Culinary Darwinism and the clenched fist

Apparently you should never eat a meal larger than the size of your clenched fist.  Apparently, use of the term ‘apparently’ is the swiftest revelation that the forthcoming statement is either entirely contrived or quoted from a half-read diet column in an out-of-date waiting room Grazia. In many cases, it may be both.

But let’s assume for a moment that this ‘fact’ is true.  Many a question it does raise. For example: If you clench your fist at the table, can you do so and not burst into a Fee-Fi- Fo-Fum? How do you simultaneously clench a fist and hold cutlery with modern decorum? Can I use a Space Bag to compact my meal for measurement? Why are my hands not bigger?

Simon's fingers are long and he prefers the hand span measurement approach.
Yes, Simon, this is edible in its entirety.

I am a consistent abuser of this proportionate theory of consumption.  My fist of reference is more the size of a novelty NBA fan hand than my own little clencher. If I could fit a hotel breakfast buffet into the volume of my hand I would, but no amount of cuisine Tetris is going to make that happen.

Yep, that ought to do me...for lunch.

In fact, if I can fit my hotel breakfast into the volume of my hand I am obviously approaching the buffet offering wrong…or I'm staying at a crappy hotel.  The Breakfast Buffet Methodology involves the following sequence of events: Muffin, fruit, skip the cereal, breather, hot buffet, breather, pastries, fruit, muffin for later, breather. The End. That’s a lot of handfuls if properly executed.

Certain venues, aware of my skills at the buffet, prefer to opt for pre-portioned breakfast servings.

But I would like to protest at this point that I am not a glutton. As larger people have ‘big bones’, so do hungry people I have ‘healthy appetites’.  Maybe I’d be better to say apparently I’m not a glutton. But increasingly I find myself  saving my fistfuls of consumption for things I really enjoy.  And the things I really enjoy are not as abundant as they used to be.

Now this isn’t me being picky and it certainly isn’t me dieting. As anyone who knows me is aware, I discretely display ‘No Dietary Requirements to be Requested’ posters at my dinner parties.  Pregnancy and allergy causing death are carve-outs.  Atkins is not. Go to the gym. I think this new wave of culinary Darwinism is attributable to me being completely spoilt for choice here in London now.  Disappointing dining also makes me sad. Actually sad. Only cheese, in wheel format, can help at such a time.

But back to London.  There is a new restaurant, food truck, wine-bar, bistro, food truck turned bistro-wine bar opening in this city every day.  It’s impossible to keep up, though indeed we try.  To make it through the new Soho openings of just the past few months we’ve started instituting a travelling feast approach.  Soho is the new breakfast buffet.  Drinks and bar snacks here, a few plates here, breather, a few plates there,  breather, dessert and coffee elsewhere, breather, cocktails. The End.   That’s a lot of venues if properly executed.

Enough!! Well not really, but it’s fun to be dramatic sometimes.

The more eating and exploring I do, the more I’m aware of what’s a gimmick, what’s a classic, what and who is really exciting and generally how I want to spend my nights and lunches out.  It’s entirely personal preference but I like surprises, thoughtfulness, intelligence, respect, flirtation, fun and generosity.  To clarify I am talking about eating out in all its guises and neither a corporate philosophy manifesto nor an eHarmony compatibility test.  I do realise I sound quite bonkers at times so I guess I’m lucky this isn’t an eHarmony compatibility test.

It might make me sound slightly less bonkers if I put a few faces to names:

New season brights on the De Camaron Salteados Taco

Surprises: Amongst the to be expected Mexican fare at La Bodega Negra we came across the Tuna, Chipotle, Avocado & Jalapeno Tostadita.  Chipolte mayo, raw tuna, an unexpected Asianesque twist and worth returning for.  Oh and the De Camaron Salteados taco took on the taste buds too.  Beyond that La Bodega Negra was fine, well OK, but for a couple of specific dishes and a cheeky margarita, give it ago.

Do I need a caption on this picture, it's largely self evident isn't it?

Flirtation: The packed and multilayered dining room at Ceviche with it’s close tables, bar spaces, warm lighting, loud and boisterous clientele is a perfect warm antidote to the sharp and after a while slightly homogenous citrus flavours of the tart Peruvian fad (I mean food)…not to mention the inevitable abundant enjoyment of pisco sours.  Maybe that explains the flirtation?

Fun: Late Sunday lunch at Honest Burgers in Brixton Village.  I’m willing to host a protein smack town to determine and crown the best burger in London.  Hell I may even don a bikini and hold the scoreboard.  But not after eating one (or more correctly three burgers between two people) of these guys. Drool.

Dear Knife.  I am tired of playing hide and seek with you.
I can see you under the rosemary fries and I don't need you anyway.
Love, Miss Devour.

Generosity: OK so this isn’t London so it’s technically off topic, but amongst the small plates served at Au Passage in Paris, lays a slow roasted shoulder of lamb that brings pure happiness to a table when torn apart and devoured with medieval fervour.

Dear Knife,
As I said in my last letter. We don't need you anyway.
Love, Miss Devour

Respect: Sadly I don’t have a photo of anything I’ve ever eaten at Koya.  I enjoy it too much.  Or I’ve burnt my mouth or I’ve flicked broth in my eye.  I even enjoy that. The noodle (spoken in the voice of Po’s ‘Dad’ in Kung Foo Panda 1 and 2) are unbelievable, the flavours clean and delicate, the experience entirely and consistently satisfying.

OK so this weekend, I finally managed it, a photo at Koya! Duck hot pot.

