Pies and Fries

This summer has, so far, been the perfect combination of good weather and good fun. We've also had the pleasure of my sweet-toothed Dad coming over from Australia to stay, giving me even more reason to get in the kitchen and rustle up some sugary treats.

Dad's visit happily coincided with our annual jaunt over to Peterlee PYO Farm, and this summer yielded a bumper haul of raspberries, blackcurrants and gooseberries. Trying to be organised, I decided to avoid the yearly temptation to chuck everything in the freezer, only to find it fused into an unrecognisable lump come the New Year, and got to work turning the baskets of berries into something delicious.

On the way out I couldn't resist popping in to the farm shop and buying a pot of glorious buttercup yellow, Lacey's double cream. This is, for my money, some of the very best dairy you could hope to taste; made on a farm just up the road from the milk of pedigree Guernsey cows, and so thick you have to squeeze it out of the bottle like toothpaste.

Armed with fresh fruit and fresh cream, digging out the ice cream maker seemed like the only sensible option. I initially wondered if the richness might be too much for the berries, smothering their sharp edge in a bland blanket of dairy, but the cream brings out the naturally cheesy edge in the fruit, and a good squirt of lemon stopped things becoming too cloying.

In order to treat the ingredients with the reverence they deserved I decided, for the first time in all my years of ice cream making, to use a proper custard made with cooked egg yolks and milk (and about five different pans and dishes and two sieves), rather than my favoured whole egg, no-chance-of-scrambling, base. With my ice bath and silicone spatula at the ready, it was surprisingly simple to make and provided an extra glossy and luxurious richness to the finished ice cream.

Gilding the lily I also threw in some chopped dark chocolate, for texture, and a slug of Chambord black raspberry liqueur. As well as tasting good, the Chambord also stopped the ice cream freezing too solid, a shot or two of bourbon, vodka, rum or any suitable liqueur lingering at the back of the cupboard would work equally well, too.

They say the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and with my Dad and the Ewing off to the freezer for seconds before I had even finished my first helping, I knew it had been worth using every bowl in the cupboard.

Raspberry Chambord Chip Ice Cream

Adapted from David Leibovitz 'The Perfect Scoop'

350ml raspberry puree, sieved to remove seeds

Juice of half a lemon

350ml cups double cream

350ml cups milk

200g golden caster sugar

4 egg yolks

2 tbsps Chambord

75g dark chocolate, chopped finely

To make raspberry puree: Puree 6 cups of raspberries in a food processor, then press them through a mesh strainer with a flexible rubber spatula, or use a food mill.

Warm the half-and-half and sugar in a medium saucepan. Pour the cream into a large bowl and set a mesh strainer over the top.

In a separate medium bowl, whisk together the egg yolks. Slowly pour the warm milk into the egg yolks, whisking constantly, then scrape the warmed egg yolks back into the saucepan.

Stir the mixture constantly over medium heat with a heatproof spatula, scraping the bottom as you stir, until the mixture thickens and coats the spatula. Pour the custard through the strainer and stir it into the cream. Mix in the raspberry puree and lemon juice, then stir until cool over an ice bath.

Chill thoroughly in the refrigerator, but to preserve the fresh raspberry taste, churn the ice cream within 4 hours after making the mixture.

Once churned eat immediately or place into a freezer-proof container(away from prying house guests) and freeze until needed.

Having eaten many different meals in many different places, I often return to the popular theory that the best food is inversely proportional to the fanciness of the surroundings it is served in. While, of course, there are exceptions to the rule, stunning views often means sub-par grub at inflated prices, while dingy back streets filled with inauspicious looking eateries have to rely on good cooking and word of mouth.

Which is why I had high hopes for our meal at Phomac - a Vietnamese restaurant and takeaway recently opened at back of the Gamekeeper’s Lodge pub in Chesham - despite my Dad, who was staying with me and kindly offered to give me a lift, and both the Ewing and our friend Maz, dining companions for the evening, all remaining resolutely sceptical. Indeed, my Dad’s first words while trying to turn around in the car park with out blowing all the tyres on the hire car on potholes, was; ‘is this definitely it?’

It is true that this wouldn’t be the most obvious location for a taste of old Hai Noi. The Gamekeeper’s is a resolutely old school hostelry, complete with pool table, horse brasses tacked along the bar and a variety of stuffed curios and fishing memorabilia decorating the walls. You may say it has ‘character’; it also has very friendly staff and a decent, cheapish, pint of Bombardier which I find provides a good starting point to most evenings.

Having already studied the menu at home I already had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to try, starting with the lace-thin pork and prawn Bánh xèo, or sizzling cake, so called because of the sound the turmeric-tinged batter makes when hitting the pan. The crisp pancake was folded around slivers of meat, shrimps, spring onion and bean sprouts and came with the traditional fresh herbs and lettuce leaves to wrap plus a dish of fish sauce and chilli for dipping. Far more fun than a spring roll.

Given half a chance and the Ewing orders prawn summer rolls, my idea of the quintessential Vietnamese snack, after she fell in love with them when I took her for a birthday meal down the Kingsland Road a few years ago. The translucent rice wrappers came ready stuffed with their seafood, noodle and herb filling, rather than being an assemble yourself job, saving on their laundry bill, and made the perfect choice for a hot and sticky evening.

The ladie's mains were both soup based, with the Ewing choosing the beef pho and Maz the beef bún huế. Generous bowls of deep, lemongrass-scented, meaty stock, full of rare slices of beef and springy rice noodles and served with side dishes of beansprouts and herbs for scattering on top.

I went for the ‘dry’ Hai Noi seabream version of the bún huế, a dish served with all the soup accoutrements, but no stock. My bowl with its little nuggets of turmeric dusted fish, crunchy peanuts and bundles of zippy fresh mint and perilla leaves was the perfect balance of spicy, sour, salty and sweet.

Maz also ordered a plate of the delicate steamed prawns in a coconut cream and lemongrass flavoured sauce, while the Ewing insisted on the scallops fried with ginger and spring onion. Both were chock-full of sweet seafood, with the prawns being particularly good.

To finish Vietnamese coffee - rich and sweet with the addition condensed milk - available both hot or iced. They also have banana fritters and a changing selection of tropical fruit, but even a whiff of a durian would have been a step too far after such a feast.

While you can eat in the small restaurant area at the back, they were happy to serve our food to us in the pub, or even outside in the garden; a good option if you happen to visit on an unseasonably warm day, as we did, when you've already had two showers and it's not even seven o'clock. Casual surroundings also seem to encourage sitting back and talking lots of nonsense, which is something that us three are very practised at when we get together. Girls, gossip and good food, a perfect trilogy.

Harringay's Green Lanes - one of the longest roads in the capital, the heart of the Turkish community in London, and, according to my Southwark-dwelling friend, Stealth, even further away than deepest darkest Peru.

While it may be a bit of a schlep to get there from south of the river, the comforts of an air-conditioned tube carriage made things a lot more pleasant on a rather muggy Sunday afternoon. We also had the pleasure of the company of Stealth’s friend, CB, waiting for us, not to mention the prospect of a decent kebab and a cold lager to soak up the weekend’s excesses.

A high concentration of eateries in a small area helps keep competition fierce and prices low, so the majority of us can reasonably hope that even a second rate kebab sold here will dance all over the fatty, garlic sauce smothered offerings peddled from most kerbside vans in the land. Nevertheless, I had dutifully spent most of Friday afternoon at work Googling prospective options to eat, not wanting to take the chance of picking the duff one.

I finally picked Antepliler, mainly after reading that on one side of the main restaurant was a ‘liver shop’, selling skewers of grilled offal, while on the other side is their own baklava café. And while the prospect of grilled testicles was a little too daunting, sweet pastries and strong coffee makes a great end to most meals.

After a potentially comical mix up - where Stealth and the Ewing disappeared out of my sight for a minute and I found they were already sitting patiently inside the liver shop - we finally found the right door and were soon queuing up alongside most of North London for our dinner.

The wait to be seated was made more bearable, but rather hotter, by standing next to the wood fired oven and watching them slinging freshly made lahmancun - a kind of Turkish flatbread/pizza hybrid - being fired in their brick oven. And, at £1.50 for a takeaway lahmancun and salad wrap, this must surely rate as one of the biggest bargains west of the Bosphorus.

Mercifully the wait for a seat and the first round of beers was a short one, and we were son tucking in to shared plates of Turkish bread and salad; crisp borek parcels with their creamy feta and parsley filling; feather light whipped humous topped with pan fried lamb and garlic. A couple of paper thin lahmacun fresh from the oven, finished our first course; one topped with tomatoes, the other with garlic and parsley and both liberally covered with minced lamb.

I first realised my mixed grill was going to be on the larger side when, on ordering, our waiter lightly raised an eyebrow, before saying, 'just for you?' Of course, the towering plate that arrived was far more than any mere mortal could reasonably manage alone, but being forced to chose between just one grill or kebab dish proved an impossibility, and I'd rather have the meat sweats than any regrets about what I hadn't chosen.

In the end I managed pretty admirably, eating all the smoky lamb ribs, sweet, crispy chicken wings and lamb shish and half of the simit kofte - ground lamb mixed with parsley and bulgar wheat and spiced with red pepper flakes. Only a few chunks of chicken shish, a pile of chickpea-studded cous cous and half a blistered Turkish green chilli pepper eluded me.

The ladies enjoyed, clockwise from the top; Ali Nazik, diced lamb and peppers on a bed of strained yoghurt and smoked aubergine puree; Fistikli Kebab, skewered lamb shish with pistachio and cheese and parsley piyaz; and the Sogan Kebab, lamb kofte and baby shallots with a sweet and sour pomegranate dressing.

While I struggle to see how things could really go that wrong when your starting point is lamb and a open flame, all of the mains were impeccable. And, despite sharing several key ingredients, everything managed to taste distinctively different. Always an impressive feat.

On finishing our bottles of cold Efes - not mentioned on the menu, but offered, conspiratorially, to us by our waiter, alongside options of wine and raki - we made our way to the coffee shop next door for a sweet ending to the evening.

I might, as the Roscoe family are wont, sometimes be guilty of hyperbole when recanting tales, but I can genuinely say that during many years of Middle Eastern pastry eating - including in Turkey and Greece - none have matched the pistachio baklava at Antepliler.

Lurking underneath the buttery, syrup-soaked layers of pastry nestled a layer of the freshest, brightest pistachios I have eaten. And while they might not have the selection found at my other favourite, Tugra in Stoke Newington, just one forkful sent my spirits (and my blood sugar) soaring. We also shared a kitchen tile sized slice of Kadaif, a vermicelli topped sweetmeat, freshly cut from a huge pan on the counter, as well as a couple of walnut filled morsels which went rather nicely with my cup of peppermint tea.

Apparently, you can also find freshly made Künefe - a shredded vermicelli dough that is stuffed with cheese and fried in butter before being doused in syrup - at the Antepliler liver shop on the corner. A seldom seen speciality from the South of Turkey that is cooked on the adjacent grill to their offal kebabs and certainly worthy of a further visit to N1.

Needless to say, all of this cost little more than pocket change, with our mountain of food and drinks from both places coming to about twenty quid a head, before tip, with plenty of leftovers. Service, especially in the restaurant, was light-hearted without being too over-bearing.

The only down side came with the schlep across London to get back home; but the warm summer evening, and a plethora of places to stop for boxes of sugar dusted lokum and freshly baked pide on the way back to Manor Farm tube, it's a hardship that wasn't too hard to bear.

Until our recent visit there were only two facts I knew about New Malden. Firstly, thanks to the endless post-Christmas adverts on TV when I was growing up, I knew it has a giant DFS with a huge range of cut price furniture. Secondly, is that it’s home to one of the largest expatriate communities of South Koreans in Europe, and is said to be one of the most densely populated area of Koreans outside South Korea.

While a new sofa would be nice it was the second fact that really intrigued me, and, following the familiar low growl of our stomachs to guide us, we had taken a Saturday to drive all the way over to the wilds of south west London in time lunch.

While there are over 15 Korean cafes and restaurants in the area, favourites seem to be down to personal preference. While Giles, John and Jay had all reviewed the, relatively glam, Su La, on the edge of town, I decided to head straight for the heart of New Malden for a recce, finally choosing Jee Cee Neh on Burlington road, lured in by the smell of grilling meat and the mix of Korean and Western customers we spied through the window.

To drink a couple of cold Hite Ice Point; a sweetish and inoffensive Korean lager, brewed with their 'Freezing Point Filtration System' from rice. What it lacks in flavour, it makes up with its clean, refreshing fizz that helps cuts swathes through the rich fermented flavours common in Korean food.

Unlike most gaffs in the centre of London, banchan, the little snacks and side dishes that accompany every meal, are provided free. Our selection included the ubiquitous kimchi (a fermented pickled cabbage) alongside salted beansprouts and wonderful dish of boiled sliced potatoes in koch’ujang chilli sauce.

