12 August 2008
...not quite the Great North Road as I went down the A1, of course, which is much improved now most of the roundabouts have disappeared. I have always hankered after a stay at The George, which, when Stamford was right on the road to the North, was the stopping-off point for just about everyone travelling up and down the country. The building is fascinating, a labyrinth of rooms leading from one to another, each with some interesting architectural feature, with old prints and paintings on the walls and a huge fireplace in the lounge. Each of the tables in the cobbled courtyard has its own pot of herbs as decoration, and the gardens beyond are bright with flowers against a backdrop of old yews and ancient stonework, which is all that remains of the monastic buildings around which the inn was created.
Having missed out on lunch, a couple of scones with clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam made a welcome substitute and provided enough energy for a walk round Stamford, which has been considerably gentrified since I was there last. It is a gem of a place, almost completely lacking in the ugliness to be found on just about every other high street in the country.
I was back at The George in good time for dinner, and there were two restaurants to choose from. The less formal of the two looked perfecting acceptable but I was tempted to try the formal restaurant simply to see what it was like. The menu was traditional English of the old school, with the kind of food that one would expect to find in a gentleman's club - sirloin of beef carved at the table and served with Yorkshire pudding, rack of lamb, and so on.
Prices were outrageously high for somewhere without a single Michelin star, with soup being the cheapest starter on the menu at £6.40. Main courses were priced at around twenty and vegetables were charged as extras. The wines were similarly priced and I ended up with a bottle of Fleurie which was charged at over £25.
The soup was spinach and potato and it came in a tureen which was ceremoniously placed on a side table next to my seat, so that it could be decanted into a bowl. Unfortunately this meant that it blocked the main entrance to the restaurant, so that the poor waitress had to dodge backwards and forwards between entering diners, and finally burnt her fingers on the lid of the tureen trying to dish up the soup. After all this palaver it would be delightful to report that the soup itself was the most delicious that ever dribbled down the back of my throat but it was quite undistinguished, and tasted of nothing in particular. I ate every spoonful glumly thinking of my own version of the same soup, which in my opinion is infinitely superior and costs about a quid a litre to make.
Next was half a Woodbridge duck with sage and onion stuffing and apple sauce. I can say with honesty that I am a sucker for duck, which sounds like the beginning of a tongue twister or the sort of thing the police might have tried to get you say before the invention of the breathalyser. Anyway, if there is duck on the menu I will usually order it because I have memories of some cracking ducky dinners and always live in hope of eating another. On this occasion I was to be disappointed.
Wherever Woodbridge is (and I believe it to be in Suffolk - which, considering that Lincolnshire ducklings were famous in my youth, seems a long way to go for a quacker) this poor duck had had a wasted journey. The breast and leg had been separated but slung on the plate like roadkill, and lay in a puddle of pureed apple which looked (and tasted) suspiciously like the stuff out of a jar. There was a further puddle of brownish lukewarm gravy (which tasted of nothing at all) and towering over the rest, a large square of what looked like bread pudding. This was the stuffing, which looked like the sort of thing like one might enjoy at Her Majesty's pleasure, and had clearly been cut from a huge slab in a catering tin.
A very nice girl them came along with a bowl of assorted vegetables which she proceeded to decant quite unnecessarily onto a sideplate. They were cooked al dente, which is to say, not cooked enough, and shared the same bizarre quality of utter tastelessness that I was beginning to recognise as a speciality of The George's restaurant.
I hacked a good bit of the duck off the bones before I gave up on it, and I also managed to find a morsel of skin that was edible amongst the general flabbiness. But it fell well short of the plate of my imagination, the crisp-skinned, rich dark meat with a tart, grainy-textured sauce of Bramleys on one side and a spoonful of moist sage and onion on the other, the top browned with bits of caramelised onion and sharp with sage, all reclining on an dark-brown reduction of meaty, ducky juices. And it would have gone so well with the Fleurie, which, in fairness, was going down a treat (though so it should considering the mark-up).