Intelligence: It’s a sad and often denied reality that my financial resources are finite.  Dinner in, a rib of beef, bottle of wine is a less rare but always wise plan of action.

Still nuts?  Probably, but only enough nuts to fit into a clenched fist.  Apparently.

@MissDevour13

T + 60 minutes and counting...

I’m thinking about changing the sort of person I am.  This isn’t a great 30 something existential crisis – I was progressive, I had one of those in my late 20’s - but more a practical approach to temporal management.

I currently am, and always have been an On Timer.  No, more correctly, I’m a Little Bit Early to Everything kind of girl.  I get up early (subject to the activities of the night before), I take the slightly too soon train to get somewhere and I think an 8.30 reservation means 8.25 not 8.45.

I’ve always been this way. In part this is due to a vast proportion of my childhood being spent in airports 5 hours prior to departure time on the insistence of my Little Bit Early to Everything kind of mother.  I also don’t like rushing, look immediately dishevelled when power walking and always like to sneak a look at the menu before my dining compatriots arrive.

Problem being, I seem to attract and be attracted to Late Enough is Good Enough kind of people. Busy people. Doers. Well not always that busy doing anything in particular other than being late, but you get the gist.  People who have lots going on and a finite schedule to populate…some people can just do this and those who can’t are late.

I understand the temporal impediment of the Late Enough is Good Enough folk and I’m absolutely open to a 15 minute falter in the time space continuum. In 15 minutes I can check Twitter, consider a tweet, neglect a tweet, order a champagne, peruse the dining room, solve a complex algebraic logarithm in my head whilst silently reciting a script extract from A Beautiful Mind and consume all butter on the table.

By T + 30 minutes I’ve refreshed Twitter four times, read the Wales sub-section of the BBC News app, displayed artisan origami skill on my napkin and noticed the tuft of externally visible nasal hair on my dining neighbour which will now enthral me in a vortex of gross for the next 10 minutes.

At T + 45 minutes I still can’t believe his girlfriend hasn’t said anything about that and I begin to consider ordering ahead after prioritising my best to worst picks of the night.  Surely I can sneak in a couple of ‘hidden courses’ before they get here? I’d also like to look at the cocktail menu please…again.

And yes, before you ask, there have been instances, be they few, when a T + 60 minute scenario has arisen.  This is a significant violation and can only ever be borne in an environment heavily populated by reading materials, intriguing people or things I can buy.  Dining plans with common time perpetrators usually involve BYO literature, an iPhone, a Blackberry and an exchange of email addresses with the waitress who is my new best friend.

An On Timers' support group in the bar at Dabbous

Today, a last minute cancellation at the ‘Impossible to Score a Table at Newbie’ Dabbous, resulted in me diving head first into a T+60 minute plot line.  I knew little forewarning on a 12.15 reservation was fertile ground for such an outcome so I arrived promptly, smiled at the seriously kind and polite front of house staff, pre-emptively apologised, inserted a small but unobtrusive portion of banter into the mix and retired to the bar for a cocktail and a couple of chapters of my book.

Note to fellow On Timers – the ‘One day in June’ on the martini menu (Saffron Gin, Creme de Peche, elderflower cordial, ginger, cucumber, lemon and pineapple juice) is a tart selection I felt boldly straddled the 12 midday cocktail o’clock calling with just enough fruitiness to argue it’s actually one of my seven a day…fruit and vege that is, not cocktails. The downstairs bar at midday is quiet, as you can imagine.  I counted five On Timers down there.  We share a knowing glance, air cheers our cocktails and get on with out respective self-provided activities. And so we wait, surrounded by revealed brick work, communal tables, faux-warn leather deep seats and cocktails. Not bad, not bad at all.

The superb celeriac and I'm not sure if you can see the tiny but delicious
egg dish up the back there...wave for us tiny egg dish!

From ‘One day in June’ followed an exponential increase in the banter to apologies conversation matter between myself and the staff until, at the T + 67 minute mark, my boyfriend flies down the stairs to the soundtrack of Jamiroquai and we get on with proceedings.  Two things: (1) Thank you, thank you kind front of house people for tolerating our collective late arrival and being super accommodating; and (2) Jamiroquai was an unfortunate addition to the Dabbous playlist (not a personal entry soundtrack to said late arrival) which runs largely like my best friend’s iPod circa 2001, only with marginally less R Kelly.

I’m sure you are aware of the hype here.  Faye Maschler, amongst others, has declared Dabbous a ‘Game Changer’, ‘5 stars’! This ensures nobody can score a table in this 36-seater single-turn two-service-a-day venue until at least the end of May.  We got lucky, the wait list paid off.

I honestly cannot look at this picture without trying to dip my finger in that potato.

We went the a la carte approach with a side of upbeat anticipation. The menu at Dabbous reads like an absolute treat, every dish makes my short list.  The proposition however is a little misleading. The menu is divided into untitled starters, mains and desserts, when in fact what followed was a selection of solo degustation style dishes which would better have been declared up front by diving the menu by protein, vegetable or some other way. I understand the price points are a signpost but luckily I am greedy and we went for three from each (including cheese) so crisis averted.

The celeriac with muscat grapes, lovage and hazelnuts (£5) was perfect and fresh, really special. But the beef tartar with cigar oil, whisky and rye (£8) left me a little flat. I love the word coddled, so the coddled free range hen egg with woodland mushrooms and smoked butter (£7) was already rating highly in text before it did so in taste.  Pity there was so little of the goodness in the ornamental hay nested egg shell.

