A richman’s breakfast

(There’s some repetition of this earlier post – I must also apologise for the lack of blog activity of late – things are busy. This blog post was written in late December last year).

I thought now was a good time to resurrect Billy and Me. Poor ole Billy has been neglected of late.
So here, in a food market stall in Quito I’ll bring him back. (I say ‘ bring him back’… I’ve been ravenous since I arrived, so I think the comeback is all his).

And this breakfast is certainly worthy of his unholy appetite. I’d planned a light fruitshake breakfast. I find it interesting that it’s in third world countries that something as simple as blended fruit can be found in abundance. In Ireland we now prize healthy fresh smoothies so much that they are considered a luxury. In slightly poorer countries they’re associated with poverty and US imports like Sunny D win out as the richman’s choice… Okay… *I* find that interesting. That an everyman’s drink in a poor country is frowned upon in wealthier nations and considered a luxurious treat in the richest.

In any case it wasn’t to be. Billy took one look at the foods on offer and seized control. I can’t actually remember the ordering itself clearly, I was like a man possessed, but soon I had this…

… Placed in front of me. A wodge of seabass, fried potatoes, rice, popcorn, lime, ceviche (a soup made from raw fish ‘cooked’ in lemon juice) and some veg to fill out the plate. Delicious. I didn’t eat again til nine that night.

I had the breakfast in the Mercado Central. It was the highlight of my few days in Quito. It’s a common tactic of mine – if I can’t figure out a city, can’t plug into it, I find the local food market. Early in the morning you often find yourself the sole tourist among the local workers filling up on starchy tasty food for a long day ahead. The city comes alive in such places and, if you find yourself in Quito, ill-at-ease and unable to access the town, head down here early one morning. Order a plate sized for Andre the Giant and slowly nibble away and just sit and smile and watch and think about how lucky you are. How privileged you are to be in such a place.

Pickles are go!

So I cracked open my pickles a few minutes ago and, all expectations of botulism aside, they aren’t too bad. They’re not great; they taste more like mass-produced store-bought pickled eggs than the ‘little old stall in a local farmers’ market’ flavour I was going for.

But I’m still breathing so not bad for a first attempt.

I tried two different recipes. One was my own invention and the other the already-mixed Sarson’s pickling vinegar (as a control test). Unfortunately the flavours of each aren’t a million miles apart. So I need to tweak the recipe and try again… I also need to get these ones eaten. Luckily today is Norway Day (fitting after their runaway success last night on the Eurovision) so I should be able to palm them off at our local Norweigan picnic. They’re mad for the pickles these Scandinavians.

Any advice for improving the recipe would be appreciated:
6 eggs (hard boiled)
1 cinnamon stick
1 chopped garlic cloves
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cloves
1/2 tsp ginger
Malt vinegar about 350ml

Boil all the above and simmer for 15 minutes and store for one month (in this case they’ve had about 6 weeks).

How does a gentleman dine?

I’m sure you’ve often asked yourself this vital question. Well, I’ll show you:

Hell yes.

Hemingway’s in Florence… I’m going to need to change my shorts

If you’ve any appreciation for chocolate, walk right across the city to get here. In fact, if you happen to be in Italy, get on a train. In fact, just get on a plane wherever you are.

It was toward the end of quite a long, though very enjoyable, day. We’d walked around the southern edge of the city. Up and down hills. Marveling at views. Listened to some monks. Ate some biscuits. And now we were tired and on our for dinner…. Dinner would have to wait.

I’d heard about this place, and as a testament to Mrs.Waxy’s tolerance for my wiles, she had patiently listened to my read out each review and dabbed my chin with tissue as I drooled over menus. So when we spotted it as we dragged our feet to dinner and she said “no, really, we should go in right now”; it really was an act of love.

We ordered pretty much randomly from the menu and got a triple shot of fine rum, a collection of chocolate truffles with a watermelon jus poured liberally over them and the thickest greatest 70%cocoa-ist hot chocolate I’ve ever had.

The rum, which I don’t normally like, had a smokey flavour akin to whiskey, and that absence of burn which denotes fine spirits. The truffles were fresh and delicious, a thin crisp layer of dark chocolate cradling a creamy succulent centre. And the drinking chocolate! Ah, the chocolate! So thick your spoonleft erect and defiant peaks in its wake. At 70% cocoa; the flavour was rich and deep and long-lasting. Like a fine wine.

Needless to say I left the place staggering, drunk and on a crazy sugar high. Dinner was off and Mrs.Waxy helped me back to our room to sleep it off.