The curse of imagination is not to be underestimated. But by now I had got a grip on it and when the trolley creaked along from the other end of that dark oak-panelled dining room, I shook my head at the array of trifles, summer puddings and meringues. The dead hand of the George would have rested on them and sprinkled not stardust but sawdust.
Verdict - dinner only: value for money 0/10 service 9/10 quality of food 2/10
The following morning I had one of the best breakfasts I have ever eaten, with a particularly good scrambled egg - something which seems almost impossible for a hotel kitchen to get right. Perhaps Somerset Maugham was right to say that to dine well in England one must eat breakfast three times a day.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Bistro Saigon, Ilkley
6 August 2008
An almost-empty restaurant normally sounds alarm bells but this is the second time I have eaten in Bistro Saigon with former mother-in-law (now outlaw rather than in-law)and found ourselves to be nearly the only diners present. This is a mystery as the food is excellent, the service cheerful, and though the back of the railway line is not the most salubrious bit of town, the view from the window at least provides entertainment in the form of passers-by.
We ate the set lunch, which was really the usual a la carte but at bargain prices - two courses of food of this quality for under a tenner is not to be sniffed at. I have eaten Vietnamese food before only on the continent, both in France and in Brussels, and this seems the authentic deal as far as I can tell.
My starter of chicken wings was generous - there must have been a eight or nine wings from a very well-nourished bird - with a zesty coating of ginger, spring onions and other aromatic ingredients which revved the tastebuds into overdrive. Initially thinking that I would sensibly eat only half the portion, I soon found myself looking down on a heap of pathetic little bones, which appeared to have been gnawed clean by some starving predator. My only criticism is that the skin could have been crispier so that I could have eaten that as well. And completely blown the diet. Spring rolls come with lettuce leaves and mint, to wrap them in, and a sharp, sweet chilli dip. When I had these in France, they were called 'Nems' and served identically.
Main courses were similarly generous and served with a bowl of rice which had the authentically stickyness that becomes addictive after a while. Chilli beef with peppers was tender, melting, tangy and with a slight kick that didn't frighten the Outlaw. A green chicken curry did rather, being slightly hotter than anticipated. But I found it perfect, the long strips of chicken a perfect textural match for the soft aubergine cubes, which sponge-like had absorbed the flavours of lemongrass and lime. A sweet and sour prawn with pickled vegetables was a little bland and pallid by comparison but the prawns were huge and had the thinnest and lightest coating of batter.
Verdict: value for money 9/10 service 9/10 quality of food 9/10
An almost-empty restaurant normally sounds alarm bells but this is the second time I have eaten in Bistro Saigon with former mother-in-law (now outlaw rather than in-law)and found ourselves to be nearly the only diners present. This is a mystery as the food is excellent, the service cheerful, and though the back of the railway line is not the most salubrious bit of town, the view from the window at least provides entertainment in the form of passers-by.
We ate the set lunch, which was really the usual a la carte but at bargain prices - two courses of food of this quality for under a tenner is not to be sniffed at. I have eaten Vietnamese food before only on the continent, both in France and in Brussels, and this seems the authentic deal as far as I can tell.
My starter of chicken wings was generous - there must have been a eight or nine wings from a very well-nourished bird - with a zesty coating of ginger, spring onions and other aromatic ingredients which revved the tastebuds into overdrive. Initially thinking that I would sensibly eat only half the portion, I soon found myself looking down on a heap of pathetic little bones, which appeared to have been gnawed clean by some starving predator. My only criticism is that the skin could have been crispier so that I could have eaten that as well. And completely blown the diet. Spring rolls come with lettuce leaves and mint, to wrap them in, and a sharp, sweet chilli dip. When I had these in France, they were called 'Nems' and served identically.
Main courses were similarly generous and served with a bowl of rice which had the authentically stickyness that becomes addictive after a while. Chilli beef with peppers was tender, melting, tangy and with a slight kick that didn't frighten the Outlaw. A green chicken curry did rather, being slightly hotter than anticipated. But I found it perfect, the long strips of chicken a perfect textural match for the soft aubergine cubes, which sponge-like had absorbed the flavours of lemongrass and lime. A sweet and sour prawn with pickled vegetables was a little bland and pallid by comparison but the prawns were huge and had the thinnest and lightest coating of batter.