To start proper, some Gun mando; decent fried pork, glass noddle and veg dumplings with a poky dipping sauce; and a portion of Hea mul pa jeon; a rice based seafood pancake; studded with spring onions and assorted seafood, including shrimp and baby octopus, and fried until crisp outside and slightly soft and gooey within.

We also enjoyed the Japchae, a traditional dish usually served at parties or special occasions, consisting of sweet potato noodles stir fried with beef and vegetables and garnished with sesame seeds and chilli. While I normally find sweet potato noodles glutinous and gummy, these were lovely and bouncy and well complimented by the seared, smoky beef and crunchy veg.

Of course the real reason we were there was for some barbecue action. The Koreans are well known for their love of grilled protein, with the most popular type being bulgogi (literally ‘fire meat’), which can be beef, pork or chicken, marinated with a mixture of soy sauce, sugar, sesame oil, garlic and pepper. Wafer thin cuts such as pork belly, beef sirloin or brisket, are popular, cooking almost instantly on tabletop gas or charcoal grills or portable stoves.

We chose a double portion (all meats must be ordered as a minimum of two servings if you want them cooked tableside) of the LA galbi, or beef rib. This cut, named by Korean immigrants in America who found the butchers slice the meat differently in California, sees thin pieces of meat being sliced across the bone. If you want to try the traditional Korean cut, not offered here, look for Wang Galbi, literally meaning King Ribs. In this version the meat is filleted in layers away from the bone to form a uniformly thin concertina-like strip of beef.

Soon a metal hot plate was bought to the table, quickly followed by a weighty platter of thick beef strips that had been marinating in soy sauce, garlic, and sugar, and dishes of pajori, or spring onion salad, lettuce leaves (for wrapping), slices of raw green chilli and garlic, and ssamjang, a fermented bean and chilli paste.

While other, saner, people were off enjoying the August heat and barbecuing al fresco, it may have seemed like a slightly foolish decision to elect to sit by a fearsome propane fuelled grill. But that first taste of the seared rib, adorned with fresh chilli, garlic and sweet bean paste and snugly wrapped in its lettuce leaf cocoon, made it all seem worthwhile.

When it comes to deserts, the choice is easy; there isn't one. In stead large slices of chilled watermelon are bought to the table, unbidden, to finish the meal perfectly.

While the food was very good, I think my favourite part of the meal came as we were finishing our lunch. With the stoves shut down for the afternoon, the ladies from the kitchen came and sat at the table next to us to share several plates of pa jeon pancakes and some raucous gossip, reinforcing the sense of close-knit homeliness and generosity about the place.

This is food you know you've eaten; a powerful and pungent cuisine – the Japanese didn't, disparagingly, call the Koreans garlic eaters for nothing – that may linger on your breath and seep from your pores for hours after. But, as well as packing a serious umami punch, there were also deft touches of skill, and, unlike a cheap Chinese takeaway, it didn't leave me dry-mouthed and fuzzy headed through a sodium and MSG overload. And surely all those raw alliums must go some way counteract any strain on the heart from the heaps of fried food and grilled meat….

Cheltenham, a fine English spa town found nestled on the edge of the Cotswolds, famous for its racecourse, promenade and Regency architecture. Of course it might have been helpful for the Ewing to have told me about her distaste for the latter before we actually arrived, instead of announcing it as we were pulling into the car park. But after driving for what felt like most of the morning, I wasn't going to let lack of appreciation for the local buildings spoil my appetite for lunch at the Tavern.

While the elegant, white painted stucco facades of Cheltenham’s terraces might not have appealed (I found them rather lovely), the Ewing was much more receptive to the Tavern’s mix of worn wood, dark leather and Moorish tiling. Indeed it’s a very fine looking pub, with all of the little touches - ‘proper’ gingham napkins, posh toiletries in the bathrooms and glass bottles of both still and sparkling water that arrive at the table unbidden – that make you feel pretty excited about the food coming out of the kitchen.

Our starters, from the bites menu, certainly promised good things to come. Their signature Spam fritters, nicely presented in an old tin of the reformed meat product, were great. Fatty, salty and encased in a proper fish shop batter, accompanied by a poky and piquant dipping sauce to cut through the richness. The marbled squid was beautiful; a summer mosaic on a plate. It was the kind of thing I could have quite happily eaten far, far more of, especially when scooped up onto the crispy bread and slathered in the first rate aioli it was served with.

The cracking beginning made the mains seem even more disappointing in comparison. My rib eye – from the grill menu that ranges from a flat iron steak through to a range of sharing cuts, including cote du boeuf, chateaubriand and t-bones- a bit of a treat at £24, appeared rather grey, as though it had been gently simmered rather than given the fierce char-grilling that all steak deserves. While pleasingly pink inside, the lack of smoky crust on the steak’s exterior wasn’t helped by an absence of seasoning, or the strangely light and foamy béarnaise served alongside, that eluded any of the familiar thick, buttery glossiness.

Seasoning was a problem that also befell the Ewing’s burger; but, lack of sodium chloride aside, the patty was a good coarse grind, lettuce was shredded, the bun was bouncy and the cheese was Kraft. A solid effort, with all constituent parts present and correct, but lacking that little something. The rosemary shoestring fries, however, were monumental; a mix of crispy and soft, perfectly seasoned and impossible to stop eating.

Another decent accompaniment came in the form of the burnt end mash, which I was kindly allowed to swap for the advertised fries; chunks of tender beef nestling on top of fluffy potato and doused in a (very) piquant barbecue sauce. This looked rather lovely in its little enamel dish, and made a decent foil for my steak.

Things got firmly back on track with a pudding of shared hot chocolate ‘mousse’ with pistachio ice cream. The mousse turned out to be an, expertly timed, bitter chocolate fondant combining the perfect balance of a hot and gooey middle and crisp edges, and topped with an exemplary ball of smooth and nutty ice cream. It was also remarkably good value at £8, satisfying even the Ewing’s chocolate cravings.

While I couldn’t help feeling a little sad about my steak, I enjoyed our meal at the Tavern. It’s a lovely looking space with great, accommodating staff and an appealing menu that offers all the trendy fried things, burgers, dogs and French dips; as well as summery sounding plates such as rabbit papardelle with lemon and thyme; scallops with chorizo and sweet potato; whole roasted sea bass with anchovies and basil; and a wickedly Cara Maca cheesecake.

Add a large (and cheap) glass of Tempranillo, a bit of friendly chatter with the staff, and sunny stroll to see Cheltenham's Synagogue - described by Pevsner as 'one of the architecturally "best" non-Anglican ecclesiastical buildings in Britain' - and all seemed right with this civilised corner of the world.

Buttered crumpets, possibly the two most comforting words in the English language. As a child I loved nothing more than piling Lurpack on to the freshly toasted discs of dough and then watching the golden pool of butter slowly melting through the holes and oozing across the plate and down my fingers.

While no log fire on a winter's afternoon would be complete without a crumpet toasting on it, and they are almost mandatory after a night out, to fend off the fiercest of hangovers, I have never felt the urge to make my own. That was until I made - again for the first time - my own fruit curd and realised that it deserved something better than a slightly sweaty and stale supermarket crumpet to be spread upon.

Faffing about with frothy batters, double boilers and buttered rings may feel like more than a labour of love than good fun, but I can honestly say the small amount of work involved in the making was well rewarded by the first mouthful of fluffy crumpet and gloriously sharp/sweet curd, accompanied by the obligatory cup of tea and Test Match Special on the radio.

The idea of making curd came with our haul of blackcurrants from Peterlee PYO farm. While some were immersed in Estonian vodka, for a reappearance in a kir or two at Christmastime, the rest were languishing unloved at the back of the fridge.

I wanted to make something that captured the strident sharpness of the fruit, without resulting to smothering it in sugar, and a rich and bright curd seemed the perfect way. After rejecting the recipe on the Waitrose website - ten egg yolks seemed slightly excessive - I cobbled together a recipe to suit the amount of currants I had.

While making the curd its self was very simple - although slightly laborious, with the constant stirring that's needed to prevent fruity scrambled eggs - I found the flavour of the fruit, once the mixture had thickened, a little bit too sweet and bland. In a moment of inspiration I added the juice of a lime to the mixture, which added just enough edge to bring the bright berry flavour back to the fore.

Blackcurrant and Lime Curd

325g blackcurrants

130ml water

300g caster sugar

80g unsalted butter

3eggs + 1 egg yolk, beaten together

Juice of one lime or lemon (or to taste)

Cook blackcurrants with water until soft then press fruit through sieve into a clean heatproof bowl.

Place the bowl over a saucepan of simmering water and add the sugar and butter.

Remove from heat and allow to cool slightly before mixing in the eggs and extra yolk.

Return to heat, stirring constantly, until mixture coats the back of a spoon. Probably somewhere between 15-20 minutes. Don't stop stirring or allow the mixture to get to hot, or you'll end up with fruity scrambled eggs.

Once mixture is the right consistency add lime or lemon juice and mix thoroughly.

Sieve mixture again to get rid of any lumps then cool and use immediately or pot in sterilised jars.

If potted, refrigerate once cool and use within 3-4 weeks.

Before I even cracked open the bag of bread flour, I was already fully expecting making crumpets to become my new bête noire. While I consider myself a fine cook, baking, with its precise measurements, is a far less forgiving beast. As well as being pretty bad at bread dough, I've also got a pretty chequered history with pan or griddle cooked dough-based treats, such as Welsh cakes and waffles, making this a potential double-whammy of disaster.

It turns out I was pleasantly surprised with how easy these were to make; the key being low heat and some patience. After the dough (which only requires a quick mix, no kneading needed) spent an initial hour in the greenhouse, I added my bicarb and some water, let it bubble for a bit, and then gently cooked ladles of batter in some well buttered egg-poaching rings.

While they didn't initially appear as 'hole-y' as commercially made crumpets, one bite revealed the familiar honeycomb-like inner, running with rivulets of melting butter and blackcurrant curd. A truly top notch treat, and not just for tea time.

Crumpets

Adapted from the Hairy Bikers

350ml milk

225g strong white flour

125g plain flour

1 x 7g sachet fast-action dried yeast

1/2tsp fine salt

1tsp caster sugar

1tsp bicarbonate of soda

150ml warm water

butter, for greasing, plus extra to serve

Warm the milk in a saucepan very gently until tepid.

Sift the flours into a large bowl and stir in the yeast, salt and sugar.

Make a well in the centre of the mixture and stir in the warm milk. Beat well with a wooden spoon for 3-4 minutes, or until the batter is thick and elastic.

Cover the bowl with cling film and set aside in a warm place for an hour, or until the batter has doubled in size.

When the batter has risen, mix the bicarbonate of soda with the warm water, and beat the mixture into the batter for a couple of minutes. Set aside to rest in a warm place for a further 30 minutes. The mixture should have risen and be covered with tiny bubbles.

Heat a flat griddle pan or large heavy-based non-stick frying pan over a medium heat.

Generously butter the insides of your 9cm egg/crumpet rings and place them onto the griddle or into the frying pan.

Drop a small ladleful of batter into each ring. Don't fill the rings too full or the crumpets won't cook through. Cook for 9-12 minutes, or until lots of tiny bubbles have risen to the surface and burst and the tops look set.

Carefully lift off the rings, flip the crumpets over with a spatula and cook on the other side until golden-brown.

Repeat for the remaining crumpets.

Eat immediately with lashing of butter or leave to cool and toast before serving.

While the pastries of Portugal may not be as famous, or showy, as those of their European cousins, they have a proud and varied heritage of sweetmeats to rival any Parisian cake shop. Indeed the Portuguese princess, Catharine of Braganza is even credited with introducing ‘high tea’- a cuppa and cakes in the late afternoon - to the English.

Originally the love of deserts came from the Moorish occupation and the planting of sugarcane in Maderia in the 15 century. Later the convents and monasteries of Portugal produced large quantities of eggs, whose egg-whites were in demand for starching of their habits and robes, as well as fining local wines to remove impurities. This left large quantities of surplus egg yolks, resulting in the monks and nuns inventing copious sweet desert recipes to use them up.

One of the charms of Portuguese pastries is their wonderful names, mostly linked to the convents where many of them were created. You can find, amongst others, barrigas de freira (nun’s bellies), pao de Deu (bread of God - sweet buns, topped with coconut, that were served warm at our hotel breakfast every morning) papa de anjo (angel's chin) and toucinho do céu (heaven’s lard). With names like that, how could you resist?

No one could seriously contemplate a trip to Lisbon without hopping on Tram 15 along the seafront to Belem to visit the Jerónimos Monastery and eat a famed custard tart.