It’s a great place. The staff are friendly. There’s a real buzz in the air (though that may have been the alcohol and sugar rush) and there’s a lot to see nearby.

Eoin: 8
Billy: 8 (which is quite surprising, but a cup of solid chocolate is pretty filling)
Google map here

Purple in Streatham

Purple
The High Parade
Streatham High Road
Streatham
SW16
020 8677 2277

Glancing over the post title you might be expected a letter sent to an agony aunt page but no, it’s a Waxy restaurant review.

We, Billy, my lady and I, have been living in the area for about 3 1/2 years. On the first day I visited the Waterfront (which Billy and I would very much recommend; it was a safe port if the storm of a flat without furnishing or heat) and later that night we passed by Purple on a rather grim stretch of the A23. I was intrigued by its down-home charm and meaty menu… but, as is often the case, many years came and went and still we had not taken the step to visit.

With my mother over some weeks ago we needed somewhere local, relatively cheap, and pleasant. We had been out for a full day of gallerying and were in no mood for pretensions or travels. Purple fitted the bill nicely.

We ordered whitebait to share for starters. My maternal unit worried upon a lamb’s shank, my lady on fish of some sort… I wasn’t really paying attention. Billy was hungry and that never ends well.

I politely ate around the edges of the shared starter; trying to balance the greatest quantity of aoili on each mouthful as possible. Praying that Billy would be, at least temporarily, satiated. Or at least stunned by the heady mixture of garlic and lemon.

The gamble paid off and our pig’s belly arrived. Pig belly is a dish I seldom order. I’m a slow eater (as I savour and appreciate each mouthful) and, as the layer of fat cools, the dish grows less palatable. But oh yes! Oh Yes! Billy was intent on speed. It was served well; a moist underlay of meat, a mantle of luxurious fat, all protected by a rich crust of crackling. A nice variation in both flavour and texture as I bit through.

The staff are lovely; that nice, and exceedingly rare, combination of competence, a sprinkling of deference and a ready wit. Too often competence leads to rudeness and deference to limp pretension and that way lies the dark side.

So, Purple? A hit. Main courses ranging from about six to sixteen pounds. A wide ranging menu; usually a sign of disaster but it all seemed to work out here. Warm and unassuming and sometimes that’s exactly what you want.

It’s not hard to guess why Nineteen next door, though more designed and professional in both appearance and menu, is starting to not challenge but lag behind this longlived Streatham staple.

Testicles and the Pre-Justinian Period in Mr.G’s

I found a proper East End Caf (“Mr. G’s”) near my workplace on Monday some weeks ago. I was delighted with the find as, disappointingly given that I work on the Mile End Rd, there isn’t much beside Chicken Village knock-offs (one, very amsusingly, called FCKC in a double-brand knock-off)

Mr G's Cafe. Image poached from Trustedplaces.com

and poor curry houses. When I first moved to London many moons ago I had a rich fantasy of Alfie’s in markets shouting about apples and pears and chimney sweeps dancing on their commute through the skies. Confronted with rotting bananas and market stalls selling nothing but cheap flimsy underwear I was sadly dissappointed.

So I was thrilled to find this proper (or ‘propAH’ to use the local argot) cafe. I ordered far far too much food; an Egg, Bacon, Beans and Chips (ala http://russelldavies.typepad.com/eggbaconchipsandbeans/) that nearly killed me. Then settled down to read and watch and listen.

Up front two pensioners argued. One remained quite austere as his companion put sugar upon sugar upon sugar into his tea, well past the saturation point so that the soupy mire spilled out across the counter and his chin… forming a thin crust on both.

He announced his political views to the world: “If you were mugged – there! – on THAT road – that road there! And they had stocks! It wouldn’t happen again! No! No – shut up now, I’m talking! It wouln’t happen again. Put him ‘in stocks, innit? And leave the tomatoes from the market there beside ‘im”… and so on. A good ten minutes of “stocks!”, “bloody holiday camps, that’s what the prisons are!” and “whip ‘em I say!” ensued. It as a lot of fun. The owner, catching my eye and winking his comraderie toward me, urged him on: “Now really, that’s far too much. I’m sure those, what did you call them, ‘oiks’? … those young oiks don’t mean any harm”. The irate gent near exploded with rage: “On TV last night I saw a documetary ’bout the Romans, right? They knew what it was all about, right?”.

At this the eyebrow of the sucrose-drinking man rose sharply.

“The Romans right? The Romans wouldn’t have stood for this! A Roman citizen could walk across the world (shades of the West Wing: http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/The_West_Wing) without fear of anything. Anything!”.

The the sucrose-drinking man put his tea down sternly.