Verdict: value for money 9/10 service 9/10 quality of food 9/10
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Kendell's Bistro, Leeds
23 July 2008
Tucked away down a littered sidestreet behind the costume hire department of the West Yorkshire Playhouse is Kendell's Bistro. Formerly a Tex-Mex called the Cactus Lounge, the semi-basement space is dark but fortunately no prickly pears remain to punctuate the penumbra. Instead are dark wood tables with an assortment of chairs (apparently Leeds diners like their comfort and complained about the original smart but hard seats), and a view into the kitchen where the eponymous Steve Kendell can be seen labouring over a hot stove.
There is history behind Kendell's, and those old enough to remember Paris in Horsforth (as opposed to the other, less well-known one across the Manche) will know that Steve cooked there, and competently too. This place has an air of the old Paris, with enormous blackboards detailing the set pre-theatre menu and a list of a la carte starters and mains, all in French. Steve's girlfriend does front of house very charmingly and apologies for the spelling mistakes on the blackboards which have been professionally written - inexplicably, by a Chinese English teacher.
Quite a few of the most toothsome sounding mains, disappointingly, have 'sold out' written next to them, despite the fact that it is only 6.30 p.m. on a Wednesday evening.
As one of our number loudly proclaims her right to a bus pass, we agree to eat from the set pre-theatre, menu which is no hardship. It is a Girl's night though we are thin on the ground as one of us has moved to France, another to Scotland and one has texted to say she has a bad foot and will be bathing it in gin and tonic for the night. So the only Girls around are French Spice and Old Spice (who hopefully will not be reading this or long-term friendships will be tested).
Meanwhile Charming Girlfriend brings us hot bread "straight from the oven" which is French but not French, because whilst the crust is wonderfully crispy and hard, the interior is moist and steamy. It does not reach the benchmark set by the Goods Shed but I never expect to eat the like of that again.
I opt for the Potage Lyonnais, which arrives in one of those tiny white porcelain tureen, very hot with gruyere still bubbling on top. It is perfect, the onions having that melting consistency that comes from caramelisation followed by long cooking. I wipe the bowl out with the warm home-made bread and look sadly into the empty depths. Over the table, a slice of pate is being devoured so quickly that I miss my chance of getting a taste. Elsewhere diners are tucking into thin slices of rosy smoked salmon in dill sauce, which is the replacement for the 'sold out' sardines.
Two of us go for the lamb (could have been chicken in tarragon sauce) and my request for it to be served pink is smilingly noted - no cheffy tantrums here. Old Spice chooses tomato tart which surprisingly (and deliciously she says) is a filo pastry version. The food is presented well but without any irritating affectation. My lamb chump is rare on the inside, beautifully dark on the outside, and the sauce it reclines on has the right depth of red-winy flavour without overpowering the meat - which tastes satisfyingly lamby. We have considered side dishes but are told that vegetables are provided, (a more grasping restaurateur would have let us order them anyway) and we are also given a small dish of rather runny dauphinoise potatoes.
I passed on the pudding (currently being Diet Spice rather than Polyanna) but a pot au chocolat served in a plain white espresso cup and a tarte au citron were both pronounced to be paragons of their kinds and despatched within nanoseconds. The bill for three of us just topped £60 including a bottle of wine and a couple of aperitifs. Beat that for Yorkshire value.
Verdict: value for money 9/10 service 9/10 quality of food 9/10
Tucked away down a littered sidestreet behind the costume hire department of the West Yorkshire Playhouse is Kendell's Bistro. Formerly a Tex-Mex called the Cactus Lounge, the semi-basement space is dark but fortunately no prickly pears remain to punctuate the penumbra. Instead are dark wood tables with an assortment of chairs (apparently Leeds diners like their comfort and complained about the original smart but hard seats), and a view into the kitchen where the eponymous Steve Kendell can be seen labouring over a hot stove.
