Bloody Good Chap goes to France: If sex was a sandwich

It was time to leave Nantes, so stopping off at a bakery on the way to the station, I grabbed a baguette filled with saucisson and cornichon and a black coffee to stiffen my resolve. Although the night before had not been too heavy, I had enjoyed a few nicely chilled beers and a couple of glasses of eau de vie in the buzzing city centre at the popular Circle Rouge. Being a solo traveller I had attracted a bit of attention with my trusty book in hand, ‘Ad Men and Bad Men’ and of course played the role of affable tourist answering a stream of questions on my English credentials. 

Arriving at the station I had a little time to kill, so I opted for the first of many customary train beers. As the rather sub-par Kronenbourg original (non of this 1664 rubbish) slipped down, I kept hearing the the opening bars of Shanice’s 1991 chart topper ‘Smile’ to a point where it became quite irritating. Of course it wasn’t the R ‘n’ B classic but a weird jingle for the constant stream of announcements from the team at SNCF. It was a sound that was going to characterise the trip as I experienced the French railway system. 

The lush countryside of the Loire Valley unfolded before me as we wended our way to Angers and I munched away on that delicious sandwich, full of cold butter, cured meat and piquant pickle. Before I knew it, the ancient city of Angers revealed itself and it was time to enjoy the second destination on the trip.

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Any fans of medieval history will be familiar with Angers, the seat of the legendary Geoffrey of Anjou and a wealthy dukedom. It houses a number of treasures, including a set of UNESCO tapestries of the Apocalypse and a great collection in their museum of fine arts. Furthermore, the city is beautifully preserved full of fine architecture so there is plenty to see and do. Unfortunately, it was a Sunday so the town was somewhat sleepy, but that didn’t stand in my way too much.

I dumped my bags at the ever reliable Ibis Hotel, a French institution and hit the town, but not before I had a discouraging exchange with the hotel’s concierge, who told me that the only place to eat in the whole place was the rather uninspiring hotel restaurant. I’m sure the food would not have been that bad, but I was not hear to dine in the bar at a chain hotel. I knew I could do a bit better, even when taking pot luck. 

It was time to explore the town, take in the cathedral and, have a glass or two of the local tipple, Rose d’Anjou. A strange wine, this beverage is not that popular in the UK and is a little bit rough and ready, however, it goes down quite agreeably on a piping hot day when chilled, especially with a bowl of finely sliced saucisson in a well-appointed square in the shadow of an ancient tower. 

An hour in the Fine Arts Museum was rewarding, especially for the small but impressive room of 16th and 17th Century Flemish old master paintings and some sombre but beautifully crafted 12th and 13th Century iconography. It was well worth the 6€ ticket and I recommend popping in if you find yourself in Angers.

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I become a habitual snacker when I go on holiday, making the most of the change in cuisine and, pottering around the quiet Sunday afternoon streets, I found the most amazing of fast food emporiums: The rotisserie. It was an emporium of meaty wonder and a rare place of activity as the sultry sun beat down. 

I entered and the enticing smell and site of chickens ‘turning and turning in a widening gyre’ or rather spits greeted me. But that was not all, there were trays of Rillons (confit pork belly), sausages, Morteau, roasted lamb, bowls of sauteed potatoes, pots of homemade mayonnaise, chopped hard boiled eggs... 

This was real fast food! Rather than the disgusting array of draft soft drinks, there were half bottle of wine and plastic glasses, cans of beer or freshly squeezed juice. We desperately need this in London for the masses. I went for a Rillons sandwich with a can of lager, it was unctuous and delicious, sticky, slightly gelatinous, slightly greasy, utterly deliciously. If sex was a sandwich, this would be it! 

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Dinner soon came around and despite the Rillons sandwich, a little aperitif of Rose de Anjou and a bowl of olives whetted my appetite for a simple plate in an equally simple restaurant. Yes Basserie de Gare (opposite the station as you might guess) was basic, but not unpleasant. It was a fine evening so I took a table outside. Scanning the menu and looking at the rather pedestrian offering I saw something that had long been on my bucket list of things to try, Andouilette. 

