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Claridge's, Mayfair

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'Under certain circumstances there are few hours more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea'. Henry James

Any eagle-eyed readers (hello, Mum) may have noticed the proliferation of tea and cakes on the blog lately. This indulgence in one of Britain’s most refined pastimes was crowned by our recent trip to the iconic Claridge’s for afternoon tea. The idea was originally suggested just after Christmas, but the endearing popularity of the place (and the recent TV documentary) meant we had to wait until mid-April for a weekday table for six; which happened to coincide nicely with the Birthday Boy’s special day.

The whole place is just dripping with a discreet razzle dazzle that, from the moment the top-hatted doormen help you through the revolving entrance, can’t fail to charm. The hotel has serious pedigree, and from reading the potted history here, nothing much seems to have changed; you can still imagine bumping into all the Bright Young Things, Hollywood stars and exiled kings who have been here before. Carey Grant even proclaimed he would rather go to Claridge’s than heaven.

The tea rooms are just off the main lobby area. A civilised oasis of art deco inspired calm, complete with musicians to soothe you as you eat your sandwiches. We were shown to a long table flanked by a huge leather sofa, with views out to the pianist, and topped with two comfy armchairs. Of course the sofa made the perfect cheesy photo opportunity, and the staff were only too happy too oblige.

The choice is simple - afternoon tea, featuring a set selection of sandwiches scones and patisserie, served with out without a glass of fizz. The hardest decision is what brew to drink; the tea menu stretches to a dozen or so pages, featuring all manner of rare tisanes and infusions.

It went without question that we would have fizz, although we stuck to ‘regular’ Veuve Cliquot, baulking slightly at the supplement for the rose. As Stealth sagely pointed out to the Birthday Boy, ‘it won’t taste thirteen pound better’.  The flutes themselves are large and generously filled, so at least being slightly pissed takes the edge off the extra expense. And, of course, one can never tire of champagne, darling.

While it may be slightly disappointing to not be offered any warm treats, such as savouries on toast boiled eggs, quiches or other such afternoon staples in days of yore, the food is, as you’d expect, top notch. First come plates of sandwiches, sans crust, filled with cucumber - obviously, smoked salmon and cream cheese, chicken and salad, egg mayo, and ham and tomato. While it may have sounded the most pedestrian, the ham was possibly my pick of a, very good, bunch. Thick, hand carved slices of meat with the comforting tickle of mustard. The walnut bread with chicken was quite also delicious, but the cucumber, benchmark of the finest high teas, was unforgivably soggy.

You may think, as I did, that it would be almost impossible to ever get full eating such dainty morsels, but after being offered, and eating, our second round of sarnies we thought it best to move on to something sweet before we got too stuffed.

To accompany the next course we were served our choice of teas; the Claridge’s royal blend for the plebs, the Tregothan Cornish Earl Grey for the Ewing, and the First flush Darjeeling (the champagne of teas, doncha know) for me. The tea was a glorious thing, from the elegant stripy art deco teapots, to the delicate silver strainers and the box of sugar cubes - from which we had to restrain Stealth on for purloining for her magic tricks.

Most importantly, the drinks kept coming, every time I could see the bottom of my cup, a be-suited arm slipped in to top it up. It typified the service on our visit; friendly, professional and, most importantly, unobtrusive. 

The scones at Claridges are rather unusual, coming in both apple and raisin flavours and being accompanied by dishes of their signature Marco Polo jam and plenty of clotted cream. The scones weren’t the very finest I have partaken in, but they did possess a subtle and unusual fruit flavour which paired nicely with the tea-infused jelly.

The arrival of the cakes heralded the only moment of discord. There were four different types of seasonal desert, but only three of each on the platter. Sensing there could so be teaspoons at dawn, our waiter quickly stepped in to assure us that more could be ordered if required. Despite initially not being too keen on sharing, we all soon learnt that they could be divvied up so everyone could get a taste of everything. Apart from the Ewing and her chocolate brownie; no one would dare to ask for that to be split….

My favourite was the custard and puff pastry millefuille, a truly decadent slice of deliciousness. The miniature shots of lemon meringue pie (they bought extra, so we could all have one each) were also pretty joyful; tart lemon curd, buttery biscuit crumbs and glazed Swiss meringue. Glazed fruit tarts were as pretty as a picture and the chocolate mousse topped chocolate brownie was sinfully squidgy and rich, just as it should be.

As a nice touch they also bought the Birthday Boy an extra brownie topped with a candle. At this point extra cake was totally unneeded, but very much appreciated. Luckily we had the Ewing to help polish it off.

In case there was any danger we would still be hungry, six little boxes of chocolates arrived along with the (sizable) bill. Afternoon tea here isn't cheap, starting at £40, and rising to £63 with a glass of rose champagne. But they say money can't buy class, and that's something Claridge's has in spades. Which is something that can't always be said for me and my lovely dining companions....

Afternoon Tea at Claridge's Hotel on Urbanspoon

MEATmarket, Covent Garden

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Firstly, a confession: this blog post has been written with the sole intention of self gratification. If you were going to eat a burger at any branch of the, rightly, much lauded MEAT trilogy, it's more than likely you would have queued up with the cool kids and done so by now. And you certainly wouldn't need me to tell you about their juicy, beefy, sloppy deliciousness.

But, as MEATmarket is celebrating their first birthday (50% off for all Twitter followers wishing them a happy birthday today), and writing about miserable meals makes me feel miserable while writing about things I've enjoyed puts a smile on my face (and extra pounds on my waistline), then please just indulge me.

Back in the day having a day off in the week meant, more often than not, grabbing the latest Time Out, jumping on the train to Marylebone and spending an afternoon eating, drinking and making merry. Sometimes I'd meet friends and family, but more often than not I'd please myself, spending a few hours in the National Portrait Gallery, finding interesting new groceries and sweets at the Japan Centre or Cyber Candy, or watch an 'arty' film in Soho. Going on weekdays also meant fewer crowds to wade through, and the illicit feeling that you really should be at work, rather than putting the world to right over a pint or two in a sunny beer garden on a Wednesday afternoon.

While I may be older and (supposedly wiser), I still get a day off in the week; although now it seems to be filled with hum drum things like hoovering, washing, cooking or waiting in for the delivery man. Last week, however, after a distinctly average weekend, I decided to take advantage of my Monday off by heading to the Big Smoke for a stroll in the spring sunshine and a spot of lunch. I debated a while about where to go and what to do, but in the end decided to let fate guide me. And fate wanted a burger...

My wanderings lead me down the Strand and to Covent Garden, a familiar old haunt which I now usually surreptitiously avoid. While it's fine if you have an interest in jugglers, human statues or overpriced chain restaurants there isn't much else to get excited about. Until I remembered MEATmarket, the second bricks and mortar incarnation of the MEAT empire; a skinny little space tucked away on the edge of the touristy bustle of Covent Garden and overlooking the resolutely old school Jubilee Market. If you don't fancy browsing through sets of antique spoons or cheap 'I heart London' tea towels then there's another, much quieter, entrance around the back on Tavistock Street.

 
The interior and vibe is far more 'fast' food than the other, more 'restauranty' branches, although the menu is broadly similar. This made MEATmarket a no brainer for this solo diner who wanted meat, drink and a bit of peace and quiet to try and finish their book on Seventies politics (far more interesting than it actually sounds...).

I started with a plain vanilla bleached shake (their other two varieties being souped up with maple syrup and bourbon, or Coole Swan chocolate cream liqueur). I can't remember the last time I ordered a vanilla shake, probably because their so, well, vanilla, but I'm pleased to say that this hit the spot. Cold, thick and creamy with just the right amount of sweetness. A simple, well executed, soft serve shake is a very fine start to any burger-based blow out and the perfect chip dip (really, try it).

 
For the main event I went for the Black Palace burger, their pimped up take on a White Castle slider served with pickles, mustard and steamed onions, and the signature dish here. I was a little dubious, judging from things I had heard/read that the grilled onions would prove a step too far, and pushing what are known to b some of the sloppiest burgers known to man into a new and dangerous territory. 

Sadly my fears were confirmed, after quickly unwrapping my parcel it was already beginning to resemble burger soup; after the first few bites, more seemed to be running down my wrists and chin than reaching my mouth. Flavour wise, however, it was still spot on, and after jettisoning most the overwhelming allium cargo, I greatly enjoyed the beefy, pink patties of charred meat, glazed with gooey cheese and topped with a slick of punchy ballpark mustard and piquant pickle slices.

I find the MEAT buffalo wings with a blue cheese dip are some of the finest in their class. Like the rest of their menu, they're not subtle flavour-wise, having been fried until crisp and doused in a vat of luminous hot sauce. If you find them too fiery, the cheesy sauce alongside provides the perfect palate soother, but I rather like the tingly sensation on my tongue.

These wings make you work hard for your dinner; being small and knobbly, with a decent amount of chew. But for my money they're worth it, far outweighing the flabby, gloopy, overly sweet lumps of protein that masquerade as wings elsewhere. There also the true definition of moreish, and no matter how much I wanted to grab a lid for the container and take a few home for later, I knew that all that would remain was a pile of bones

Like its brethren, MEATmarket is bold, brash and big on flavour. It's also very good fun. On my visit, admittedly on a quiet weekday afternoon, my trucker-capped server was unfailingly polite, offering to bring a lid for my uneaten wings (no chance) and leaving me in peace to read my book after my fast food fest. I even spotted founder, Yianni, himself; rearranging the magnetic letters while plotting his next steps to total burger domination, no doubt. Come hungry, leave happy (and covered in a light sheen of burger grease and hot sauce).

MEATmarket on Urbanspoon

SoLita, Manchester

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I could preface this blog with some sort of caveat about writing yet another piece about a place building a reputation serving burgers, wings and various other deep fried flotsam and jetsam accompanied by a selection of fearsome hot sauces and dressings and washed down with jazzy cocktails, but I won’t. Firstly, at the risk of becoming a bore, I like eating this kind of grub and I like writing about it, too and secondly because Solita are twisting the classics in their own Northern style, and are doing it very well.

I first read about the place a few months ago while browsing about on Twitter, and was immediately entranced by a menu offering such delights as rooster scratchings; salt beef fritters, smoked brisket chilli and Cabrelli’s ice cream with bacon candy. At that point the Great Northern Road trip was just a fledgling thought in my mind, but as soon as things were finally organised Solita went straight onto the must eats list.

We arrived in a sunny Northern Quarter late on a Bank Holiday Saturday, ready to start a weekend of celebrations for the Ewing's birthday. To start pints of Manchester's Hornbeam Top Hop best bitter, served in old fashioned dimpled pint pots, which pleased Stealth and made me feel a bit like I should be propping up the bar in the Rovers Return.

To start I had to try their pulled pork sundae with 60:40 mash (describing the artery-hardening ratio of potato to butter). Layers of sweet smoky meat and piped potato came layered up in an old fashioned ice cream glass, crowned with a dusting of scratchings. All good fun and, most importantly, tasty, too.

We also went with the salt cod fritters served with salsa verde mayo. These were giant breadcrumbed orbs with the interior nicely balanced between fish and potato. The mayo accompanying them was tangy and bright, but served in rather meagre blobs compared to the size of baccalau balls. 

The Ewing also requested the hushpuppies, her new favourite thing after I recently made her a batch. These tasted good but weren't as generously portioned as the other starters. I must confess to feeling rather smug when she grudgingly conceded they also weren't as good as mine. Bonus points for the accompanying bbq sauce though; one of the very best I have tried (and that’s a fair few).

While I was almost swayed by the Manc-hattan burger (a traditional oven bottom muffin with pastrami, Lancashire cheese, Lancashire sauce and panko’d black pudding) but in the end I couldn't resist the charms of the Big Manc. While there is something incredibly appealing about the idea of a traditional Big Mac, with the lure of its double patties, oozy cheese and piquant sauce, it surely has to be one of the most lacklustre and disappointing burgers around.

Thankfully this left its more famous predecessor in its wake; a gloriously sweet and shiny-bunned tower (a triple patty is available for the very brave) of juicy pink patties, special Manc sauce, cheese and crispy shredded iceberg. The whole thing was fragrant with scent spicy pickles, sweet brioche and good beef. The only, minor, criticism would be the virtual impossibility of picking this up and getting it in your mouth without losing much of your cargo en route (I tried, but was soon forced to turn to cutlery for assistance).

Stealth, with a small amount of encouragement, went for the KFB, a magnificent combo of bbq sauce, red jalapeños, crowned with a majestic strip of Kentucky fried bacon. If you think the West is suffering from a porcine overload then you need to get your jaded palate up here and try this stuff. Thick slices of cured pork, coated in a crunchy spiced batter that puts the colonel to shame; this added a nice, crispy dimension to what is a very good, both smoky and poky, burger.

The birthday girl chose the Life Aquatic burger; London’s Lucky Chip have been serving up their Bill Murray Life Aquatic, topped with soft shell crab and guacamole, for a while now and Solita have continued the same riff with a surf and turf combo of a beef and crab patty topped with three giant panko’d prawns. The crab was pleasingly pronounced amongst the other strong flavours and the prawns were lovely, if a little disassociated from the main event. (thankfully the burger was so large the Ewing let me jump in and steal last crispy crustacean).

As always, we all still found that little bit of extra room needed for a couple of puds. I chose the deep fried coke with vanilla ice cream, while the Ewing plumped for the tropical inka grilled pineapple and coconut ice cream, with an extra spoon for Stealth. While the others preferred the lighter, fruity choice,  I found it a bit too reminiscent of Hawaiian Tropic sun cream for my tastes. Luckily I enjoyed the sugary fried balls of warm dough doused in a cola syrup, and topped with cold ice cream, although the spicy soda flavour seemed rather reticence.

Service was sweet and chatty, and there was a lovely bank holiday afternoon buzz about the place that left me rueing the fact we couldn't get back the next day to enjoy their Northern Quarter Solita in the Street party, complete with live music and hot wing roulette. They also have some dangerously good looking prime rib and a selection of inka grilled steaks chicken and fish that sadly remained unsampled until our next trip north.

