Sketches from a cigar smoker’s diary: Rub-a-dub-dub

On New Year’s Eve, I made a promise to a friend, one Mr P. Spencer, that I would re-activate the ‘Sketches’ series (which sees me enjoying stogies in extraordinary places). Perhaps he is right, I certainly need to break up the protracted travelogue that I have spent eight wearying months writing! However, I initially felt at a loss, I’ve smoked some cracking cigars in the past year yet, I feared that I was not really going to add much to the discussion, is a pack of Cafe Cremes smoked on a Barge in the Ardenne that different to a Punch chugged on the Boisdale’s terrace? 

Troubled by such rumination and fruitless thoughts, I decided to run myself a nice hot bath. Not being a gentleman of any repute, I had to draw it myself, although, wearing a very fetching Turkish smoking jacket made me feel a little more chi-chi as I put a few drops of lavender soap in the tub. It was a brisk December evening and I was looking forward to a long soak, where the desired result is that your fingers and toes look akin to prunes. 

The evening was all about personal decadence - I had just polished off a dish of Gamberi Arrabiata (Spicy, Italian prawns) with crusty bread and plenty of roughly chopped parsley and a few glasses of Gavi. To round off a very agreeable evening, aside from the bath, I thought a wee dram or two of Bruichladdich were in order and a few pages of Dorothy L Sayers (the author of the Lord Peter Wimsey series)… and the bath.

I had once written a facebook message, expressing my horror at people who ate in the bath yet I allowed both drinking and smoking, it was time to put this rule to the real test. In the past I have enjoyed many alcoholic beverages in the company of water: the cheeky beer in the pre-night out shower, the G&T or Pimms in the swimming pool, the plastic cup of rose at the beach… you catch the drift. Smoking doesn’t really work in the shower and in proximity to water I’m usually more of a French cigarette kind-a-fella. I had smoked a few times in the bath previous, but these were cigarillos and the most adventurous I had got was a Villager Export, there’s something a little sleazy about it, a bit like Burt Reynolds at the Playboy Mansion in 1978. 

I had to give it a go with something special. Reaching into my humidor, I withdrew a fine NUB Cameroon, a short, stout cigar (much reflecting the writer’s current build!) for the purpose. 

As I slid into the bath I was enveloped in a plume of steam, I like ‘em hot and I started to question as I sweated from the heat, whether this was a great idea. A slug of the Scotch persuaded me that it definitely was and I set to work lighting up and drawing deep from this ever reliable cigar as I read my murder mystery and bouyantly poured myself a large measure (the tub has a very convenient and spacious pair of corners just right for an ashtray, a bottle and a cut glass tumbler. 

I languished, relaxed, pondered, read at leisure, it was all going so well until a very rude, vulgar but ultimately important sound roused me from my sedate position. The agonising beep of the smoke alarm, tested to its very limits decided to kick into action. ‘For F%$&s sake’ I exclaimed, almost sending the tumbler crashing to the floor, as I emerged from the bathroom starkers with a cigar clenched in my jaws (probably much like Burt Reynolds at the Playboy Mansion sans the medallion and moustache). Perching clumsily on a chair I managed to disarm the wretch, damn those machines pack a punch and settled back to my bathtub to continue this very indulgent pastime. 

As I soaked, I wondered, would I recommend this to others? In a word… Yes! It’s cracking good fun and one of the best mediums in which to smoke, whether it is a Turkish cigarette or a Romeo e Julieta Churchill, consider the bath a certified smoking den for the connoisseur!  

A very London Christmas - Part I

Was it only I who went into this festive season feeling that it had somewhat lost the lustre of previous Yuletide experiences? Gone, it seemed, were the butterflies that assembled in the stomach and the electricity that seemed to shiver down the spine as the first few bars of Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ echoed around department stores and malls across the country. 

I felt somewhat indifferent, in the past I was either euphoric with joy (sugar induced perhaps?) or down in the doldrums of self pity, licking wounds... and probably drinking too much (although I think that's a theme of countless Christmases since I turned 16). This year I felt as if I went through the motions, some fantastic Christmas parties were offset with some boozy evenings with friends at some boozer or another. 

I literally tore up the town through a mist of Estrella lager and Johnny Walker on the rocks. The days were filled with sickly treats and the repetitious jingle-jangling of ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ and ‘I believe in Father Christmas’; the nights were full of oaken bars, the roar of the office party and Cafe Creme cigars punctuated by the flickering of strobe lights and the sound of clicking knees, precariously trying to negotiate the dance floors of Central London. Yes, this was probably the least highly-anticipated Christmas I have every had but, you know what, it was the best one I have ever had. 