There is history behind Kendell's, and those old enough to remember Paris in Horsforth (as opposed to the other, less well-known one across the Manche) will know that Steve cooked there, and competently too. This place has an air of the old Paris, with enormous blackboards detailing the set pre-theatre menu and a list of a la carte starters and mains, all in French. Steve's girlfriend does front of house very charmingly and apologies for the spelling mistakes on the blackboards which have been professionally written - inexplicably, by a Chinese English teacher.
Quite a few of the most toothsome sounding mains, disappointingly, have 'sold out' written next to them, despite the fact that it is only 6.30 p.m. on a Wednesday evening.
As one of our number loudly proclaims her right to a bus pass, we agree to eat from the set pre-theatre, menu which is no hardship. It is a Girl's night though we are thin on the ground as one of us has moved to France, another to Scotland and one has texted to say she has a bad foot and will be bathing it in gin and tonic for the night. So the only Girls around are French Spice and Old Spice (who hopefully will not be reading this or long-term friendships will be tested).
Meanwhile Charming Girlfriend brings us hot bread "straight from the oven" which is French but not French, because whilst the crust is wonderfully crispy and hard, the interior is moist and steamy. It does not reach the benchmark set by the Goods Shed but I never expect to eat the like of that again.
I opt for the Potage Lyonnais, which arrives in one of those tiny white porcelain tureen, very hot with gruyere still bubbling on top. It is perfect, the onions having that melting consistency that comes from caramelisation followed by long cooking. I wipe the bowl out with the warm home-made bread and look sadly into the empty depths. Over the table, a slice of pate is being devoured so quickly that I miss my chance of getting a taste. Elsewhere diners are tucking into thin slices of rosy smoked salmon in dill sauce, which is the replacement for the 'sold out' sardines.
Two of us go for the lamb (could have been chicken in tarragon sauce) and my request for it to be served pink is smilingly noted - no cheffy tantrums here. Old Spice chooses tomato tart which surprisingly (and deliciously she says) is a filo pastry version. The food is presented well but without any irritating affectation. My lamb chump is rare on the inside, beautifully dark on the outside, and the sauce it reclines on has the right depth of red-winy flavour without overpowering the meat - which tastes satisfyingly lamby. We have considered side dishes but are told that vegetables are provided, (a more grasping restaurateur would have let us order them anyway) and we are also given a small dish of rather runny dauphinoise potatoes.
I passed on the pudding (currently being Diet Spice rather than Polyanna) but a pot au chocolat served in a plain white espresso cup and a tarte au citron were both pronounced to be paragons of their kinds and despatched within nanoseconds. The bill for three of us just topped £60 including a bottle of wine and a couple of aperitifs. Beat that for Yorkshire value.
Verdict: value for money 9/10 service 9/10 quality of food 9/10
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
A Canterbury Tale: The Goods Shed
13 May
The Goods Shed, Canterbury
Chaucer's pilgrims probably had to fork out to see the tomb of Thomas a Beckett way back in the fourteenth century, so they would not have been surprised at the seven quid charge to enter the cathedral precincts - but I was. As a commercial exploitation of a religious site, it was a pretty shameless one, and I could not help envisaging a certain sandalled Nazarene striding through the barrier and smashing it down as he went.
What Canterbury would do for a living if Chaucer had not sent his pilgrims off from the Tabard Inn is a mystery. I stayed in the Miller's Arms where my room was called 'The Knight's Tale' and the town was full of Chaucerian references.
There are some beautiful and historic buildings in Canterbury but the Goods Shed is not one of them. Then again, they don't charge you to go in. Once you are in, though, you feel like spending money. The stalls inside the airy interior sell excellent organic meat and fresh vegetables and other goodies. Up a short flight of steps is the restaurant, which uses raw material from this permanent farmers' market to produce a changing daily menu.
I started with a celeriac and harissa soup which was a deliciously unctuous puree spiked with amber slugs of heat. But just before the soup appeared, some hunks of gently steaming bread arrived with a small pot of very cold butter. The crust was crisp and hard, the centre a rich pillow of moist, yeasty perfection.