It is believed that these pastéis de nata were originally created here by Catholic monks in the monastery, before the Liberal Revolution of 1820 saw their production moving to the Casa Pastéis de Belém down the road. And their popularity over the last 200 odd years doesn't seem to have waned. You can almost guarantee, despite the deceptively large interior with its warren of tiled rooms inside, that there will be hordes queuing hungrily on the pavement. The day of our visit was no different, although you can slip the queue for counter service and find your own table indoors if you prefer to sit in to eat.

The tarts were - appropriately, given their origins - divine. Friable pastry cases gently cradling a warm creamy filling just on the point of beginning to curdle (traditionally served like this for the texture) sprinkled thickly with cinnamon and washed down with thick cups of bica.

While there are reports that the tarts served down the road may be even better, it's worth visiting at least once for cakes and coffee during your stay in the White City .

While Belem has its custard tarts, Sintra has its cheesecakes, and again, we couldn't leave without buying a couple of prettily wrapped tubes while on our trip up into the mountains; these are not the quivering slices of confection from across the Pond that most of us are more familiar with, but more little sugar and egg yolk-enriched tarts with the addition of fresh cheese curds. They most reminded me of our own treacle tart, with their dense, tooth-achingly sweet filling. Good in small doses.

After taking a quiet stroll through the steep streets of Alto Barrio on a Sunday morning, we felt well deserving of a little snack. While many bars and restaurants still remain closed on Sunday, a display of cakes and cool drinks, including some honey buns marked as the speciality of the house, lured us through the door of Pastelasria Camoes on Rua do Loreto.

This was a great little spot, crammed with locals catching up over coffee and tourists, like us, randomly pointing to the selection of pastries and snacks in the glass cabinets while the staff patiently tried to explain what they all were. Electing to stand and drink at the counter, we had a great view of all and sundry, the perfect place for some people watching.

The broas de mel turned out to be wonderful, crumbly little cinnamon and honey biscuits, which I subsequently found out originated in Madeira, and are traditionally served at Christmas with a sweet liqueur. In the absence of said liqueur, I had to make do with several cold Super Bocks; at a Euro each, it would have been rude not to. The crispy half sandwich/half pastry ham and cheese toasties are also well worth sampling, despite the veritable snowstorm of crumbs they produce.

The creation Ginjinha or simply Ginja, a liqueur made by infusing sour cherries in aguardente, can, again, be attributed to holy orders. This time the credit goes to Francisco Espinheira, a Galician friar, who found leaving the fruit, plus cinnamon and herbs, in a bottle of spirits produced a potent and tasty drink that was soon to being downed all over town.

The most famous bar, by far, is the tiny spot by the Praça de São Domingos, This hole-in-the-wall features a counter, shelves lined with bottles of ginja, and very little else. Although not a place to linger, it is almost an essential experience to squeeze in and order a shot, before gathering outside to drink it on the (sticky, cherry pit-covered) cobbles. To prolong the holiday feeling (or to pick up something else to collect dust at the back of the cupboard) you can also pick up bottles for around 10 Euros.

Rossio is also home to the celebrated Café Nicola and, directly opposite, Café Suica. Hearing the range of pastries was better at the latter, we chose to call in and pick up a box to take away. While I'm not sure I could accurately tell you what we ordered - The Ewing best described them as; ‘very sugary’, ‘very sugary with dried fruit’, and ‘very sugary with coconut’ – they were all very tasty, if not deliriously sweet.

As well as cakes and pastries, the Portuguese also have a huge variety of deserts, again heavily influenced by eggs and sugar, but also featuring fresh fruit, nuts and chocolate. Our first night in Lisbon, after the obligatory piri piri chicken and chips at Bonjardim, we went wandering the streets of Chiado in search of a late night sugar fix. After, sadly, discovering the famous Ginjingha bar had already shut up shop for the night, we chanced upon O Lirio, a friendly snack bar and pastelería.

Offering a range of cheap meals, pastries and, judging from the posters in the windows, plates of snails and Super Bock. We stuck with the cakes to go with our beer, the Ewing choosing a plate of the famous pastel de nata, while I couldn't resist a slice of the quivering crème caramel in the cabinet, as smooth as a brylcreamed car salesman, with the perfect ratio between the egg yolk-enriched cooked cream and puddle of bitter caramel.

As there aren't so many Nuns around any more there is now a surplus of egg whites after the yolks have been used for creme caramel and custard tarts. Cunningly, these can now be found in another typical Portugese pud, the Molatov. This is very similar to a creme caramel, being cooked in a ring shaped mould in a bain marie, but is made of whisked egg whites and sugar instead. While I didn't have time to try any, I rather like the way they nestled up to each other in the cabinets of pastelrias and restaurants across the town.

A proper summer holiday would scarcely feel complete without a night lost to a local cocktail or two. In Lisbon we made full use of the Brazilian connection by visiting the plaza at Martim Moniz to drink caiprinhas as the sun went down. With the cocktails being 5 Euros a pop (rather eye-watering compared to the price of local beer or wine) they also contained eye-watering amounts of cane spirit, making them a bit of a bargain. Sitting outside, watching the sun set on the Castelo above and listening to the DJs spinning a few tunes may be the perfect way to spend a late summer’s evening.

Arriving home, sans jumper, to rainy Heathrow from balmy Lisbon a couple of weeks ago, I had to concede defeat that autumn was well and truly on the way. While dark mornings and chilly toes seem sad after such a cracking summer, there is also the excitement of log fires, red wine, Sunday roasts and steamed sponge puddings to look forward to.

The end of summer also brings a glut of unripe tomatoes, those steadfast fruits that have stubbornly remained green. While my allotment owning colleague, Oliver, assures me storing them with ripe bananas will soon turn them red, I love the crunchy, freshness of pickled green tomatoes or a good dollop of green tomato chutney on a ham sandwich. And so it was with some delight that I found a table laden with them at a recent trip to the farmer's market.

Of course, man can't live on pickles alone - although there was a point as a student, circa 1999, where I did try - so with my cache safely home, I began to think of other ideas to use them all up. Salsas, sauces, curried, fried and stuffed, the humble tomato is a pretty flexible friend in the kitchen. However, it was the idea of baking a cake with them that really piqued my interest.

While tomatoes in a cake may seem pretty grim to some, when you consider that carrots, beetroot and courgette can all make delicious baked goods, adding both texture and moisture to the batter, it doesn't seem like quite such a crazy idea. If you actually try an unripe tomato, they surprisingly taste of very little; not developing there sweet, savoury flavour that we are so familiar with until they finish ripening. Making them a perfect building block for any other flavourings you want to mix in with them.

I decided to use mine in a traditional US style coffee cake (one to drink with a cup, rather than containing the beans themselves), topped with a rubbly, cinnamon and ginger infused streusel. Internet wisdom also seems to suggest that under ripe tomatoes can happily replace both rhubarb and carrots in most cake and muffin recipes, and can even be used instead of apples in a pie. While that may be a step too far, even for me, my efforts with this cake proved surprisingly successful.

While the finished streusel cake garnered a resounding two thumbs up, being moist, spicy and crumbly, the neutral flavour of the tomatoes meant I would probably try throwing in a handful of raisins or some chopped walnuts, or both, to the batter the next time, for added intrest; all the better if the raisins have been soaked in some dark rum beforehand. If you like icing on your cake, then skip the streusel step in the recipe below and top the finished, and cooled, cake thickly with cream cheese icing.

Green Tomato Cake with Cinnamon Streusel Topping
(Adapted from Earth Outlet)

120g white flour

120g wholemeal flour

200g light brown sugar

3 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp ground ginger

1/4 cup vegetable oil

2 eggs, beaten

200g finely chopped green tomatoes

50g raisins or chopped walnuts (optional)

½ tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

½ tsp salt

Set oven to 180c and grease a 8 inch square baking tin.
Put both the flours, the sugar, 1 tsp of cinnamon and the ginger in a mixing bowl, add the vegetable oil and stir with a fork until you have a mixture that resembles rough breadcrumbs.
Take half a tea cup of mixture from the bowl and mix in the rest of the cinnamon. Keep to the side, as this will make the streusel topping.
Add the tomatoes, eggs, raisins or nuts (if using) baking soda, baking powder and salt to the rest of the mixture and mix thoroughly.
Add mixture to tin and scatter the streusel topping evenly over.
Bake for 25 minutes, or until a skewer inserted into the middle of the cake comes out clean.
Leave for 20 minutes in tin before turning out onto a baking rack to cool. Cut into squares to serve.
The cake is very moist and is best eaten as soon as possible, but will keep for 3-4 days in an airtight tin.

While the traditional cuisine of Portugal could never be described as fancy or refined, I love the simple combinations of uncomplicated ingredients and bold flavours (even if the surfeit of fried meat and fish may eventually cause even the most hardened lettuce-avoider crave a nice plate of greens after a week on Iberian shores).

With my own food memories from this beautiful country ranging from sardines straight off the boat, strewn with handfuls of crunchy sea salt and grilled over the barbecue; the waxy boiled potatoes, doused in butter; fuzzy-skinned almonds and figs picked and eaten straight off the tree; wobbly baked custards doused in bittersweet caramel; cinnamon flecked rice puddings; bottles of icy vinho verde that fizz on your tongue and snifters of sweet ruby port at the end of an evening, it's no wonder that I was keen to crack on with eating and drinking my way around Lisbon.

On family holidays to the Algarve when I was younger there was always at least one meal of crisp-skinned spit roasted rotisserie chicken to look forward to. Maybe it is nostalgia, but the chicken always seemed juicier and more ‘chicken-y’, with its faintly unnerving, corn-fed yellow hue. As a child just a little salt and lemon was all the seasoning I needed, but by the time I was approaching my teenage years I had been introduced to the delights of piri piri sauce, hot and fragrant with copious amounts of bird’s eye chillies and garlic.

Of course, a famous high street restaurant chain means we are never far from spicy chicken burgers and bottomless soft drinks now, but there is still something special about eating it here in Portugal, and of the many purveyors in Lisbon, Bonjardim is reputed to be the best.

Yes its busy, yes the service can be brusque and yes, you will probably be serenaded by an accordion player and asked if you want to buy a colourful hat or a beaded bracelet from the salesman that patrol up and down the Rua das Portas de Santa Antao, but at just 13 Euros for a whole bronze-skinned, sticky chicken to share between two, it’s all well worth it.

As well as the poultry, provided with communal pots of piri-piri and paint brushes for extra applications of sauce, we chose chips (Portugal’s fried potatoes must rank up there with the best) and a mixed salad. We also tried a (giant) dish of old-fashioned creamed spinach, which appeared faintly menacing with its nuclear green shade, but turned out to be the surprise hit of the night; the earthy, spiced vegetable toned down with liberal amounts of creamy béchamel. Rather odd, but very addictive.

Almost opposite Bonjardim is the Casa do Alentejo, home of the society of the Alentejo people (a Portuguese region ’beyond the Tagus’) in Lisbon. From the inauspicious frontage of the building you could be forgiven for walking past, but this place is well worth a visit, even if it’s just to look around the stunning Moorish interior.

As well as marvelling at the stunning courtyard and staircases we also enjoyed a meal in one of the beautiful azulejo- tiled rooms upstairs. The strip-lighting is harsh, the room is pretty noisy and food is simple, but this was one of the best meals of our trip.

We both chose the Alentejo pork with clams, one of Portugal’s most famous dishes. Rather confusingly this is supposed to have originated in the Algarve, but disputed origins aside we both quickly demolished the sticky, slow-cooked meat, briny bivalves and cubes of fried potato. As is common with many Portuguese restaurants, green vegetables were nowhere to be seen, but they did offer a large pudding menu to please the Ewing.

I chose the brilliantly titled toucinho do céu, or heaven’s lard, so named as it would have been originally made with pork fat (and, I presume, tasted heavenly). This was a light almond cake, soaked in sugar syrup and with a little citrus zing at the end that, thankfully, lived up to its name.

The Ewing was swayed by the Sercia cake, an Alentejan specialty made with eggs, milk, sugar and cinnamon. Normally served with prunes from Elvas (greengages preserved in a sugar syrup), this was given a twist by being accompanied by some fantastic, inky and rich prune ice cream, not often a word you would associate with the much maligned dried fruit.

A great evening was rounded off with complimentary shots of Alenjento mint liqueur, the perfect way to freshen your breath after dinner, while getting you even more hammered.

Possibly the highlight of the ourwhole trip was our dinner at Don Pedro in Cascais, a seaside town half and hour along the coast from Lisbon. This tiny little, picture postcard, restaurant, tucked down a cobbled alley behind the town hall is a spot well worth seeking out. As we were the first to arrive (booking is recommended) we got the pick of the tables in their courtyard, and quickly got stuck into bottle of freezing Vinho Verde in the shade of the cherry trees.