While the menu features some traditional riffs on the fast food classics commonly found across the Pond and now down in the Big Smoke - the usual suspects of ball park burgers, fried pickles, chilli dogs and the like - where Solita really shines is with its enthusiasm and creativity in the kitchen. Recent specials have included the Teeside influenced parmo, a schnitzel topped with cheese and béchamel and finished with meatballs; a Sunday dinner burger, compete with Yorkie and gravy; and the Daddy Mac burger with nduja Boston baked beans and fried mac and cheese. This is good scran Manchester style, and all the better for it.

SoLita on Urbanspoon

North West's Best

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While my branch of the Roscoe family tree originally hailed from Wigan area, the North West - bar a couple of trips to the Lakes and a ill advised late October jaunt to Blackpool -  has remained somewhat a mystery to me. While having family in Yorkshire means I have become pretty well acquainted with the other side of the Pennines, I was keen to finally spend some time in the Cheshire/Lancashire/Merseyside area, and, of course, to enjoy some of the celebrated local cuisine.

Finding edible specialities to sample on our travels proved to be rather easier than hoped, with a blend of industry and immigration proving a fertile breeding ground for delights such as Wet Nelly, Sad Cake and Hotpot. Mindful of the Ewing’s tolerance for my wild goose (or cake, or stew, or pudding) chases, and the fact we were going to have our friend Stealth with us for the first few days, I drew up a rather modest list, mainly focussing mainly on the Greater Manchester area.

Cheshire/Lancashire cheese
Rag Pudding
Eccles Cake/Chorley Cake
Scouse
Butter Pie
Bury Black Pudding
Manchester Tart
Parched Peas

The first stop on our food tour was the charming city of Chester, where I hoped to sample some famous dairy products at the Spitting feathers Brewery Tap. Handily they also have their own micro brewery onsite and I chose to sample a pint of their Spitting Feather’s Thirst Quencher. While I was anything but gasping after the weekend’s, somewhat overindulgent, birthday celebrations, I found this light ale the perfect choice for what was turning into a glorious spring day.

Local cheese platter including Chorlton Farm Cheshire; a rather tasty, mystery, blue cheese; and Caws Cenarth Welsh brie; served with stone baked rye sourdough, crackers and fruit chutney. A selection of fine, simple, British cheeses, served in prime condition.

Cheshire is the oldest of all British cheeses, being first mentioned in William of Malmesbury's History of the bishops of England. It has also, until recently, been one of my least favourite cheeses. Happily, I can now say that I am slowly being turned on to its (and its brethren  Lancashire) squeaky, crumbly charms. Think of it as a kind of English Feta - it goes wonderfully with tomatoes - or use it for a rarebit or crumbled on top of buttered English asparagus.

The rest of the food was also very decent, with an interesting menu featuring lots of offally treats and local products. My salad of endive and pigs ears went down a treat while the Ewing and Stealth both enjoyed their trout rilettes and mushrooms on toast, piled with yet more Cheshire cheese, very much too.

Next stop was Eccles, a town in the City of Salford and original home of the famous Eccles cake. After my attempts to find a traditional baker in Manchester had already failed miserably alarm bells had started ringing. Sure enough we arrived a little after five to find the only two bakers left in town, the ubiquitous Gregg's and northern chain Hampson's, were both shut.

Feeling deflated, we headed to the giant Morrison's store by the bus station to see if we could salvage operation Eccles cake. Thankfully they sold two types; their own version, dubiously labelled 'baked in store', as well as a big display of the familiar 'Real Lancashire' Eccles cakes, made by the Edmunds family in nearby Ardwick (Eccles cakes are without a PDO, so unlike a Cornish pasty or a Cumberland sausage they can be produced anywhere).

The Morrison's own version was lacklustre  It looked fairly inoffensive, being made with the traditional three slashes across the top and finished with a dusting of crunchy demerara sugar, but things soon went steadily down hill; firstly it was made of puff, not shortcrust pastry and the moist filling resembled more a mince pie than an Eccles cake. Even the Ewing refused a second one. The Real Lancashire cake was much better.

Although rather small and not much to look at, the crumbly pastry and generous dense fruit inside made me feel rather nostalgic. Although I grew up a fair few country miles from this neck of the woods, the, northern, family I used to babysit for always left out a tin of Eccles cakes for when I came over, and the highlight of my evening was a cuppa and one of these. While I'm you can get better examples elsewhere eating one did feel a little bit like a strange Proustian madeline kind of moment.

Mid way through our trip I had booked a birthday lunch at Simon Rogan's the French. After three hours of eating and drinking most mere morals would go home to a couple of Alka Seltza and an afternoon nap, but my next target was rag pudding, a minced steak and onion pudding originating from Oldham that would have originally been wrapped in cotton rags before steaming.

With Twitter proving reticent about where to buy one, I was very please to finally find an online menu for Manchipster Plaice (keeping up chippy tradition with not one two two terrible puns in its name). What I was far less pleased about (and the Ewing even less so) was that the map on Yell's website sent us right down to the opposite end of Dantzic street, a good mile from where we wanted to be. Still, it probably helped burn off a chip or two....

The much anticipated pudding, alongside chips, lashings of gravy and, for extra Manc points, all washed down with a can of cold Vimto. Despite it having been gently congealing within its polystyrene tray in the car boot on the way home, a little blast in the microwave and this was still surprisingly good.

The rag pudding was just like any half way decent steamed steak pudding, and its oval shape meant a better meat to pastry ratio. The chips were as gloriously soggy and sticky as one might hope. While not replacing red sauce and vinegar in my house any time soon, I can still appreciate the charms of a heap of fried potatoes and gravy.

To stick a feather in the cap of what was turning into a bad afternoon for the Ewing, her 'scallops' turned out to be potato slices rather than bivalves (I feared that mentioning this to her in the chippy would have led to me getting a battering instead). 

While she remained indifferent, I found these Northern chip shop staples to be pretty brilliant; starchy soft spud with a carapace of crispy, thick batter, oozing delicious grease and all generously dusted with an ungodly amount of salt. 

Our trip to Liverpool saw us seeking out scouse, the city’s most iconic dish and at one time so prevalent that the locals were even named after it.

Lobscouse, a lamb and vegetable stew, was originally bought over by the Norwegian sailors who would have thickened it with ship’s biscuits, and while lots of cafes and pubs still offer it, especially in the winter months, it again proved a difficult dish to track down online. The Baltic Fleet pub, by the docks, offers it,  along with its own microbrewed beer, and Bold Streets famous Maggie Mays café calls its self the home of the most famous Scouse in Liverpool.

Seizing the chance to get a bit of culture along with our lunch, we visited Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral where Scouse is still served in their Welsby Restaurant.

This was just what was needed for a bright and blustery day with the wind blowing hard off the docks. A mini casserole of piping stew featuring soft lamb that shredded under the gentle prod of a fork, potatoes and carrots in a deep gravy and costing a penny under six quid this was, in the local parlance, boss. A great doorstop of crusty bloomer, pickled red cabbage and a pot of tea made for a very fine lunch indeed.

Picking up the final pieces of our edible puzzle came with our visit to 'Bury's World Famous Market'. Established in 1444, it remains one England's oldest and largest markets. I was properly excited about a trip here, after all who doesn't love a good rummage and the odd bargain or two.

Breakfast was at Mrs Ogden's Tea Room, a fantastically ramshackle prefab inside the indoor market, bedecked in bunting and union flags. This place was great; hand written signs offered fried spam and egg rolls, hot Vimto and crumble and custard and bottles of Lancashire sauce on every table.

The Ewing went for a mammoth fry up, complete with Chadwick's black pudding and a cup of splosh. Yours for just £4.99. I had what is known in common parlance as a 'muffin' with black pud and bacon. Proper greasy grub.

I'm not sure I've seen so many stalls laden with bread, cakes, pies, muffins and pastries all in one place. The very best of traditional British baking can be found here, from the afformentioned Lancastrian muffins (also known variously as breadcakes, oven bottoms, barms, teacakes, baps or rolls depending on what side of the Watford Gap/Pennines you hail from) to Chorley cakes, Eccles cakes, hot pot pies and steak puddings.

The Chorley Cake was much larger and flatter (although, Bury Market threw up some giant versions of the Eccles, too) than its cousin. It’s traditionally made with shortcrust, not flaky pastry, the top is unadorned with sugar and overall it is far less sweet. As a result it is often eaten at tea time spread with butter, jam or even Lancashire cheese.

While first impressions of my Chorley Cake were a bit muted, it seemed a little dry and rather lacking in fruit filling (the currants seem to have been more folded into to the dough), I think, on balance I ended up preferring this less sugary version, especially once a thick slathering of butter had been applied.

Harry Muffin is one of the best known of the Bury bakers, and their stall offers treats ranging from dinner plate sized Eccles and Chorley cakes (also now available in gluten and sugar free varieties) to the eponymous muffins, bread and homemade fruit pies. The most fascinating of said pies was the 'whinberry' (as bilberries are known around Bury) flavour. The small one we bought home being the perfect balance of sugary, flaky pastry crammed with juicy, inky fruit.

They also sell the famous Cissy Greens hand raised meat pie, a small comestible rather like a Scotch pie in appearance, still made from a traditional recipe in the nearby town of  Haslingden. These were so good that the after we had eaten the two we bought for ourselves, I persuaded the Ewing we should probably eat the two we had bought for her parents, too (luckily we had stocked up with plenty of other treats for them).

Finally, a Manchester tart - while searching Yahoo! had only unhelpfully (but rather amusingly) offered up 'ask Wayne Rooney' as an answer - After three visits to Manchester town centre, and leaving empty handed each time (even Greggs couldn't offer a mass produced version), the Ewing finally spied these beauties. 

The Manchester Tart, much like the gypsy tart from Kent, was a school dinner staple back in the 50s and 60s, featuring a thick vanilla custard on a pastry base with a hidden layer of raspberry jam and finished with a drift of desiccated coconut. While a whole generation is still nostalgic for it's sweet and unrefined charms, a lack of independent bakers and cake shops means that this once common delicacy is becoming harder and harder to find.

This tart was everything I hoped it would be; luminous jam that had probably never met a raspberry, wobbly sweet custard and pale pastry, crowned with the obligatory glace cherry. While there may be more refined versions around, in my mind this tasted of a 70's childhood, where a slice of this after dinner would be topped off by a riding your bike to the park for a game of three and in before bathtime.

If Bury is known for one thing, its black pudding, and the most famous local purveyors of the blood sausage are Chadwick’s. After our earlier breakfast blowout we decided to visit their stall to buy a fresh ring of the stuff to take home and cook ourselves, but it is also available to eat here, either steamed and split, or in a roll, accompanied with a dousing of fiery yellow mustard or piccalilli. As a concession to more modern tastes, it’s also now available in chilli flavour.

Fearing you could have too much of a good thing we refrained from buying yet more black pud from the next door Bury Black pudding company instead chosing a couple of their savoury ducks (faggots). I adore these meaty balls, despite their deeply unfashionable name and mystery contents - usually a mixture of pork belly, heart and liver with lots of herbs and spices - and, at just 70p each, they were somewhat of a bargain.

We bought two different types of Lancashire cheese from Purdon's cheese stall, in both ‘tasty’ and ‘crumbly’ varieties. I rather liked eating the tasty (a more mature, less friable version) with nothing more than a few crackers and a blob of tomato chutney, but in a stroke of inspiration, I used the crumbly stuff to scatter over some new season buttered English asparagus. Perfect.

Despite the huge range of baked goods on offer during our trip I, slightly worryingly, hadn't seen a single butter pie. Although a butter pie is really just a potato and onion pie, commonly formally eaten on by Lancastrian Catholics on Fridays, I really wanted to find something with the original moniker, rather than its more pedestrian description. - and while there's certainly some truth in Shakespeare's assertion 'a rose by any other name would smell as sweet', I think names do matter, as the French version of this dish, pâté aux pommes de terre, exotically proves.

Just when I was planning to give up (or, more likely, ask the Ewing to drive me on a wild goose chase around the chip shops of Bolton and Preston) the Ewing spotted this lone pie, complete with correct title, nestling on the Clayton Park stall. Looking at this picture now I rather rue we didn't get any of the freshly baked hot pot, or cottage pie but, thankfully, at least we nabbed the last butter and potato number.

The butter pie itself was very fine; a rich and comforting dish with fantastic pastry cradling a highly seasoned filling of potato and onion that caused me to proclaim maybe vegetarianism wouldn’t be such a bad option if this were on the menu.

Parched peas, black peas or maple peas, whatever you call them, the final item on the list also seemed in danger of remaining uneaten as the potato van that I had noted usually sold them remained resolutely shuttered during our visit. Again luck was on our side when I spotted Granelli's, a old fashioned little stall selling ice creams with a range of lurid syrup toppings and various things on toast, had black peas (complete with a warning about stray stones).

A few minutes later and we were the recipients of a steaming cup of murky pulses, complete with the sting of hot malt vinegar. Although the first few mouthfuls seemed to be dominated by salt and Sarsons, I actually rather enjoyed these. After a week of pastry, cheese and beer it was nice to eat something warming and comforting that felt marginally healthy. For those who want to recreate that black pea magic at home, bags of the dried legumes were also available at the greengrocer opposite.

While it may not be thought of as a traditional foodie hotspot, this corner of the country finds home to some of the best traditional British baking, meat, and cheeses, as well as an abundance of generosity in both spirit and portion size.This is proper grub, devised to sustain, warm and nourish, and fuelled by history, childhood memories and lashings of gravy. But, beneath all the nostalgia and stodge, there's a delicate and refined touch, too.

As always on our eating adventures I was left to rue the many local delicacies that remained uneaten on our return. Despite the abundant stocks of oven bottom muffins, sasparilla cordial and crumbly cheeses now stockpiled in my kitchen I can hear the North West calling again - and it's saying Uncle Joe's Mint balls, Lancashire hot pot and Morecambe Bay shrimps. Guess it's time to plot another road trip....

This and That, Manchester

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While Brum has its famous Balti Triangle and London has it's Brick Lane, Manchester boasts Rusholme's Curry Mile - a stretch of the Wilmslow Road thought to have the highest concentration of South Asian restaurants outside the Indian subcontinent. While I was keen to sample some good Indian/Pakistani food on our trip, we decided to swerve the main drag and try something a bit different at one of Central Manchester's curry cafes.