For American readers this is not to be confused with the Cajun Andouille which is a spicy pork sausage, this one is actually made of pigs intestines rolled into a cylinder and bound in more intestines. It has quite a high, offaly smell and an acquired, chewy texture. It’s not for the faint-hearted and is certainly an alien taste to the Anglo-American palate. I ordered with some trepidation, and the waiter was rather surprised, ‘really?’ he said. This made me more determined, ‘of course!’ I replied, ‘d’accord’ returned, he went away shaking his head, probably thinking I was made. I ordered a glass of Sancerre (another Loire Valley wine) and awaited my fate...

I must say the dish that arrived did look very inviting, a rustic white sausage with appealing grill marks, a pile of fries and some simply dressed lettuce arrived. I tucked in, and I must say that I don’t know why I was so apprehensive. Tasting the andouilette dispelled any negative illusions that had been communicated to me by others who had tried this delicacy. Yes there was a slight barnyard-y element to this, as one would expect of anything associated with the digestive tract, but it was not unpleasant. I love chewy, gelatinous textures and I consumed my meal with gusto, almost as soon as it had arrived, it was gone! 

I did not go for a pudding, I didn’t need it, instead I went back into town for a digestif, in particular a glass of Cointreau, another local tipple (it’s produced on the outskirts of Angers). Luckily, bars are open on Sunday evenings and so I was not disappointed. It was a great way to round off the day, accompanied by a half-pint or three of beer. Another perfect ending to another delightful day...

Coming up: I head to Tours to discover why it’s one of France’s most famous destinations for charcuterie. 

Bloody Good Chap goes to France: Dinner with the Baron [Restaurant Review]

Le restaurant Baron-Lefèvre

33 Rue de Rieux, 44000 Nantes, France

+33 2 40 89 20 20

As promised, I am producing a few extra posts which are designed to dwell on a few of the exceptional meals I had on my French adventure. 

I chose Le restaurant Baron-Lefèvre having read some very glittering reviews of the establishment on Trip Advisor and, having taken a look at the website, I was captivated by the modern, airy look of the restaurant. Plenty of exposed brickwork, steel railings, a playful green house on one wall and an open kitchen on the other, it looked inviting and contemporary. I then read their philosophy of staying true to local Nantaise cuisine, taking advantage home grown vegetables (for which the area is renowned), the abundance of the  sea and river, lamb reared on the salty marshes and time-honoured techniques of classical French cuisine. I made an advance booking. 

I arrived at Le restaurant Baron-Lefèvre and was ushered to my table for one. The nice thing about France is there were a couple of other lone diners and I was not made to feel unwelcome or a spectacle as so often happens in UK restaurants. Nor was I given a reduced level of service which also seems to typify dining solo. 

The menu was full of interesting preparations, a few classics, a couple twists on classics and some house originals. What I immediately noticed was the simplicity of the preparations and an emphasis on 2-3 core ingredients, proudly stamped with local provenance. There were plenty of mouth watering plates from a simple platter of langoustine (Dublin Bay Prawns) served on crushed ice to a traditional salt marsh rack of lamb with spring vegetables. However, there were a few things that leaped out at me. Here’s what I went for: 

White Asparagus with Sauce Mousseline 

Loire Valley Cremant (sparkling wine) 

White asparagus is not nearly as popular in the UK as it is on the continent where it takes precedence over the green variety. It has a subtler flavour, with a faint taste of oysters. Perfectly cooked, each part of the vegetables was tender and accompanied by a foaming, decadent sauce Mousseline, which is essentially a Hollandaise with the addition of whipped cream. Deliciously decadent, but judiciously portioned, it whetted my appetite for my main course. The dry, sparkling cremant was a light counterpoint which worked well. 

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Eels in a parsley and garlic butter sauce with Nantes spring vegetables

A Carafe of Muscadet

Eels and apprehension go hand in hand in the mind of the Englishman and I do think this a sad state of affairs, as there are few greater pleasures that the taste of eel flesh with its tender, oily flesh offset by a reassuringly organic earthiness found in river fish. The Loire abounds with Eels so this really is the place to eat it. This time, I had it prepared in a very classic style in a parsley, garlic and butter sauce surrounded by tiny new potatoes. It’s a winning combination and made even more special with a small cocotte of turned carrots, fresh peas and green asparagus tips. Wanting to drink the local tipple, I went for a carafe of Muscadet, where its fresh, slightly acidic taste worked well with rich food. A truly stunning dish. 