The clock struck 12:00pm on 24th December, heralding the culmination of business (officially) at my office for 2014. With a great sense of relief the five remaining staff in the office traipsed across the road to a perennial favourite, The Queens Arms. A very agreeable lunch of roasted leg of lamb with forestiere potatoes (fine green beans and chanterelle mushrooms) and lamb sauce was seen of with a very well appointed pint of Truman’s Bold as Brass, a delicious end to a fab first six months with the company! Ahead of the trip back to Wimbledon, where I would be based throughout the holidays, I dipped into the ever wonderful Rippon Cheese, one of the best fromageries that I have ever stepped into. At this emporium, I decided that I would opt for a little tour of Northern France, purchasing: a petite Munster, a Maroilles, a Morbier and a young Mimolette.  

Partway through the painfully slow journey back from Victoria to Wimbledon Park on the District Line, I became slightly confused as to why the carriage was starting to clear around me, baffled why commuters were parting to the very corners of the carriages like the red sea and Moses. I then cast my nose downwards and was met with the rather pungent aroma of Munster and Maroilles sweating away under the heat of the train’s efficient central heating. One fellow passenger was blunt in their criticism: ‘I think someone has farted’, casting an evil glare in my direction. Desperately I tried to distance myself from this new found, if rather delicious, albatross around my neck, but to no avail. For the rest of the journey, I had to endure all manner of filthy looks cast-aside faces all in the name of gastronomy. 

I finally made it back to Wimbledon, where the cheese was quickly zip-locked into a cold bag and stored in the garage overnight. We were expecting guests that evening and after pouring myself a generous gin and tonic I set to helping my mother cutting cocktail sausages, shaping smoked salmon sandwiches and apportioning asparagus rolls. Just when we thought we had got everything ready, with Champagne in the freezer, Christmas jumpers donned and the first batch of snags in the oven we were greeted by some constructive criticism by the house’s self-appointed Nicky Haslam... my brother. 

“You cannot have a bottle of Bells on display behind the decanters, people will think that terribly naff. I think we should hide that.” I think I emitted a resounding sigh. Thankfully, the waterford spirit decanter was close to hand, and into this worthy fellow the malt liquor was decanted, a style crisis was avoided (although I am sure one reader will find a spirit decanter very retro). 

Guests arrived, guests bantered, hoovered the food, quaffed the chilled Champers and took their leave. It had been a pleasant start to the vacation and soon my brother and I were hunkered down to a few stiff G&Ts, a plate of cocktail sausages and a very unimpressive round of Scrabble, in which neither one of us did any justification to the furtherment of English language. I sadly lost in a battle to the bitter end, yet the family wordsmith manage to trump me with a tactically brilliant but totally banal piece of play! ;-) 

the wearying tides of sleep beckoned as I drifted off on the sofa, it had been a good, balance start to the season and I couldn’t wait to see what Christmas Day had in store. 

Keep your eyes peeled tomorrow for more on Christmas chez Henry Rubinstein...

Chez Bruce... a truly epic dining experience

There are some meals that linger in your mind long after you have eaten the last morsel and quaffed the last drop of wine. Such was the case with the meal that I had at Chez Bruce last Friday lunchtime. 

As with all memorable meals, it was a celebration. I had recently secured a new job and my success was being toasted by my family with gusto. I had been to Chez Bruce a couple of times before over the years so I was already familiar with the excellent cooking that comes out of the kitchen in this legendary South London restaurant. Arriving early I supped a half pint on Sambrook’s excellent Junction and cast my thoughts to the treat that was in store for me. 

Of course, there have been plenty of reviews of Chez Bruce over the years, a lone Michelin Star in what was the veritable gastronomic desert of South West London (having grown up in Wimbledon and Southfields this is no understatement). Established on the same site as the legendary Marco Pierre White venture Harveys (1987 - 1993), Chez Bruce was opened in 1995 by Bruce Poole, a chef who has an incredible pedigree across many of London’s top restaurants during the early 1990s. The food, to my mind is a modern interpretation of European classics, supported by one of the most interesting and inventive wine lists of any restaurant I have been to. 

Chez Bruce has been very popular since its establishment and the fame of its kitchen has spread across the country, but it still maintains the feel of a local institution. It is not an overly large restaurant and its position on Wandsworth Common gives it a welcoming, village feel. 