These, still very popular, cafes are legacy of the local textile trade, where they were originally opened to serve the Asian workers in the 60s and 70s who had recently arrived to work in the city. And as the balti came to define Birmingham, 'rice and three' noon came to be Manchester's dish, consisting, as the name implies, of a choice of curries served atop a bed of fluffy white rice.

Most cafes offer a daily changing selection of simple kharai, meat and vegetable dishes, supplemented by fresh breads and a few other sundries. For those with a taste for the exotic, Hunters BBQ cafe in the Northern Quarter also offer an intriguing range of game curries including partridge, pheasant, duck, quail, rabbit, and venison.

Based on a Twitter/internet tips we chose to have lunch at This and That, a real no frills gaff tucked away down the rather dark and dingy Soap Street. Despite the rather austere surrounding and moulded plastic seating a la Wimpy Northwood Hills High street circa 1985, the moment we walked through the door I knew we were in for a treat.

Greeted by welcoming and patient staff, ladling huge heaps of home cooked curry school dinner style on to mismatched vintage crockery, this place can't help but charm. It was soon abundantly clear many others felt the same as the place remained packed with suits, tourists and hungry locals popping in for takeaways throughout our visit.

Tuesday's choice saw, among other offereings, chana lamb karai chops, lamb & cauliflower, chicken masala, chicken curry, minced kamb keema, cabbage and mixed vegetables. There were also the deicious scent of smoky and fragrant seekh kebabs being grilled for their huge kebab naan sandwiches and a selection of hot breads and fried morsels available.

Between the three of us we managed to sample most the menu. My choice of karai lamb chops, keema and cabbage, finished off with a dusting of freshly chopped green chilli, was exemplary, and surely one of the steals of the century at £4.60. The cabbage was particularly fine, an unusual and delicately spice dish with a decent little kick. 

Stealth and the Ewing rather missed the point of visiting here to sample rice and three, opting for their curries to be served with chapatis instead. The Ewing's chicken curry, lamb and cauliflower, and chana were rich, earthy and fragrant without being too knock-your-socks-off spicy.  While Stealth's chicken masala, despite being a startling nuclear shade of red, was spot on.

Samosas and bajis were good - the samaosa pastry being both perfectly crispy and just oily enough - if totally not superfluous. Soft drinks and cooling lassi are also offered, along with big glass jugs of water if the heat gets to much. 

While the basic seating, fluorescent lighting and slightly dingy back alley setting may not to be to everyone's taste, a meal here is about the best way to legally spend a fiver that I can think of. People Manchester, forgo the curled up sarnies and getting down here for a proper lunchtime feed.

This and That on Urbanspoon

Roy's Pork Pie

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A few weeks ago my Nan’s partner, Roy, died. He had been ill for a few months, but it was still a keen loss, especially as the last time all the UK based family had been together was for his 80th birthday last year.

Roy was an easy-going and funny chap. A man of very few words (with my Nan around you tend to get limited opportunities to talk) who loved nothing better than being out in his vegetable garden or pottering about his shed, cup of tea in hand. Despite knowing him my whole life I never really saw him get angry - even when he took us camping and me and my sister decided to write our names in the dust on his Range Rover. With pointed sticks. (It may have been many moons ago, but I still feel bad about that one, Roy.)

Another of the skills he honed in later life was cooking. After retiring to Norfolk he became very interested in taking on new projects, and, being Roy, he wasn’t satisfied with doing things the easy way. Soon he was churning out chocolate glazed choux buns filled with whipped cream and making a cheesecake that involved (literally) pounds of Philadelphia, that, when finished, he could barely lift off the table.

His crowning glory, however, was his hand raised pork pie or, more strictly, gala pie (with a layer of boiled eggs running through the sausage meat).  Every time I spoke my Nan, I would be told about the magnificence of Roy’s latest pie, and other members of my family regularly sung its praises, but, whenever I visited, it always seemed as though the last slice was snatched ‘only yesterday’.

So, in memory of Roy, here’s my interpretation of his great pie. Being a man of simple tastes, I’m not sure he would have really agreed with the layer of turkey and apricots but, if accompanied by a pint of Woodforde’s Wherry and some of my Nan’s green tomato pickles, I’m sure he would have still enjoyed a slice or two.

This pie is a real stunner, and perfect for the summer. Even if we all have to decamp indoors for a carpet picnic, this pie - with its bronzed pastry, layers of spicy pork, turkey breast and juicy apricots, held together with just enough wobbly, savoury jelly –will make centrepiece fit for any feast.

It is also deceptively easy, being possibly the simplest pastry-based comestible I have ever produced. No gentle rubbing in with fingertips, no cold hands and worktops and hours resting in the fridge, only for it to crumble into pieces when you try and roll it out. Think of it more as savoury Play Doh, with that gentle, yet unmistakeable, scent of boiled pig fat about it.

My recipe used 100% pork shoulder for the meat layer (because that’s all I had, and I was too impatient to go back to the shops), but most recipes specify a mix of belly, shoulder and bacon, for a good mixture of fat and flavour. Hand chopping half the meat it is a bit of a drag, but it does give you a better, rougher texture. Pulse all the pork filling very coarsely in a food processor if you prefer.

In order to distil the meat with that smokiness that the bacon would bring I had the rather genius idea of adding a little Spanish smoked paprika. This also lends a slight pinkish tint to the meat, making it more appetising than the standard, nitrate free, grey-hued meat pies. Little more was needed, other than a few classic herbs and spices, in the form of nutmeg, thyme and sage, and a some salt and black pepper.

Despite using, what I thought was, plenty of salt my filling was still under seasoned, showing how sodium chloride pumped most industrial pies are. If you also have a layer of turkey and/or sweet dried fruit in your pie, then the pork can take even more salt than if you’re using pork alone. If you are worried about the balance of flavours then cook a small ball of the filling in a frying pan and allow to cool before tasting (cold food needs more seasoning). A good pork pie should taste spicy and savoury.

Finally, the most divisive element of any good pork pie: the jelly. Initially I was undecided about using any, but in the end tradition won out. I didn’t fancy boiling feet and ears and stuff for hours, so I used a cheat of good chicken stock and gelatine leaves, making just enough of the savoury wobbly stuff to slip down and fill the gaps between the meat and pastry. Pie perfection.

Roy's Pork, Chicken and Apricot Pie

For the filling
1kg boned pork shoulder/pork belly/streaky bacon (see above)
300g turkey breast
150g dried apricots
2 sprigs of thyme
2 sage leaves
1 tsp salt (½ tsp more if not using bacon)
1 tsp ground pepper
1 tsp smoked paprika
½ tsp ground mace/nutmeg

For the pastry:
200g lard
220g water
575g flour
1 beaten egg 
1 x 20cm cake tin

Quick jelly:
Make up 300ml weak chicken or ham stock from a good-quality stock cube (For a fruitier flavour, use hot apple juice instead of water.) Stir in 3 gelatine leaves (soaked in cold water and squeezed) until dissolved.

Make the filling
Process half the pork/bacon in a processor along with the salt, pepper, sage and thyme leaves, paprika and nutmeg. Cut the rest into small cubes, about 5mm in size and combine thoroughly together
Make the pastry
Put the lard and water into a small saucepan and bring to the boil. Sift the flour with a good pinch of salt into a large bowl. Pour the hot lard and water into the flour, mix with a wooden spoon, then leave until cool enough to handle. The pastry must still be warm when you start to work it.
Set the oven at 180C/gas mark 4. Lightly grease and flour your mould or cake tin (with removable bottom). Pull off a quarter of the pastry and roll it into a lid that will fit the top of the cake tin. Lay the remaining pastry in the bottom of the tin and  firmly push the dough up the sides with your hands. Make certain there are no holes or tears or the jelly will leak out. 
Spoon half the pork filling into the lined cake tin and press it down. Add the turkey, sliced into thin strips, then the apricots, halved lengthwise. Add the rest of the pork, it should come almost to the top of the pastry.
Brush the edges of the pastry above the meat with beaten egg. Lower the lid into place and press tightly to seal with the edges. Poke a small hole in the lid to let out the steam and put the tin on a baking sheet. Bake for 30 minutes, then lower the heat to 160C/gas mark 3 and bake for 90 minutes until the pastry is pale gold. Brush with the beaten egg and return to the oven for 30/40 minutes.
Allow the pie to cool slightly then use a funnel to carefully pour in as much of the jelly as you can.
Allow the pie to cool thoroughly before slicing.
Serve with pickled onions and chutney.

Roy William Boffin 1932-2013



The French by Simon Rogan, Manchester

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Manchester may be known for many things - the music, the football, the Victorian architecture, the rain -but until now the restaurant scene has been somewhat lacking. Beyond the curries, a thriving Chinatown and old fashioned boozers with great hot pots and pies, was a wasteland, not just for fancy-pants Michelin starred restaurants, for mid range eateries that weren't more style over substance and populated by perma-tanned footballers wives.

Well, the times they are a changin’. Twitter and the weekend broadsheets are abuzz with new independent openings, from the Beagle to Barburrito; Solita to the polarizing Almost Famous. A range of street food can now be found in Picadilly Gardens and the Arndale Market and Mary-Ellen McTague from Prestwich’s Aumbry appeared on the Great British Menu earlier this year. But nowhere has caused quite such a buzz as Simon Rogan’s new venture at the Midland Hotel (even if Tony Naylor remains unconvinced).

The French is a beautiful space; a mirrored room, dominated by two magnificent chandeliers that the staff told us took over twice the anticipated time and manpower to put up, that has an easy going charm, exemplified by the warm blonde wood and lack of tablecloths. While it may feel a bit IKEA-esque for some, the deep carpets and comfy high backed chairs make the room feel opulent in an understated way.

Many of the staff are from Rogan’s flagship, Le Enclume in Cartmel, and during our, very friendly, welcome the idea of Rogan’s food ‘growing from the plate, as it’s found in nature’ is impressed upon us. And we were impressed, the atmosphere is relaxed, the staff knowledgeable and clearly proud to work here - and we hadn’t yet eaten a morsel.

Thankfully that was soon righted by a dish of Cumbrian radish, nutmeg mayo and toasted barley. The presentation of this brassica, something so small and simple, is really the litmus test of Rogan’s cooking. For some it may seem pointless to plate such an inconsequential vegetable with so much reverence, but for others it is the very essence of what good food is about; taking something so familiar and considering it in a new level of detail.

That maybe a lot of words to write about a radish, but when it’s been picked on Rogan’s own farm that morning, before being paired with the spiced mayo and crunchy seeds, it really reinforces the old adage that the simple things are often the best.

The next morsel was far fancier; a parsnip crisp dotted with smoked eel, pork and fennel cress. This is a special mouthful; an earthy, sweet mixture of surf and turf with the warming anise note from the greens.

Chestnut bread, Manchester ale roll and baguette, served with the whipped butter on a stone Rogan has become famous for. All exemplary, and luckily for a carb addict like me, they were also in plentiful proportions.

The first dish ‘proper' of our six course lunch, an allium soup presented in a glass teapot and poured over a bowl full of leeks, ransoms, baby onions and truffled artichoke dumplings, may have been the high point of my whole meal. The broth was deep and sticky and beautifully perfumed with the scent of sweet onion, while the tuber-scented dumplings really did seem to dissipate on your tongue.

The ox in coal oil, pumpkin seed, kohlrabi and sunflower seeds has already become something of a signature dish here (there is also a similar venison number on the menu at Le Enclume) with Giles Coren proclaiming that 'I'd walk to Manchester barefoot in the rain for one more mouthful of the chopped raw ribeye of ox in coal oil’. While the Indie’s Lisa Markwell wrote it was ‘an immediate entry into my lifetime top-10 dishes’.

Thankfully it did not disappoint; the charcoal infused rapeseed oil lending a smoky barbecued element to the raw meat, cleverly giving both a rich charred flavour and melting softness to every bite. Very clever stuff, with little raw kohlrabi balls and sunflower seeds pepping up the dish with some freshness and crunch.

Fresh crab and caramelised cabbage, horseradish, chicken skin with crow garlic, The Ewing’s pick of all the dishes we enjoyed. The cabbage, hiding an impossibly large mound of glorious crab meat, was so sweet, and tender I originally thought they were braised lettuce leaves. The crisp chicken skin dotted around the dish shattered into sweet, fatty shards while the roasting juices and horseradish imbued everything with a gentle smoky note.

Hake fillet with buckwheat cresses and smoked roe butter the second fish dish saw a perfectly judged piece of fish, atop a mound of  herby buckwheat and accompanied by a chlorophyll laden scattering of purple sprouting, possibly my favourite veg. I wasn't as sure about the smoked roe butter, which rather gilded the lily in a dish that already had a rich and creamy sauce.

The meat course was Reg’s duck cooked two ways; both roasted pink and cooked slowly until it melted into sticky strands of protein, alongside king oyster mushrooms, ruby chard and a mulled cider sauce. While the Ewing wasn't a fan of the duck breast element of the dish, I really rather liked it all, although I couldn't help feeling that, as with many multi-course meals, the ‘main’ event is usually the least interesting.

They very kindly allowed the Ewing to swap the advertised  pear, rye and linseeds for a rhubarb and oat dish with camomile ice cream; I chose the same, lest I got pudding envy. This was clean and fresh, with tart fruit and gentle herbal notes from the milky ice and douglas fir, although it put me more in mind of a virtuous breakfast than a indulgent pud.

The final course definitely had the treat factor, being a surprise desert of sarsaparilla based goodies named ‘sass and soda’. While the root beer/dandelion and burdock-esque drink used to be a popular in the days of yore, the ubiquitous cola has rather stolen its thunder. So much so that when I overheard the waitress ask the next door table if they remembered the drink from their youth, her question was met with looks of bemusement.

Nostalgia aside this was a very pretty dish, and as well as a sarsaparilla wafer, sandwiched with sarsaparilla parfait and jam, the waiter poured us a cup of the syrupy drink itself. It always feels rather exciting to get an unexpected treat, despite the fact it wasn't really to my tastes. While I'm rather fond of a frosty mug of root beer, I found the overall effect too sweet and slightly medicinal, although the Ewing would beg to differ. She was such a fan that a couple of days later we ended up buying a bottle of the local Fitzgerald’s – the only temperance bar still left in the country -  sarsaparilla cordial to take home.