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Rum Baba with Tropical Fruits

Cafe Noir

Given the richness of the main course, I was tempted to pass on pudding until I saw that one of the specials for the evening was a traditionally made Rum Baba. Although a speciality of Lorraine (where I visit later in the trip) I could not resist - it’s one of my favourite puddings, a sure way to my heart. I was presented with a  light doughnut type pastry on a bed of pineapple carpaccio and raspberries, topped with a generous portion of Chantilly cream then liberally doused with white rum (which soaked into the pastry). With each mouthful I felt my stomach agreeably expanding! It’s highly alcoholic so there was no need for a digestif but I a well made black coffee cut through the richness! 

The total bill was €57, which, given the amount I had consumed was not to bad at all. It was a superb meal, if you are in Nantes, I thoroughly recommend making the time to visit. 

Coming Up: I head to Angers to explore the seat of the Dukes of Anjou, sip on Cointreau and enjoy an andouilette. 

Bloody Good Chap goes to France: Nantes a care in the world...

Nantes rarely seems to get much of a look in on the tourism agenda, yet, having spent the first 24 hours of my trip in Brittany’s former capital, I must say that I highly recommend it to those looking for a short weekend break, or a destination from which to start a big adventure. It could be anything from dipping down the Atlantic coast or following the Loire as it contours through the French interior to a leisurely drive/cycle through Breton pastures. 

I will warn those culture vultures and Medieval maniacs that Nantes is not a ‘pretty’ place, rather a working one, built on fishing, shipbuilding and biscuits (LU’s Petit Ecoliers come hail from here). It bursts with affluence and the glitz and glamour someone might associate with a major city, yet it is only a minor player. 

The layout is stereotypical, grand boulevards cut through sections of non-linear streets, punctuated here and there by squares teeming with ornate churches, casual cafes and rip-off restaurants. 

Arriving at 9:00am on a Saturday, I found that the city was yet to awaken - it was deathly quiet as I pitched up at my cheap, but very cheerful hotel! Dumping my bags, I headed off to explore and grab a cup of coffee. The local square was characterised by a large fountain and families enjoying their baguettes avec buerre et confiture, the sky was ominous, the climate hazy. Having only had four hours sleep the night before, I was in need of something to perk me up. Alighting on a tabac I found my first opportunity. 

I have never really been a cigarette smoker and had fully intended to enjoy a cigar or two on this trip. However, my eyes alighted on a packet of Gitanes Filtre and I instantly knew that this would be my choice. No longer available in the UK the might Gitane conjure up a real sense of nostalgia, my father’s brand of choice, the smell took me back to the rugged landscape of the Lot-Garonne in the south west of France. 

I quickly found a cafe, “un Muscadet s’il vous plait”, I said with confidence. No one batted an eyelid, the fact that I was ordering a glass of wine at 10:30am seemed entirely normal. Anyway, it was my holiday, so restraint be damned! One wanted to say about the wine that it was ‘Heaven with Gitanes...’ (a Brideshead reference for my more literary followers). All I needed now was a stripy jumper, a plate of oysters and ecrevettes (large prawns) and the look would be complete. After all this procrastination, it was time for lunch.

The Gallette (buckwheat pancake) is synonymous with the area around Nantes and seemingly there was an establishment on each corner offering all manner of sweet and savoury fillings. there was a place the guide recommended, and yes, it was near my hotel. I pitched up, but it looked tacky and soulless compared to the one next to it. So it was that I took the road less travelled by, not for the first time in my life, and went to the smaller, rather less ‘bells and whistles’ establishment. 

As soon as I stepped over the threshold, I knew I wanted one of the famous Breton ciders, clear and flat, it’s served by the china bowl (boelee) and decanted from a pottery jug. It slipped down a treat as I tucked into a Gallette filled with onions, ham, cheese and of course, the obligatory egg, with an irresistibly runny yolk! This was quickly followed by a flambeed crepe topped with rum and raisins. It was a fine meal and a perfect introduction to my quest to sample as much regional cuisine as possible. 