“The Romans under, in this TV show this was before Justin, they should have stayed in Britain”.

The man stood quickly; knocking aside his chair: “TESTICLES!!! TESTICLES!!! THAT’S WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT THE PRE-JUSTINIAN PERIOD!!!!! YOU KNOW FUCKING TESTICLES ABOUT PRE-JUSTINIAN ROME”.

What followed was a fascinating and genuinely eloquent discussion on Roman history between this enthralled amateur TV viewer and, it turned out, a retired professor of Roman history.

I love London. I really do.

…

So, onto the Billy and Me scores:

Billy: 8
Eoin: 9 (just for the floor-show)

Black Mountain Caravan Park and the Cross Inn Pub

Black Mountain Caravan Park and the Cross Inn Pub” (or “A Roasted Peanut Dinner for Two”)
Having narrowly avoided releasing flocks of sheep hell-bent on automotive suicide and skirting through small lakes of crimson muddied waters we arrived at the Black Mountain Campsite. The name is something of a misnomer as its actual location is perhaps a hours drive from the mountains. But close enough to begin our weekend of walks and outdoor fun in Wales.

The campsite appeared well poistioned for walks and with excellent facilities…. at least according to their website… But also, to be fair to our naivety, according to reviews on VirtualTourist and TripAdvisor.

Drawing information from the stoic man in reception was akin to my drawing a warm welcome in Cork. As he kicked his dogs to aside, the dialogue unfolded like this…

Man: “… “
Us: “… Hi, we’d like somewhere to pitch our tent tonight”.
Man: “… “
Us: “…Ermmm…. would it be okay to pitch it here… in this… campsite “
Man: “Yes “
Us: “…”
Man: “… ” (he moves to close the door)
Us: “Oh! Excuse me! Where would we set up the tent?”
Man: “Over there (note that he does not signal any location) or in the high field”
Us: “Errrrrrr”
Man: (Again the man moves to close the door)
Us: “Sorry! Where?”
Man: ” Over there” (this time he nods to his left)
Us: “…. And where is the High Field”
Man: “Drive back the way you came and take the left instead of the left you took”
Us: “…”
Man: (He finally succeeds in closing the door)

We are about to knock on the door again to ask about the facilites but decided against it thinking we should be able to locate them ourselves. Shortly afterward as we set up our tent on the raggedy unkempt lawn we noticed that the equally raggedy denizens of the campsite who emerged from their trailers to gather in small groups to peer, alluding somewhat to the mise en scene of David Lynch’s earlier works.

So onto our reason for this adventure; walks and picnics. These were, to give the locale its due, lovely. The lakes around the Brecon’s are well worth your time. The way-marked trials are easy to follow, none too crowded, and very scenic. What the surrounds lack in drama they make up for in tiny treasures. Bursts of bluebells beneath sagging old oaks; lines of silverbirch sketched sharply in the dark under the pine trees; fascinating little treasures of owls and foxes sculpted into tree trunks dotted along the path; all rather lovely.

After our jaunt, we drove on back to our campsite; relishing what the Curry Night sign by the pub door promised. Relishing in vain!! We rocked up to the bar, eyes wandering over the menu, to be told that we had missed the closing of the kitchen by 10 minutes. Asking for just a basket of chips or even some toast was met only with apologetic smiles. So… we accepted it as being our own fault and settled down with pints hoping to mask our hunger before returning to our cold tent.

… What led us to into a simmering hunger-fuelled rage was our spending the next 40 minutes seeing every table around us being served heaped portions of lasagne, fish pie, steak and the like. Their mild irritation at being served some three quarters of an hour after ordering didn’t quite meet ours as, again, we were told that the kitchen had closed an hour ago and we would have to try again tomorrow night.

These kind words of advice unsurprisingly failed to cheer our spirits as we tucked into our peanut dinners…

The following morning we decided against spending even a few coins on the battery operated showers; the dank unlit rooms with no shelves and crooked doors failed to entice. We simply packed our tent and headed on our way.