The mashed potato, roasting (chicken) juices and black truffle (£11) had a hard job ahead to win my heart from the burnt end mash at Pitt Cue (yes, totally different establishment but my current betrothed). It might just have done so.  The dish was refined and so complete in flavour that I proposed a second round…or just a more abundant serving in the first instance.

Barbecued iberico pork with savoury acorn praline followed (£14) (loved the praline) and the braised veal cheek with spelt (which I don’t think I’d invite on a second date, bit flighty after initially showing potential).

I call this piece 'Glory in Daylight'

Dessert was a visual escapade and the chocolate/virgin hazelnut oil ganache, basil moss, sheep’s milk ice cream (£7) was one of the sexiest concoctions I’ve seen on a piece of slate.  I’m not a chocolate person but the dish was far from lost on me, placid and not too sweet with texture and colour - a slow and building head nod with a big lick of the lips.

Cheese course is always necessary and I hate to sound like a remix but I only wish it were a little more generous.  I wish all the dishes were a little more generous.  Generosity is something a think goes hand in hand with the casual take on a fine dining formula that Dabbous is going for.  If we’re here and we’re friendly and we’re smart and ‘cool’ and ‘urban’ and we’re excited by food and ingredients, let’s also be generous (not gluttonous) with the centrepiece of the restaurant statement – the food and the prowess of the kitchen. Or don’t be more generous, but be upfront on the menu and trust that diners are excited to be there and want to engage in the variety on offer.

I’ll definitely go back (if we can ever again fluke a reservation) and I’ll definitely wear my slim leather trousers and grey trapeze knit again (I felt like a mannequin perfectly matched to the decor) and I will look forward to seeing and tasting the developments coming out of the kitchen. I’m not sure I agree any game has been changed, but some of the dishes made me innately happy, some indifferent and others made me think ‘I can’t wait to taste what’s next’.  Maybe that’s it? Dabbous is the latest opening in the enticing revelation of London’s changing culinary identity. I just hope we’re not up for a T + 60 wait for the next instalment.

p.s. Claire from the front of house team, I'll call you on Thursday x

Dabbous, 39 Whitfield Street, London, W1T2SF, +44 (0)20 7323 1544, http://dabbous.co.uk/

@MissDevour13

Butter makes it better and better it will be!

Today is Australia Day.  I should be writing about lamingtons or barbeques or national clichés applied to some form of calories but I don’t really feel like it. Perhaps this lack of inclination is in reaction to those Australian specimens currently debauched along Clapham High Street.

These patriotic revellers are a true sight. I’ve never understood the fashioning of our flag into body art (unless you’re an Olympian, which nobody outside the Clapham Grand is) or outerwear (a flag does not a cape make) or swimwear for that matter (NUTS comes to the High Street).  To unite all three elements in a public street in the middle of winter in London in an unfortunate time delayed corollary those landing the First Fleet could never have foreseen. 

A little pose for the camera, a little support to the hip displacement.
A patron wilts and poses, poses and wilts during an epic
wait for a table at Burger & Lobster

OK, I admit, years ago I may have revelled on Australia Day and I may have consumed an abundance of Fosters (cringe) and I may even have enjoyed the novelty key ring I won which rotated the phrases: “Flamin’ galah” and “Grab us another Fosters would ya”…but I was not tattooed (a scratch and sniff Southern Cross sticker does not count) and I certainly didn’t wear a flag cape…before 4am (polyester is a great wind break alright!). Wonder where I put that key ring? A modern day classic…

Instead of all things antipodean, I actually feel like writing about butter.  Quite un-Australian really if you think the classic Australian like beaches and looking good on beaches and butter has little place in either pursuit.  

If The Bib takes Mayfair, he's one step closer to victory in the primaries.

I used close to a stick of butter cooking and baking tonight – I don’t intend being near a beach for months.  Should I judge myself for this non-health conscious fatty fat fat consumption in the kitchen? Definitely not.  The sauce was too good and the ever-shrinking banana bread continues to beckon me from a deliberately inaccessible booby-trapped location rooms away. And yes, for future reference, when I use expression  “close to” I mean “close or equal to” or more correctly “a whole stick of butter”. And if my trainer is reading this, by “butter” I mean “stomach crunches”.

Have you ever noticed buttery fingerprints act as a high-speed lubricant on a keyboard? And that banana bread crumbs act like little speed humps?  No, neither have I.

Not to be used in conjunction with keyboards.

I’d like to know how many sticks of butter the kitchen at Burger & Lobster use each service (29 Clarges street, Mayfair London W1J 7EF, +44 (0) 207 409 1699).  It’s probably best we don’t know and just enjoy. Enjoy by the jug full with a lemon twist and a huge plate of crustacean and The Bib.  

I’m a significant supporter of The Bib and his campaign for introduction to certain civilised adult eating environs.  And before you go there, I’m not talking about any weird adult-as-baby fetishist thing, but certain dining tables where the abandon of joyous gluttony to often results in a hefty dry cleaning investment.  For example The Bib is a perfect partner to any form of laksa, Singapore crab, borscht with a slippery spoon, fresh udon at Koya when your hangover hinders your usual precision chopstick skills and everything served anywhere and lathered in butter.  I should have consulted The Bib before dinner tonight and I could have avoided a steamy evening with Vanish.

The Bib works hard for every vote and takes his time to understand the needs
of his electorate.