The afternoon was spent pootling around town, stopping every now and then for a refresher. One place, Comedie de Vins, springs to mind where dry white wine played off against a plate of salty sardines and a bowl of saucisson as the sky became clear and the evening sun shone on my brow.

Here I take a moment to pause... as dinner deserves a short, stand alone post, given that it was one of the two big meals that I decided to indulge in on this bloody good adventure... 

Coming up: I delve into the culinary delights of Restaurant Maison Baron Le Fevre. 

Bloody Good Chap goes to France: Introduction

Most stories start from the beginning, and some start from the end and go back to the beginning... flashback stylee (on this occasion the misspelling was intentional). But on this occasion I am going to take an unconventional turn and start from the middle of my trip as it was at this juncture that I found the essence of why I chose to travel solo, across the breadth of France, in the first place. 

Picture the scene: The author of this piece downing shot after shot of slivovitz chased with half pints of Ardennes-style beer on a barge perched on the Meuse. This was ‘Mawhot’ Charleville-Meziere’s main evening hangout, named after a legendary lizard that is said to inhabit the murky river waters that flow through the town. The crowd that evening was lively, and the rare-arrival of an Englishman was something of a novelty, especially one wearing rust-coloured cords and wearing a blue tweed sports jacket... adding to the experience, it could only be the Bloody Good Chap. Patrons decided to try to out-do each other in terms of largess and I was plied with all manner of lethal spirits as Aswad’s Greatest Hits played on the establishment's sound system. 

Just as the band's 1988 smash ‘Don’t Turn Around’ had finished, there was a call for silence as a buxom creature took to the floor with an accordion and started to play Breton sea shanties. This seemed rather odd, considering that we were, perhaps, in one of the most landlocked regions of France, but I went with the flow. Soon we were all dancing arm in arm, my new friends Yvette and Matthieu encouraging me to join in the singing and dancing, then ‘Request for the English! C’mon Marie, one for l’Anglais’... 

I don’t know if you have ever heard Kashmir by Led Zeppelin played on the accordion, and in retrospect I think I committed blasphemy in asking for this 8:28 minute epic to be delivered in such a style but... the fog of plum brandy, brown beer and a pack of Gitanes clouded judgement somewhat. This slow song is, how should I say, much, much slower when played in the style requested, but it didn’t matter, it was all in the spirit of the occasion. We partied that Wednesday night away as the famed rain of the low countries beat down on the roof of the barge, and the bartender got ready to pour another round of liqueurs and small beers. 

We finished around 05:30, and I woke up feeling like death, with a tongue like sandpaper, ruddy cheeks and stinging, crusty eyes, but very happy. I had found out what it was all about to travel solo, meet new people, have new experiences  without the encumbrance of friends or family in tow. It felt liberating and showcased the friendliness and inclusiveness of my destination. 

In this seven-parter series, I intend to take you through each of the seven locations I visited on my journey: Nantes, Angers, Tours, Reims, Charleville-Mezieres, Metz, Nancy and Strasbourg and hopefully give you an insight into each of their unique characters. Perhaps it might even inspire a future visit or holiday. 

Coming up: In part one, I delve deep into the traditions of Nantaise cuisine sampling some delicious food, mulling over Muscadet and trying out some of my broken french! 

Fine French Flair!

Gazette Battersea - Chatfield Road, London SW11 3UY, United Kingdom

I have always believed that a hiatus is a useful way to overcome a dose of writers block. Yes dear readers, I know that I have been too long in typing up a latest set of musings with which to whet my audience’s appetite. Of course, I have paid the price my lax behaviour, followers drop off, visits to the site seem to evaporate into thin air and my writings sink down the SEO rankings... such is life and such are the consequences for lack of blog maintenance. 

However, now I have returned from the valleys of the uninspiring to mountain tops bursting with energy, enthusiasm and above all, entertainment and where better to start than with an account of a superb restaurant that I had the pleasure of visiting last Saturday, Gazette.

Located a stones-throw from the River Thames in the modern Battersea Reach complex, Gazette is a fine example of classic French bistro cooking done well. The occasion was my mother’s birthday and the other guest were my aunt and my grandmother so I was ‘outnumbered’ as they say! The birthday girl had somewhat undersold it claiming, a simple cuisine of roast chicken and pommes dauphinoise - how delicious I thought, but I felt that the initial description did not communicate the triumph of the meal I was about to eat. 