Coffee came with frozen aerated peppermint ice cream bon bons and chocolate wafters 'planted' in a bed of edible chocolate nibs. The perfect balance of sweet and bitter, and my favourite of all three sweet courses.

The French may be fancy but it isn't fussy. On our visit there was a lack of pretension and a genuine enthusiasm from staff while the atmosphere in the dining room was cheerful and relaxed. Yes, dinner here isn't cheap, but with the care and imagination invested into every plate it still feels good value. 

This is exciting, clever food which feels as though it has been designed for people who actually like eating, rather than pandering to a self-conscious sleb clientele who are more interested in being noticed than noticing what's on their plates. And while I can’t comment on the (lack of) Manchester 'fine dining' scene pre-Rogan, what I can say is that, in the French, they have got a restaurant that any city would be proud of.

The French by Simon Rogan on Urbanspoon

Fraiche, Wirral

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There are not too many things that keep me up late on a humdrum midwinter weeknight any more. And yet there I was, burning the midnight oil, poised with laptop and credit card in hand, trying to grab a table at Marc Wilkinson’s bijou, and extremely popular restaurant, Fraiche.

With a mere fifteen covers a night from Wednesday to Saturday, and a Sunday lunch service, reservations (even with a £25 per head deposit) are snapped up almost instantly when the books are opened at the beginning of each month. Fortunately my compromised night’s sleep was not in vain and we soon had our booking for the Ewing’s birthday, a mere three and a half months later.

The danger of customers waiting long to enjoy a meal there is not lost on the chef, with the extra pressure from such expectation pushing him to experiment with yet more flavour pairings and new techniques in the kitchen. With many of his fruit and veg grown to order on the Wirral, butter imported from France and olive oil from Italy, and a kitchen crammed full of Willy Wonka-esque gadgets, expectations and excitement were running high.

Wilkinson, still holder of Merseyside’s only Michelin star, is known as something of an obsessive perfectionist in the kitchen. Each day he orders all the food and wine for the restaurant, and plans all the menus; and each night he toils alone behind the scenes to produce multiple courses of his classic French food with a modern twist. A recent Valentine’s feast took three days to prepare for just one evening and admits that his bedtime reading is less Delia and Gordon and more Ramon Morato and Paco Torreblanca.

Our dinner started rather modestly with a dish of spiced pecans and a glass of manzanilla sherry. I had read the atmosphere could be muted, or even awkward, but during our visit the background music (the new Laura Mvula album, and, slightly less welcome, Michael Buble among the easy listening offerings) was pitched at just the right level to drown out our inane chatter for the benefit of the surrounding tables, while still keeping things cosy and intimate. With only five tables in the place, and only three filled on our visit, the joint's never going to be jumping, but there is a genuine warmth and homeliness in the room.

Each evening's menu is set for all diners, with the only choice being between 'salt' and 'sweet' to finish the meal. Salt included a visit from the 'cheese chariot' and another little savoury course, while sweet was a selection of three desserts. Hearing the word chocolate was enough to persuade The Ewing to chose the sweet option, I erred at first, but - knowing that she wouldn't share - decided to join her, lest either of us got pudding envy.

While I wasn't at all disappointed with our choice, seeing the magnificent cheeses - one of the finest selections I've seen - being wheeled past to the adjoining table did make me feel a little pang of dairy envy.

A little palate cleanser came in the form of a cucumber granita with pineapple and mint, a spritely combination of flavours made tableside with a thermos of dry ice by maitre d', James. Apart from the visual spectacle the thing I found most impressive was the finely diced fruit and veg in the bottom of the dish. Such tiny pieces, cut with such symmetrical precision, already demonstrating the single minded dedication to perfection from the kitchen.

Another pre starter of plump vividly orange mussels in a deep crustacean rich broth, peppered with cubes of citrusy yuzu jelly, soon followed. The little bowl, shaped like a fragile sea urchin shell, mirrored the dish's subtle delicacy.

Our 'starter' proper was a glorious Spanish omelette with quails egg and chorizo, although this was a country mile away from a backstreet barrio in Iberia. The deconstructed dish saw a creamy light custard, topped with little cheesey croutons, hiding a soft quails egg (deftly transferred to the Ewing's dish) and cubes of paprika-spiked sausage jelly in it's foamy, sweet onion infused depths.

Bread was served over two courses in a dizzying eight different varieties which, as I pointed out to the Ewing later, outnumbered the patrons in the restaurant on our visit. As I have confessed before, I am a confirmed bread-a-holic, and my picks of the bunch were a black olive loaf with a gentle metallic edge, a cloud-like little cheese roll and an earthy sweet granary and treacle number.

As much as the Ewing appreciated the bread, I think she saw it more as a vehicle for the cow's butter, scattered with Hawaiian pink salt, and the perfect disc of a pearly white goat's butter that were served alongside.

The next course, a dish of salt baked kohlrabi with wild garlic, feta jelly, potato, perigord truffle and watercress wafer, tasted like the start of summer and was the second showing of this unusual brassica I had encountered in as many days. The flavours on the plate mined both the earthiness of the tubers and the freshness of the allium and again cleverly proved that meat and fish do not always make the dish.

The wild turbot, possibly my favourite fish, with asparagus and dashi was light and fresh, with a lovely smokiness from charred wheat - something that put me in mind of unsweetened Sugar Puffs. The dish, while clean and delicate, was a little mild mannered for my tastes, and I really needed a spoon to scoop up the dregs of umami rich broth.

The main event was Black Faced Suffolk lamb with leeks and artichoke. Despite the encroaching fullness, this disappeared pretty quickly. The gently gamey meat had been cooked expertly two ways - low and slow and grilled pink - but my highlights were the charred leeks and sweet melting onion in a sticky pool of gravy.

The first of our three deserts was what has become a bit of a signature dish, lemongrass panna cotta with sour cherry and dehydrated grapes. This was a perfect balance of smooth, sharp and creamy, and all heady with sweet tropical perfume. The Ewing loved it  and while flavour of lemongrass usually makes me think of those little scented hand wipes you get with fried chicken, this time I had to agree with her.

This was followed with another Fraiche favourite, fizzy grapes that burst with a tongue-tingling effervescence in your mouth. The Ewing was also particularly enamoured with these, and I breezily assured her that I could knock up something similar when we got home - until it was explained that the effect was achieved by placing them in an air compressor, which, when they're released, causes them to burst and fizz. Looks like they're going to have to remain a memory until I get that compression unit, then.

The first pudding was a rhubarb soup, sorbet with sesame wafer. I can't think of many things I love as much as rhubarb, (me! - TE) and this was a perfect showcase of its tart and fragrant charms. The Ewing was particularly captivated by the freeze dried strawberries, which we were told were an element refined just that afternoon. (I would say perfected, but somehow I'm not sure Wilkinson would ever be satisfied enough to stop developing a dish.)

The final desert saw this sparkly little number arrive at our table; a white chocolate mousse with passion fruit curd, glittery coffee meringues, chocolate 'soil' and some obligatory popping candy for good measure. 

This, to me, was the essence of a good pud; lots of little beautiful and interesting things, balanced perfectly between sweet and sour. The only slightly awkward note came from the silver leaf 'spoon' provided to eat it with; the Ewing somehow managing to sprinkle more of her dish across the table than she managed to scoop into her mouth.

Never one to turn down yet more sugary treats, the Ewing was very excited at the prospect of petit fours and coffee to round off the meal. Unsurprisingly they didn't disappoint; pick of the bunch was a shot glass of earl grey scented tapioca with an apricot compote. We were also treated to popcorn lollipops, homemade marshmallows and a selection of salted Amedei, and lemon and raspberry filled chocolates.

Yes, the decor is rather beige and brown and a bit suburban, but it also feels personal (Wilkinson chose it) which is rather a good thing in this fast paced, oh so trendy, restaurant world. And while your socks might not be knocked of by the muted decor, the food certainly paints the town red. 

Fraiche on Urbanspoon

Double Corn Dogs with Caraway Ketchup

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After becoming slightly obsessed with my cheap ice cream maker the next, slightly pointless but fun, piece of kitchen equipment I coveted to clog up yet more work surface space was a deep fat fryer.

I found one being advertised cheaply online in that post-Christmas lull, and so when everyone else was stocking up on low fat ready meals, cutting out booze and going jogging I was decanting three litres of finest vegetable oil in to my new brushed metal toy, while trying not to spoil its shiny glow with greasy finger marks.

Having grown up in a fat fryer free house, getting a job in a kitchen at the age of 17 meant spending most Tuesday nights at work sticking anything I could find in the industrial vat of boiling oil used for cooking fish, chips and other frozen potato based products. Whole eggs, Danish pastries, baked beans, sausages not much escaped a dunking and (most) of it was still pretty edible.

Now, fifteen years on, I realised frying was still just as fun. Soon most our dinners were prepared via a dunk in oil; tonkotsu pork steaks with shredded white cabbage, crispy chicken and crunchy hash browns. While everyone else was losing weight on their post-xmas detoxes, the Ewing and I were increasing outwards at a steady rate.

Thankfully the prospect having your dinner coated in a slightly greasy sheen, coupled with all the filtering and cleaning and burnt fingers, meant my enthusiasm soon waned and the fryer is now (mostly) sat collecting dust. That said it’s still a rather useful, and fun addition to our kitchen. A hot, crisp schnitzel is truly a thing of beauty, and homemade chips are an indulgence worth a long walk for.

My greatest fried achievement thus far has been these corn dog/hushpuppy hybrids which have become one of the Ewing’s very favourite things. And, despite ordering them elsewhere on several occasions, she has had to admit (under some duress, I might add) that mine are still the nicest she’s tasted.

After originally making the batter to make corn dogs – batter coated frankfurters impaled on sticks, usually eaten at funfairs or boardwalks in America- I’m not sure if I don’t prefer it fried as balls of dough, sans sausage, These hushpuppy fritters can be pimped with small nuggets of cut up frank, if you want, but I find that the sweet, corn-spiked dough is pretty perfect as it is. A bowl full of these, piping hot from the fryer, makes a very nice nibble with a cold beer or two.

I’ve spiked the ketchup dip with a few toasted caraway seeds; the anise note complements the smoked pork, and some yellow ballpark mustard to help cut a swathe through the rich batter. Spicy barbecue sauce also makes a very good match. If you leave out the corn, hushpuppy fritters served with butter and honey makes a perfect treat for the sweet-toothed.

Double Corn Dogs with Caraway Ketchup

Ingredients
vegetable oil, for deep frying
150g/5oz cornmeal or polenta
150g tinned sweetcorn
125g/4oz plain flour
50g/2oz sugar
3 tsp baking powder
salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 egg
225ml milk
10 thin frankfurter sausages (cut each frank into three if you want mini dogs)
wooden skewers, soaked

2 tbsp ketchup
1 tbsp American yellow mustard
1 tsp caraway seeds, lightly toasted

Heat the vegetable oil in a deep-fat fryer to 160C
Mix together all of the dry ingredients in a bowl. In a separate bowl, beat the egg and milk together, add sweetcorn and gradually stir the mixture into to the dry ingredients.
Whisk together lightly to make a batter.
Put a skewer through each frankfurter sausage and dip it into the batter until well coated.
Place the frankfurters into the deep-fat fryer, two or three at a time, and cook until the outsides are golden-brown. Drain on a plate lined with kitchen paper.
If you have any extra batter, place small spoonfuls carefully into the oil and cook as above.

To serve, mix the mustard and ketchup and 3/4 of the caraway seeds together in a bowl, garnish with the remaining caraway seeds and serve with the corn dogs.


Finland

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Finland

Vorsmackt - Savoy
Baltic Herring - Salve (open Sunday)
Rye bread
Cloudberries
Mushrooms
Tar candy/ice cream
Salmiakki/liquorice
Pulla buns
Reindeer
Green pea soup
Pancakes
Leipäjuusto (fresh cheese)
Viili (yoghurt)
Koskenkorva Viina (Finnish vodka)
  • Pulla, sweet bread eaten with coffee or as dessert
    • Cinnamon rolls (korvapuustit) - pulla made into a roll with cinnamon and sugar
  • Golden cloudberry dessert
  • Kiisseli – water, sugar, berry juice and berries (nowadays often canned or frozen) thickened with potato starch flour, served with milk/cream and sugar. These may be less liquid than drink-like mustikkakeitto (Swedish blåbärssoppa), depending on preparation, but not gelatinous.
  • Vispipuuro (whipped porridge) a sweet pink dessert porridge with lingonberries or other berries, served with milk and sugar.
  • Runeberg's tart named after a national poet J.L. Runeberg and served on his memorial day on February 5.
  • Rönttönen pastry with lingonberry filling

Sweets [edit]

Typical Finnish dishes [edit]


Leipäjuusto is a cheese, here served with cloudberry jam

Paddington Bear Ice Cream

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Me and marmalade have a rather brief history. My Dad used to enjoy his toast slathered in Roses Lime marmalade, in its distinctive mottled glass jar that used to sit, glowing like Kryptonite, on the top shelf in the kitchen; but I always shunned the bitter and bitty stuff, far preferring the savoury tang of Bovril (or Marmite at a push). But, after seeing two magnificent looking ices in quick succession - Nigel Slater's Marmalade and Chocolate Chip and Ginger's Emporium Marmalade and Toast - suddenly orange preserve-flavoured frozen deserts were all that I could think about.

To be honest, I'm still not really what you might call a fan, but as I've got older I've started to warm to the charms of a dark rough cut Seville marmalade, with it's smoky chunks of peel and slightly acerbic edge. (I'm still not convinced by the tooth-achingly sweet and  fluorescent orange stuff, with a one dimensional flavour reminiscent of melted ice lollies, though.) But, when the piquant citrus is tempered with the blandness of thick, sweet cream and chunks of crisp sugared breadcrumbs, suddenly it all begins to make sense.

As it's still Seville orange season, for those of us who are organised enough this makes a great use for any homemade preserves. Dark Marmalade also makes one of the greatest steamed sponge toppings, as well as a very good addition to the fabulous Breakfast Martini; a gin based cocktail with orange liqueur and lemon juice. But I digress...

While I'm not quite sure this would satisfy the small bear from Peru, who is rather partial to a  marmalade sandwich or two and for which this ice cream is named, it certainly satisfied my citrus craving. A little splash of whisky also goes very nicely with the bitter orange. Try and keep a steady hand, though. Too much booze, plus a high sugar content from the preserve and crumbs may stop the ice cream freezing properly.