While this tucked away setting might be rather romantic, it’s also rustic, friendly and, stupidly, cheap. We shared some gigantic, lemony piri piri prawns, with plenty of bread to dunk in the fluorescent spiced oil, to start, followed by cod fish ‘Don Pedro’; a platter laden with two huge salt cod fillets, smothered in peppers, onions and olives and served with the best boiled spuds I have possibly eaten, plus puds, port and wine for about 30 Euros a head.

Puddings were forgettable – crème caramel had turned to sweet scrambled eggs, and the base of the almond tart far too thick and solid– and there was a veritable slick olive oil keeping our cod main afloat - but with a glorious 2008 LBV port to round off our mean, and such a wonderful setting, it was easy enough to forgive.

Another little gem was fishing tackle shop-cum-trendy bar Sol y Pesca, down in the trendy Cais do Sodré. While this funky little hole in the wall originally sold rods and floats to fishermen, it now sells fish and wine to the beautiful people.

The concept is a simple one - select your choice from colourful selection of tinned fish and seafood lining the walls, and they'll serve them to you with baskets of corn bread, fresh lemon and a cold beer or glass of vino.

We enjoyed a selection of tuna belly, octopus and smoked sardines, washed down with a bottle of red from the Douro, while we watched them paint the street outside an alarming shade of pink. No. I've got no idea either, but the fumes from the paint, plus lots of booze, made for an interesting walk back up the hill home later.

Our penultimate day saw us make a hot and sweaty trudge from the Castelo down through the narrow streets of the Alfama, ending up at the Estrela de Se, by the cathedral, for a late lunch. A lovely dark and cool spot, with its discreet 19 Century wooden booths decorated with beautiful azulejo tiles, offering a small menu of simple lunch dishes and tapas-type bar snacks.

I chose the alheira, a type of Portuguese sausage, made (usually) chicken and bread. Although its name derives from the Portuguese word for garlic (alho) it was originally invented by the Jews of Portugal, who attempted to deceive the Portuguese Inquisition by hanging the, porkless, sausages in their smokehouses to throw them off the scent.

While I loved the story behind this dish, I found the filling of the sausage itself a bit too 'paste' like and lacking in seasoning. Great chips, though, and the Ewing enjoyed her plate of cured meats and cheeses, including a very nice goat that went perfectly with our bottle of vinho verde.

While we hadn't planned any fancy meals during our trip, walking past the window of Solar dos Presuntos (the House of Ham), - piled high with lobsters, clams, and of course the obligatory legs of glistening ham - necessitated a change of plan. And with reservations made, and wearing our best bib and tucker, I was very much looking forward to our visit.

Things got off to a good start with plates of green olives, crusty bread with garlic butter, sheep's cheese and salami. Of course, the piece de resistance was the cured mountain ham the restaurant takes its name from- shaved into wafer thin pieces that dissipated into a cloud of smoked porkiness as I draped them over my tongue.

There was a slightly awkward moment when the Ewing nearly managed to break the i-Pad as she was scrolling through the wine list, but thankfully it unfroze in time for us to pick a nice bottle of red from the Dao. If you aren't sure what to drink the handy apps allow you to match wine with your food, search by region and price or choose a recommended bottle (although one of their top choices did seem to be a Matteus rose, Hmmm).

My cabrito al forno (roasted kid) was quite brilliant. The meat had been marinaded in a spice paste before roasting and was a perfect mix of crisp and fatty, there was even some baby goat ribs to nibble on. The only downer was the double dose of carbs; sides of both rice and boiled spuds, as nice as they were, proved rather too much, with only a solitary wheel of orange and a couple of strips of pepper contributing toward my five a day.

The Ewing also enjoyed her feijoada de marisco, a seafood stew with prawns, clams and white beans in a tomato sauce, served in a hefty portion alongside heaps of fluffy white rice but sans any greenery (aside from a sprinkle of parsley).

Needless to say, with second helpings of our mains being offered to both of us, puddings were out of the question - although we were given strong coffee and two red carnations to finish the meal. Resolutely old school, but still rather sweet.

Lunch on our trip up into the mountains was at Restaurante Regional de Sintra, a reassuringly old-fashioned and dependable sort of place, tucked in a side road to the ornate Town Hall, a few hundred metres from Sintra’s train station. The menu is a roll call of solid classics and I felt compelled to order the Beefsteak Portuguese Style, which came wrapped in cured mountain ham, doused in a glossy gravy and topped with crisp discs of fried potato.

The Rough Guide had given a mention to the seafood crepes, which the Ewing ordered and tucked into with as much gusto as is sensible with something that was served from the kitchen at a temperature hotter than the sun’s surface. As well as large Atlantic prawns decorating the top and clams nestling in the tomato-tinged béchamel there ware, rather bizarrely, strands of retro crab stick strewn throughout, which only made her like it more.

Although the Ewing’s not the most gracious sharer, we had agreed to swap our dishes half way through lunch, for a proper take on surf and turf. As the house wine was 4 Euros for a half bottle, we could also swap between red and white when we swapped plates. Now that’s democracy in action.

Forget about big Macs and Whoppers while in Lisbon. The favourite Portuguese fast food is the bifana (pork) or prego (beef) roll, served on crispy bread, with lashings of yellow mustard. The best bifanas are reported to come out of the kitchens of Bire Gare, next to Rossio train station. They offer a full menu of steaks, rice and seafood, but most people come here to stand at the counter, drink cold Sagres and eat hot bifanas.

Our sandwiches, one of each, were as heavenly as promised. The prego featured a steak of tender and well seared meat, while the bifana was magnificent; juicy and sloppy and stuffed with strips of pork. Those who fear for their arteries should probably avoid looking at the frying pan full of dripping in which meat is cooked that can be seen through the front window. Rather sobering (even after all the lager we had consumed during the evening), but utterly delicious.

Predictably, old Ronald has decided to cash in on the slice of the action, electric billboards advertising the ‘McBifana’ were all over the city on our visit. While I can’t vouch for their (in) edibility, I can vouch for the bifanas at Bire Gare, who also make fabulous suckling pig croquettes - like a crispy pancake full of sweet, shredded pork - and crispy salt cod fritters, too.

With the fresh fish and seafood, local wine, and delicious cakes and ice creams consumed during our stay (and the very reasonable prices, to boot) my opinion of Portuguese food has only been cemented. And for those who can't face another sardine, jump on tram 15 up to the Alfama, grab a cold Sagres, and enjoy the wonder of a view like this.

Despite the fact that I now own slippers, drink bitter and watch the weather forecast with studied interest (even if I've got no plans to actually leave the house), I still like to convince myself I'm riding the first flush of youth, rather than bobbing along towards middle age.

But finally, a few weeks ago, when the Ewing suggested visiting High Wycombe's Pann Mill for their Heritage Open Day and I actually felt excited about it, I had to finally face the truth; I am getting old (even if I hoped to restore my credibility slightly, by starting the day with hangover induced by the discovery of a bottle of homemade clementine vodka stashed at the the back of the freezer the night before).

Most people, even hardened Wycombites, will only ever see the edge of the waterwheel poking out from the trees as they drive along the A40; an inauspicious sight, and not one that seems worthy of much further investigation. But go through the gate and a whole secret world emerges, with its carefully tended lawns and flowerbeds, hidden steps, bridge over the river, and even a bench for reflecting and watching the wheel go round.

On their summer open days (usually held three times a year) the mill is also accessible, and, water levels permitting, you can climb the steep staircase to the first floor, to see the grinding stones in action. The recent wet weather turned out to be a bit of a bonus, and the River Wye was flowing faster than ever just in time for our visit.

The history of Pann Mill is one of those stories that make you feel positive about the powers of preservation and community action. While first mentioned in the Doomsday book, in 1086, and rebuilt on at least three occasions until its most recent reincarnation, erected in 1759, it looked like the town planners of the 1960s were going to have their wicked way and direct a ring road right through the green space of Wycombe Rye, bulldozing the mill in their wake.

Fortunately a community action group clubbed together and, although the Mill and associated cottages were knocked down to facilitate a potential road widening scheme in the 1970s, a donation from Marks and Spencer in 1984, to commemorate their centenary, meant the High Wycombe Society could design and build a, much smaller, mill building. While originally this was just to house and preserve the original workings of the mill, there were soon plans to resurrect the water wheel and start milling flour on the River Wye again.

While it’s been a long and slow journey - funded almost entirely by donations and the work of volunteers - finally, in May 2000, the wheels were finally set in motion and Pann Mill began to grind its own flour once again. The mill now opens its doors three times a year, throughout the summer, for visitor open days where you can see the cast iron water wheel turning again, buy freshly milled flour, enjoy tea and cakes (or a good old chocolate crispy treat), and talk to some of the volunteers involved in the project.

As well as being a day for celebrating the resurrection of the mill there was also the bittersweet news that local volunteer, Margaret Simmonds, who had tended the gardens for so many years, was finally, at the age of 80 something, hanging up her trowel and moving closer to her family. Margaret has kept the garden looking picturesque for many years, and as a member of the Pann Mill Restoration project, The High Wycombe Society and the Friends of High Wycombe Library, her presence in the town will be keenly missed.

It’s only a tiny space, but the wait to ascend to the first floor to see the grinding stones in action proved to be worth it when the, rather dapper, miller was on hand to share his wisdom. On descending the stairs again you can see the freshly milled flour passing through the chute into a tray at the bottom. Not only is it rather exciting to have wheat freshly milled minutes from your doorstep, but the Gallant grain used comes from Hill Farm in Stokenchurch, less than 10 miles away.

The wheat, still warm from its grinding, is then taken outside to be weighed and bagged for up for sale. At a pound per kilogram, the Ewing wasted no time in stocking up her reserves for her recently found love of making bread; this loaf below being baked by her very own hands using this Hobbs House recipe, with the addition of Pann Mill flour to the sourdough starter.

Freshly baked bread made with Hill Farm wheat, grown locally in Stokenchurch and milled at Pann Mill in High Wycombe, spread with blackberry jam made from berries from my front garden. This is the very good life.

Half way through our bun and dumpling feast at Royal China, the Ewing sagely declared that, if she was down to her last tenner, she’d find the nearest Chinese and blow it all on dim sum and green tea. And for once, who was I to argue?

Of all the things I enjoy eating, and there are many, few give me as much pleasure as going for dim sum. In a world where we have apparently re-wired the synapses in our brains with a constant stream of social media, and are no longer able to concentrate for long periods, it’s the perfect food. An array of steamed, fried, boiled and baked morsels, both sweet and savoury, that keep appearing from the kitchen until you surrender your chopsticks in defeat.

After what felt like weeks of Portuguese food and summer salads the craving for something spicy and sweet took hold and I persuaded the Ewing to drive over to Harrow for afternoon dumplings at Royal China. While most will be familiar with their Baker Street branch, they also have homes in Canary Wharf, Fulham, Harrow and Queensway; and while it would may have been quicker to jump on the train to Marylebone, instead of navigating the charms of the Hanger Lane Gyratory on a Saturday afternoon, driving meant we could visit one of the many Chinese supermarkets in the area on the way home.

In contrast to the rather drab Station Road it sits on the interior is pretty glam and glitzy, with a special shout out to the black and gold glam of the ladies loos, always important when you've drunk a few pots of green tea.

When your greedy, like me, over ordering is a common hazard - this time, however, we stuck firmly to three choices each, plus a seventh plate for good luck. The dim sum menu, offered until 5 o’clock each evening, it a pretty traditional affair, categorised in to different sections, boiled baked, fried etc, and with lots of helpful pictures for the uninitiated or indecisive.

First out were some ferociously hot and crisp pork puffs. Triangles of flaky, short pastry - augmented with plenty of lard, no doubt – stuffed with sweet and spicy strands of barbecued meat. While the best I’ve ever tried, at Tim Ho Wan in Hong Kong, remain unlikely to be beaten any time soon, these were pretty fine specimens.

Next up were fried Vietnamese spring rolls, with their crispy rice paper wrapping and crunchy vegetable and prawn centres, and, from the specials, a rather curious, and tasty, dish of sea spiced taro. Here the batons of purple-tinged tuber had been pan fried, to produce a good crunch on the outside while retaining a fluffy centre, before being doused in a spicy salt.

Cheung fun, or steamed rice noodle roll, can be a bit of a divisive dish, with its slithery, chewy dough initially being somewhat of an acquired texture. The first time I tried the dish, many moons ago while out trying to impress a date in a bad restaurant in Chinatown, I underestimated just quite how glutinous they would be, and spent a few uncomfortable minutes masticating desperately while still trying to appear alluring (it obviously didn’t work, as we broke up soon afterwards). Thankfully I persevered, and they are now one of my favourite dim sum. With this example, with its giant, steamed prawn filling and moat of soy dipping sauce, proving exemplary.