I’m happy The Bib has set up permanent campaign headquarters in Mayfair.  After close to two hours wait (and downing two bottles of bubbles at a nearby bar) his services were indispensible as we slid our way through three grilled and doused lobsters and an entirely gratuitous lobster brioche (a faux starter) last Friday.  I don’t understand at all the business model that supports a flat rate £20 for whole lobster, brioche or burger…turnover explains so much, cross product subsidisation a little more…but then numbers were never my thing and butter certainly is so...thank you to Burger & Lobster and you good Russians you and all the burger orderers in the house for what ever commercial genius lets this happen.

Yuuuummm, look at all that delicious salad I still have to go!

Between the butter jugs and bibs, the tool kit and flying meaty bits there may live an argument that Burger & Lobster is best with friends rather than a hot date.  Yes, yes you say, Kate Hudson scored Matthew McConaughey over a similar scene, but in real life you will feel ill afterwards.  Good ill. Happy ill. Roman feasting ill.  But ill enough to be indisposed from activities you may like to undertake without the services of The Bib or the moisturising properties of butter…unless you’re into that sort of thing, in which case, good luck to you.  

@MissDevour13

Breakfast at Bill's place

One thing led to another last weekend and we ended up on Youtube.  We ended up on Youtube watching, no that’s not quite correct, watching and singing, Ian Moss’s all time Australian pub rock classic, “Tucker’s Daughter” (1989).

My first innate reaction was to sing louder.  My second was to be thankful I wasn’t the outback daughter of Ole Man Tucker and the object of Ian’s affection.  My third was to set off a multimedia juke box of classic 80’s and 90’s Australian tunes whilst debating: Johnny Diesel’s greatest hit? “Right on the Tip of my Tongue” or “Crying Shame”, discuss.  

Dream Boat Retrospective - Johnny Diesel despite torn off denim sleeves and subsequent identity crisis

Unless you are a foreign member of the Ian Moss fan club or an Australian descending through the 25-40 year old age bracket, you’re probably about as lost as my British friend Jo was while this archive of antipodeon chart toppers played out.  Jo understands that we didn’t attend Erinsborough High, that we call shrimps prawns and that pants aren’t pants they’re undies. But I am fairly sure she didn’t understand why we still, after 20 years, know every word to Darryl Braithwaite’s “One Summer”.  And just who is this Darryl Braithwaite anyway?!?

Contrary to our play list, I was glad I’d crafted a menu for the night that displayed no consistent cultural reference.  After fresh ricotta, Manuka honey and toasted walnuts we followed with a Way to Decadent in a Good Way Rabbit and Pork Lasagne. But it was finally ending on the left-field British high of sticky toffee pudding that gave Jo a brief caramel and culturally familiar reprieve.  We also had to stop singing during dessert as it’s incredibly hard to consume pudding, sauce and ice cream whilst effectively using an air-mic. 

While I’ve been assured Jo did have a great time at dinner (and probably afterwards at our expense recounting our unselfconscious antics to her more civilised British friends) the medium of nostalgic mullet anthems highlighted one of the many or few fissures diverging the British and Australian experience.   This sometimes-cultural divide between we convicts (of which I’ll erroneously include myself despite being first generation Australian) and The Motherlanders appeared before me again a few days later. But this time, it was personal.  

Ricotta hotcakes with fresh banana and honeycomb butter

While being served an exceptionally tasty butter-rich bacon-crispy plate of breakfast happiness my ears were forced to endure this statement: “Avocado has no place on a breakfast plate.  It’s just wrong!” 

Now hold on a minute Mr!  Avocado is what you say? Why you little [fist raised]….and it was at about that point of incredulousness that I got distracted by the crispy crispy salty bacon and lost my train of thought entirely…and then I was back:  Avocado is the number one draft pick for breakfast plate side orders for 9 out of 10 Australian diners.  That statistic in no way represents thorough or un-bias research but it was as true as it needed to be at the time before I got distracted by the creamy creamy buttery eggs…and then I was back: Avocado makes a breakfast plate, it’s the perfect duvet to a bacon, the greatest spread on sour dough toast, the perfect fresh substitute for over-cooked spinach or slippery slimy button mushrooms which are the eternally sad side-kicks of the core English breakfast characters. Avocado, it’s just right!

Unfortunately, no avocados were harmed in the making of this breakfast bun

I could swiftly see I wasn’t going to sway any voters with my New World argument for the monosaturated monolith so we entered a social treaty whereby the purveyor of that delicious British breakfast accepted the existence of, without agreeing with, my culinary dissent and we both returned to the bacon on which we very happily agreed.

After this polling failure you can imagine my joy when the long awaited opening of Bill Granger’s only European venture, Granger & Co (175 Westbourne Grove, London W11 2SB, http://grangerandco.com/, +44 20 7229 9111) came to fruition around the corner from my home here in Notting Hill.  Now Bill, he’s a man who understands the avocado.  In fact, it’s his number one side offering for eggs or toast.  Oh, and look at that, it’s his number two side for eggs or toast too – avocado salsa.  I’ll have both thanks Bill – no mushrooms, no spinach for me please.

The Full Aussie Breakfast: How did those pesky mushrooms get on there? 

The scrambled eggs at Granger & Co are super light and not at all too rich (there could be an argument for or against this state of affairs, but let’s carry on), the bacon is incredible, the breakfast plates loaded with full Aussie goodness and not a baked bean in sight. The ricotta hot cakes are just like Sydney…hang on a second…the whole place is just like Sydney.  The tables, the staff, the menu, the huge windows…should I be judging my own lack of originality in enjoying this replica establishment as much as I do? I am really enjoying it and judging at the same time. But mostly I’m enjoying.