Now, to give a bit of context, I love French brasserie cuisine: hearty fish soups, mountains of crevettes (prawns), brochettes of lamb, coq au riesling, omelette au fine herbes, tarte tatine... you get the picture. Give me this any day over meat cooked in a sous vide, sodden with foams, espumas, consomme and concasse (just an irritating term often used to describing peeled and chopped tomatoes on Masterchef)... I know, I know, I am being a tad unfair but rustic French cuisine is one with bags of strong, pleasing flavours using moreish and often highly unhealthy ingredients. 

Back to the restaurant. I arrived early and as is my custom after the little hand passes 12 noon, I requested that the waiter bring me a beer. Cold, crisp and pleasingly non-descript (I have never liked hoppy lager) it slipped down easily as I chewed on green olives and some bread with a little salted butter, a pleasant start to the meal. 

Looking around I took in the decor, the room was light and airy but had a French sensibility about it with polished tables and chairs, robust linen napkins, banquettes along the walls, an oak bar and plenty of brass railing work. All in all the establishment had a nice welcoming feel without being to overwhelming. 

The other guests arrived, drinks were ordered (theirs a Provencal rose) and the menus were presented. My eyes lit up with delight and desire as soon as I scanned my eyes across the menu with its promises of suckling pig, presented four ways, oeufs en cocotte (baked eggs), confit de canard (duck legs braised in duck fat), cassoulet (a hearty bean stew incorporating the aforementioned confit de canard, pork, sausage), boeuf bourgignon, mussels, oysters... oh I could go on! These were rich pickings and no mistake. A wry smile rose from across the table as my dining companions saw the glee with which I devoured the menu with my eyes! I am often quick to decide but here I was in a quandary, there was so much I wanted to eat! 

Soon I alighted on the fresh asparagus with Bayonne ham and frisee (£7.50), I couldn’t resist. White asparagus is a rare treat in the UK, where green is the norm, and that it was pan-fried in butter made it doubly inviting.

It came to me as three fat spears topped with the chopped and cooked ham and a bundle of dress salad. I am ashamed to admit that I was so ravenous that I wolfed the lot down and, had I not been giving the cheese trolley longing looks, could have ordered a second round of it for pudding. The asparagus was delicate and played nicely against the saltiness of the pig and the sharply dress frisee. 

I was feeling rather traditional that day and so I plumped for a Bavette steak (£14) for my main course, a brasserie classic full of flavour and with a chewy texture. I find alluring and others don’t! I requested it blue (frankly steak should not be cooked any other way!) and with a side order of fries and some green salad.

The steak was all that I thought it would be and more, topped with melting shallots it was all that I thought it would be and more. The salad was pleasing because, unlike most green salads you get in restaurants, this one was a simple affair based on soft, round lettuce with a no-frills vinaigrette. The only criticism I had was when it came to the trite. 

I have never been a fan of the double cooking/triple cooking method and, truth be told, really, really like the processed chips you get at most steak restaurants. Maybe it’s something in the way they’re made, much like preferring frozen peas to fresh ones! However, the chips came and they were tasty, but not quite crispy enough for my preference. This is a very, very minor negative, more a matter of taste, and certainly not a game-changer. I accompanied my main course with a strong, but plummy red from Languedoc (£6.50 a glass). 

My dining companions had the 1/2 roast chicken (£11), beautiful cooked and presented with a luscious, silky jus, the dauphinoise potatoes and some fine green beans, where as my grandmother who has a healthy appetite tucked into the very tasty looking suckling pig (£17). All claimed their’s was the best choice! 

Pudding or cheese? Pudding or cheese? PUDDING or CHEEEEESE? Hmmm... what to  choose? I think I have given away my decision already but it was a hard one to make, there were plenty of enticing options but, having looked at the cheeseboard on the way in I was somewhat swayed. 