As the the Ginger's Emporium Melt Cookbook isn't out until April, then I improvised and used my beloved Ben and Jerry's sweet cream base, just mixing in the marmalade, whisky and buttery, well toasted crumbs and churning in my trusty ice cream maker. If you wanted to incorporate a dark chocolate element, as per Nigel's recipe, then I would make the ice cream as below, leaving out the breadcrumbs but adding 70g of finely chopped dark chocolate just before the ice cream has finished churning.

Seville Marmalade Sandwich Ice Cream

1/2 cup chunky white breadcrumbs
1/4 cup brown sugar
Large knob of butter

2 large eggs
1/2 cup caster sugar
2 cups heavy or whipping cream
1 cup milk
3 heaped tablespoons of Seville marmalade
Splash of whisky

For the crumbs
Melt the butter in a small frying pan.
Add the Breadcrumbs and sugar and cook gently until the crumbs are toasted and golden and the sugar is nicely caramelised.
Remove breadcrumbs and allow to cool

For the ice cream
Whisk the eggs and sugar in a mixing bowl until light and fluffy. Add the cream and milk then continue to whisk until completely incorporated. 
Stir in the marmalade, whiskey and breadcrumbs and mix thoroughly. 
Place mixture in the fridge and chill for a few hours or overnight.
Churn chilled mixture in an ice cream maker as per manufacturer's instructions.
Serve immediately, or place in a lidded plastic container and freeze until required.


The Beech House, Beaconsfield

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Many moons ago I went to school in old Beaconsfield. While it goes without saying that my friends and I were always impeccably behaved, later, when we got into the sixth form, I must confess most lunch times would be spent at the White Horse. Double maths was soon replaced by drinking pints of Fosters or Strongbow, playing pool and swabbing out latest illicit piercings with Listerine and Savlon.

Later, we progressed across the road to the Old Hare (RIP) the Saracen’s Head, the Greyhound or the Swan; in fact it’s a wonder there was any time to fit in the small matter of our A Levels.  But while the old town had its pick of hostelries – ranging from spit and sawdust to opulent and OTT, the new town remained unloved wasteland for drinkers.

All has now changed with the opening of the Beech House, an Oakmans Inn (a small chain stretching across Oxon/Herts and now Bucks) on the old site of Fourbouys the newsagent a regular haunt for penny sweets and the Beano as a child, and now the venue for a late lunch with the lovely Ewing.

To accompany my food I enjoyed a glass of Biferno Rosso Riserva, or the 'Mighty Biferno', as written about by the Telegraph's Victoria Moore. While I have regularly displayed my lack of grape knowledge here, this had me agreeing with the wise words of  confirmed oenophile, Ben Franklin; 'wine is constant proof that God loves us and loves to see us happy'.

Whitebait to share were plentiful, piping hot and lightly dusted in flour to let the tiny fish shine through. I would have preferred my dips in pots, rather than artfully smeared across the plate, especially as I was sharing with the Ewing who has the knack of stealing in and scooping up the last blob of chilli sauce before you can stop her.

My beef ribs, cooked in cola with a bourbon gravy, salad and fries came as a mini rack, rather than the giant, Jacob's ladder type bone I was expecting. Despite looking rather grizzled in the photo these were very good; soft and sweet, a little fatty (a good thing) and a decent amount of meat. I would have liked some more of the advertised whiskey-spiked gravy, though.

Chips were first class. Not sure if they were frozen, but these skin on, crispy, salty sticks were the finest fried potatoes I have had for a while. Sadly the Ewing felt the same and quickly polished off all of hers, too.

The Ewing's Aubrey Allen cheeseburger accompanying the majestic fries, was less of success. The menu specifies 'cooked medium for full flavour and succulence, unless requested otherwise', but we asked our waitress if it could be served as rare as possible. This turned out to be a uniform grey throughout, a shame as the meat was pretty good, as were the bun and Croxton Manor Cheddar melted on top.

The tomato relish alongside was interesting, tasting a bit like a herby, very sweet pasta sauce. Although neither of us were quite sure if we liked it or not (it seemed to work best in the burger), it proved almost impossible to stop dunking things in it.

Deserts were a duo of magnificent, retro sundaes to share. A banoffee with vanilla ice cream, banana puree, shortbread and toffee sauce, and a chocolate raspberry with amaretto soaked brownie, raspberry sorbet and flaked almonds.  Proper, good fun puds.

As well as looking good these also tasted the part, with their bright layers of fruit, cake and cream. A spoon war soon ensured between us in the race to the bottom of both glasses (no prizes for guessing I was comprehensively beaten). Definitely a choice for the dairy fan though, with the pillowy, rich creamy layers becoming a bit too much towards the end, even for the Ewing.

The staff were very well versed on our visit, with many of the team here coming from other Oakman Inns, and there seems to be a real pride and enthusiasm from everyone, which, having worked in Beaconsfield myself (they can be a tough crowd), is good to see. And while it's easy to become blasé towards the latest trends for exposed brickwork and bright tiles, they have done a great job with the interior. The skylight at the back is a particular success, flooding the restaurant area with light while keeping the bar area at the front suitably dark and moody.

While there might not be anything revelatory about the Beech Tree, it's location, atmosphere and all day menu means it cleverly offers something for all. The food is solid, with enough choice to see you through a few return visits, and the price are fair. Add free WiFi, a library of books to keep the little ones happy, and homemade cakes and coffee in the bar area, and the Beech Tree is on its way to ticking all the boxes.

The Beech House on Urbanspoon

Franco Manca, Chiswick

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Sometimes it felt like I was the only person on earth yet to try one of the fabled, slow-rising sourdough pizzas from Brixton’s Franco Manca. While the internet melted with praise, like buffalo mozzarella in their wood fired ovens, trying to get to down to Brixton Market during their limited opening hours proved the sticking point. Needless to say, with all the other distractions on the London eating scene, it never quite happened.

Since their opening days the Brixton branch now boasts late night opening at weekends and the chain has grown to add three further branches, in Westfield, Northcote Road and Chiswick High Street (where you can even book a table). After a hot and tiring Bank Holiday walking around KewGardens (read falling asleep on the lawn after a picnic…) a points failure at Edgware Road made us reconsider our route home and jump off the Tube at Turnham Green. Just in time for an early evening pizza and well deserved bottle of (organic) vino.

The pizzas at Franco are in the traditional Neapolitan style, and while the pizza eaters of Southern Italy aren't renowned for their experimentation, here you can still get a few options beyond the classic marinara and margaritas. As tempted as I was by the dry cured Brindisa chorizo or the simple Napoletana, with the holy trinity of capers, olives and anchovies, we decided to divvy up  the veggie special and a Gloucester Old Spot ham, ricotta and wild mushroom pie.

To start we quickly speared our way through a bowl of plump green Bella de Cerignola olives, followed by a burnished and bubbling dish of melanza parmigana. The slippery, sweet aubergines and milky, stretchy cheese were finished off perfectly with a touch of their homemade tomato sauce.

I love Neapolitan pizza; it isn't as crisp as its Roman brethren, but there’s something about the charcoal spotted, chewy dough, laden with milky pools of stretchy cheese and piquant tomato that I never seem to tire of. Topping here are on the sparse side (good) and well thought out, meaning the flash fired base has little time to get gloopy and soggy.

Our two pizzas proved the perfect balance. The Old Spot ham and mushroom was, almost, a pizza bianca (without tomato), with just the merest hint of the red fruit The whole thing was pepped up nicely by the house chilli oil which possessed a decent kick (as did the marvellous garlicky version, which proved perfect for mopping up with the leftover crusts).

The veggie special was another stunner; organic mozzarella and tomato topped with the bitter edged wild broccoli, smoky scamorza cheese and studded with little black Kalamata olives. As a committed carnivore, even I have to concede no meat could improve this pie.

As you can see the cornicione - or pizza crust for those who are are little less carb obsessed - was perfectly charred and smoky, while the high temperatures of the 'tuff' brick wood fired oven meant the base was still soft and springy, with a lovely chewy and complex sourdough flavour.

On possibly the first occasion since I've known her the Ewing missed the offer of pudding. No bad thing as a mixture of sun, wine and bread was beginning to finally catch up with me. Luckily she did hear when them asking if we wanted coffee, and two Monmouth espressos rounded things off nicely, giving us the extra buzz to finish our long journey homeward.

Good pizza remains one of my ultimate comfort foods, and Franco Manca offers simple, great value - most pies weigh in at the £6/7 mark, with wine starting at £13 a bottle - grub that proved well worth the  wait.

Franco Manca on Urbanspoon

This Little Piggy Went to Market - Helsinki Edition

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There are three main markets halls with adjoining squares in Helsinki; Hietalahti Kauppahalli, Hakaniemi Kauppahalli and Wanha Kauppahalli. As well as two of them having confusingly similar names, the third, Wanha Kauppahalli, was closed for refurbishment, meaning many of the traders had moved to Hietalahti Kauppahalli in the interim.

If you've managed to follow all this so far then you've done better than me, but, as I'm sure you now know, it takes more than just poor map reading skills and general confusion to keep me from my lunch. So, following the smell of grilling fish and hot coffee on the breeze (ok, the Ewing got hold of the map and navigated), we headed off on our great market mission.

Our first stop was Market Square, the oldest and most famous of these trio of markets. While the Old Market Hall, open since 1889 may have been closed for refurbishment, the open Market Square was still busily thronging with tourists and locals alike.

Despite having only recently dispatched breakfast I made a beeline for Helsingin Toripojat (Market Boys of Helsinki), the familiar orange-roofed coffee stall, open all year round and famous for the 'best meat pies in Finland', as well as being frequented by many politicians, including the Finnish prime minister himself. There's also a gallery of previous visitors on their web site, a varied selection including Lyndon B. Johnson, Billy Graham, Queen Juliana and George Bush.

We tried one of their renowned meat pies with our coffee, rather like a Cornish pasty filling inside a fried yeast doughnut and perfect for soaking up the excesses of a heavy night before. The cardamom-spiked butter bun was pillowy soft and spicy, and the Ewing made short work of her slice of sweet and sour rhubarb pie.

Finland is well known as a peaceable and safe country, but one great danger we soon discovered was the menacing gulls that stalked around the harbour side and beaches. These great beady-eyed birds think very little of swooping down to grab the ice cream cone from your hand or the last morsel from your plate. There is a small amount of ineffectual netting, but my best advice is to eat quickly with one eye on the sky, or try and stand close to one of these guys.

 
The Finns go mad for local fresh berries and vegetables in the summer, and most of the stalls were groaning under the weight of giant spring onions, tiny new potatoes, punnets of plump strawberries and blueberries and the first of the chanterelle mushrooms.

One of the most popular foodstuffs found in the summer months are herne, or fresh green peas. While I'm sure a few make it home for the pot, most of the people we saw were soon splitting their booty with a thumbnail and munching the little green globes straight from the pod.

The Ewing was quick to find her favourite pea purveyor at the market - although you can buy them all over town, including stalls by the yacht harbour and on the main shopping streets - and we ate handfuls of the sweet juicy legumes (pretty much literally) morning noon and night for the rest of our trip.

While the Old Market Square is located on the South Harbour, Hietalahti Market can be found just off the West Harbour. The marketplace outside hosts a popular flea market, everyday in summer, as well as the the ubiquitous stalls offering coffee, buns and ice cream. The adjacent market hall originally offered groceries, then antiques and art, and now, due to the current refurbishments at the Old Market Hall, offers gourmet food and a series of 'pop-up' restaurants.

Inside was an oasis of cool and calm, and made a pleasing contrast to the heat and bustle outside. This is not a gritty and noisy market, but it does have it's own refined charm and laid-back friendliness that seems to match the Finnish demeanour. 

Despite the late hour of our visit, there were still many locals enjoying bowls of soups, steak burgers, coffee and shrimp sandwiches from the various counters dotted about inside and, after a couple of laps trying to take everything in, we decided to join them.

The most impressive and tempting stall was the fishmongers/seafood deli at the back, which also offered an oyster bar and fresh homemade sushi, rolled there in front of you. We decided to stick with the Nordic classics, and our lunch comprised of a collection of fishy snacks chosen from the cabinet and enjoyed sitting at the counter with a couple of cold lagers.

We enjoyed a selection of thick curls of hot smoked salmon, studded with black pepper; pan fried, buttery Arctic char with a honey mustard sauce and dill; and a delicate carpaccio of whitefish with pink peppercorns on rye bread. 

The tiny vendace, a Northern European river fish appearing on most menus in the city, were something I was very keen to try. They didn't disappoint; the light rye crumb coating giving bite to the sweet, silvery flesh. And the huge portion made the perfect beer food to munch while watching the world go by.

The final stop on our tour was over the bridge to Hakaniemi, to the North of Helsinki city centre. This, previously working class, area has slowly become the place to be, with the hipsters and house prices to match. It's still a liberal place, with cheap bars, strip clubs and the headquarters of the Social Democrat and Left Alliance parties and several trade unions, and is the best area to eat Asian food and start a night on the town.

It's also the home of a large, thriving market which has been on this spot since 1894, with the Market hall next door being built thirty years later. After being fleeced 10 Euros for a (admittedly rather large, and very nice) punnet of blueberries, we quickly hurried across the cobbles to try and find a bargain inside. 

Although it's in an 'earthy' neighbourhood, don't expect things to go for a song; the Finns are not built to haggle. While this makes for a pleasant and refined atmosphere, it can also lead to paying 9 Euros for a slice of cake (luckily I convinced the Ewing, despite the cake being a mile-high glazed chocolate number, to stick with the extortionate blueberries instead).

Upstairs is a veritable treasure trove of knick knacks, walking about that felt rather like poking around my Nan's house when I was a child. Skeins of wool, wooden butter knives, glass bottles, straw hats and stuffed toys are crammed into every conceivable space and everything has a rather old fashioned and timeless kind of feel.

Sadly the prices very much reflect these modern times, although the Ewing did pick up a rather nice black and white Moomin print. For those with deep pockets who admire classic Finnish design there is a large Marimekko stall selling their distinctive patterned trays, bags, tableware and rolls of bright material.