Finally was a tower of steamer baskets stuffed full of jewel-like morsels. My favourite of these were the steamed scallop dumplings with their paper thin wrappers encasing chunks of sweet bivalve, and the xiao long bao, or Shanghai soup dumplings - innocuous looking bundles filled with minced pork and cubes of a jellied stock which liquefies into a boiling broth as the dumpling are steamed. The best way to eat them is to tease them onto a spoon before dousing in black vinegar piercing the wrapper with a chopstick, and slurping the hot contents. Not very dignified, but very tasty.

To finish were the Ewing’s favourite, steamed buns. While she normally favours the classic char sui filling, I persuaded her to branch out and try the chicken and mushroom, with the promise that we could buy some of the chilled pork buns, to cook at home, from the supermarket later. While not as good as the porcine rendition, there is still something intensely pleasing about biting through the puffy, chewy dough to the meaty filling within.

We were too stuffed to manage any of the sweet stuff, although they offer the obligatory custard tarts alongside steamed custard buns, deep fried sesame balls and mango pudding. If you want to go really retro the table next to us were devouring plates of sesame coated battered toffee apples and banana.

The plates may cost a touch more than the other dim sum restaurants in Harrow (to be investigated at a later date), but, that said, at just a few quid for a plate of freshly cooked dumplings, pastries or buns, it still feels like a steal, and the quality and attention to detail is high. Pots of Chinese tea are the classic accompaniment to (keeping the cost even lower), although a full drinks list is available and, judging by the conversation of raucous couple on a first date sitting next to us, the wine certainly does the trick.

Sated with tasty morsels, we drove over to Alperton to visit Loong Fung, a giant Chinese supermarket on Glacier Way. This place is vast – consisting of a cavernous wholesale shop, selling everything from pomeloes to hot roast pork - with dedicated sections for the tradition the foods of the Philippines, Thailand, Vietnam, Malaysia, Korea and Japan - as well as a large cookware section, butcher, fishmonger and an adjoining Chinese restaurant.

Needless to say, I was in raptures, but managed to restrict myself (mostly) to some essentials; a new stack of bamboo steamer baskets and lid; some paper thin pancake wrappers; a tray of ready to cook char sui buns; and a selection of super fresh Chinese greens. The butchery and fishmongers offer delights such as chicken feet, gizzards and beef tongue - complete with its bobbly black skin - and there is plenty of frozen meat, fish and seafood available too. Including lots of bargains, especially when buying bulk items, hard to find fruit, herbs and vegetables and frozen dim sum.

Of course, I couldn’t resist throwing a few of the more random things I spotted into the trolley. Banana ketchup from the Philippines, cheese and ham flavoured pretzel sticks, chocolate ‘Pocky’ biscuits with a banana flavoured coating, and a few cans of ‘Kickapoo Joy Juice’, a citrus beverage that tasted rather like Mountain Dew. There is also a cream cake and baked goods section, featuring, among other things, fresh mochi balls, walnut cookies and pandan cakes, where I picked up both curry chicken and custard (thankfully not together) buns for breakfast the next day.

And while the prices for our late lunch may have been a little above the tenner the Ewing talked about blowing earlier, our bun and green tea feast at Royal China only just hit 15 quid a head, with the 13% service charge (formal, but friendly) included, proving that cheap and cheerful can also be classy.

Our trip to the Old Spot started - as is customary on the first morning of each holiday the Ewing and I embark on - with our carefully made plans to ‘leave nice and early’ already in tatters and a mostly silent journey down the M4, punctuated by the odd burst of acrimonious finger pointing.

Just when it looked as if the day couldn’t get any darker, we pulled into Wells just at the moment the heavy, dark clouds above finally decided to burst and the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and send us in a loop around the city. To cap it all, the Ewing picked the one local waiting at the bus stop that wanted to regal us with the full story of his brother’s window cleaning business, rather than give us directions to the restaurant.

So, I was thankful, when we finally made it to our lunch reservation, that the interior of this charming restaurant - headed up by chef Ian Bates, who worked with Simon Hopkinson at Bibendum in the early 1990s - was one of the most welcoming I have experienced for a while. The room was described accurately and succinctly by Jay Rayner as ‘handsome ‘in his Guardian review, and it’s a convivial and homely space, with just a touch of glitz from the mosaics studding the bar. As a boon, the sun had started to emerge from behind the last remaining grey clouds that edged the sky, and we managed to bag a table on the mezzanine level, with glorious views across the green to Wells Cathedral.

Lunch is a pretty straight forward affair, consisting of a set menu with four choices per course; two courses for £15.50, three for £18.50. The style of cooking is described on the website as’ European’, and is driven by simplicity and the seasons. Most critically, for the terminally greedy such as myself, the menu is full of the sort of Hopkinson-esque food you actually want to eat.

We started with slices of good sourdough and butter and a bottle of cold Orchard Pig cider, a slightly sweet, oak-tinged sparkler carrying a stealthy punch at a, dangerously quaff-able, 6%.

My starter was a dish of late summer simplicity that may well be one of the best things I have eaten recently. Nuggets of punchy goat’s cheese and salty black olives nestled between peppery rocket and strips of roasted courgette - strewn with crisp chilli breadcrumb for crunch - while leaves of mint provided a zippy freshness.

The Ewing’s plate of ‘fish hor’s d’ouvres’ sounded like something from a retro 70s cocktail party, and turned out to be a charmingly pretty and perfectly formed little selection. A very good taramasalata was quickly scooped up with the homemade spiced wafer, the haddock fritter crisp and greaseless, while the pickled herring and crisp cucumber sang of the sea.

The roast chicken with mushrooms and tarragon was sadly finished, and so I turned to the crisp-skinned roast mackerel fillet, served with houmous, harissa, and sweet and sour aubergine. This was a lovely, meze inspired, plate of food, again with the flavours of a late, hot summer, which showed a good balance between the bold flavours.

The perfectly wilted baby spinach particularly pleased, as it is something - like fluffy rice or crisp pastry - I have never been able to successfully recreate at home, usually ending up with little more than a teaspoon of gritty, slimy mush from my bag of fresh leaves.

The Ewing tucked into her ham hock hash, with its fried egg hat and moat of mustardy cream sauce, with aplomb. This is the sort of clever comfort food that cheers and heartens, even more so when someone else has made it for you and you can enjoy it knowing you're not going to be faced with the pile of washing up in the sink afterwards.

Puddings were a given and, despite the quality of cooking on show in the previous courses, trumped the lot. My rice pudding with poached quince was nigh on perfect; the nursery blandness of the creamy vanilla-speckled rice perfectly contrasting against the florescent glow of the sweet-sour fruit.

From the (very) small spoonful the Ewing was prepared to part with, plus the evidence of her keenly scraped glass, the peanut and chocolate parfait was another winner. A pudding whose glorious depths of crisp peanut brittle, light peanut mousse and dark chocolate sauce belied innocent outside appearances.

Service was friendly and slick and, despite our late appearance leaving us as the only ones left in the restaurant, there was no sense of hurry to see us out the door. Not wanting to drag their afternoon service any longer ,we declined the offer of coffee and made up the back steps and towards the cathedral, by now bathed in the warm fuzzy glow of the afternoon sun.

So again from the darkness came light; the famously temperamental British weather forming the perfect analogy for the start of our trip.

As has been well reported on this blog - despite stiff competition from Saturday lie in - my three favourite words remain long birthday lunch. This year, the birthday lunch had the added advantage of being proceeded by a Saturday lie in, making it, already, doubly good.

Our joy continued when – after walking though Bristol’s Bear Pit and up the colourful Stoke’s Croft Road to Bell’s Diner, location of said birthday lunch – our opening greeting of ‘how’s your day so far’ was delivered in a rich West Country burr so sweet and thick, like clotted cream topped with honey, that it took a minute or two for our urban ears to decipher.

But, Bell’s Diner is the sort of place that would, I imagine, make all but the steeliest heart, feel happy; and from that initial moment our visit was nothing but a delight. The interior is a comfy jumble of mismatched furniture; with great racks of wine lining one wall; the words from Jerusalem hanging - above a table laden with loaves of fresh bread - on another; and all topped off by a, working, record player in the corner, complete with a box of vinyl records for sale.

The lunchtime menu starts with little snacks of bread, olives and salami, followed small tapas-y types dishes – at priced at £4 each or £10 for three - and some larger tapas-y like things, which can also be pimped into ‘main’ dishes come the evening.

The drinks menu is worth a mention, too. With its carefully chosen selection of ales - from the Wild Brewing Co., Dawkins and the Camden Brewery amongst others – and wines, including the uber trendy 12 Volts, a red from Mallorca. It was a bottle of the latter - a birthday present from my father, so cheers, Dad – with which we chose to kick off the day’s drinking, and it proved a good choice with its sweet red fruit and leathery undertones.

The colourful homemade pickles were little piquant bursts of joy - particularly notable were the sweet shards of crisp globe artichoke - while the famed Abernethy butter, all the way from County Down, was quickly and thickly lavished on slices of warm bread.

The lamb Ste Menhold - slices of tender braised lamb’s breast, coated in breadcrumbs and fried, based on an Elizabeth David dish - came with a quite magnificent, dill-spiked tartare sauce that had us fighting over the third crispy slice to mop it up with. I won; well it was my birthday….

Surprise standout of the afternoon went to the slow cooked cauliflower with brown butter and pine nuts, a creamy, smoky, nutty dish that turned the bland brassica into a delight, while the cured herring with new potatoes crème fraiche and fish roe was a light and gentle plate with surprisingly clean and delicate flavours.

From the larger dishes on the menu we shared the girolles, ceps and cherry tomatoes on fried sourdough, draped with a blanket of lardo. The tomatoes were a zingy delight, possibly to the detriment of the milder- mannered mushrooms, while the smoked pig fat bought nothing but an extra layer of piggy joy; the perfect brunch plate.

The chicken oyster pinchos combined the most fiercely fought over nuggets of meat on the bird, grilled on skewers and served with yoghurt and harissa. Smoky, crispy and sticky, the French got the joy of morsels quite right one right on naming them sot-l'y-laisse, or "the fool leaves it there’.

For desert I couldn't pass up the opportunity to taste the homemade ice cream, churned in an old fashioned machine. Sticking with the seasons, I chose apple and blackcurrant crumble, a fruit and berry flecked custard-based ice topped with a buttery rubble. It didn't disappoint. The far more indecisive Ewing went for a trio of tonka bean, rhubarb ripple and vanilla with plum sauce. All the ice cream was smooth beyond superlative and perfectly flavoured, with a special mention for the creamy vanilla doused with the puree of sharp orchard fruits.

To make amends for my restrained pudding choice, I also enjoyed a plate of gently oozing Wigmore – a ewe’s milk cheese made in the brie style in Berkshire - served with fresh honeycomb and oatcakes; the perfect combination to end a pretty perfect meal.

We finished things off with a perfectly made macchiato, made with Extract Coffee beans and another couple of tunes on the record player, before wandering outside to poke around the bric a brac stalls set up in the streets outside the restaurant.

While the rest of the afternoon/evening may have spiralled out of control, thanks to a few pints of cider on the Apple Barge and some further beverage sampling for Bristol Beer Week, nothing could spoil the simplicity of a fabulous meal in a fabulous city with fabulous company. If it wasn't for the getting older, I’d declare it my birthday every weekend.

For once I don’t think there are many overblown superlatives that could accurately describe the view of the orchards, flowerbeds and the Mendip Hills beyond, that greeted us on our arrival at the Barley Wood Walled Gardens. In fact, this was about the only sight I could imagine soothing us after a twenty minute journey spiralled into an hour and a half, as we got stuck in a diversion, followed by temporary traffic lights because of gas works, followed by being sent to the wrong Long Lane (yes, there are two, thanks again, Google maps).

Thankfully, we used the half a bar of reception on my mobile to call the restaurant and they kept our table in the conservatory reserved for us - a bright and simple room with stunning vistas and bottles of various herbal infusions lining the windowsills - although there are further tables at the front of the building, plus outdoor seating for both the full menu or a selection of tea and cakes.

Known for their innovative cocktail list it would have been rude not to sample at least one of their creations and the Ewing duly obliged by ordering a Summer Elder, a fun and frothy drink involving Chase gin, raspberry sorbet, Indonesian long pepper and elderflower cordial. I stuck with something a little more simple and sampled their house vermouth on the rocks, infused with botanicals from their own gardens, proving the perfect aperitif that balanced spice with appetite-whetting refreshment.

A huge plate of fresh bread and summer butter kept the wolves at bay while waiting for our mains, although I slightly rued my decision not to wear an elasticated waistband, to allow me to try a starter of radish with buttermilk 'snow', lovage salt and lactose fermented carrot juice.