It was, quite simply, the most delicious bread I have ever eaten. It was made by the baker who has the stall at the bottom of the steps and when I have won the lottery, I shall pay someone to kidnap him and transport him to North Yorkshire.
A main course of pot-roasted chicken with creme fraiche and vegetables was the sort of food you would cook at home. The chicken was flavoursome, brown-skinned and had that chicken-y taste that all chickens had before it was somehow taken out of them. It sat happily on a pile of greens and baby carrots, all the better for having been introduced to each other and the chicken before being put on the plate. Fortunately, I was a very early diner and the only other couple were a good way off, so I could pick the last bits of meat off the bones without feeling too inhibited.
I had no room for a pudding which was down to the gluttony with which I attacked the bread - but there were no regrets on that score. With a couple of glasses of house wine, the bill just topped 30 quid. Or four visits to Canterbury Cathedral if you are daft enough.
Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 9/10 quality of food 9/10
The Goods Shed, Canterbury
Chaucer's pilgrims probably had to fork out to see the tomb of Thomas a Beckett way back in the fourteenth century, so they would not have been surprised at the seven quid charge to enter the cathedral precincts - but I was. As a commercial exploitation of a religious site, it was a pretty shameless one, and I could not help envisaging a certain sandalled Nazarene striding through the barrier and smashing it down as he went.
What Canterbury would do for a living if Chaucer had not sent his pilgrims off from the Tabard Inn is a mystery. I stayed in the Miller's Arms where my room was called 'The Knight's Tale' and the town was full of Chaucerian references.
There are some beautiful and historic buildings in Canterbury but the Goods Shed is not one of them. Then again, they don't charge you to go in. Once you are in, though, you feel like spending money. The stalls inside the airy interior sell excellent organic meat and fresh vegetables and other goodies. Up a short flight of steps is the restaurant, which uses raw material from this permanent farmers' market to produce a changing daily menu.
I started with a celeriac and harissa soup which was a deliciously unctuous puree spiked with amber slugs of heat. But just before the soup appeared, some hunks of gently steaming bread arrived with a small pot of very cold butter. The crust was crisp and hard, the centre a rich pillow of moist, yeasty perfection.
It was, quite simply, the most delicious bread I have ever eaten. It was made by the baker who has the stall at the bottom of the steps and when I have won the lottery, I shall pay someone to kidnap him and transport him to North Yorkshire.
A main course of pot-roasted chicken with creme fraiche and vegetables was the sort of food you would cook at home. The chicken was flavoursome, brown-skinned and had that chicken-y taste that all chickens had before it was somehow taken out of them. It sat happily on a pile of greens and baby carrots, all the better for having been introduced to each other and the chicken before being put on the plate. Fortunately, I was a very early diner and the only other couple were a good way off, so I could pick the last bits of meat off the bones without feeling too inhibited.
I had no room for a pudding which was down to the gluttony with which I attacked the bread - but there were no regrets on that score. With a couple of glasses of house wine, the bill just topped 30 quid. Or four visits to Canterbury Cathedral if you are daft enough.
Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 9/10 quality of food 9/10
Thursday, March 27, 2008
25 March - London- Pasta Plus
The weather was discouraging and the evening sky threatened wintry rain, so I scuttled along Euston Road and round the corner from the station to one of my usual haunts, Pasta Plus. This family-run restaurant is small but reliable and has a loyal customer base. A mother and daughter run front of house, and father cooks downstairs, serving up traditional Italian food (no pizzas as they have no pizza oven) in an unpretentious and thoroughly satisfying way. A surprisingly smooth and luxurious carrot and lentil soup from the specials board sounded virtuously wholesome but tasted positively sinful. It was followed by a house speciality, Tagliatelle Zia Theresa, which combines thin slivers of pancetta, onion and mushrooms in a creamy, saffron-scented sauce that is guaranteed to put an inch on the waistline as soon as it is eaten. With a couple of glasses of house wine, the bill was £22.40 including a 10% service charge. I paid it very happily.