Billy: 0
Eoin: 0

Google map location here
Black Mountain Campsite: http://www.blackmountainholidays.co.uk/

Kintaro

26-27 Lisle Street, London, WC2H 7BA
Telephone: 0871 0752925

I’ve been reading Orbital by Ian Sinclair recently and so have decided to do this blog in the style of a near-random-train-of-thought. I’ll just keep typing for a few minutes and when I stop for more than 3 seconds I’ll post it up unedited. How exciting…

Searching for food through London’s cheaper options. Behind bars. Corridors of greying brick; having stood accepted for years are now upstaged by gaudier new rivals. Amongst the last of these narrow passages. Kintaro. Dodging black-cabs. Shuffling restuaranters. Chinatown’s attic where the backward cousins live. A bucket of fishheads a week. Sushi to our western palates. And all the more agreeable for it. Crammed seats. German sharp words hitting the ribs and nudging the headrest. Bento ordered and delivered. Wasabi hot. Miso revitalising. Mackerel swimming in sweet Terkiyaki like some Lea survivor pushing to the freedom of the Thames. Freedom just means you have no choices left. Tea and beer in equal quantities. The great bridge between East and West was beneath our feet all along!!! The bottoms of our glasses just obscured it. How were we to know; nurtured on Hawksmoor, Constantine and sarnies? This new wave no/know better. Memorising phonetic codes and suggestions to validate ties and shiny shoes. Asahi! Kirn! Stella!?!?!!?!! You know only compromise. But compromise is good enough surely; if the new natives do it. If their standards are trustworhty and they surely are then there is no argument. None. It passes all tests. Imported qualities of vim and vigour for our pallid euro forms. Beers offered to suit every adventure, every fear. Quantities for my invertebrate friend. Best Value!!! Recommended.

Billy: 6
Eoin: 8
Googlemap here

Rummers

So we’ve been asked to comment upon Rummers (apparently not a reference to spirit soaked drunks), a fairly unassuming pub in Cardiff by.. well I suppose I should refer to him as a friend (this chapee here …. But we’re not entirely sure why…

We had stopped over in Cardiff to see Joe, our former flatmate, on our way to the camping holiday in the Brecons. We hadn’t seen Joe for a while and had a genuinely lovely morning walking into Cardiff centre via a riverside walk and, after a good hour or so in the National Museum looking at stuffed seagulls, hearing the booming voice of a whale condemn us and our earth-raping kind, and lingering over the stunning sketches of DaVinci, we were kinda peckish.

There was some genuine nostalgia for Deptford days as I dragged us from place to place; refusing to enter a franchise I recognised and eschewing all things chrome… searching for Authenticity. Even the faux authentic would do. I’m not hard to please; write up your menu with chalk, put a stuffed animal over the bar and call your sliced pan ‘rustic’ and you’ve pretty much got me fooled.

Rummers delivered.

Now the food wasn’t that great. A bowl holding a chicken breast wrapped up like some Egyptian prince in bacon slices and draped generously in a tomato sauce… a thick slice from a steak and ale pie; black pie-juice oozing out to be eagerly mopped up with fries and peas… It was all perfectly fine.

But… nice relaxed staff, crazily uneven wooden furniture, names scraped like schoolyard compass graffiti into the table tops, old skool prices… It had me at hello.

Eoin: 6
Billy: 7
Googlemap: I actually can’t find the address of the place online… Errr… it’s near the castle… beside the Millets with the cool action-pants on sale.

The Bayleaf: North Indian restaurant in Abergavenny

I’m unsure if it indicates the enticing nature of this surprisingly large Indian in this small Welsh town or the lack of any alternatives but the scent of their kitchen drew us in from three streets away. Having had a similar time again; being turned away from three restaurants who (of course!!!) do not serve any food after 8 in the evening and having turned ourselves away from two particularly dodgy pubs where the locals stopped the dusty tape deck to stare as we ventured over the mantle of the door;

The service, as is common in East Aisan restaurants, was polite and curt. On a tangent. this prompted a conversation concerning the relative manners of different eateries from different cultures; the typical overbearing servitude of Americans, the well-mannered and clipped nicities of East Asian curry houses, and the wide spectrum of manners in European establishments; ranging from the perfect blend of distance and informal humour to the downright rude. As we swapped stories of reasons for skipping out without paying we were presented with a good sized menu of interesting dishes.

I opted for the lamb gohst and our companion for the biryani with chicken and, oddly, potatoes. There was, of course, …. selection of beers; a pint of Cobra or a half pint of Cobra. After some deliberation we selected the former.

The meals were well presented; kept warm on small grills. the gohst was a standard fare and perfectly fine. I had tentatively asked for it to be served hot; something that, from the Brick Lane curry houses, usually has me weeping with every toilet visit for days afterward. Here, while it was perfectly tasty, it was milder than Clark Kent visiting his in-laws. The biryani was quite unusual in that the sauce was served seperately so the diner could add it as required to what was essentially fried rice. I wonder if this reflects on the local folks’ taste or the perception of us as muddy booted sun kissed stoopido tourists… which wouldn’t be too far off the mark.

Billy: 7
Eoin: 6

Google map location is here