As it was Sunday I felt obliged to try their spin on the classic ‘roast’; pork belly with chipotle crackling, confit potatoes, pickled apples and mushrooms. The plate – complete with rabbit and butterfly motif – was a cacophony of colours with the richness of the rolled belly cut through by the bite of the pickled fruit and the crunch of the spiced pig skin ‘dust’. Of course, the key to any good roast is the gravy, and this slick and shiny nectar passed with aplomb.

The Ewing was, if it were possible, even more enthused by her main, a roasted beef rib served with slaw, burnt aubergine and beer pickled shitake mushrooms, with only the stripped bare beef bone left as a lonely reminder on a slate that had been scraped scrupulously clean, again, the pickles cleverly working some astringent magic against the sticky shreds of meat. (Check the 'before and after' stomach in the background - TE).

After showing such parsimonious abstinence in skipping starters, puddings were a given and we didn’t hold back, choosing the two richest on the list that featured such rib-stickers as toffee apple cake and almond tart.

My milk stout and chocolate pudding - afloat on a moat of bitter, treacle-tinged sauce - was what post-prandial walks were created for. A steamed sponge of such dark and sultry depths that it welcomed the slick of yellow cream and sprinkling of flaked sea salt served alongside.

The Ewing’s slice of damp, dense chocolate brownie was no less glorious, lifted by the tart edge of jostaberries that decorated the plate. A serious chocolate pudding that almost defeated the most serious of chocoholics.

As well as serving as a restaurant and tea rooms, the Ethicurean also sells a select choice of local products, including their own cook book, English truffle oil and slices of cake. Most exciting for me was the range of local beers and ciders, including Wild Beer Company and Bristol Brewing Co. We picked up a range of bottles for takeaway, including the wax sealed Ninkasi, brewed with champagne yeast at a punchy 9%, and Southville Hop, a heavily hopped American style IPA with plenty of juicy, gum zapping, tropical fruit.

After being coerced to buy some handmade soap at one of the artists workshops on the site - the oatmeal is rather nice - we made our way through the walled vegetable garden, marvelling at the yellow raspberries, grape vines, pears and purple beans along the way, down into the apple orchards at the bottom of the site.

Tim Hayward had visited for the FT just a few days earlier, to see how cider is made in their cider house; and while the press wasn't in action when we were there, the perfect weather meant it was the ideal time to take a walk through the trees, marvelling at the glorious sweet fruit that seem to stud every branch.

I could finish with yet more superlatives about the food and the views, but I rather think they speak for themselves. Instead I'll say just one thing; visit as soon as you can (and bring me back a slice of brownie and a bottle of Wild Beer Wildebeest stout).

As anyone who dabbles in the world’s favourite drink will know that it’s impossible to have ‘just’ a cup of coffee any more. Of course, there are plenty of people who think that knowing the origin of the beans they are about to drink, or a board featuring tasting notes, is hipster geekery of the highest order, and would prefer to sup their mid-morning caffeine jolt without talk about extraction times or water quality. But for those who are happy to be enlightened a bit further about the cup o'Joe they knock back every day, and want to enjoy some top quality drinks made with plenty of TLC, then these are your guys.

Based on Chapel Street in Bath, the cafe itself is a lovely bright and welcoming space, with plenty of comfy seating, including a bench at the counter for those waiting for take out, and a patio garden area, whose red-tinged trees were perfectly glowing in the autumn sun on our visit.

So far so average; but, in a retail focused, money driven world where ‘the customer is always right’, C&S have made the refreshing decision to attempt to manage their customer expectations and serve coffee the way they believe it tastes best. But ,before you get the impression that this is all rather worthy and dull - and it is true that there is plenty of concentrated science-y stuff going on that might not be everyone’s cup of tea – there is a passion and buzz at Colonna and Small’s that goes beyond the caffeinated buzz from their drinks.

So, while you may not find any flavoured syrups, powdered chocolate, whipped cream, or, heaven forfend, a nice cup of tea, you can be sure of finding the six best varieties of coffee, three served as espresso or with milk in the form of a latte, flat white or cappuccino; and three filter coffees at the ‘brew bar’ which may be made with syphon, clever dripper, Aeropress, or plain old witchcraft, depending which method suits them best.

Of course they'll happily take your order and bring your drink to your table without indulging you in a demonstration, and even allow you at their hidden stash of sugar if you really want - signs suggesting sugar should not be added may appear as saccharine fascism to some, but Colonna and Small’s preferred roast tends towards the lighter side, meaning their coffee may actually appear more bitter when drunk with sugar, in contrast to many Continental blends which are roasted to be drunk with the sweet stuff.

Again, this ethos won't suit all, but as they point out on their blog, why freely offer people sugar for their coffee when, in all likelihood, it's addition is going to lead to an inferior product.

We started with a couple of filters, one made with the syphon and one with the Aeropress. While the syphon method may be considered the apogee of silliness, resembling some sort of bad chemistry experiment you had to conduct in the fourth form, it is a superlative way of brewing coffee as it is not subject to the vagaries of the drip method - which manages to leave pockets of coffee both over and under extracted – meaning the quality of coffee on offer to the customer can remain consistent. It’s also great fun to watch.

As I have written before, often, for me, coffee promises a lot more than it delivers; the glorious smell and the exciting gadgets and rituals are eclipsed by the final product, but the filter coffee here may just be nigh on my idea of perfect. And while the average layman may struggle to distinguish notes of ‘cashew’ or ‘stone fruit’ in their cup, the helpful tasting boards give an idea about how your drink will taste, with real differences being apparent - in both flavour and colour - between our choices.

As well as being brewed at around 94 degrees - boiling water scorches the bean and causes bitterness - they are also recommended to drunk when they have had a chance to cool down a little further to allow their full flavours to develop, and the wait proved perfect time to sample some of the homemade cakes on the counter. Between us, the Ewing and I managed to try the pumpkin seed and cinnamon muffins; the carrot cake with cream cheese frosting; the Stilton and rosemary shortbread; and while the lavender biscuits that smelt, disconcertingly, a little like may Nan’s wardrobe, they tasted divine.

After all the clean, bright flavours of the filter we fancied a sort of coffee ‘ pudding’ to finish and choose a flat white and cappuccino, each made with a double espresso. My flat white proved a delight; malty and milky with a little kick to counteract the soporific effect of the dairy.

In my working life - based primarily in front line customer service, in both retail and local government - there has been the ever-present pressure to adapt, find ways to stay relevant, maximise profit and footfall and provide customers with what they want (or certainly what they think they want). For this reason Colonna and Small’s ethos and ideas, written about in more depth their blog, makes a refreshing read, with musings on the idea of compromise, customer satisfaction, the attempt to provide the best product possible, and, possibly most importantly, the love, excitement and passion the humble bean can provoke. Oh, and did I mention the coffee’s rather good….

This year, rather aptly for my 33rd, I had the pleasure of no less than three birthday lunches. Following Bell’s Diner with the Ewing and noodles with a side helping of scandal with my oldest friend, Mikey, I was lucky enough to have a date with my dear friend, the magical Stealth.

Being a (mostly) reasonable sort of person, I stuck to the - stunningly good value at £21 for three courses - prix fixe; although, I made sure to order plenty of cocktails, lest anyone thought I was a cheap date. Thankfully Stealth has a ‘food duplication’ fear that makes her a blogger’s dream companion - and was happy to take the two choices on the set menu involving my nemesis, the egg (thankfully one of her favourites), keeping us both happy.

My first drink was the, strong and sophisticated, Vitamin C Vesper. A Martini by any other name, this came, thankfully, without any bells and whistles; just ice cold Ketel One vodka, Tanqueray Rangpur gin, Cochcci Americano and a twist of lemon zest; a bracing opener.

Ham hock rolled in embers with burnt leek and onion came as a thick coin ofsmoky meat with an allium centre. Pork and onion is a lovely, very British, combination of flavours and the salty, piggy disc was further complemented by an ace (if slightly difficult to eat) tangle of onion marmalade topped with finely sliced strips of spring onion. If I were struggling for a criticism, the slice of toasted sourdough shattered dramatically every time I tried to load some hock onto it.

Stealth was charmed by her iron bark pumpkin and parmesan soup, served in a small flask to be poured over a bed of crunchy sprouts and seeds and perfectly poached egg tableside. While it seemed a slightly strange combination, she proclaimed it the ‘highlight of the meal’, with the clever contrast of temperatures and textures.

My next drink was the punningly delicious, and thankfully not budget, Rye N'Air; served in two parts - a rocks glass full of ice and orange alongside a sealed bottle containing' Pikesville rye, Campari, peach brandy, anise, sweet vermouth, grapefruit oils, cabin pressure, duty paid'. Smooth, citrussy and pleasingly bitter.

My main was a picture; grilled whole plaice served simply with a scattering of samphire, salt and vinegar chips and half a charred lemon perfectly wedged in the gill-shaped recess. This was my idea of perfection; crispy, sweet fish; salty veg; the tang of malt vinegar and the smoky sourness from the citrus. I didn’t even mind the occasional forkful of bones as I greedily attacked the skeleton in attempt to strip it of every scrap of flesh.

Stealth’s veal Holstein with its classic accompaniments a fried egg, capers and anchovies was, again, a simple and spot on piece of cooking, with the blushing pink meat and pile of underrated rainbow chard served alongside. Although the use of vinegared boquerones instead of the traditional salted fish fillets made me sad (although possibly not as sad as the marvellous Simon Hopkinson was when writing about the difference between using sprats or anchovies in his recipe for Janssen’s Temptation in his latest book).

As I had recently enjoyed a chocolate pudding of the darkest depth at the Ethicurean, I chose the lemon meringue pie with peppered pastry crumble for desert. This was a panacea for citrus fruit lovers, with the quenelle of rich tangy curd and sharp yogurt sorbet working in harmony with the buttery crumbs and bitter strips of candied zest. Even the shards of meringue, which looked rather like the sheets of polystyrene you get when you order a new TV, were infused with a subtle lemon scent.

Compared to my plate - which, rather like myself may best be described as ‘pale and interesting’- Stealth’s was a riot. The miniature fondant was perfectly gooey-centred, something of an achievement given its diminutive size, and homemade honeycomb, coco pops crispy cake and vanilla ice cream made it feel like a civilised children’s party, less the grumpy clown and obligatory tantrum. There was also more of the polystyrene like meringue, this time with a roasted cocoa note; clever stuff.

With Stealth having promised to join me in an after dinner drink or two we found ourselves being, very politely, turfed out to the upstairs cocktail lounge, so they could prepare themselves for the evening dinner service. This turned out to be no bad thing, for the ‘Blind Pig’, as it is informally known, is, quite possibly, my idea of the perfect place for a sophisticated drink.

Of course, they let me in, so it’s not too sophisticated, but with its copper-topped bar, cosy leather banquettes and dimmed lighting it’s the sort of place you can imagine settling in for a session. And with barman of the year, Gareth Evans, at the helm and a cocktail list which carefully treads the line between the kitsch and the sophisticated it's easy to forgive names such as ‘Dill Or No Dill’, ‘Piscoteque!’ and ‘We Speak No Americano’, safe in the knowledge you’ll soon be slurping something pretty tasty.

While initial fan favourite, the glowing ’Thermo-Nuclear Daiquiri’- complete with ‘glowing radiation' and 'danger' - that flooded my Twitter feed when they first opened, is sadly no more, the popular ‘Cereal Killer’ still remains on the menu. This, dangerously quaffable, beverage is a blend of Coco Pops infused milk, Diplomatico Anejo rum, white chocolate and Galliano, served in a glass shaped like a milk carton, complete with striped straw.

My final drink was the ‘McBandaq’, a banana and root beer infused ‘smoothie’ blended with cachaca and condensed milk and served in its own waxed paper fast food cup. Despite being several sheets to the wind by this point, this was possibly my favourite of the night, mixing the slight medicinal wintergreen note from the root beer, tangy lime, sweet dairy and the kick of cachacha. And one of the very best ways to get drunk (er).

Our afternoon at Pollen Street Social was a, hazy, blast. Cracking cooking, a fantastic value set menu, awesome cocktails and fabulous staff. I'm just sad that even Stealth's magic powers couldn't stop my thumping head come the morning.

A visit to South West would surely not be complete without sampling some cider and the self-professed ‘home of Somerset cider’ is Roger Wilkins Farm, in deepest, darkest Somerset.

This place, accessed down a tiny dirt road that winds away to nothing - you’ll know when your there as a tractor with its trailer full of pressed apple pulp ready for feeing the cows blocks your path – has become somewhat of a cult stop on the cider trail. So much so that a couple of guys - purportedly Banksy and a cohort- arrived one afternoon to paint a mural to the great man himself on the back of the shed wall.