Judging AND stirring as demonstrated by my more competent friend

Looking around, the dining room is packed. The wait for a table is over an hour and the confusing sunshine outside is offering those smug people seated in the window a lame excuse to inappropriately wear their designer frames inside. I detest them, but am too preoccupied trying to stir the Callebaut chocolate chips through my hot chocolate to care. I can’t judge and stir at the same time.

The bustling hum of the largely Australia via Nottinghill crowd is broken only by the intermittent steam of the coffee machine, the odd squawk of a Queensland ex-pat’s laughter or the conga line theme song rolling through my head: “I love av-o-ca-do! I love av-o-c-a-do! Ah dah dah, dah dah, dah dah”. 

Avocado and Breakfast: Best friends for ever xo xo

I haven’t been back yet for lunch or dinner service but the menu looks like a solid Bill-style offering of tasty BBQ and casual fragrant mains. Chilli pork ribs, whole baked fish, crispy duck with plum sauce.  No big surprises, nothing avant-garde but plenty of trouble choosing. 

I still think Peter Gordon's Providores serves up the best breakfast meets brunch in the whole of London.  I’ll also eternally love any breakfast offering me bacon and butter in perfect excessive harmony. Who knows if I’ll ever convince the avocado disbelievers out there that Granger & Co is worth the long wait for a breakfast table adrift a sea of Ralph Lauren? But it’s the simple good food and effortless Australian style of Granger & Co which just made me and Tucker’s daughter smile on that sunny Saturday morning…but please, you in the window, take those sunglasses off!!  

@missdevour13

Mustard flares and the eating dress

I returned to the kitchen last Sunday.  It’s been a while.  In fact a really long while.  And just to be clear, this isn’t a smirk-ridden attempt to analogise the kitchen and the bedroom…in the sexy time way…I actually mean the kitchen.

It’s funny how, for someone who thinks about food and eating more than any other subject or act, life has kept me outside my favourite place for so long. I wasn’t totally abstinent, there were a few flings here and there with meaningless pastas and mid week pull togethers.  But proper kitchen time, a bench full of ingredients, hands itching to play and cupboards full of pots, pans and contraptions destined for experimentation – Sunday was proper, fun, sexy cooking time.  I’ve really missed it.

Amuse bouche of cress soup and egg yolk...not loving the styling, but super tasty!

For some weeks now the closest I’ve come to a kitchen is a big family feast at the Chef’s Table at my local (well, loosely local) pub – The Mall Tavern in Nottinghill (71-73 Palace Gardens Terrace, Notting Hill, London, W8 4RU). I find this place classic, deeply stained and lightly exquisite in the evening (in a waist coat and pipe kind of way) so to call it just a local doesn’t seem quite fair. But then again it’s calm and warm, a wooden pub which makes me feel like I belong nestled up in the leather-bound corners of the dining room. Maybe in a bustle and without the right to vote, but nonetheless, a great local.

Cow Pie...how could I forget the marrow and parsley!!

I first came to The Mall Tavern with a friend who can legitimately call it her local, and we came for one thing.  The Cow Pie.  That’s it.  Pastry, gravy and cow.  I’m a simple girl.  But then I came back for the pigeon pie, their smoked salmon (smoked in kettle on the roof), the roasted wild duck and then the pies again. Hooked.  Apparently, and I’ve never quite got this, other people come here, and they come here a lot, for the Chicken Kiev.  It’s the second highest selling dish on the menu (yes, of course after the Cow Pie).  

Wah, wah. bass pluck, bass pluck, Chicken Kiev, bass pluck wah wah disco Shaft!

Who is 2011 orders Chicken Kiev? Who serves Chicken Kiev after 1973?  When mustard flares, key swapping and perms went out of fashion, so did Kiev - other than in the Bird’s Eye alternative universe where mustard wearing families look very nuclear and smug whilst eating Chicken Kiev.  Maybe that’s why people order Chicken Kiev, it reminds them of a time when they could wear tight fitting clothing and their family wasn’t abstract, interesting or confusing.

"Why Judy, your Chicken Kiev was delectable
and so is your husband...jingle jingle"

I probably shouldn’t write that because my family is entirely nuclear.  My parents will be married for 40 years this December and my sister and I are only mildly damaged from a usual and loving suburban upbringing.  We have two dogs.  I just live on the other side of the world from them all – the dogs and the family – in a spoilt anti-nuclear protest.  

But we ate the Chicken Kiev. As a family, at a dinner table, together, at Mall Tavern.  And we loved it…and then smiled collectively at each other looking very smug.  Snapshot. In fact I think my Dad was actually not smug but trying to remember if he’d been forced to toss out those flares.  The answer Dad is yes, before the tassel loafers and after the Speedo swimwear and all before 1982.  

Attention seeking pink veal

But we’re back to 2011 and there was Chicken Kiev involved in this story…there was also pink veal, served with a dramatic Frenched bone which was prize (be it a little too Bedrock), and the braised beef exactly how you wanted it to taste, but just a little better.  I even have to admit, the vegetarian option – involving quorn (I can’t confidently spell, let alone consume this), butternut squash and my good friend pastry was actually pretty darn tasty.  Damn you quorn, I might eat you, but I’ll never succumb to tofu (other than the silken tofu which is actually pretty darn tasty. Damn you tofu!!). The Mall Tavern serves nostalgia, and serves it well (other than the quorn, nothing nostalgic about that, unless your parents were hippies in the frozen isle).  