Verdict: value for money 9/10 service 9/10 quality of food 9/10
Verdict: value for money 9/10 service 9/10 quality of food 9/10
3 and 4 March - A Scottish flying visit
Looking out of the aircraft window, the snow looked pretty deep as we flew up to Inverness, and as perfectly white as icing sugar on a very large and bumpy cake. Inverness itself was smaller than I remember (from a long ago visit in childhood) despite the usual indoor shopping mall. I was booked into a hotel by the river which turned out to be just OK. The taxi driver had recommended a place called The Kitchen, which turned out to be a short stroll from the hotel so I popped in for lunch.
A modern, almost futuristic building, the river views were spectacular, which was more than could be said for the food. Being short of time, I went for the home-made beefburger with thin-cut chips and home-made relish (£5.95). I fondly imagined I would be getting a juicy morsel of Scottish Aberdeen Angus. After waiting for forty minutes, a burnt and misshapen lump of mince arrived, sandwiched between slices of similarly charred ciabatta. The chips were limp and pallid, the relish, a watery salsa with a texture that suggested it might have been home-made but not very recently. The whole thing was inedible and not even hot. A complaint to the waiting staff elicited a startled apology but no reduction was made to the bill.
Verdict: value for money 4/10 service 3/10 quality of food 3/10
In the evening I tried the other recommendation, which was almost directly across the river. The Mustard Seed turned out to be The Kitchen's sister restaurant, a fact that I only absorbed after paying the bill. I asked a passer-by for directions and found that he was the Mustard Seed's Polish barman (Eastern European workers being as common in Inverness as everywhere else in Britain). "Very good restaurant," he beamed, "You go there." So I did.
The odd thing about Scotland is that those involved in the hospitality industry give the impression that they are not very hospitable. In fact, I have frequently been served in such a grudging way that I have imagined that the waiting staff remember me as a mass murderer in a previous life. Except that all their customers can't have been mass murderers. So it proved initially at the Mustard Seed. At 5.20 p.m., the wind was bitingly cold and it was starting to rain, so the thought of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in a cosy wine bar was tempting. The outer doors were standing open so I pushed the inner door, which yielded, and went in. Immediately I was shooed out again by a manager who huffily told me that they were not open till half-past. At this point I almost gave up but the thought of trudging round the town being booted out of one hostelry after another did not appeal. I stood in the doorway reading their reviews until my patience gave out, then I made another attempt at entry and this time was not rebuffed.
The fire in the middle of the room was very welcome, and the manager seemed to have turned from Mr Hyde back into Dr Jekyll as he suddenly became very charming. The £11.95 menu was supposed to include a glass of wine, but this never appeared as I was charged for the two I drank. But the celeriac soup was velvety, unctuous and altogether delicious, and the steak that followed it was juicy, tender and had the essential beefiness so lacking at lunchtime. The peppercorn sauce packed a hefty punch - perhaps too hefty for some - but the beef stood up to it manfully. The usual bowl of boiled vegetables made its appearance but was no worse than usual. I passed on the pudding and the bill came in at £22.60.
Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 8/10 quality of food 8/10
The following night I was in Aberdeen, and ate a dismal meal in an Italian restaurant called Poldino's. I arrived to find three poor customers standing outside in the cold, waiting for the place to open, which it should have done at 6 p.m. The nearby church clock was chiming six times, and inside the staff were clearly visible standing by the bar looking out, for all the world like the remnants of an army under siege, doing their best to repel invaders. The clock fell silent but still they glared at their customers, apparently willing them to go away. I looked at the menu and decided to give the place a try if they opened up by the time I had finished reading it. Eventually they opened up, slowly and with scowls on their faces. The food was mediocre. The bill was £21.60 for two undistinguished courses with a carafe or house red, most of which was left undrunk.
Verdict: value for money 2/10 service 2/10 quality of food 3/10
The hotel I stayed in - The Royal - was horrid, with peeling lino on the bathroom floor and a general feeling of grubbiness. I did without a shower the following morning after finding a silverfish in the bath and blood on the showercurtain. When I complained about the latter to the nice foreign receptionist (not mentioning the former as I doubted his English would stretch to 'silverfish'), he looked at me blankly, made a vague apology but again, presented the bill in full.