The lower floor is filled with many butchers and bakers (sadly no candlestick makers) as well as fresh veg, coffee, chocolates and imported goods. But again it was the fish stall that most appealed, offering a great selection of lunch plates, pies, open sandwiches and sweet cakes as well as this intriguing 'Nordic mussel selection' on the counter.

Along with the familiar Karelian rice pastries they also had some seafood versions, including a slightly fearsome looking version stuffed with silvery sprats. We played it safe and shared a warm salmon pie and cups of black coffee to begin our lunch.

To follow, a plate of Jansson's temptation with salad. This popular Scandinavian dish features a mixture of chipped potatoes baked with cream and sprats or anchovies. Often eaten at Christmas time, this made a fine, and filling, summer lunch. The sweet, malty rye bread and creamy butter alongside finished things off nicely.

After successfully navigating the beautiful display of cakes with the eye-watering prices, we visited the cheese stall to buy some of the famous Leipajuusto, a cooked, 'squeaky' cheese, which is eaten with cloudberry jam or cream or dipped in coffee. After finding out about the various different types; goat or cows milk, 'normal' low salt or gluten free; we carefully took our slice back home, where it remains, uneaten, in the fridge of our Finnish apartment (alongside our jar of cloudberry jam). Oh well, perhaps the next guests might get to enjoy it.

Despite all the fancy imported produce vying with the local stuff, big bunches of dried birch leaves, used to increase blood flow after a visit to the sauna, leave you in no doubt that this is still Finland. And, after being lucky enough to visit these splendid markets, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

Coffee and Candy, Finnish Style

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Finnish food has been much maligned, most notably by the charming Silvio Berlusconi who claimed, 'The Finns don't even know what Parma ham is' and that the country had the worst food in Europe (with Britain's grub apparently deserving of second place in the inedible stakes).

While it's true that Finland has long and harsh winters - meaning fruit and vegetables were only freely available in the short summer months and leading to a reliance on grains, fermented milk products, smoked and salted food - this simplicity and lack of choice has also seen a fresh, local (imports that competed with local products were banned before they joined the EU) and simple cuisine develop.

With a variety of Swedish, Russian and German influences and ingredients such as rye, dairy, fish mushrooms, berries and game all featuring heavily, it may be simple but it's far from boring. 

With over 180,000 lakes and an extensive coastline, it is no surprise that fish is to be found on many menus in Finland. And where better to find some than at Ravintola Salve, a sailors' tavern originally set up to sell beer and cigarettes, that has been serving sailors at Helsinki's West harbour for over 120 years.

Although there maybe a distinct lack of seafarers making up their clientele now days, they still sell herrings, salmon and pike perch, alongside rib sticking meaty fare, such as steak stuffed with cheese and smoked reindeer, and Salve's stir fry, an old sailor favourite of breaded pork, fried egg, sausage and potatoes.

I chose the famous Baltic herrings, a whole shoal of fried fished atop a mound of buttery mashed potatoes. Baltic herrings are smaller and less fatty than their Atlantic cousins, and can be eaten whole, bones and all. These were delicious, hot and crisp and, mindful of the predatory gulls swooping about and not wanting to share, I soon woolfed them down.

The Ewing's rye covered perch fillets came with yet more buttery mash, and a Pepto Bismol-hued beetroot hollandaise. Despite its rather alarming pink colour, the earthy, creamy notes matched well with the clean sweet fillets. During our trip we ate several rye breaded fish dishes and the nutty, slightly sour grains made a crisp and greaseless coating.

The Finns are, by some distance, the world's largest consumers of coffee, drinking over 12kg per person a year. Pulla (or buns), are a common accompaniment to go with their caffeine kick, with Korvapuusti (or 'slapped elephant ears'), a cinnamon and cardamom spiked pastry; voisilmäpulla (butter buns), with their spiced dough and sugary topping; and Weinerbrod (Vienna bread, the Scandinavian name for what we know as Danish pastries) being the most common.

They also enjoy Karelian pasties, a crimped rye dough filled with a rice pudding, or sometimes potato, and served warm with  a mixture chopped hard boiled eggs and butter. Although rather beautiful to look at, the Ewing was far from impressed by the rather dry pastry and stodgy filling and, while we did eat ours cold and sans butter, I have to agree they may be an acquired taste I haven't yet developed.

Finding the, utterly charming, Cafe Regatta felt a bit like being in a film where the hopelessly lost and bedraggled adventurers are minutes from perishing, when the mist finally lifts and they can see the way home right in front of them. That may sound like my typical melodrama, but after hours of tramping through woods and graveyards (on the plus side, we did see a red squirrel) with the only stops being to soak our blistered feet in the lake, both of us were about ready to chuck in the towel.

Pursading the Ewing that we were too near the Sibellius monument to turn back, and knowing there was a coffee and bun stop near by, we limped on through a small piece of grassland. There, as if by magic, not only did we see the monument glinting in the late afternoon sun but, just across the water, stood cafe Regatta. 

If you find yourself in Finland then a visit to this place is a must. It really is like something from a fairytale. Inside is tiny, dark and cosy, the perfect place to hole up on those famous Finnish winters, but for a bright summer's afternoon the only place to be was out by the water.

As well as offering stunning viewsthere is also a wood fired barbecue pit available to use, with logs provided to burn, and sausages and bread available from the cafe. And, unusually for most places here, it's open almost everyday for your bun and coffee fix.

With the sweet and spicy smells floating from the kitchen and over the water I was powerless to resist their freshly baked  Korvapuusti, This was one of the best, if not the best, cinnamon buns I have had the pleasure of eating. It may had something to do with the beautiful view, it may have been the laid back Nordic charm, but sitting there eating the flaky, buttery pastry washed down with strong black coffee was one of the most pleasurable things I can remember for a long time.

The Ewing chose the blueberry pie, which she was initially too grumpy to even try, telling me to eat it and wrap up the cinnamon bun to take back home. My reaction after the first bite caused her to quickly reconsider, and after trying some for herself I didn't get a chance to eat a second forkful. Just like the bun this was a masterful piece of baking; a rich almond-scented sponge studded with inky sweet/sour berries. Cream was on offer, but this was just perfect unadorned.

With our hunger sated and finally feeling relaxed, we walked across the grass to check out the Sibelius monument; a hulking mass of hollow steel tubes - to appease the purists there is also a effigy of the composer himself next to the main piece - designed by sculptor Eila Hiltunen, and intended to represent the pipes of an organ. It looked really rather lovely, sparkling in the light of the slowly setting sun.  

Karl Fazer is the forefather of Finnish confectionery; with his wife he originally opened a French-Russian inspired cafe in Helsinki, and later expanded to open a chocolate and candy factory that now makes some of the Finns most loved sweets.

The cafe, opened in 1891, is still in its original spot on Kluuvikatu, a wide, paved street right in the heart of the city. Having survived for at least an hour or so without sustenance, the Ewing and I decided to visit for some civilised afternoon cakes and coffee.

Inside is a sweet-toothed dream. A large, mirrored picture of Mr Fazer himself looks out over huge bins of colourful sweets and chocolates, while boxes of jellies, cakes and sweet morsels are stacked up on huge marble tables. The right hand side features a shop with home baked bread, chocolate truffles and fancy gateaux; while the right hand side is a cafe offering soup, salads sandwiches, cakes, coffee and ice cream sundaes.

We tried a couple of majestic looking slices of cake with our coffee, a multi layered strawberry and cream gateaux, coated in a layer of green marzipan; and an incredible chocolate and passionfruit sponge, topped with layers of sweet mousse and sharp jelly, encased in a rich, bitter ganache. One of the finest sweet treats I have enjoyed in a while. 

I also went rather overboard stocking up on various chocolate bars and candies to sample. As well as the iconic 'Fazerin Sininen', or Fazer Blue milk chocolate bar, we tried, among others, the famous Marianne mint boiled sweets with a chocolate filling; slabs of Fazer chocolate with both liquorice comfits and pear and almonds; Moomin truffle bars with a strawberry yoghurt; the De Capo, the first bar made by Fazer and originally comprising of mis-shapen chocolates that had been remoulded (the name means start again) with added rum; Jim, with its chocolate covered 'marmalade foam' centre; the classic Fazermint chcolate creams; the wafer based bars Suffeli and Kissmet; and the nutty praline fillings of Geisha and Fami.

As well as the Fazer bars we also tried the famous Tupla Maxi, made by Leaf, a kind of Finnish Mars Bar with almond pieces; and the Brudberg Risi, with its chocolate covered puffed rice. I was particularly taken by the colours of the different bars, with a mixture of unusual pastel pinks, browns and oranges vying with the more familiar black, reds and golds.

I couldn't write about Finish sweets without mentioning their most famous candy; salmiakki, or salty liquorice. The liquorice is flavoured with ammonium chloride, which gives it an astringent and tongue numbing quality which is rather an acquired taste.

Although recently I have been making steps with anise flavours, and have even been able to eat liquorice without wincing, this stuff is hardcore. Not only do you get the regular salty varieties, there are also Tyrkisk Peber boiled sweets with a spicy edge, terva salmiakki with the addition of tar (yes, the stuff used on the roads, and really rather odd tasting) and super slamiakki, when regular strength just isn't overwhelming enough.

Despite not being accustomed to the flavour of the 'stingy' sweets, I was enchanted by the packaging. The Fazer salmiakki comes in a black and white chequer board design (salmiakki means diamond) with touches of red, the super salmiakki has a great, retro 60s look and the panterri (or panther) sugar-coated gummis are decorated with green and yellow pictures of the eponymous big cats.

If you want a drink with a view then Ateljee Bar, Helsinki s best known and most dramatic drinking spot, is based on the roof of the Hotel Torni is the place to head. Originally founded in 1951, and spruced up a few years ago, this is the best place in town to enjoy a sundowner or late night tipple.

A warning for those unsteady on their pins or scared of heights, the lift only goes as as far as the 12th floor, and the remaining two floors must be scaled via a narrow and winding spiral staircase, but, if you can, getting up there is well worth it. The rooftop terrace offers panoramic views of Helsinki and beyond and the day we visited was blessed with crystal clear skies that allowed us to see out for miles.

After sinking our first round of frozen strawberry tequila, and elderflower and gin cocktails, we chose a duo of ice cold mojitos to follow. I had the classic, heavy on the mint and zingy with fresh lime wile the Ewing chose the shocking pink and very refreshing raspberry version.

Drinks aren't quite as expensive as you might fear, at around 10-15 Euros for a cocktail, and the quality and flavours are spot on. If you're not in the mood for alcohol, then coffee and soft drinks can be ordered all day, too. With a typically chilled Nordic atmosphere and unbeatable views it's certainly worth trying to make it up here for at least one bevvy if you're in town.

No shopping trip to Helsinki would be complete without a visit to the flagship Stockmann department store, the biggest in Scandinavia. This Finnish company, started by a German, celebrated 150 years in 2012 and now has shops in 15 countries.

While the shop spreads over eight floors, taking up a whole block in the city centre, we headed straight down to Stockmannin Herkku, their famed food and drink hall located in the basement.

A foodies heaven, Stockmanns is like a Nordic Selfridges or Harrods, with the prices to match. While I was impressed by one of the best stocked (and smelliest) cheese counters, with samples from all over Europe, and could have stayed all day browsing the imported teas and coffees, I was really here for the local produce.

From the piles of baby new potatoes and fronds of fresh dill, yellow cherry tomatoes and bright stalks of rhubarb in the entrance, past the cardamom scented pastries being house made in the bakery and the fridges full of Villi (a 'strechy' milk desert) and Arctic yogurt, finally ending up at the biggest fish counter I have ever seen, with huge sides of salmon piled on ice, heaps of various different multicoloured fish roes and whole smoked fish the colour of leather; this is a Finnish food paradise.


Of course, even at this far North, a branch of the ubiquitous Mc Donlads is only just around the corner. After a beer or two I couldn't help being lured in by the idea of a ruis burger (a McTasty on a rye bread bun) and a liquorice Mcflurry. I enjoyed the burger, although most of the filling seemed to end up in my lap, but the Ewing had to finish the Finnish McFlurry as, sadly, I wasn't really lovin' it.


In retort to Berlusconi's jibes and showing their Finnish sense of humour pizza chain Kotipizza named their award-winning smoked reindeer and chanterelle mushroom pizza after the Italian prime minister.

Of course, I had to try it and managed to drag a surprisingly compliant Ewing to the nearest branch to our apartment. Along with the Berlusconi, with a 'healthy' rye base, we also braved their burger pizza, complete with a topping of iceberg and special sauce. 

Although it wasn't classy, the burger-topped effort was actually rather good; while the idea of hot lettuce seemed a bit grim, it managed to stay fresh and crunchy, and best of all processed cheese replaced the mozzarella, giving it that authentic, gooey finishing touch. The Berlusconi was also good, albeit far more traditional; the slightly gamey meat and woody mushrooms working well with the nuttiness of the rye base.

A trip to Finland wouldn't be complete without a visit to the Alko. The Finns are known for their love of a beverage and, like the other Scandinavian nations except Denmark, they have to buy any alcoholic beverage above 4.8% from a state operated off license. Unlike the image the name may conjure up, these Alkos are sleek and modern, looking rather like an airport duty free.

In keeping with their reputation for being a bit different, the choice of booze on offer goes much further than just beer and wine.  While internationally they are renowned for Finalndia vodka, in Finland the most common clear spirit is Koskenkorva Viina; a clear grain spirit with a small amount of added sugar. A favourite beverage with the younger crowd is Koskenkorva with added salmiakki liquorice candy, a potent sounding combination. Minttu, a peppermint flavoured schnapps 'from the Finnish Himalayas', is also popular as a frozen shot or as an addition to hot chocolate in the winter.

Something we saw many people drinking was the lonkero, or long drink. Literally translating as 'tentacle', this premixed gin and grapefruit cocktail was introduced during the Helsinki Olympics in 1952. Fearing foreign alcohol imports, the Finnish government relaxed their strict rules for all the visitors to the country. They proved so popular that liberalisation of liquor laws soon followed, and you can now find them in many different flavours everywhere you go.