One o’clock soon came around and I entered into the cool, contemporary dining room with good acoustic and a clean feel. Usually I am not a particular fan of silver service and fine dining but Chez Bruce deliver it well without being intrusive. There is something quite pleasing about a crisp white linen table cloth, good quality napkins and sturdy cutlery, and I am pleased to write that the restaurant delivered on all counts. 

I was the first to arrive and whilst I waited I enjoyed a well-chilled glass of Meantime’s very reliable London Lager and some home made cheese straws, flecked with poppy and toasted sesame seeds. It was not a long wait and soon my mother and a very good family friend arrived to present me with a box of ten Montecristo No.4 cigars! Very nice indeed, the first of the box would be enjoyed post lunch, to aid the digestive progress. 

As it was a celebration a bottle of Champers was ordered with immediate effect. The Gratiot-Pillière, Tradition, Brut slipped down smoothly and was a much better foil for the cheese straw than the beer. I’m not a regular Champagne drinker but this was exceptionally good with a lovely light colour and a dry edge which lightly stroked the tongue rather than stripping off the tastebuds. 

Starters were ordered and and were thankfully presented after a reasonable gap, to allow us to enjoy our first drink. It is refreshing in an age where restaurants harry customers through their meal, so they can fill as many covers as possible throughout the day that, at Chez Bruce, you do not feel rushed in the slightest. The atmosphere was relaxed and the staff seamlessly glided through the restaurant being unobtrusive but also available at the diner’s request. 

My starter of crispy pig’s head with poached loin, celeriac, apple and sauce ravigote was very tasty. The unctuous croquette of pigs head with its meaty, slightly gelantinous texture disappeared quickly. The delicate, thinly slice loin was countered by a silky smooth quenelle of celeriac puree and some crisp matchstick of apple tossed through with Ravigote sauce (a vinaigrette with capers, herbs and cornichon), giving an acidic note to cut through the richness of the pork. My mother had a marvelously fresh chilled tomato consommé which was textbook in its preparation and held the concentrated flavour of fresh tomatoes, a spoonful of which would transport you to a cottage garden on a hot summer day. Our family friend had the Fishcakes with cmoked Haddock and clam  chowder, pancetta, pickled cucumber and chives, I didn’t try this but was assured that it was excellent. This was accompanied by more Champagne. 

We all chose Plaice fillets with beurre noisette, capers, warm charlotte potato salad, samphire and shrimps and accompanied this with a bottle of 2011 Soave Classico, La Rocca, Pieropan. What can I say... the head chef,  Matt Christmas and his team pulled out all the stops for this dish. It is definitely one of the best fish dishes I have ever, ever had. The plaice was so fresh that it reminded me of the quality of the catch served at the Hotel Atlantique in Wimereux. A more-ish beurre noisette (brown butter sauce) was dotted with sweet little shrimps and scattered with al dente samphire giving some pleasantly salty notes alongside the occasional caper. It was a triumph and it was all that I could do to resist licking the plate clean. A perfectly proportioned place, it was not too little and not too much, like baby bear’s porridge in that classic fairy tale, it was just right! 

I usually have something sweet for pudding but this was one of the rare occasions that I went for the cheese over Chez Bruce’s excellent Creme Brulee (to my mind, it’s by far the best in London). A plate of époisses, cerney and chällerhocker, was presented with some Membrillo (quince jelly), grapes and a basket of homemade fruitbread and oat biscuits. A lovely selection cheese, I am particularly fond of epoisses and this one was ripe and pungent, well offset by the hard chällerhocker which was somewhat like a Manchego and a surprising cerney, which is a creamy goats cheese and worked well on the fruit-bread. Oh and I finished of half of the velvety creme brulee my mother couldn’t manage, so it was a win-win situation. 

Coffees, homemade truffles and featherlight shortbread that melted on the mouth. What a brilliant meal. If you have the chance, make sure that you head down to Wandworth Common for some of the best food in the capital, cooked with skill and aplomb. As I sat in my garden afterwards with a cigar and a glass of Bruichladdich I ruminated on the meal, the perfect balance of the dishes and the convivial ambience of the restaurant. This was definitely a meal to remember! 

Picpoul de Pinet and Pomeranians - The return of the Bloody Good Chap

I know, I know I have been lax of late. Of course the usual excuses abound such as:

1. Having too much fun
2. Having too much work
3. Having too little time

Read back, none of them seem great excuses and, it was a colleague who roused me back into action, bringing me back from a blog lethargy that has recently come over me. I fear he showered me with far too generous praise, comparing me to the very accomplished Simon Majumdar! A flattering comparison but one I think that appealed more to my imagination and ego than to the reality of the copy you see before you! 