A modern, almost futuristic building, the river views were spectacular, which was more than could be said for the food. Being short of time, I went for the home-made beefburger with thin-cut chips and home-made relish (£5.95). I fondly imagined I would be getting a juicy morsel of Scottish Aberdeen Angus. After waiting for forty minutes, a burnt and misshapen lump of mince arrived, sandwiched between slices of similarly charred ciabatta. The chips were limp and pallid, the relish, a watery salsa with a texture that suggested it might have been home-made but not very recently. The whole thing was inedible and not even hot. A complaint to the waiting staff elicited a startled apology but no reduction was made to the bill.
Verdict: value for money 4/10 service 3/10 quality of food 3/10
In the evening I tried the other recommendation, which was almost directly across the river. The Mustard Seed turned out to be The Kitchen's sister restaurant, a fact that I only absorbed after paying the bill. I asked a passer-by for directions and found that he was the Mustard Seed's Polish barman (Eastern European workers being as common in Inverness as everywhere else in Britain). "Very good restaurant," he beamed, "You go there." So I did.
The odd thing about Scotland is that those involved in the hospitality industry give the impression that they are not very hospitable. In fact, I have frequently been served in such a grudging way that I have imagined that the waiting staff remember me as a mass murderer in a previous life. Except that all their customers can't have been mass murderers. So it proved initially at the Mustard Seed. At 5.20 p.m., the wind was bitingly cold and it was starting to rain, so the thought of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in a cosy wine bar was tempting. The outer doors were standing open so I pushed the inner door, which yielded, and went in. Immediately I was shooed out again by a manager who huffily told me that they were not open till half-past. At this point I almost gave up but the thought of trudging round the town being booted out of one hostelry after another did not appeal. I stood in the doorway reading their reviews until my patience gave out, then I made another attempt at entry and this time was not rebuffed.
The fire in the middle of the room was very welcome, and the manager seemed to have turned from Mr Hyde back into Dr Jekyll as he suddenly became very charming. The £11.95 menu was supposed to include a glass of wine, but this never appeared as I was charged for the two I drank. But the celeriac soup was velvety, unctuous and altogether delicious, and the steak that followed it was juicy, tender and had the essential beefiness so lacking at lunchtime. The peppercorn sauce packed a hefty punch - perhaps too hefty for some - but the beef stood up to it manfully. The usual bowl of boiled vegetables made its appearance but was no worse than usual. I passed on the pudding and the bill came in at £22.60.
Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 8/10 quality of food 8/10
The following night I was in Aberdeen, and ate a dismal meal in an Italian restaurant called Poldino's. I arrived to find three poor customers standing outside in the cold, waiting for the place to open, which it should have done at 6 p.m. The nearby church clock was chiming six times, and inside the staff were clearly visible standing by the bar looking out, for all the world like the remnants of an army under siege, doing their best to repel invaders. The clock fell silent but still they glared at their customers, apparently willing them to go away. I looked at the menu and decided to give the place a try if they opened up by the time I had finished reading it. Eventually they opened up, slowly and with scowls on their faces. The food was mediocre. The bill was £21.60 for two undistinguished courses with a carafe or house red, most of which was left undrunk.
Verdict: value for money 2/10 service 2/10 quality of food 3/10
The hotel I stayed in - The Royal - was horrid, with peeling lino on the bathroom floor and a general feeling of grubbiness. I did without a shower the following morning after finding a silverfish in the bath and blood on the showercurtain. When I complained about the latter to the nice foreign receptionist (not mentioning the former as I doubted his English would stretch to 'silverfish'), he looked at me blankly, made a vague apology but again, presented the bill in full.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Broadband blues
In the time since the last entry, I have discovered the extent of my broadband-dependence: after a two-hour power cut a couple of weeks ago, I restarted the PC to find no connection. The stress of the next few days stripped away the veneer of civilisation, Polyanna and all, and revealed my inner Neanderthal - though we are told that the latter were peaceable creatures so I am being unfair to them.