Choosing to go for the judicious four choices for £4.00 opposed to eight options for £8.00, and I was not disappointed. The waitress took me over to inspect the specimens. I have always been a sucker for cheese from North-East France and so a slice of ripe Mariolles (Picardy), a  slick of very ripe Epoisse (Burgundy), a petite wedge of Camembert with Calvados (Normandy) before dipping to centre for the Auvergnaise Fourme d’Ambert. Served with a few walnuts, a trio of grapes and some crusty bread it was a true symphony of flavours. Each cheese had been kept well and coupled with some of the Languedoc, which I had kept back it was almost other-worldly! 

My dining companions sampled a thin, crisp apple tart with a dollop of homemade vanilla ice cream, a thumbs up confirming that it was a good ‘un. 

Cheese gone, I rounded off the meal with a glass of deliciously cold plum brandy from Alsace-Lorraine and a black coffee. The perfect end to an absolutely fabulous meal!  

A rare break from the sauce

Now, let’s get something straight here, I don’t think any of my friends would call me parsimonious nor particularly abstemious when it comes to have a drink or two at a party or social function. There are some occasions though, be it for a break from the rigours of hospitality or for a spot of heavy exertion (usually more the charitable kind rather than the coital... sadly!), when a man needs to abstain and sup on something soft, non-alcoholic and altogether more refreshing than the juice of the grape or a drop of the hop. Yet I find myself, as was the other night, at something of a loss. It seems that the non-drinker at events or a piece of organised fun, finds themselves short-served in terms of choice. In the words of the fictitious barrister in Pink Floyd’s The Wall: ‘This will not do!’. 

About a month ago I made a rather rash decision to sign up to a rather grueling sounding charity event at a city dinner the other day. The fact it was for a good cause and that I was trying to be keen was a lethal combination. As I nursed a sore head and a congealing bacon sandwich at my work desk, I wondered why I had been so foolhardy. Anyway, there was nothing else for it and, having paid the entry fee, purchased the team t-shirt and signed some sort of waiver I was committed. As this seemed a while ago, I gave it no second thought until now. As I write this we are but a couple of days away from the challenge! (Although the publication date is, as you will not hesitate to point out, after the event... artistic license!).

A couple of weeks ahead of the event, I decided that I would take a more restrained approach, cut down on the booze, curtail the fatty foods and take up alfalfa and kale to fashion myself into a Seb Coe circa 1979. Perhaps I should have given myself a little more of a cushion than a week.  The first run proved difficult, the second painful, the third more so... i felt it could not get much worse! 

To complement this effort to become a man-machine in a short space of time, I decided that I would fore-go a night of drinking at a corporate shin-dig I had been invited to. I was in good company as one of my colleagues had also said they were going to stay off the sauce for the evening, so I did not feel I was letting the side down too much. 

I went straight from work to the event, having felt somewhat chagrined at having to buy a brand new dress shirt as a frustrating consequence of leaving the other at home... you’ve never seen such a quick trip to Marks & Spencer’s. Of course the collar size, which claimed to be a 15 1/2, was far to big and the garment itself would become a magnet for vibrant sauces and coolis over the course of the dinner. I do moan somewhat but it was a pricey shirt - I hope the dry cleaner can save it! 

Not drinking, I ensured that I had a cigarillo or two on the way to the event, and it was a comfort as I negotiated the cool night air (the venue was a 25 minute walk from the office). One rather gauche fellow decided to let me know how much he hated me smoking in a public place by swearing at me and spitting at my shoes... charming. Un-phased I managed to make it to the venue unruffled, not a hair out of place, and made my way to the bar for something refreshingly non-alcoholic. 

“What can I get you sir? Champagne, wine, beer?”

“Have you got anything non-alcoholic?” I asked, spying ice cold Coca Colas in the fridge. 

“You’ll have to pay for that sir, but I can offer you an orange juice. That’s complimentary.” 

“Oh...okay, I had better take that.” I said, rather begrudgingly. 

Now, I was a guest, but it was not a free event and given the current culture of rhetoric and culture of cutting down or not drinking I think it’s bizarre that we consign non-drinkers to the indignity of concentrated orange juice. It’s not particularly good for you, crammed full of sugar and for me, its slight viscosity is just a little unnerving. However, I was in semi-training and for lack of a better option without having to make a dent in my wallet, I acquiesced. Heavy, cloying and artificial it made me think that surely non-drinkers deserved something better than this? 