No matter, I have been sloppy of late... and as such seek penance from my readers in the form of this new post, the first of a more regular stream of such writing. What better way to start this new chapter in ‘How to be a bloody good chap’ than with an excellent cigar, a fantastic dinner and a very agreeable venue for drinks? So lets begin...

It was a Friday and, as are most Fridays for me, it was a fun day. Following a busy week at work I was quite ready for the weekend and, having quickly gone home and refreshed myself with a shower and an ice cold lager, I raided my humidor and made my way from Elephant and Castle (where I now live) to The Theodore Bullfrog in Embankment - a very average but veteran pub, close to my heart as a result of many a visit in times gone by. 

The pint of Amstel that was purchased for me when I arrived was but a poor companion to the very agreeable, if rather strong, Henrik Kelner Jr ‘Smoking Jacket Cigar’. Plumes of gentle smoke ascended into the balmy night air as chums waxed lyrical on the terrors of the British political landscape from the agonisingly poor quality of the EU debate to the recent scandals rocking UK parliament. All this was washed down with more of the dubious ‘nectar’ that is cheap lager quaffed so freely when the weekend is in site. Surrounded by the incessant banter and chatter of workers throwing off the shackles of a week in the office, I was soon summoned for dinner. 

A short journey on the Underground brought me to a Sloane Square legend, no not my father (for he was brought up in the area, and incidentally was my host for the evening), but a local institution, Carrafini. This traditional London-Italian restaurant serves great plates of food cooked to time honoured traditions. Simple dishes and fine wines make this a restaurant well worth seeking out for anyone looking for plates of sophisticated comfort food. Complemented by a decor that owes as much to Conran as it does to the varied eateries of Northern Italy, I felt in my element as the first, deliciously chilled glass of Gavi was being poured. 

The prawns were sweet and succulent, perfectly matched against the tangy tomato sauce and fiery chili that all come together for the classic Gamberetti al Arrabiatta. Paired with the crisp, dry Gavi it was a triumph and it was all I could do to remain dignified as I resisted the temptation to wolf down the dainty little morsels. 

I followed the prawns with my favourite dish, in fact to my mind the best dish that Carrafini has to offer, scaloppine al limone, delicate fillets of tender veal with a very subtle lemon sauce which brings out the best in the citrus fruit without overpowering the flavour of the meat. With a side of spinach and courgette fritters, a king could not have asked for a better dish. As my knife glided through the meat as if through butter I registered the expression of delight across the face of my dining companion as he enjoyed his old-favourite, liver and bacon with pureed potatoes. 

Having had a sizeable main course with a very agreeable and pleasingly light Sardinian red, pudding should have been the last thing on my mind, however, having seen the menu I could not resist the temptation of caramelised oranges marinated in brandy, calling to me as they did across the pages of the menu. I went for a large portion, no point in half-measure. Refreshing, tart but with a pleasing edge of burnt sugar they sent a shiver down the spine as a well timed grappa warmed the cockles of me heart, and a strong black coffee brought some verve back into my flagging constitution. 

Full of the joys of the weekend I proclaimed more drinks and my father decided that he could just about humour a smidgen more of my conversation and a couple more glasses to round off the night. Not to outstay our welcome at the excellent Carrafini, we headed to the uber-trendy Colbert for a nightcap. 

The bar area was jam-packed but we managed to grab a table amongst the throng of city brokers, high-class trollops, mischievous merry-makers and happy-go-lucky chancers. Grabbing a couple of coffees and a some glasses of the restaurant/bar’s very good Picpoul de Pinet (a bone-dry white wine from the Languedoc,whose name literally means ‘lip stinger’!). It was while we were quaffing the expensive but generous glasses of the booze that I was suddenly shocked to find that a hideous pomeranian dog had leaped onto my lap. 

I know that I have attracted a few dogs in my time (geddit?) but this really took the biscuit. This hideous little fur-ball with its beady, teddy bear eyes and yappy little jaw shook and squirmed as it remained undecided at whether it had made the right decision. I was unamused and shot my father a bemused and helpless look as i help this rat-ish creature up in the vain attempt that he would have some sage words of advise. ‘Put it back where it came from’ was the helpful answer. 

The owner was nowhere in sight but funnily enough this ridiculous and, as I was finding, yappy little urchin had come from an equally ridiculous  Louise Vitton holdall where it seemed to hold court from the designer bag. Weirdly enough, it is much harder to get the dog to go back into the bag than it was for it to get out but, after I had a few more slugs of the Picpoul it seemed a far easier task and soon a confused dog was back in its pampered pouch. 