Braised beef and celeriac puree, the opposite of tofu

At the Chef’s Table, each dish is shared either from the middle of the table or by rotation.  Sure, there may be some health risks in this approach, but we’re all family…right?  I was granted bell rights (she who controls the bell controls the rotation of dishes) and found it a moment of great struggle to reach and ring when it was my turn to pass the wabba dabba veal to the right.  It was a risky, some may say erroneous, move to trust me to distribute food equally amongst the table.  Unfortunately, I have a conscience and a need for people to share my excitement of a great dish.  Inconvenient but effective in this case. 

Now I know what Arctic Rolls are...

I’m really not a dessert person, born without a sweet tooth I was [click, heel tap, eye wink] but as the meal began to taper off, the table was again packed with every sort of arctic roll, salted caramel, marshmallow, cheesecake, chocolate and hyperactivity generator you might desire.  I didn’t desire though, well, I couldn’t desire.  I’d already out-challenged my eating dress which clung with over-extended desperation to my ever-increasing food baby bulge. So hot! I’m told by my smug family that the desserts were as good as the Kiev but not as good as the cow. More importantly, it was at this point of the meal that my Dad stopped lamenting the disposal of his historic fashion staples.

Toasted marshmallows by Anakin 

My parents won’t be much longer visiting in London which means we won’t leave our next visit to Mall Tavern too long either. Cow pies are not so readily available on Australian summer time menus. And I definitely won’t leave my next quality kitchen day as long between as the last.  I could barely fit my post-Mall Tavern eating dress, but my London mini-fridge certainly can’t fit the product of my post-Sunday kitchen binge.  Sunday dinner at mine anyone?  

@missdevour13

For when I wish I were in Paris...

I have regular cravings to be back in Paris.

The recent visit of a friend who lives there sent my mind right back to the city I haven't yet returned to after leaving in January.  It probably doesn't help that I've been torturing myself in the London summer turned winter by reading Paris was Ours edited by Penelope Rowlands.  It's a collection of short tales by thirty-two writers who have lived in and experienced Paris.  My commuting companions on the Brighton to Bedford train line know my thoughts on the book...mostly in tear format...sometimes in missed stop format. I blame David Lebovitz for the missed stop day, the book was his recommendation!

Until I can visit Paris again (which looks like next month for Le Salon Du Chocolat!!), I have to settle for a "Best of" memory montage of my favourite places.  In my head it's in some hipstomatic slide show to a Gainburg soundtrack.  Either that or some crappy poppy Christophe Mae song long since defunct down the wrong end of the charts. 

I know there have been so many developments in the Paris dining scene in the past 9 month which I can't wait to bite into, but favourites stay favourites for a reason!  

Favourite wine bar and tapas - Standing up, but the best Left Bank experience - L'Avant Comptoir.  It get's crowded, but if you head early you can grab a spot at the bar. The Morgon red is amazing and their tapas dishes are seriously good. (http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/11/12/standing-room-only-lavant-comptoir-in-paris/) (L’Avant Comptoir, 9 carrefour de l’Odéon, Sixth Arrondissement, Paris; 011-33-8-2610-1087. No reservations. Open daily).

Beautiful, Chateaubriand

Modern French and one of my bias favourites because I staged there last year - Chateaubriand. Good luck making a booking after it placed 9th in the S.Pellegrino World's 50 Best Restaurant Awards for 2011, but if you get there about 9 you can have a wine and wait at the bar for the unreserved second sitting.  You could also try their other restaurant Le Dauphin two doors down.  It's amazing. That's all.  Please try them...or try them again! (http://devourparis.blogspot.com/2010/09/food-crush.html) and (http://devourparis.blogspot.com/2010/12/picasso-and-cowboys.html) (Chateaubriand, 129 Avenue Parmentier, 75011 Paris, +33 (0) 1 4357 4595, Reservations necessary for 8pm sitting).

Jackie's comfort duck at Je The..Me

If it's super classic old school French cuisine you are after brave the semi-suburban 15eme and book at  Je The Me.  Jackie is the owner and his son, Damien, the sommelier.  The restaurant is in an old national trust general store and brilliant, his kitchen no bigger than your home set up and his food is like a rich rich hug (http://devourparis.blogspot.com/2010/10/for-all-fathers-out-there.html) (Je The..Me, 4 rue d'Alleray, Paris, France 01 48 42 48 30).

Home to craving satiation - Le Petit Marche

Probably my favourite place to eat in Paris is Le Petit Marche in the Marais. It's classic French with a modern Asian twist, the staff are laid back and young and it's right of the Place de Vosges so easy to get to ( http://devourparis.blogspot.com/2010/07/shell-have-what-im-having.html).  Location isn't really relevant to me usually (I just spent an entire weekend commuting to a small island in Lake Como for their menu (and absolutely worth it in case you are wondering) but when you crave their Salade Chinoise from Le Petit Marche (which happen regularly) it helps to get there fast! (Le Petit Marche (9 Rue Bearn, Paris, 75003, Tel: 01 42 72 06 67, Reservations necessary).

I forgot about the potato dauphinoise, another reason to order nothing up this

For a classic bistro steak I always head to La Taverne L'arbre sec near Chatelet.  The menu is all good (so my friends tell me) but the Cote de Boeuf is all I ever order.  There is no point pretending even for a minute that any other dish element will trump bone marrow (http://devourparis.blogspot.com/2010/05/but-what-eeeeiiiissss-marrow-bone.html) (La Taverne De L'arbre Sec (109 Rue Saint-honore, 75004 Paris, 01 08 99 78 61 69).