My line was BT; my ISP, Pipex; my router, Belkin; my online life, therefore, effectively over. Each blamed the other - the power cut being blamed the most, so that brought Powergen into the equation as well. A new router lay there, helpless and inert, its little green light refusing steadfastly to come on. A nice IT man pocketed his cheque and went on his way, head shaking. Then came back twice more, feeling too guilty to cash it before doing everything in his power short of sacrificing a Pipex director (only because none was to hand).
Oh yes, nothing wrong with the line, we have had BT check it. Our server is champing at the bit, ready and willing to send and receive if you can raise your game to make a connection.
So much hand-washing went on that it made Pontius Pilate and Lady Macbeth look like a couple of crusties. My enormous subscription for so called 'business service' level Pipex support was found to be insufficient to persuade them to even call me on the phone. Instead they would text my mobile and require me to ring them, which almost invariably involved being played irritating music for an average of twenty minutes atime. After three days I calculated I had spent at least seven hours on the phone, mostly grinding my teeth whilst on hold. Given the shortage of NHS dentists, this could not go on.
In then end I admitted defeat and signed up to BT - at least them there would be just the one culprit. I still had no connection but that would be their problem. Explaining this to a sales adviser, I was told that as I was now their customer they would check the line themselves.
The next morning, a little light appeared on the router. What a coincidence - the line was now working. That wouldn't be anything to do with the fact that I was now going to be a BT customer, would it?
Then followed the nightmare of getting the BT Home Hub - which meant waiting in for a whole day only to discover - after three calls to BT - that someone had neglected to process my order, despite sending me two text messages instructing me to be in to sign for it, and two letters. A series of calls ensured before any further progress, including one bizarre conversation with someone in an Indian call centre who was operating on a different calendar to everyone else. Eventually it arrived, was installed, worked perfectly - but now I am involved in the process of shifting my old 'narrowband' BT email address to my broadband connection (despite being blithely assured at the start that this would be automatic).
What the hell. It's not like it really matters, I have better things to do that look at a screen all day (oops! that's another centimetre on the nose again!).
My line was BT; my ISP, Pipex; my router, Belkin; my online life, therefore, effectively over. Each blamed the other - the power cut being blamed the most, so that brought Powergen into the equation as well. A new router lay there, helpless and inert, its little green light refusing steadfastly to come on. A nice IT man pocketed his cheque and went on his way, head shaking. Then came back twice more, feeling too guilty to cash it before doing everything in his power short of sacrificing a Pipex director (only because none was to hand).
Oh yes, nothing wrong with the line, we have had BT check it. Our server is champing at the bit, ready and willing to send and receive if you can raise your game to make a connection.
So much hand-washing went on that it made Pontius Pilate and Lady Macbeth look like a couple of crusties. My enormous subscription for so called 'business service' level Pipex support was found to be insufficient to persuade them to even call me on the phone. Instead they would text my mobile and require me to ring them, which almost invariably involved being played irritating music for an average of twenty minutes atime. After three days I calculated I had spent at least seven hours on the phone, mostly grinding my teeth whilst on hold. Given the shortage of NHS dentists, this could not go on.
In then end I admitted defeat and signed up to BT - at least them there would be just the one culprit. I still had no connection but that would be their problem. Explaining this to a sales adviser, I was told that as I was now their customer they would check the line themselves.
The next morning, a little light appeared on the router. What a coincidence - the line was now working. That wouldn't be anything to do with the fact that I was now going to be a BT customer, would it?
Then followed the nightmare of getting the BT Home Hub - which meant waiting in for a whole day only to discover - after three calls to BT - that someone had neglected to process my order, despite sending me two text messages instructing me to be in to sign for it, and two letters. A series of calls ensured before any further progress, including one bizarre conversation with someone in an Indian call centre who was operating on a different calendar to everyone else. Eventually it arrived, was installed, worked perfectly - but now I am involved in the process of shifting my old 'narrowband' BT email address to my broadband connection (despite being blithely assured at the start that this would be automatic).
What the hell. It's not like it really matters, I have better things to do that look at a screen all day (oops! that's another centimetre on the nose again!).
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