I looked round in the next instance and our hirsute friend had gone, probably back to its owner and not the local kebab shop. Time for one more picpoul and a black coffee before I returned home following a drunken conversation with the cab driven, a fumble with my house keys and a stumble up the stairs before crashing into bed... a very enjoyable evening! 

That was quite a Christmas!

Those of my readers who saw me over the break will attest that I had quite a Christmas, jam-packed full of good wine, good food and great cheer. In fact this might have been the most boozy and certainly the most sociable I have spent this year. So now, in the dark depths of January, as I lean upon a coppice gate (like Hardy in his Darkling Thrush) munching on a stick of celery and drinking a glass of oh-so-healthy carrot juice, I think back to that hedonistic Christmas season and all the fine riches that it brought to me...

December 24th - Christmas Eve began ominously, the wind and rain battering our Sceptred Isle with all the force Mother Nature could offer. A quick call to the office and I was warned to baton down the hatches and work from home for the rest of the day. Tasks completed and work finishing at a generously early 15:00 I was set to make the most of my Christmas Eve. A quick trip to Waitrose to purchase some last minute Christmas groceries provided the first cigar of the period, a very pleasant Montecristo Petit Edmundo (for more info check out my collected Sketches from a Cigar Smoker’s Album) and a pretty generous tumbler of Grant’s, ginger liqueur and Canada Dry with a twist of orange peel over ice. To keep me entertained as I braved the elements I had Trevanian’s excellent Shibumi a rip-roaring thriller about the world’s best assassin and his battle against a consortium of the world’s oil and gas companies. 

Dinner soon came around, a beautiful pheasant gratin (large morsels of game bound with a stock and white wine infused roux, topped with crisp-fried bacon and breadcrumbs and set under the grill until bubbling) with fine green beans accompanied by an excellent bottle of Villa Maria’s Gewurztraminer (Waitrose, £9.99). It certainly brought about some tidings of comfort and joy, a perfect start.

December 25th - I woke up to a plethora of very useful and much needed presents including Thomas Keller’s fantastic book on baking (which would knock the socks off anything produced on that tosh on the BBC) some very welcome NUB Cameroon cigars and a fantastic bottle of 1949 Madeira! ‘Lucky fellow’ I hear you cry. 

Following a bit of prep work and and some sous-chefing in the kitchen, I heard the first pop of a Champagne cork around 11:00 and enjoyed a chilled glass of Christophe Herbelet with some delicious smoked salmon sandwiches as I trimmed the sprouts. 

Lunch was a veritable feast, and, as I had to do two Christmas meals that day (the inevitability of divorced parents), served at the far more civilised time of 13:00. The turkey was complemented with the usual suspects as well as two stuffings (basic herb & Chestnut, bacon and mushroom) and lashings of delicious homemade gravy. To go with this there was a healthy selection of good wine including: 1982 Chateau Talbot, Gewürztraminer Reserve 2007 Trimbach and a 1977 Sandeman’s Silver Jubilee Port... simply heaven. I topped all this offer with one of the NUB Cameroon’s I had received, savouring the heady smoke and rich, spicy taste of the stogie ahead of round two of Turkey later that evening where I polished off another line-up of goodies at my aunt and uncles house!

As I fell asleep at the dinner table, party hat at a jaunty angle, fit to bursting with food and booze, I drowsily reflected that this had been a very good, if excessive, Christmas Day. 

December 26th - Boxing day hit me hard, my head hurt and I was reminded (Waugh fans must forgive me if I misquote) of that great line from Brideshead Revisited: ‘It was neither the quantity, nor the quality, but the variety that was at fault’. Feeling somewhat woozy, I shakily made myself a cup of coffee and readied myself for another influx of guests. 

I noticed another couple of bottles of the 1982 Talbot on the table and realised that I would have to buck up before a lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. A cold shower followed by a strong espresso and a well appointed Plymouth Gin & Tonic at midday kicked me into action before the guests arrived.

Lunch was another affair full of jolliness and lots of laughter, The Talbot and a bottle of 1985 Graham Port slipped down very nicely after a feast of rolled sirloin with all the trimmings. Another cigar followed (NUB Cameroon), before I felt decidedly knackered and longed just to sit with my book and sog out... 

Christmas had been and gone for another year and I felt decidedly decadent as I sat enjoying a 1941 Armagnac as my cigar gently burned in the dying embers of the main part of the Christmas holidays.