Of course, beer still reigns supreme, with popular brands being Lapin Kuta, from the Arctic Circle, Koff, Karhu and Olvi. A cold can of the latter's export lager being the perfect accompaniment for our sunny picnic on the sea fortress island of Suomenlinna. A nice brew with a fantastic view.

After all that beer there is no where better than Helsinki's legendary Jaskan Grilli, a tiny metal hut  behind the Finnish parliament building that has even made it into the pages of the NY Times. Here, in this anonymous little square, you can find a who's who of famous Finns queuing up for their grease-laden snacks late into the night. Here is the place to see fights, romance and Finnish fast food, all washed down with litres of ice cold milk.

The menu is beautifully written in calligraphy script, and was, unsurprisingly, completely in Finnish. The only two words that looked remotely familiar are the famous 'Kannibal' and 'hot dog'. We ordered one each from the, rather stern looking, lady inside, who looked like she was well used to dealing with all comers at any time of the day or night, and watched her move about deftly in the cramped kitchen, preparing our food while avoiding the two giant squeezy bottles of ketchup and mustard that swung from the tin roof.

After the excitement of their preparation we retreated to the rusted and makeshift tables and chairs next door to sample our 'snacks', the queue of middle aged, and mostly sober, men growing by the minute behind us, despite the relatively early hour.

The Kannibal was certainly a sight to behold; a behemoth of sliced ham, ground beef, a burger patty, two huge pieces of spam-like meat and a fried egg, buried underneath every topping conceivable, including crumbled blue cheese, pineapple, gherkins and fried onions, and all stuffed in a folded bun roughly the size of a dustbin lid. 

The regular hot dog somewhat paled in comparison, although that too was groaning under the weight of assorted extras, including gallons of condiments and a thick drift of mini cheese cubes. It certainly wasn't subtle, but it was fun.


Walking over the Rakkauden Silta (or Bridge of Love, complete with the padlocks of many amorous couples) and basking in the rays of the late afternoon sun, I couldn't have felt happier. Finland is a fascinating, beautiful and friendly place where you'll find some of the safest, healthiest and best educated people in the world. Just remember to say no to that salty liquorice....


Scandanavian Summer Strawberry Cake

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Alliteration and cake, what’s not to love?

It’s often said that bakers are born not made, and while I spent a childhood happily licking cake mixture from wooden spoons and knocking up all manner of brownies, cookies, fudge and flapjacks, my rebellious nature soon came to the fore and I quickly moved on to things that would be more forgiving if you happened to forget a small ingredient or two. (Who knew baking powder was that important, or what would happen if you didn't line the cake tin properly....)

I'm now am lucky enough to live with a baker extraordinaire, and while do occasionally get the hankering to knock up a cake or pud, I mostly leave it to the expert and just enjoy eating the results.

Sometimes, though it’s nice to make something a bit fancy to really impress, with last weekend being the perfect case in point - the Ewing had been working late most evenings and was feeling rather frazzled, and my dear friend Stealth, whose birthday it is this month, was coming to visit.

As it was Wimbledon Finals weekend and the height of summer, I wanted my cake to contain copious amounts of strawberries and cream and possibly some meringue for good measure. I also wanted it to tower over other cakes, with multiple layers of squidgy, sticky goodness. And with the temperatures topping 30c, I didn't fancy being chained to the oven much either....

A lot to ask perhaps, but the lovely Nigella came to the rescue with her strawberry meringue cake from Forever Summer (a versatile little number which also turns up in Feast, this time sandwiched together with lemon curd).

My main problem with fancy bakes is what is known in our house as the ‘aeroplane cake’ effect - deserts which resemble the cakes you used to get on planes in a bygone age, that look charming but taste of nothing. Often they will contain ridiculous numbers of different components; mousses, icings, coulis, sponges, meringues etc. but yet look boringly like any other cake when they've finally been assembled. Even worse, they go wrong on assembly - as they invariably do when you've got as little patience and work top space as me - and resemble something sad and squashed, rather than something to present with a flourish.

This cake is the antithesis of everything above, while still retaining that wow factor. An all-in-one egg yolk sponge is simply topped with whipped egg whites and sugar and all baked together, before being sandwiched with heaps of fruit and cream. It also gave me the perfect opportunity to use the Finnish strawberry liqueur purchased on our latest trip to Helsinki before it gets a chance to languish at the back of the cupboard under the stairs.

Scandanavian Summer Strawberry Cake

125g softened butter
4 large eggs (separated)
300g caster sugar
100g plain flour
25g cornflour/potato flour
1 tsp baking powder
½ teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 tsp lemon juice
4 tsp milk
½ teaspoon cream of tartar/white wine vinegar

150 ml double cream (or whipping cream)
1 punnet strawberries, sliced
1 tbsp caster sugar
2 tbsp strawberry/raspberry liqueur (optional)
Icing sugar to finish

Preheat the oven to 200°C. Line and butter two 21cm sandwich tins.
Mix the egg yolks, 100g of the sugar, the butter, flour, cornflour, baking powder, bicarb, and vanilla in a food processor. Add the lemon juice and milk and process again.
Divide the mixture between the prepared tins.
Whisk the egg whites and cream of tartar/vinegar in a clean bowl until peaks form and then slowly whisk in 200g of sugar. Divide the whisked whites between the two sponge-filled tins, spreading the meringue straight on top of the cake batter.
Sprinkle almonds over the meringue. Put the tins into the oven for 25-35 minutes. (cover the cakes with foil if the almonds are burning)
Use a skewert o check the sponge is cooked through through. (It will have risen now but will fall back flattish later.) No sponge mixture should stick to the skewer. Remove both cakes to a wire rack and let cool completely in the tins.
Mix the sliced strawberries with 1 tbsp of sugar and the liqueur if using and leave to marinade.
To serve, place one cake on a cake stand/large plate meringue side down.
Whisk the double cream until thick but not stiff and spread the cream onto the sponge cake. Place the strawberries on top.
Finish with the remaining cake, meringue uppermost, and plenty of icing sugar.


Eating up Estonia

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During our trip to Helsinki we decided to catch the ferry across the Gulf of Finland to spend a couple of days in Tallinn. It proved to be a marvellous place full of contrasts between old and new; not is it only the oldest city in Northern Europe and an UESCO World Heritage Site, but it is also ranked one of the top ten digital cities in the world. I was also looking forward to some serious meat and drink, with Estonia belonging firmly to the beer, vodka, rye bread and pork "belt" of Europe.

After dropping into to our the hotel for a quick shower, in a vain attempt combat the blistering heat and humidity, we made our way to Vanaema Juures, or 'Grandmother's place', in the centre old town, for a highly anticipated late lunch.

Reflecting its name, this is a place is known for it's traditional food and friendly welcome, and we were soon happily ensconced on their patio, happily drinking our Saku beers and watching the world (or, more accurately, guided cruise tours) go by.

Black rye bread accompanies pretty much in Estonia; instead of saying bon appetit before a meal, Estonians will often say jätku leiba (may your bread last). The rye bread found here is typically much stickier, sweeter and darker than the Finnish equivalent, tasting more like a slice of malt loaf, which made it a favourite with the Ewing. At Vanaema Juures the rye bread is served alongside both wholemeal and white bread, meaning all bases are covered.

As we were enjoying our bread and beer out on their wooden decking, the menacing roll of thunder was drawing ever nearer. The Ewing initially scoffed at my assertions it was going to hammer down, but after the first crack of lightning we decided to move down to the cosy, dark depths of the cellar restaurant. It was perfect timing, as minutes later the heavens opened as we sat smugly listening to the rain pelting down on the cobbles.

While our mains came in hulking great portions,they were surprisingly light, with all components nicely balanced. My elk in a tomato and leek sauce came with zingy pickled cucumbers, beetroot and fresh lingonberries, giving a nice piquancy and crunch to the rich meat and fried potatoes.

The Ewing enjoyed her lamb in a blue cheese sauce; a big flavour combo that made a surprisingly good pairing. Accompaniments of lentil stew, vegetables and a scattering of fresh dill lightened the load. And while the Estonians prefer to cook their meat until it loses any vestiges of pink, both dishes featured tender chunks of protein that shredded apart under gentle probing from our forks.

I took the rain still hammering down outside as a sign we should probably stay for pudding, and the Ewing, as full as she was, didn't need too much persuading. My pancakes were great; fluffy, puffy feather-light discs of dough served with plenty of warm berry jam; while the Ewing loved her baked apple stuffed with nuts and raisins and served with a vanilla sauce.

After an eventful evening of continued beer drinking and a bit of sleepwalking the next morning saw the Ewing going for traditional sauna at the hotel while I managed to find an Estonian music channel that played the greatest hits of Milli Vanilli. As fun as it was singing along to soon Girl you Know it's True, our grumbling stomachs sent us back into the heat of the streets.

Our first stop was Maiasmokk, or 'Sweet Tooth', the oldest and most famous cafe in town. Inside is unchanged, with the post-war interior of blood red leather banquettes and fridges full of fancy cakes leading through to a small marzipan museum room and chocolate shop.

As it was a glorious morning we decided to sit on the decking area, giving us a lovely view straight down the charming Pikk street and a prime spot for some people watching.

I tried a pirukad to start, a fried meat-stuffed pastry similar to the ones we sampled at Helsinki's Market Square; a tasty start to my late breakfast, but possibly missing a good dollop of ketchup. To follow was a slice of fresh strawberry and curd cake, on a light sponge base. The Estonians are very fond of their fresh cheese, and it made a lovely foil for the sweet, ripe fruit. The Ewing went with a classic curd pastry; a flaky Danish with a tangy cheese filling liberally sprinkled in powdered sugar.

After paying we took a look around the marzipan museum room. Here you can see them painstakingly hand painting the little sweetmeats as well as admiring some of the fancier examples, including a full Estonian breakfast made from almond paste, and a range of traditional wooden moulds and tools. You can also buy a selection of the finished products, as well as a range of truffles and chocolates.

We couldn't leave without sampling one of their famed marzipan confections. As we had already consumed our fill of cakes, pastries and coffee we elected to take a slice of their layered sponge, filled with cream and coated in almond paste, to eat later. This proved a very welcome snack when I discovered later, slightly squashed, during our walk in the park, even for an avowed marzipan sceptic like myself.

Kalev are also the primary confectionery producers in Estonia.  As well as their many chocolate bars and candies, flavoured with different combinations of nuts, dried fruits and wafer, they also produce a rarther nice chocolate covered marzipan covered flavoured with Vana Tallinn liqueur as well as making the first Soviet chewing gum

The most interesting of all their products was the 'Kama' bar, which isn't really chocolate at all, but a mix of sugar, vegetable fat, and kama flour (a mixture of rye, wheat, pea and barley) flavoured with coffee, cocoa powder and vanilla. First available in the 70s, when a crisis lead to the Soviet Bloc having to create clever substitutes when they couldn't afford certain imported goods, it has now been reintroduced for those whose miss a taste of the past.  It's not only popular with the nostalgic; retro packaging means that it's also a hit with all the cool kids, being the fourth most popular Kalev candy.

Our final lunch on our fleeting visit was at Estonian restaurant Kuldse Notsu Korts, or, in English, the Golden Piglet. Living up to its name the menu features a range of traditional dishes including lots of porky options such as pig's ears, jellied pork terrine, pork knuckle with sauerkraut, and potato and pearl barley porridge with bacon.

We started with a some well needed, local beers - an Alexander light for me and a porter for the Ewing - brewed by, the rather French sounding, A. Le Coq, the oldest continually operating brewery in Estonia.

It's fair to say that this is one place veggies would do best to give a wide berth. Even the bread rolls - served with a lovely, slightly cheesey, whipped butter - came studded with chunks of smoked bacon.

Despite the 30 degree heat and late cake-based breakfast, I, managed to persuade the Ewing to share the 'Estonian Sausage Feast' for Two; a vast platter of assorted pork sausages, oven baked potatoes and sauerkraut, topped with two thick rashers of smoked bacon.

There were five sausages each; two smoked, two fresh and one verivorst, or black pudding, considered to be the national dish of Estonia. The black pudding was great; crumbly and iron-rich, with chunks of sweet fat and pearl barley, and served with the traditional accompaniment of lingonberry jam. The smoked sausages, one thin and one thick, were also, delightful, pairing nicely with some properly poky mustard. The only slight misstep were the pale pink fresh pork offerings which seemed to have been boiled in their skins, giving them a rather strange texture.

Their most famous desert is Tuuliku Kama, a thin, cold porridge made of sour milk and yoghurt mixed with the same kama flour found in the Kamatehvel candy bar, and served with fresh berries. Despite being pretty sure I wasn't going to like it much at all, I couldn't resist ordering it anyway.

Sadly, it lived up to my expectations; after managing a mere a mouthful of the 'sour smoothie' it was left to the Ewing to finish it off. Thankfully she actually seemed to quite enjoy it, especially when combined with the sweet fruit.

Apart from all the medieval history, beautiful buildings and lovely people, Tallinn also has one of the best supermarkets I have visited in a long time. I have quite honestly never seen so many processed meat products in one place. From endless strings of sausages to smoked pork knuckles, and from fridges full of cured saucisson to piles of packaged sliced meats. The deli counter stretched across the back of the whole store and I couldn't help but be tempted by a couple of, heavily smoked, reindeer salamis and a 'Tallin salami', which was rather like a juicy garlic sausage, to take back home.

We also stocked up on bottles of fresh sea buckthorn juice; little squares of fresh curd snack - which were rather like chocolate covered cheesecake bites; packets of pork jerky; chubs of smoked cheese and brightly iced slices of jam filled cake.

The Estonians are also rather famous for their prodigious alcohol consumption. Add that to the fact that all the day trippers on the ferry back to Finland seemed to be laden down with slabs of cheap beer and Lonkero, and multi packs of vodka and it will come as no surprise to hear the alcohol aisle was a sight to behold. The vodka section alone took up three huge bays, before you even consider all the shrink wrapped crates piled up in the middle of the floor.

With the local brand, Viru Valge, reduced to only 10 Euros a litre it would have been rude not to,and we soon stocked up on some standard 40% vodka, as well as a bottle of the barberry flavoured clear spirit. Of course their had to be a space for a bottle of Vana Tallinn, the legendary sweet liqueur, and we soon added bottles of cloudberry, sea buckthorn and alpine strawberry liqueurs to the ever expanding trolley. 

