaped upon him and before you could say “langoustine foam”, Leeds was riddled with Anthony outlets. Now he retains the original restaurant and operates a brasserie-style eating outlet on the lower level of the old Corn Exchange, flanked by delis selling cheese and charcuterie, chocolate and baked goods. There is a patisserie café in the Victoria Quarter and he will cater for your wedding as well. So I was intrigued to sample some of his grub and recently spent an evening at Piazza by Anthony.

Which brings me to my first gripe. Why “piazza”? The basement of a building, even one open to a glass roof on a sunny evening, isn’t a piazza. A piazza is a square where the buzz of urban life is all around you and to be pedantic, it’s in Italy. A cavernous, empty restaurant, silent apart from the hushed whispers of diners reeling in shock at the bill, just doesn’t cut it. The food isn’t Italian either. The whole thing is a mystery.

The other mystery is why the place is still open. The night we ate there it was like the Marie Celeste but without the added interest of being on a boat. One other table was occupied and I really don’t know why, unless it was their first time as well.

Let’s start with the positives. Firstly, the venue itself is fantastic – light, spacious, and with a vaulted transparent roof above which has the feel of a cathedral – and it’s round. I’m not sure why I said “firstly” because there isn’t a secondly. Everything else goes downhill after that.

I will list the negatives in brief, because thinking about how much I paid makes me depressed, so I don’t want to linger on it. The menu is boring. There is hardly anything on it that you want to eat. This is probably a good thing, because when two of us found something we wanted to eat, they only had one of it. The waiter also began by telling us what they didn’t have, which is pretty unusual at six o’ clock in the evening in an empty restaurant. Service is terrible, though the waiters have a kind of jolliness that smacks of desperation – or farce. The prices are too high for what arrives on the plate. And the food is mediocre. (I have never been to El Bulli but I know bull when I am paying for it.)

A couple of us started off by sharing the charcuterie and cheese platter (“with bread baked in our bakery”) and at £8.95 I expected something fairly substantial. The words “charcuterie” and “platter” used in conjunction (along with the price) conjure up a feeling of generosity, an expectation of heaped servings of porky deliciousness to share out and gloat over. What arrived was a small plate with three slices of somewhat dry posh bread, three slivers of cheese and an artfully arranged fan of cold meat and salami on one side, filled out with rabbit food on the other. I think the meat might have been lovely but the wisps provided were just enough to suggest this without being able to confirm it. We had to cut the bread in half, ditto the cheese and meats, and I was so hungry afterwards that I was looking speculatively at the waiter’s leg.

Main courses sounded anything but interesting so I asked said waiter (leg intact) what he could recommend. He told me that he couldn’t recommend anything as waiters weren’t allowed to taste the food. We all looked gobsmacked at this and my jaw actually dropped. Two of us then opted for the pork chop with apple dauphinoise (£11.95), for the waiter to then return with the news that only one pork chop remained in the kitchen. So I switched to a sirloin steak for £15.95, which came with four tiny roasted cherry tomatoes. And nothing else. So I was glad I had ordered chips even though they cost an extra three quid. The steak was well-done and I had asked for it medium rare. I didn’t send it back in case they didn’t have another. I didn’t manage to taste the ham hock risotto to my right, but it looked watery and unpleasant and the person eating it was unimpressed. The pork chop across the table looked all right but uninspiring.

By this time I was exhausted at having to track down a waiter every time we wanted anything. They were all lurking in the bar area, laughing and joking, which reminded me of the nurses chattering at the nursing station in the hospital whilst my mother was dying alone on a side ward. We didn’t order a pudding as we had come to our senses by then, and I was looking forward to going home and making cheese on toast.

Verdict: value for money - 0/10; service - 2/10; quality of food - 2/10.

French leave – or is that leftovers?

The Marquis de Tomberlaine, Champeaux

I have eaten here before, with friends, and enjoyed the food though we had been disappointed that the mist had spoiled the wonderful view of the bay of Mont St Michel. So on a beautifully sunny Sunday lunchtime it seemed the perfect weather to have a meal overlooking the bay. But as a friend of mine is fond of remarking, that was another frog kissed. Or another Frog kissed, given the location.

The restaurant was packed, which is usually a good sign. No-one had any food, which was not. Especially as it was 1 p.m. Normally I find the service in France to be efficient but we sat for ten minutes without the offer of a drink or being given a menu. (We should have left then whilst we were winning.) Finally I managed to bring down a passing waitress with a tackle and we got a couple of kirs. Then we managed to get a menu by much the same means. At the table next to us on my right were a pair of formidable French ladies of a certain age who did not have a menu and had been there longer than us. There was much tutting from mesdames, which sounds a lot more condemnatory when done in French, which had the desired effect of making menus appear.

The windows were wide open to let in some fresh air and the deafening noise and fumes from many passing motorbikes thundering by on the coast road outside. Mont St Michel was invisible behind a haze of what appeared to be smog. The lovely old dining room had been redecorated so as to strip out any vestige of its history apart from the massive fireplace, which looked to be holding up the end wall and had been grudgingly retained.

There was a lot of flitting around of waitresses in an ineffectual way, up and down the packed tables. They brought cutlery of different kinds, then changed plates and place settings, and generally looked very active and stressed whilst not achieving very much. Finally we managed to get one to take the order. After a good twenty minutes, a starter appeared on the other side of the table from me which looked OK (but which was so unmemorable that I can’t remember it) but made me feel glad that I had chosen the fish soup. Which did not arrive. Eventually a large lady in very tight trousers emerged from the direction of the kitchen, breathing heavily and bearing a large copper pan with a ladle sticking out of it. She stopped at my side and grabbed the handle of the ladle purposefully, then looked at my place setting. No bowl. There was another barrage of tutting from my right and mesdames and I exchanged shakes of the head. They still had no food.