And now this is were the montage speeds up a little, but don't pay any less attention to these places...I'm just typing faster to get onto Eurostar.com to book a train immediately! 

Favorite ice cream (well gelato more correctly) - Grom, Left Bank just near Rue De Buci:  (http://www.grom.it/eng/dettagli_gelateria.php?id_gelateria=105&citt%E0=Paris).

Favorite macaron that I continue to emulate at home with fastidious attention and adoration  - Pierre Herme (http://www.pierreherme.com/index.cgi?&cwsid=9846ph0A000108ph1767440).

Favourite falafal in the Marais: L'As du Falafal, don't waste you time on the others, you will miss out on the best harissa on the block (http://parisbymouth.com/las-du-falafel/).  I am happy to enter into a street located rap battle on this one too...do you know how many words rhyme with harissa?

A salad in an acceptable size

Best giant French salad and market street combo: Le Rocher de Cancale because I firmly believe that if one must eat salad it should be around the size of a moderate torso (http://devourparis.blogspot.com/2010/05/salad-envy-on-saladism.html) (78 rue Montorgueil 75002 Paris, 01 42 33 50 29).

Cafe Charlot brunch

All time favourite brunch / classic Parisian bistro lunch - Cafe Charlot in the Marais.  It's perfect and busy and cramped and covered in hollandaise and newspapers hiding heavy rimmed spectacles on beautiful faces (http://devourparis.blogspot.com/2010/05/i-sarah-take-you-pain-perdu.html) (38 rue de Bretagne, 75003 Paris, France 33 1 44 54 03 30).

Favourite sandwiches, no bread and sandwiches in Paris: Gontran Cherrier.  Ok yes, I have a food crush here but that in no ways sways my integrity or opinion.  Hmmmm (http://parisbymouth.com/our-guide-to-paris-gontran-cherrier/) (22 rue Caulaincourt, 75018).

And finally, in case you are now heading to the same place I am, here, this will make it easier for you: Eurostar.com.

@missdevour13

I'm without words

literally in this case after attending the Young Turks at Clove Club hosted by Restaurants in Residence in Canary Wharf on their last night service on Wednesday.

My article on the evening and the work of Isaac and James will appear on finedininglovers.com in the next couple of weeks, at which point I'll shamelessly self-promote, but I wanted to share the plates with you before then...if only to encourage everyone to go to the market at buy a selection of heirloom tomatoes which are amazing right now.


Reading about the Young Turk’s local twist on steak tartare (room temperature, course dice, fat on, salty acid oyster emulsion, capers, elderberry), served previously at the Nuno Mendes’ Loft Project, tipped my palette off about the forthcoming meal well before the bowl of raw sweet sugar snap peas arrived.  Communal amuse bouche courses of cucumber, yoghurt and Indian salt and crisp buttermilk fried chicken left me re-evaluating my statement in a previous article that chicken exists only for unadventurous menu navigators.  I apologise chicken, I was out of line.

A garden of plump summer heirloom tomatoes lashed with goats milk and leafed with wild marjoram guided us to a crisp course of raw mackerel, mustard, gooseberries and crystal lemon cucumbers. Each of these courses showed a delicate respect for the predominantly raw ingredients and the balance between each on the plate.

And then, there were the fore ribs.  A buxsom dish of Angus Rib (smoked and charred over apple wood) served with grilled and pickled onions, porter & land cress. I felt the need to retract my previous proposal to the chicken, I’d clearly moved on. Even the Loganberries, Ewe’s Milk Yoghurt & Beremeal Cake could not tare my attention from those ribs.

Sorry, distracted pause, fore rib related.

The Beast Game

In a past London life I lived with my very good girlfriend Josie. Josie has a special and motivating gift, amongst many, of morphing all activities into competitions.  I think having an Olympic athlete as a father can result in this rare and special power, but regardless, if there is an act, let there be a challenge. And if there be a challenge, let me be the winner.  Living together, we made things happen. Well, one of us did, the other one sulked the loser’s sulk while the winner punched a meat carcass and tucked their track pants into their socks.

Our kitchen after The Fridge Game

The Fridge Game was Josie’s way of prompting my other housemate, Olivia and I into clearing from our bulging Electrolux (not a product endorsement, just a proper noun) those miscellaneous foodstuffs with unclear heritage and ownership.  Premise: Who ever cooked the best dish using the highest number and greatest volume of ingredients from the fridge wins.  Prize: Winner takes the glory, that’s all, and maybe a little extra space in the fridge. Proviso: Victory is subject to disqualification in the event of any illness directly resulting from ingredient heritage out dating recommended usage parameters. Is it just me or do competitions start to become a little less fun when three lawyers lay the ground rules? 

The Luggage Game was Josie’s way of expediting our airport departure time on mini-breaks.  The person who removes their bag from the luggage conveyor first is the winner, the others are all losers.  Obstruction, in any way (rugby tackle, impromptu blindfold, hot man decoy) of any player in pursuit of their bag is permitted.  Post holiday bruising has been more common than a tan to me in recent years.

Beef: The favourite...but the winner?

Since Josie moved home to Australia, we have had to content ourselves in pursuing the greatest and most intellectually rigorous of all our competitions. The Beast Game.  Which beast contributes the most to the world? Our world for this purpose is a fairly narrow concept. Our eyes, our mouths, our bellies.