I am being a bit unfair, at a paid event, where you are expecting more drinkers than not, why would you consider the minority aside from a courtesy glass of the citrus stuff? Perhaps in this environment there is a little bit of leeway, but it is endemic of how unimaginative and unsatisfying most non-alcoholic beverages are and how little consideration is given to them.

At another event it was J2O, basically an alcopop without the measure of vodka; a further one shook things up with some Ocean Spray cranberry juice. It seems rare to find something truly interesting to engage the abstinent audience. The soft drink market is so lucrative yet the evening market, from pubs to corporate parties seems neglected. I’ve yet to see a selection of great ‘mocktails’ which closely-match the body and punch of their spirit-laced counterparts, or a gutsy alternative like a Virgin Mary offered to guests not interested in knocking back the vino. 

This was not to be had and, after the one glass of OJ (I am sure I could have had more if I had asked) I moved onto water for the rest of the evening whilst 80% of my table sipped/quaffed fine wine and were full of merriment. Never mind, I consoled myself that the next day I would wake up with a clear head, raring for the day to begin. 

On a more serious note to this rather inconsequential (and dry) experience, what is implied is that the non-drinker is on a back foot, even the occasional one like me. It seems there is a real gap in the evening market and hospitality sector for someone daring to do something adventurous. Come on contractors, restaurateurs, mixologists, hotel manager sand barmen, give us something different to both satisfy the cravings of those who abstain and also those of us who want the occasional break from the hard liquor! 

I want my MTV! Brothers in Arms (1985) - Dire Straits

“Dire F***ing Straits!” I said emphatically to a nonplused office as I tried to communicate my abject horror that colleagues were so blissfully unfamiliar with one of the nation’s most successful and timeless pop groups. I rather felt that just the mere mention of the band would call to mind the durgy saccharine of ‘Romeo & Juliet’, the epic proportions of ‘Tunnel of Love and the grandeur of ‘Telegraph Road’... but no, nothing. I felt they should all leave, head to a Tower Records (or whatever the ‘now’ place is to buy CDs) and purchase a copy of Brothers In Arms, the perfect introduction to the band but also, to my mind, their greatest achievement. 

It’s hard to believe that the album is now 30 years old, a few months ago I wrote a post on Barbra Streisand’s Guilty (1980) in which I referenced the albums that influenced my aural upbringing. Brothers in Arms was indeed one of those select cassettes played to death in the car, so much so that we wore through two tapes and had to keep replacing it. It became such a favourite of mine that it was my first CD purchase in 1992, at W H Smith’s using a £20 note I had been given for my fifth birthday by a godparent. Ah those were the days, listening to the digitally crisp opening bars of ‘So Far Away’ I am instantly transported back. Indeed so much did I like the chorus of this song that I used it as a saucy opener on Tinder. It felt like a good idea at the time: ‘so far away from me, you’re so far I just can’t see...’ but needless to say no-one responded to it and I got a few de-matches, however, the song still remains. With a killer base hook, glistening slide guitar and catchy lyrics, it’s a great opener for one of the best albums of the decade. 

I’m not sure even Knopfler could have predicted how successful the second track on the album, ‘Money for Nothing’ would be when it was recorded. Now it’s regarded as a radio classic, played consistently on Absolute Radio, nearly as much as ‘No Son of Mine’ by Genesis and ‘Behind the Mask’ by Eric Clapton! When it was release in the late spring of 1985 it became a global phenomenon, driving sales of the Album. From the haunting opening wails of guest star Sting, the dramatic crescendo of the opening, to the now oh-so-familiar hook ‘naah-nah-nah-naah-nah-nah-nah-nah’ it’s like an orgasm for the ears. Yes the lyrics are dated and distinctly un-PC but who cares, it’s a great tune, loved and loathed in equally measure. The video, of course, was the talk of the town when it was released, taking advantage of the growing capabilities of 3D-imaging to create a now laughably-dated. 