To say this is a ramshackle outfit would be quite the understatement; this little corner of England remains gloriously, perfectly untouched by modern methods or concerns for health and safety. The apples, grown in the orchards adjacent to the farm, are bought to the shed in sacks, loaded onto a chute, crushed and then pressed before the resultant juice is syphoned off in to a holding tank that stands open at the corner of the room. From there it is tasted by Roger, sugar added to the ‘sweet’ batch, if needed, then allowed to sit and ferment in the same wooden barrels that have stood here for as long as anyone cares to remember.

On arriving on Friday afternoon we could already hear the thick West Country babble emanating deep from the bowels of the shed, and poking her head around the corner, the Ewing was faced with a trio of Somersetians well on the way to kicking off the weekend.

The least verbose of the three, a man who made BLAH got up, tab still lit in the corner of his mouth and offered to pour us glasses of cider to try – sweet, dry and medium ( a mix of the both and my favourite). This is the real deal, unfiltered unadulterated, magical stuff. While it packs a bit of a punch, at roughly 6.5% (depending on the sugar content of the apples) Roger himself has been drinking the stuff daily, up to 20 pints in his younger days, and has, reportedly, yet to have a hangover.

We decided to take a gallon of each back to the hotel with us, and buoyed on at our success in securing some cider, the Ewing moved on to press hime about the cheese that we had heard was sold on the farm, too. After being directed to a sign taped to the wall listing all the varieties available - there was no ‘rind’ available on our visit, but since we couldn't work out what it was, we were happy to go without - the Ewing managed to wheedle that the extra mature was the farmer’s choice. Sensing that further conversation was going to be in limited supply, we settled on a pound of the extra mature and a pound of the Stilton, which he confided Roger had ordered in in big truckles and cut down to size.

The visit ended rather surreally, with the Ewing in the next door ‘lounge’- decked out complete with Frankie Howerd’s old leather chesterfield - talking to a couple who first heard of the place when one of them was a DJ in the Bristol area. I, meanwhile was sat in the ‘bar’ area, self-consciously supping my drink and wishing I was as drunk as my new companions. We even had the pleasure of chatting to Roger himself, a gregarious man, with a twinkle in his eye and pint of his very own cider in hand.

As promised by Roger, the next morning dawned bright and hangover free, but things weren't going to stay that way for too long. After our lunch and bottle of vino tinto at Bell’s Diner, we spent the afternoon by Bristol’s canal, supping yet more cider. This time the venue was the Apple, a barge moored at Welsh Back with a bar down below and seating areas area up on deck and out on the quayside.

Cider, naturally, is the focus, with over 40 types offered. Best of all they have a range of local drops on pump, including Wilkin’s, Cheddar Valley, Happy Daze, and their very own Old Bristolian. You can even branch out with a cider cocktail or a ‘Bristol Pimms’.

My favourite of the four types sampled was the Happy Daze, a deceptively smooth Welsh cider, at a moderate 4.5%, although the Sheppy wasn’t bad either. Most polarizing was the pint of Cheddar Valley the Ewing was drinking. With its hue the colour of nuclear waste, this opaque orange number, with its rather hefty 6.5% kick, was blamed for most ill in the world – and some of us were very ill - come the following morning.

Our swift cider tour was finished off with a swift Sunday half (it’s too potent to be served in pints) of the Exhibition cider at Clifton’s Coronation Tap. This place doesn't open until 7 on Sunday evenings, but was already packed by five past when we arrived.

The Ewing was sworn off the cider after her escapades the day before, and stuck to a Bath Gem, but I enjoyed a drop of the house special. Only served at the Cori, the smooth flavour belied the alcoholic punch, although the plastic glasses its served in suggest that first impressions can be deceptive. There are also barrels of all familiar favourites behind the bar, and the Exhibition is available in takeaway cartons.

A bit closer to home, and with the focus switched from fruit to grain, we recently attended the Malt Brewery’s first anniversary open day. As the brewery is sited at Collings Hanger Farm - home of Wren Davis, an ex-dairy producer who also raise pigs and keep fruit orchards - it also provided a chance to celebrate Apple Day.

The beer, as ever, was great, especially their Prestwood’s Best, a special anniversary ale brewed for the occasion There was also a chance to sample the burgers and sausages, made with Malt Ale, from the Seasons Farm Shop in North Dean. The bbq keep stoically ablaze through the thunderstorm that broke over our heads.

The apples we picked up from here came from far closer to home, the apple orchards at the back of the farm to be precise. Rather aptly for the home of Wren Davis – I’m not sure if it was engineering or fate – the eating apples on sale were the Wren variety. There were also Charles Ross and good old organic Bramleys, perfect for puds and pies.

The Bramleys had also been made use of in creating some cakes and deserts that were being sold, alongside home reared Kelly Bronze turkey rolls, homemade elderflower cordial and freshly pressed apple juice – from one of the farm buildings. The Ewing enjoyed her apple sauce cake, and my simple stewed apples and blackberries were nothing less than a triumph (even if I was hankering after a slick of cream or custard alongside).

There are many different types of apple grown in the orchards, and examples of each were bought up to show in one of the barns. This is local food at its best; full tables laden with the most beautifully coloured and fantastically named fruits. Why anyone would choose to eat a Golden Delicious, Jazz or a Pink Lady when you could enjoy a Foxwhelp, Bloody Ploughman, Lord Lambourne or Razor Russet instead remains a mystery to me.

As well as having far better names, the apples themselves are also far nicer. None of the sickly sweet fruit with a cotton-wool texture and waxy skin, but instead a decent crunch and distinctive flavours, ranging from pears, to raspberries, to roasted nuts, to ‘proper’ apple. There was even a poster on the wall displaying how far the apples you pick up in the supermarket may have travelled.

After manoeuvring the car out of a boggy field and safely getting our glut back home, the Ewing found her new found love of bread making to try out a recipe for ‘Apply Chelsea Buns’ from Hugh F-W’s new Fruit book.

Surprisingly simple to make, and an astounding success, these magnificent scrolls, stuffed full of roasted orchard fruit, raisins, butter and nuts, are British baking at its finest; I’m already eagerly awaiting the next batch.

Appley Chelsea Buns

(adated from Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall)

Makes 12

250ml whole milk, warmed to just above blood heat

2 tsp dried yeast

50g caster sugar

500g strong white bread flour

10g fine sea salt

100g butter, melted

1 medium egg, lightly beaten

For the filling

60g butter, melted

3 dessert apples, peeled, cored and cut into 5-10mm dice

100g raisins

75g walnuts, roughly chopped

100g caster sugar

1 tsp ground cinnamon

To glaze

50g butter, melted

Handful of caster sugar

Combine the warm milk, yeast and sugar, whisk and leave for about 15 minutes, until the mixture is frothy.

Combine the flour and salt in a bowl. Add the yeasty mixture, melted butter and egg, and mix to a rough dough. Turn out on to a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth and silky – about 10 minutes.

Put the dough in a clean, lightly oiled bowl, cover with clingfilm and leave until doubled in size (2-3 hours).

Grease a deep rectangular baking tin (25cm x 30cm) with butter. Heat 25g of the butter for the filling in a large frying pan, Add the apple and cook for about eight to 10 minutes, until softened. Leave to cool.

Tip the risen dough on to a floured surface and roll out to a 45cm x 30cm rectangle, with one of the longer sides towards you. Brush the remaining melted butter over the dough, leaving a 2cm margin at one of the longer edges. Scatter over the apple, raisins and walnuts, then combine the sugar and cinnamon, and scatter on top.
Roll up the dough, starting at the long edge closest to you, enclosing the filling in a long, swiss roll-style sausage. Trim off the ends, so you have a neat roll, and cut into 12 equal pieces'
Turn each piece on its side, arrange in three rows of four in the tin, then put the tin inside a clean plastic bag and leave to prove in a warm place for a good hour, until nicely puffed up. Meanwhile, heat the oven to 200C.

Bake for 25-30 minutes, until deep golden brown
Melt the butter for the topping in a small pan and brush over the buns while still hot. Sprinkle with a further handful of sugar to finish and leave to cool before eating.

After over twenty years of knowing the magical Stealth, I was pretty sure there was nothing left that she could shock me with. That was until we were discussing where to go to eat a couple of weeks ago and she loudly announced ‘I don’t like Chinese food’. Not only was this a terrible surprise, but it was also rather inconvenient as at the time I was attempting to try and entice both her and the Ewing to walk to Lewisham to eat lamb skewers and hand torn cabbage at Silk Road. (It will happen.)

I’m also sure, when this assertion is put under more scrutiny, it’s not entirely true. I seem to remember many of afternoons spent as students eating kung po chicken and prawn crackers at the Noodle Bar in Wycombe, and Stealth herself has often claimed noodle soup is her favourite food. I also feel obliged to point out at this point here is a woman who subsists almost entirely on frozen broccoli and chicken kievs and eats her breakfast cereal out of a mug, and therefore surely can't claim to be an arbiter of good taste (apart from, of course, in her choice of friends).

Luckily, she claims, this dislike doesn't extend to dim sum (or, under further interrogation, crispy beef or Peking duck), which is fortunate as she lives, literally, a stone’s throw from the great red doors of Dragon Castle; purveyors of some of the best value, hangover-blasting, dim sum London Town.

It was also lucky that we had all awoken on Sunday relatively hangover free (primarily as we had already incurred one on Saturday, and, currently unbeknownst to us, were due for another on Monday morning, too) meaning that we could do some sort of justice to the plethora of morsels on offer without breaking into a pale sweat every time we picked up our chopsticks.

Stealth completed abdicated on choosing from the menu (complete with helpful pictures) which left the Ewing and I to decide on three choices for each of us, plus a ‘bonus dish’, a method that had served us very well at Royal China a few weeks previously. I also insisted on clay pot rice with steamed spare ribs and chicken claws, a choice that Stealth surprisingly endorsed, despite the Ewing repeatedly warning me ‘you know you don’t like them….’

As it turned out chicken claws are still the pinnacle of gristly, bony in edibility, not helped by Stealth helpfully pointing out what most chickens spend their lives pecking about in. Fortunately the spare ribs, Chinese greens and fluffy rice were a delight. In fact, I first tried steamed ribs while eating at Dragon Castle many moons ago, and still remember the dish of strange bony bits and gristly cartilage chunks that were presented to us.

Fast forward a few years, and as long as you aren't expecting a plate of glistening baby backs, I like these little, meaty nuggets as much as any other type of ribs; especially when they've been marinated with salty black bean sauce.

The selection fried nuggets we ordered included pork puffs that were a little denser and sweeter than the ones we enjoyed at Royal China, but no worse for it, and crispy cuttle fish fritters, hot from the fryer and deeply savoury.

Minced prawn, shaped around sugar cane and breaded before its bath in boiling oil, tasted how you imagine those packs of 'classy' Iceland party bites - the kind advertised by D List celebrities at Christmas - are supposed to taste. We all loved them.

Japanese squid, served cold with a vinegar based marinade, may have looked fairly gruesome - complete with its flailing tentacles and plump bodies, but had a springily toothsome texture and pleasing sweet/sour flavour.

Our steamed choices, including the Ewing's favourite pork buns (decent), were all good; the scallop dumplings and the seafood and garlic dumplings were beautiful; sweet, fresh and delicate. Although the turnip, pork and peanut version had a strangely gluey grey filling rather reminiscent of a chip shop Pukka meat pie.

Decent, slippery cheung fun noodles came with crispy char sui pork; a good texture combo, although not quite as tasty as my preferred prawn filling. While the vibrantly hued spinach and prawn dumplings both looked and tasted delightful.

Cheap, tasty dim sum; restorative pots of green tea; a giant fish pond in the entrance hall; surely there's not many more reasons needed to grab some friends (preferably ones that like Chinese food, even if they don't admit it) and get down to this unloved stretch of the Walworth road for a weekend dumpling feast.

Under slate grey Victorian sky

Here you'll find, my heart and I,

And still we say come back,

Come back to Camden

And I'll be good, I'll be good,

I'll be good, I'll be good....

Dear old Camden; its streets thick with danger and the scent of patchouli; its gutters littered with cheap noodles, vomit and regret. I remember it best from the hazy days of my youth, back in the mid 90’s, after my friends and I had tired of the bustle of Oxford Street and the glitz of Covent Garden. We’d go up and hang around the market in our oversized surplus army shirts, bags covered in Tippex and DM boots, or go to gigs at the Barfly or drinking at the Black Cap, rushing for the last tube (or sometimes being lucky enough to blag a lift from a friend’s Dad, who’d wait on the forecourt what is now Morrison’s petrol station to drive a gaggle of hysterical, sweaty teenagers home).

I even remember a trip en famile, for my 17th birthday, where I slouched about Camden lock while pretending not to know my parents and then blew my birthday money on bootleg Radiohead albums and a copy of Strangeways, Here We Come.