Rungis, Paris.  The big beef!

Cows bring us milk, milk maids, beef, beef jerky, bone marrow, all dairy derivatives, nouns and slurs for human attribution – “you cow”, “such a heffer”, “what’s your beef”, tasteless bachelor furniture and floor rugs, the capital of Phillip Island and the perfect carpaccio accompaniment to truffle oil and parmesan. For that I am thankful. 

Poultry (for a chicken alone cannot challenge a cow, but we’ve all seen Birds, Hitchcock’s warning of the power of collective wings) brings us fillets (both meaty and gel like for a little extra lift), feathers, eggs in all proportions, claws, chicken salt, Kellogg’s branding, a menu item for unadventurous diners and iconic Christmas imagery (non-Jesus related).

Rungis, Paris: Poultry lined up waiting to be counted

It’s odd actually that fish and sea life never entered our duels.  Although while controversial consumption items like the whale may multi score well on contribution to world museum collections, the Darwinian short fallings of the soft-shell crab and it’s life of constant and crushing fear must surely damage any advancement of seafood in the debate.  Perhaps the current infatuation of chefs and foodies with tuna spinal marrow might be worth a punt with Josie next Skype session.

The one to watch: Seafood, the future challenger.

But Orwell, E.B. White, Josie and I all agree there is one winner. One superior beast prevails, perhaps not in variety, and perhaps not if you consider a vast number of the world’s population are prohibited from its consumption,  but in our hearts.  The Pig.

Pork belly, chorizo, pork crackling, bacon, salami, Iberico ham, if pigs could fly, trotters, bacon Cheetos, piglets, suckling pig, Babe, hog roasts, Pumba, bush pigs, pig outs, pig nose, “You pig!” (Risso, Grease, 1978), Porky’s, telling porkies, pork pies, what a porker!, pig tails, three little pigs, pork chops, lardo, sausages…oh sausages, how could I forget sausages.  Bacon….bacon!!! You get my point, all proudly presented by our good friend the swine. Pigs bring home the bacon (oh, Dad!).

Porteno - The perfect pig!

I’m not a religious person, but I do believe my devotion to this delicious beast reveals a path for me through every city in which I live or visit.  In London, to Brawn for pork rillettes and any number of cured and seared contortions of the oink.  In Sydney, to Porteno for dripping, juicy and glass crisp serve of asador slow roasted sucking pig.  In Paris, to L’avant Comptior for a bowl of caramelised pork belly broken on my palette with a strong glass of Morgon. And most recently to New York…

The Meatball Shop - Naked Balls

At The Meatball Shop in the East Village, I devoured a bowl of spicy pork naked balls.  I respect not only the innuendo loaded menu options (and website sound effects which pronounce BALLS in a dirty disco voice across my office) but the low-key, bare brick, wear your own tattoos aesthetic the place effortlessly propagates.  Like a lot of restaurants in New York you understand the City really fosters independent personality and self-expression from its chefs and restaurateurs.  Heritage pork shoulder and hot pickled cherry peppers, doused in classic tomato sauces, lashed with parmesan and politely sided by seasonal vege, addictive, simple and worthy of your best elastic-waisted pants…or a tattoo of your best elastic waisted pants inscribed where your real paints should otherwise be.

Momofuku Ssam: Steamed Pork Buns

While my failure to navigate the time space continuum with grace meant I had to defer my Porchetta roast rolled pork sandwich until next time, my belly was on site for David Chang’s pork belly at Momofuku Ssam Bar. David hates bloggers, is famed for his ‘meteoric rise’ in the international restaurant scene, is a leader in iPad food publishing and…really…I’m all about his buns…pork…I mean pork buns.

Beef...tumbleweed...Pork

Sweet, sticky, fatty, pork belly floating between the cheeks of an inexplicably light steamed bun - glossed with hoi sin, Sriracha, pickles and spring onions.  This wasn’t even an “I would marry this pork bun” kind of situation.  As I said, I’m not religious, I wasn’t waiting until we got married!

Buns with something to prove...

If you can’t get to New York for Momofuku, buy David Chang and Peter Meehan’s book, Momofuku, and make them yourself. Read the book too.  The determination, navigation of luck (of all varieties), stoic self-belief and ‘chef as rock star’ persona of David weave in and out of all Momofuku’s best dishes. If you don’t like to purchase or read, cheat and find the recipe here…then learn to enjoy reading and join a read-a-thon. 

Devour Ssam Diet Steamed Pork Buns

As for my buns: texture was right, colour not quite, pork…well, I was forced to slim it down to fillet at the behest of my guests.  Flavour paid the price (belly is always, always better) but it still worked.  If you do the same, just roll, tie, oil and season the fillet, sear and finish in the oven until still pink – this is a quick process, don’t kill it! The United States Department of Agriculture guidelines now dictate that pork is safe for consumption at 145°F/63°C so get used to it! Without undermining my stance on pork, I also prepared a marinated steak version which I think may actually have been better.  But then I remembered how odd udders are and went back to championing pork.  

Momofuku Ssam: Bev Eggleston’s pork shoulder steak – ramps, hominy, queso oaxaca

I’m thinking when Josie arrives for her next Euro trip I’ll surprise her at the baggage carousel in Gaga style hoof boots and a meat dress. I’ll take her down before she reaches her bag and then take her home for pork buns...and a side dish incorporating every single item in my refrigerator. Yep, that sounds balanced.  Win!

@missdevour13

p.s. If you liked this post, read this: Bacon, we have a problem.