Finally I had fish soup. It was good, but not great, and barely hot. The rouille was fine, but unremarkable, as was the gruyere. What a palaver for not very much. Next door’s food had arrived but it was tasted and then tutted at. We all gobbled up our starters and tried to fill up on bread, which was a good thing as it was nearly an hour before any of us got any more food.

My main course was lamb cooked two ways – which turned out to mean, both badly. A couple of tiny cutlets were flanked by some messy bits of leg steak, thrown onto the plate anyhow. It looked like roadkill but roadkill would have been a lot cheaper and probably not as salty. Though come to think of it, winter roadkill would have grit salt on it. Maybe it was roadkill after all. At any rate, some of it was completely raw in the middle and bloody, and other bits were grey and overcooked. It was greasy and pretty much inedible. Served with it, and with all the main courses, was a horrible concoction of mashed potatoes wrapped in overcooked courgette slices. This looked and tasted like leftovers that someone had made a valiant attempt to disguise.

Mesdames had ordered the same main course as me. This time the tutting reached a crescendo and the waitress was called. The ladies gesticulated at their plates, where the roadkill was congealing slowly. This was not restaurant food, they would never serve such bad food at home, it was a disgrace, far too salty, badly cooked. They spoke sadly, with shaking heads, taking it in turns – one would explain the horridness of the food whilst the other would tut. The waitress stood miserably in front of them, muttering apologies. I left almost all of my plateful and told the waitress that it was inedible and oversalted. Mesdames tutted in agreement. The large lady in the tight trousers could be seen to glance nervously at our little corner as she puffed about the room.

Mesdames had chocolate mousse for pudding, and cleared the plate with a minimum of tutting. I had ice cream, based on the assumption that it would be bought in and therefore edible.

It was almost 4 pm when we left and we passed on coffee, having neglected to bring any pyjamas. I paid the bill with my Marks and Spencer credit card to get a few points on it and at least make myself feel that the experience was not entirely negative – at the equivalent of over 80 quid, I might be able to buy some French knickers to remind me never to go there again. There was no apology or offer of discount.

Verdict: value for money - 0/10; service - 0/10; quality of food - 1/10.

Recent roundup

Time to catch up....April 2011

It seems like a very long time since I updated this blog and I have eaten an awful lot of meals since then. I have also been working like a maniac, which has stopped me from writing them up. So here is a quick update….

Cibo, Summertown, Oxford

I ate here on a rainy night in what should have been early spring, but was more like late winter. It was early evening but there was a buzzy atmosphere and a few diners who were obviously regulars. My table had an excellent view of the pizza oven and what came out of it looked pretty good, so I opted for that and a glass of the house red. The pizza was as good as I have had anywhere (including Italy) – crisp thin base, well-flavoured tomato sauce and generous shavings of prosciutto, with a scattering of artichokes. The salad I ordered would have been lovely of someone had remembered to dry the leaves before putting them in the bowl – there was a pool of water in the bottom. I don’t remember what I paid but it seemed very reasonable.

The following night I went into town and ate the Dine with Wine menu at Brasserie Blanc. This was phenomenal value for money, especially as I ordered a glass of champagne for a miniscule extra amount, then topped it off with a glass of house red. Lovely well-flavoured broth, chunky vegetables and fresh bread a butter, followed by meltingly tender casseroled beef with an extra portion of (rather boring) creamed leeks. This little lot came to less than twenty-five quid and I left a happy woman.

The third night I didn’t fare so well – it was back to Summertown (I was staying there and my feet were sore by the end of the third day!) where I went into Portobello just because I liked the look of it. I had a perfectly respectable slice of terrine which would have been fine if there had been another two slices of it. Then I opted for the steak, with bearnaise sauce. This too a while coming and when it arrived, it was perfectly cooked (medium rare) but was cold – in contrast to the bowl of fries, which were hot. It was so cold, in fact, that I sent it back. The fresh steak came and was fine – but by then I had lost my fries, having piled most of them onto the previous plate, which had been whisked away. Did I want more? You bet I did – but did I want to wait while they were cooked, by which time the steak would be cold again. I left feeling disgruntled, especially as the bill was considerably more than I had paid at M. Blanc’s place.

Over the past couple of months I have dropped in on the Bistrot Pierre in Harrogate a few times, not least because the staff are cheery and helpful and the early bird menu is good value. But regretfully I shan’t be dropping in any more mainly because the place is so inconsistent in the quality of its meat. Now, Desperate Dan I ain’t, but I am an unrepentant carnivore and these days there is no excuse for poor quality beef, in particular. The first time I went to BP I had the steak and my companion, as they say in the ghastly local newspaper food reviews, had the same. His bit of beef was lovely – tender, perfectly cooked, a toothsome morsel all round. Mine was supposed to be the same (we had ordered identically) but looked totally different – a thick lump of what looked like topside rather than rump, which the knife simply made no impression on. I wrestled with it until I managed to saw through a piece and found it was impossible to chew. I sent it back and got a new one that was the real thing.

I assumed that there had been a mix-up in the kitchen and someone had mistaken the beef for the bourguignon for a bit of steak (OK, no chef worth his salt would do that, but let’s given them the benefit). A fortnight later, we go again and this time I had the bourguignon itself –and lurking amongst the tender chunks of succulent beef was another slab of dry, tough shoe leather. How bizarre. The third time, I was the lucky one but my poor friend had a piece of steak that was tender at one end and tough at the other. So we have called it a day….I have no idea what is going on in the kitchen there, but perhaps they are recycling the sous chef’s trainers when they get low on beef.