Of course, the excitement soon palled - along with my love of ‘cannabis’ scented joss sticks and bad hippy jewellery - and we quickly moved on to the delights of SoHo and the dingy arches of Charring Cross, only returning back North for gigs at the Koko or revamped Roundhouse in Chalk Farm. And while modern day Camden may be grubby, noisy, smelly, overrun with tourists and full of people trying to sell you knock off t-shirts with Kurt Cobain’s face on them, I, like many who spent their time there during those heady teenage days, still find something inescapably appealing about the place.

First stop was Chin Chin Laboratorists, Camden’s very own nitro ice cream parlour. I had been wanted to visit here for a while, keen to sample some of their crazy-flavoured ice cream that is frozen in front of your eyes by the magic of dry ice.

Thankfully it didn’t disappoint; while ice cream frozen with liquid nitrogen may seem like a lot of bells and whistles just for a bowl of frozen dairy, the rapid cooling of the liquid base means the finished product remains free of large ice crystals, making this some of the smoothest ice cream you can get down your neck.

It also has a pleasing denseness to it, but thanks to the smaller ice crystals the ice cream can also be made with around half the usual fat and sugar than standard products. While fluffy cones of Mr Whippy from the ice cream van have their place this feels ‘proper’ ice cream, with that delicious fudgy ‘bite’, without feeling heavy or greasy in your mouth.

I chose Hay Milk Infused Caramel, made with a caramel base that, surprise surprise, had been made from milk infused with hay. This gave the finished ice cream a nutty, smoky note that encapsulated the nostalgic ideal of harvest time, but without the itching eyes, red nose and fits of sneezing.

The mix ins were also superlative; a little moat of dense and bitter Vahlrona chocolate sauce, and, just to gild the lily, some caramelised white chocolate chunks which had a lovely sweet nuttiness. They also offer further unusual options such as a truffle crunch, made with freeze dried chocolate and porcini mushrooms; candied pretzels; chocolate covered potato chips; and heather honeycomb.

Next stop was Ruby Dock, a café and takeaway from the people behind Lantana in Fitzrovia and Salvation Jane in Shoreditch. Here you can find Square Mile coffee, alongside freshly baked cakes and sandwiches, many with an Antipodean slant. I enjoyed the jolt from my double macchiato, while also picking up a slice of cherry, chocolate and coconut based Cherry Ripe Slice, a take on the ever popular Australian candy bar, to scarf on the train home later.

By the eponymous lock in the market's name is the Global Kitchen area, a huge variety of stalls ranging from the Frenchie, selling huge, butter-slicked, toasted sourdough a cheese toasties - with extra salami if you don't value unblocked arteries too highly - to jerk chicken, to sushi, to fish and chips with a side of deep fried Mars Bar. There's also some more brinks and mortar places to grab some grub, including a bijou branch of Honest Burger; a French and Grace 'hatch' serving wraps stuffed with Middle Eastern goodies; Kim's Vietnamese hut, and a branch of Yumchaa for liquid refreshment.

Sugar and caffeine-fueled and starting to grow giddy with the overwhelming choice and huge crowds at Camden Lock, I walked up the Chalk Farm Road, via the concentric circles of hell, aka the Camden Stables Market.

If you want to be accosted by flabby slices of pizza for a pound, luminous troughs of radioactive sweet and sour sludge or piles of greasy samosas and spring rolls then you're certainly in the right place. Strangely, like the rest of Camden High Street, it manages to be brash and charmless, yet strangely enticing all at once.

As I reached the fork in the High road, and was ready to cross the bridge over the Regent’s Canal and through Primrose Hill Village, I spied Marathon kebabs; once known for the live music events held in the small backroom restaurant (Jack White once stopped off to play a late-night set on his way home from the Barfly), While the live bands no longer perform, Marathon is still here, providing ballast to the drunken souls of North London.

While I always frequented Marine Ices (now, sadly, taken over by Pontis) for my pre-gig pizza and post-gig ice cream, on this visit Marathon seemed a fitting choice, being that the death of Kadir Nurman, the man credited with inventing the doner kebab, had been reported just the day before.

I can’t remember the last time I ate a kebab, and certainly not sober, but I awaited my illicit parcel, tightly wrapped in fish shop paper and breathed in the scent of hot vinegar and grilling meat I felt strangely nostalgic for the days queuing outside Okabasi of Kent, on Canterbury High Street, after a big night out.

Opting to take my haul away (there are still tables to eat in at the back, and even mid-Sunday afternoon the place was buzzing), I continued my walk up to the top of Primrose Hill, attempting to burn off at least a few of the calories contained in my fatty lamb and chilli sauce-soaked dinner (I did opt for ‘all salad, please’ in a hopeful attempt the vegetables would negate some of the saturated fat).

Take a drive to Primrose Hill. It's windy there, and the view's so nice. London ice can freeze your toes, like anyone, I suppose. You’re holding on for tomorrow.

Climbing to the top Primrose Hill on the eve of the St Jude’s storm, while most sensible souls were battening down the hatches, may not have been one of the best ideas I have had (nor the family next to me, who were kindly assisted by a stranger in a fit of bravado when there kite became tangled in a tree). But standing up there, with the whole of London spread out in miniature in front of me, made the wind burn and smarting eyes seem worth it.

It actually turned out to be no more blustery than a normal November afternoon, and once I’d filled my lungs with some of the Big Smoke’s more rarefied air I made my way down the hill, and although my descent wasn’t quite as fun as Damon Alban’s in the Blur video, I did have my kebab to look forward to at the end of it.

And while the doner didn’t taste quite as majestic as it probably would have after 5 pints of lager, the fatty strips of salty meat, chunky pile of salad, fresh and smoky chilli sauce and the bed of half crispy, half soggy pitta made a rather decent late lunch, even if I did garner plenty of unwelcome attention from every dog in Regent’s Park.

With the remains of my congealing kebab abandoned and the taste of garlicky lamb fat still in my mouth, I took one last walk through the leaves on my way to catch the 274 bus from outside London Zoo. Nostalgically reminiscing about how beautiful, yet maudlin an English park feels in autumn.

For a London-based blogger, writing about the handmade udon at Koya seems pretty much a pre-requisite. Made onsite from nothing but wheat flour, salt and water, they have had people queuing down Frith Street since the day they opened back in 2010.

While, as usual, I may be well behind the times and can't claim to add anything new or original to all this noodle talk, my ability to eat lots and waffle on remains undiminished. So when a vacancy a couple of doors down from the original saw the opening of the new Koya Bar, providing quick all-day counter dining, I went along for a restorative lunch with the magical Stealth.

The menu at Koya Bar is split into small plates, udon and donburi, with the addition of a breakfast menu that features Anglo/Japanese mash ups like rice porridge with bacon and eggs, alongside more traditional bowls of curry and noodles. There are also a few Daily Specials on the chalk board, as well as Koya favourites such as fish and chips and cider braised pork belly that have made the short hop down the street.

Stealth started as she meant to go on, with the Five Points Pale Ale, while I had a pot of, slightly less rock'n'roll Japanese tea. We also shared a plate of the crisp shredded Otsukemono pickles to get the digestive juices going.

While on our visit Koya Bar had some interesting specials, including the spooky Halloween themed Hokkaido kabocha in black sesame sauce and a dandelion leaf and crispy tofu salad, how could we possibly see beyond bowls of the slippery, fat, pale noodles they are famed for

Udon wise, Koya Bar has a number of options: Atsu-Atsu (hot udon in hot broth); Hiya-Atsu (cold udon with hot broth); Zaru Udon (cold udon with cold dipping sauce) or Hiyashi Udon (cold udon with cold sauce to pour).

I chose Buta Miso Hiya-Atsu, cold noodles served with a hot dipping broth flavoured with ground pork and sweet/salty miso. The broth had the kind of magnificent, marmite umami richness that made me reminisce about my mum’s gravy at Christmas; a potent liquor made with all the rich wobbly salty, fatty bits scraped up from the roasting tin.

The advantage of choosing the cold noodles have a slightly different texture to then ones served in the hot broth, a kind of gummy chew that is rather addictive. After managing to convey a few into my mouth this way (despite pretty fair chopstick skills, these buggers are quite something else to attempt to eat elegantly) I added a few to my broth to plump up and soften a bit further.

Stealth, as usual, quickly got her drinks order in in, then delegated ordering duties to me. Thankfully I was well prepared for this and, after checking on her preferred hot/cold broth/noodle combination, ordered her the Kinoko; hot udon noodles served in hot broth with mushrooms and walnut miso.

This was toasty and autumnal without being at all dank or earthy as she had feared. As we were sitting eating, a large dish of roasted walnuts, looking like autumnal cerebellums, were bought out ready to pulverise into the oily sweet paste that married so well with the fungi.

They also make fresh tempura with a gossamer thin batter encasing huge prawns or delicate pieces of veg. Yes, it cost £12 for the mixed version, but the crustaceans are approaching Jaws like proportions. A word of warning, though, if you don’t want the crunchy cargo served in your soup then order it as a side dish, with udon and cold sauce to dip or donburi (rice bowl) and not with hot broth.

So, Koya Noodle Bar; fabulous udon and Zen like surroundings in the middle of Soho, it does exactly what it says on the tin.

After an hour or two slurping our lunch and (figuratively) chewing the fat in relative calm, we had to dodge the horrors of Oxford Street to get to our next destination. I think the run up to Christmas is the only time this stretch of hell redeems itself , with the gaudy festive baubles looking particularly pretty against the brilliant blue sky.

The walk was worth it, as we had a date with pudding at Paul A Young’s fourth 'chocolate salon' - and the first with a seating area - found tucked inside between Heal’s and Habitat on Tottenham Court Road. As well as a range of brownies, chocolates, biscuits and an exclusive, multi-layered, sea-salt caramel cake, there is also the option to try a variety of hot drinks including various types of hot chocolate and cocoa nib tea.

Stealth warmed her cockles with a mug of the Paul A Young hot chocolate, with chocolate dipped cantuccini biscuits to dunk, while I had a pot of the Henrietta Lovell RAF special blend tea and a cocoa nib and dark chocolate cookie.

The hot chocolate was rich, dark and fabulously unctuous, with the perfect balance of sweet and bitter and a wonderfully clean flavour that comes from the lack of dairy. Extra points for it coming in a decent sized mug, too.

While the cantuccini were a little too refined for my taste, I loved the cocoa nib cookies, which are so friable that they literally do melt in your mouth. The little nuggets of cocoa nib and the dark chocolate coating save things from becoming too sickly, although at £2.50 a pop I haven't had a chance to test how many I could manage in one sitting yet. (The recipe is also in Paul's book, of which the Ewing does have a copy...)

While the obscenely decadent multi-layered salted caramel chocolate cake is the speciality of this new branch, I wasn't sure how a slice would survive a further schelp around London in the depths of my bag, opting instead for a - relatively restrained - sea salted pecan and caramelised milk chocolate brownie, and another cocoa nib cookie, to take away.

As we were preparing to leave the eponymous man himself arrived at the store, donned his white coat and cap, and deftly began began tempering lakes of molten chocolate on the marble bench inside. Although the kitchen area is only very small, there is something rather bewitching about watching a master at work; and while I’m not sure what its final use was, I’m quite sure not much would have made it past my mouth if I was in charge.

While going inside to settle the bill I was powerless to resist a bar of Mast Brothers chocolate, artisan collection and made in Brooklyn with locally roasted Stumptown coffee beans. The bar also cost a few beans, but if your going to scoff chocolate Why not make it the good stuff (says someone who scoffed all the leftover Halloween mini Bounty Bars in one sitting). If you want to read some more intelligent tasting notes then you should probably just read this review at Candyblog.

Finally the brownie. I often convince myself I'm not really a fan of brownies, thinking of them more as ubiquitous and undercooked cakes that have got above their station (and don't have any icing). Then I eat another Paul A Young brownie, and fall in love all over again. There's not really much more I can say about this, other than stop reading and go and get yourself one.

Raspberry Chambord Chip Ice Cream

Feu Mac at the Gamekeeper's Lodge, Chesham

Antepliler, Green Lanes

Jee Cee Neh, New Malden

The Tavern, Cheltenham

Buttered Crumpets and Blackcurrant Curd

Caiprinhas and Custard Tarts: Lisbon Part 1

Green Tomato and Cinnamon Streusel Cake

West is Best: Lisbon Part 2

Pann Mill and a Local Loaf

Royal China, Harrow, and a Trip to the Supermarket

The Old Spot, Wells

Bell's Diner, Bristol

The Ethicurean, Wrington, Somerset

Colonna and Small's, Bath

Social Eating House & The Blind Pig, Soho

How Do You Like Them Apples? (and Some Buns)

Dragon Castle, Walworth

Come Back to Camden

Noodles and Chocolate Cake