In the end we bought back no less than nine different types of spirits, as well as some cactus and lemon flavoured 'long drinks' (gin with mixer) and, most curiously, a bottle of Ukrainian 'Soviet champagne'. The Ukrainians have a long history of viticulture, and while the fizz proved a little sweet for my tastes, it certainly made an interesting match for our reindeer pizza when we arrived back in Helsinki.


Hawksmoor Bar, Spitalfields

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My love affair with Hawksmoor has been well documented here before, with write-ups of both visits to their Guildhall and Air Street branches. And, although my most recent visit to their revamped Spitalfields subterranean cocktail bar happened at the beginning of the summer, as Jack White so presciently wrote 'I said it once before, but it bears repeating now....'.

It was a chance colliding of good fortune that saw my Aunti Heidi, the Australian Hippy, and I enjoying a cold pint at the Commercial Tavern, directly opposite Hawksmoor's original East London outpost, on a Friday evening half an hour before they opened their doors. After a mammoth trek from Waterloo Bridge, along the South bank, via Borough Market and the Tower of London and through the City, we were both looking for some fancy liquid refreshment, and with the Ewing en route to Liverpool Street to meet up with us, it seemed like fate was calling to us from across the street.

Continuing to ride our luck we managed, at a few minutes after six o'clock, to nab the last three-top in the place, and with no reservations taken, except for the booths for parties of six or more, we soon heard the waiting hordes behind us being told there was a three hour wait for the next free tables. Add an introductory 50% off their new bar food menu, it felt pretty glorious to sink back into their leather stools, feel the air con blowing a breeze down my sunburned neck and enjoy the first gulp of a frosty cocktail.

The drinks, like everything at Hawksmoor, are taken very seriously, but there's also a healthy dose of humour with offerings like the 'fruit-heavy party starter' Nuclear Banana Daiquiri; a potent and tropical blend of overproof rum, yellow Chartreuse, Falernum & lime blended with ripe banana. Bonkers, brilliant and just the ticket for a hot summer's night

During the evening we made our way around most of the drinks menu, enjoying the classic Marmalade Cocktail with gin, Campari, lemon juice, orange bitters & English marmalade, as well as a couple of specials involving various different anise based liqueurs. Keeping with the classics, Aunty Heidi was rather partial to the Green and Red Margarita; an unflashy blend Tequila, lime, lemon & agave syrup served simply over ice. A simple drink that lets the ingredients do the talking.

First up on the food front was a cone of breaded ox cheek nuggets stuffed with a core of molten Ogelshield cheese to nibble on; an unimpeachable combination and surely up there with the very pinnacle of bar snacks. 

To start, the Ewing and I split a fillet 'o' fish with jalepeno tartare sauce and a side of punchy vinegar slaw. The puffy, buttery brioche bun proved the perfect vehicle to get the flaky white fish and poky sauce into our eagerly waiting mouths, while the crisp shredded veg, mined with fresh herbs, felt like it should be doing us some good.

Of course, man cannot live on fish alone and we also divvied up a kinchi burger; a bone marrow augmented patty of sweet, charred beef glazed with Ogelshield cheese and served atop a bed of garlicky Korean pickled vegetables. A brilliant combination, although perhaps not for the faint-hearted, which provided serious smack of umami goodness.

Aunty Heidi made short work of the pulled pork and slaw on a semi sweet brioche bun, while the smacked cucumber and watermelon salad provided a bit of sweet and sour, Asian-inspired, refreshment.

First prize, however, must go to the pigs headtopped poutine, Hawksmoor's even filthier re-imagining of the dirty Canadian favourite of fries topped with fresh cheese curds and gravy. They may as well just replace the word unctuous in the OED with a picture of this; the epitome of sweet, sticky, meaty gloriousness.

The Ewing took this pause in proceedings to contemplate the desert menu over a glass of her favourite, the Full Fat Old Fashioned; a sugar and butter infused bourbon that slips down far more easily than it ought to and is worth every sweet, boozy calorie.

Sprits revived (literally and metaphorically) we hit the sweets. Hawksmoor pudding are of the rib-sticking variety but somehow, no matter how much protein you may have just consumed, there is always just enough room for one.

My rubbly heap of peanut butter shortbread topped with salted caramel ice cream wasn't much of a looker, but remains in a podium place out of of all puddings I have eaten this year. The Ewing went for the chocolate caramel cup, a rival for Hawksmoor's very own hommeade jaffa cake, and filled with layers of caramel and rich ganache. Utterly shameless and completely delicious.

My Aunt chose the sticky toffee sundae, a retro layering of sticky toffee sauce, sticky toffee pudding, clotted cream and ice cream. I'm not sure anyone could mess that combination up, and, despite protests of 'I don't really do puddings', the bottom of the glass was soon being scraped clean.

A fantastic night of great company and impeccable service topped with some of the best food and drink to be had any where in our fair City. Edward Hyde once claimed 'it is not the quantity of the meat, but the cheerfulness of the guests, which makes the feast'. He obviously hadn't eaten at Hawksmoor.

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Outsider Tart, Chiswick and Southbank

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I had first fallen in love with the ‘Two David's’ (Lesniak and Muniz, or No.1 and no. 2, as they are introduced in the front of their book) baking after trying one of their cinnamon-spiked Hepburn brownies at the Oxford Chocolate Festival. Seeing them both on an episode of the Food Network’s Street feasts – using what seemed like a whole vat of Skippy peanut butter to sandwich together their banana whoopee pies – just confirmed that I really needed to get over to South West London to try a few cakes and some brunch at their adjoining Blue Spot Diner.

On our arrival it soon became clear that they are as endearingly colourful in real life as their TV personae suggest; David no. 2 was busy holding court in the main dining area, chatting to a table of guests while feeding the docile Labrador at his feet with a handful of homemade dog treats, while David no.1 had a more serious aura, and was quietly supervising things from behind the cake and coffee counter that runs along the left hand side of the shop.

Although customers were picking up coffees, cookies and some rather tempting savoury pastries to eat in the adjoining diner, we decided to go with the full on brunch with table service. The menu is an endearing mix of American classics including grits, chipped beef (or, as it's more prosaically known, shit on a shingle), biscuits and cornbread, with many choices still seldom seen on these shores.

Refreshment came in the form of good black coffee and glass bottles of creamy Stewart’s root beer. The Ewing also pushed the boat out with a glass of hangover zapping blueberry and lime juice with plenty of ice. Lovers of American pop will be in their element with a fridge full of neon sodas, including Jolly Rancher flavoured drinks, and a variety of US beers to choose from.

I whittled my choice down to pancakes, finally picking the hoe cakes with sorghum syrup over the more familiar blueberry or apple and cinnamon. Unusually, the Ewing fancied something savoury, and (after much gentle persuasion) chose the pulled pork over the baked ham with potato salad.

Hoe cakes were good, soft and springy and smothered in a decent amount of butter and sorghum syrup, a malty and dark confection with an intriguingly complex flavour that reminded me of a mixture of dates, dried figs and toffee. A handful of berries, or even a few shard of crisp streaky bacon, would have made a welcome side to cut through the rich, sweet pile of carbs and whipped dairy.

The Ewing’s pulled pork bun was stuffed with deep and spicy pig; the meat bathed in a piquant barbecue glaze providing the perfect savoury foil to my dish. Just when the heat was becoming too much, a spoonful of creamy, cooling potato salad came in to balance things out again.

If I could think of my perfect Sunday brunch, it wouldn’t be too far away from this. Not just the food (which was good), but the feeling that a long weekend off work and a blue sky can bring. A mixture of pale English legs seeing the sun, dishevelled hair and sun glasses attempting to hide bleary eyes from the unforgiving high summer daylight and the tell tale signs of the night before.

As good as our brunch was Outsider Tart’s strength undoubtedly lies in their monster cakes, brownies and cookies; this is ‘proper’ American baking, no time for fancy swirls of frosting or a light dusting of sprinkles, these are serious slabs of rich and sugary goo that really hit the sweet spot. While there’s a place in life for delicate patisserie, crumbly scones and friable little biscuits that crumble as you lift them to your mouth, sometimes all you really want is a great oozing slab of something thickly frosted or studded through with glorious crunchy morsels.

Our haul from their Chiswick store included a salted billionaire’s shortbread, a confection so deep and dark even the Ewing (almost) couldn't finish it; a peanut butter Krispie cake, that despite it’s impressive roster of ingredients (including peanut butter, marshmallows and chocolate chips) didn't quite manage to live up to the sum of its parts; and a gooey peppermint chocolate slice as thick as a paving slab that still has me salivating now.

My favourite of our selection was the (slightly) more restrained glazed New York coffee cake. This was a coffee cake in the American sense of the word - i.e. something to be eaten along with a cup’o Joe, and not flavoured by the beans themselves. While it was no means a subtle bake, weighing in at about the same as a small child, the swirled chocolate and vanilla crumb cake, topped with a cinnamon streusel and glaze with icing, was buttery, spicy and utterly moreish. Certainly one of the nicest ways to type 2 diabetes I can think of.

As well as their bricks and mortar South West London store, most people know these guys from their presence at the Southbank’s weekly Real Food market; a collection of different food and drink traders ranging from spit roast pigs to curry wraps via Polish sausages and Turkish baklava and all washed down with a pint or two of Meantime ale.

I was there recently with my hippy Aunty Heidi, and despite the huge choice of other sweetmeats and pastries on offer, I couldn't help picking up a couple of their bakes to enjoy later. As usual the choice was pretty overwhelming; there were carrot and cream cheese whoopee pies the size of saucers, cinnamon chocolate snickerdoodle cookies the size of dinner plates and rice cereal confections studded with multi coloured chocolate beans.

In the end I chose a Congo cookie dough blondie and a peanut butter swirl brownie, for the Ewing and I to share later, while my Aunt picked a cinnamon- spiked Hepburn brownie (still my favourite Outsider bake) with walnuts and cherries for a friend. Needless to say they were a wonderful, chewy mixture of sugary, buttery goo that send the spirits and blood sugar soaring.

While their bakes are beautiful to behold, they are not pretty just for the sake of it. There are no fancy swirls or whirls or flourishes, just thick slices of cakes or pastry bursting at the seams with cream cheese icing or chunks of fruit, chocolate chips or peanut butter. Elegant they are not, and there is always plenty of finger licking and crumb-brushing to contend with. But the odd stray drip of icing or blob of jam on your shirt is far outweighed by the first time you sink your teeth into a dense, spicy brownie or a crispy cereal slice. These are the fairy cakes and cornflake nests of our childhood, pimped with more butterscotch morsels, sprinkles and fudge chunks than our youthful minds could dare to dream of.

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The Swan, Denham Village

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After five years together, the Ewing and I decided to celebrate our half a decade of happiness and joy/pain and suffering (delete as appropriate) with dinner at the Swan, situated in the rather lovely Denham Village.

Part of the, four strong, Salisbury group, they describe their ethos on the website thus; 'we searched the highways and (often forgotten) byways of the Chilterns to create our little clutch of born again boozers. Our pubs are for everyone - you may even have to step over a dog or two on your way to the bar. This is how it has always been and how we like it.' And, having already eaten at their the Old Queens Head in Penn, it's pretty agreeable to me, too.

Making the most of the scorching summer weather, we were quick to nab a table outside on their large, tiered patio. As we initially got together amid a backdrop of pub gardens - plus copious pints of Strongbow and packets of Walker's salt and vinegar - it seemed rather appropriate to be dining al fresco again, albeit in somewhat classier circumstances.

Despite the hunger-sapping heat I was determined to enjoy three courses; firstly as I was only just back chewing solid food after some recent gum surgery, and secondly as a double course of antibiotics had put pay to any ideas of a celebratory drink, meaning I felt obliged to make up for the the lost calories through an enticing mixture of fat and sugar.

Thankfully it was an obliging kind of menu, featuring plenty of local and seasonal produce, with a few unusual, but not too outré, twists.

A case in point being rather curious and very refreshing, tatziki sorbet, a frozen mixture of cucumber mint and yoghurt, which played very nicely with the spicy heat of my lamb kebab.

The kebab itself was a thing of utter wonder. Grilled lamb is one of my very favourite things, the deep, slight gamey notes and sweet fat responding particularly well to the combination of spice and an open flame. I’m not sure quite what marinade the local Stockings Farm lamb, had been rolled about in before it was cooked, but it tasted fantastic, the meat being perfectly crispy and soft and smoky all at once.

My only criticisms were the lack of bread for mopping up the sublime juices, and the fact I could have happily eaten rather more of it.

The Ewing chose the goat’s cheese panna cotta with salt baked beets, peppery watercress and balsamic. This was a gloriously rich and smooth take on a classic combo, with the slight funk of a good chevre, and none of the unpleasant gelatinous wobble found in a lesser cooked cream. A decent portion, too, meaning there was plenty to share with me.

Mains continued in the same successful vein. My pollock was a fine piece of flaky, fresh fish, and was well complimented by sweet pink grapefruit, glazed fennel and a brown crab sauce of serious depth and deliciousness. While I was really hankering after a bowl of skinny fries, a side order of sautéed new potatoes still hit the spot.

The Ewing tackled the behemoth of 15 hour braised Amersham lamb shoulder with mint gnocchi and a rosemary cream. This was some serious cooking, with a serious portion size to match. Luckily she was quite happy to swop plates half way through so I too could experience the melting meat, heady sauce and fluffy potato dumplings for myself.

Even the Ewing had trouble devouring all of her vast chocolate delice, served with cherry ripple ice cream and cherry sauce. This was a proper pudding for the most hardened chocolate lovers; dense, dark and bitter; cut through by the tart cherries and sweet, milky ice.

The strawberry sundae was the sugary kiss of midsummer and a pinnacle of its ilk. A rich confection of cream, custard and macerated berries perfumed with local elderflower and topped with a ball of vanilla ice cream and a buttery poppy seed twirl. A grown up desert that leaves you feeling very much like a small kid again as you scrape the long-handled spoon once more around the dregs at the bottom of the glass.

Throughout our years together I have come to realise the Ewing makes a very fine chauffeur, pot washer, cake baker and general 'fixer'. But, while these things are all well and good, she is also funny, a great dining companion and, most importantly, puts up with me. Happily our lovely meal at the Swan Inn matched the lovely company.

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