Next comes the album’s piece de resistance, ‘Walk of Life’ a rock-a-billy influenced track and one which is guaranteed to get everyone on the dancefloor, usually dropping some very embarrassing twists, at a family event. It’s a simple tune but so infection, with a pulsing hammond organ riff and Knopfler’s exultant ‘woo-hoo’s’ a real favourite at 2:00am in the morning in the clubs of London even today! It’s an inter-course, a small slice of extasy before the album takes an altogether moodier turn, beginning with the album’s most musically accomplished track, ‘Latest Trick’. It’s a moody, jazzy track, underpinned by a plaintive saxaphone solo. Listening to it you do feel like you’re in some smoky dive in the heart of the city, two thirds of the way through a bottle of kentucky bourbon and sitting alongside an ashtray overflowing with a mountain of Gitane stubs. 

The music then starts to become introspective and, takes a distinctly anti-war theme, as if Knopfler had an idea of a concept album but didn’t quite take of. There’s plenty of semi acoustic guitars, woodwind and claustrophic percussion in tunes like ‘Why Worry’, ‘Ride Across the River’ and ‘Man Too Strong’.They are good tracks but they are definitely filler, they do not have the hit quality, memorability or resonance of the first four cuts. Of these my favourite is ‘Ride Across the River’ it has a film quality to it, you could definitely imagine it in one of the slew of hammy Vietnam pictures that were release in the mid and late 1980s. 

The penultimate track, ‘One World’, is easily the weakest cut on the album, and completely incongruous to the rest of the record. It seems odd that it found a place on Brothers In Arms, again it’s not a bad track but it does not match the songwriting level of any of the other songs. Anyway the closing number is a cracker, an atmospheric epic, somewhat overused by American dramas looking to convey a sense of futility, loss and tragedy. From Miami Vice to The West Wing, the wailing guitars and sombre organs of the title track resonate with all who hear it. Mark Knopfler’s understated vocals add to the drama and contribute to this being a fitting end to a tour-de-force album.

Notes from a blue corner: The illiberal left

When I was but a mere student of politics, studying for my A Levels back in 2005/2006 we were introduced to the heady world of ideology, the very building blocks of modern political thought. Sat in the hot, stuffy classroom on a Monday evening we listened as our teacher attempted to dazzle us with the significance of Edmund Burke, the controversy of Michael Oakeshott (the Conservative thinker, not the former Lib Dem peer), different disciplines of Socialism, Eli Kedourie and Nationalism and of course the schism in Liberalism between the Classical and the Modern, or more appropriately the nightwatchman and the interventionist. Exciting concepts indeed! 

The reason that I raise this split in the first instance is that I think it importantly qualifies the silent battle that is currently being waged across the country, the struggle for survival of freedom of thought and expression, between those who believe that, however distasteful a free democracy and media means total freedom (Classical Liberals) and those who would seek to have state and legislature control what people have access to and effectively govern our moral compass (Modern Liberals). It is the latter that I want to focus on as it is a likely possibility that it is this bunch who will come to power in May.

The squeeze on freedom has crept up on us, over the last 20 years, disguised beneath words such as ‘fairness’, ‘equality’, ‘parity’ and ‘inoffensive’; stemming primarily from the principles of social democracy laid down by the Wilson Government in 60‘s, refined by Giddens’ ‘Third Way’ and put into practice by the Blair and Brown governments. I think the first inklings of the new system of being offended, on other peoples’ behalf, was the quiet death of political satire during Tony’s first two terms (except Private Eye and latterly Armando Iannucci’s Friday Night Armistice and The Thick of It) where it had run rampant during theThatcher and Major years. It’s gradually returning but perhaps that’s because Cameron has a strong enough constitution to grin and bear it, and the Tories have long been an easy target. 

Of course, the liberal left notoriously have an incredibly thin skin and little sense of the ridiculous, afraid of the media they have sought over the years to impose restrictions, campaign to ban sections regarded as ‘exploitative’, censor contrarian commentators and the like. They are so quick to get offended. Look at how uncomfortable most of their front bench are with the media, look how their various interviews are so devoid of humour. Read some of their statements out aloud in the comfort of your own home (which I have done) and listen to how unhinged they sound - especially those of Harriet Harman! What’s so scary is that, in seeking to control media output they believe they are doing the nation a great service... oh dear. 

The ‘Brave New World’ we entered in 1997 - and still haven’t left behind - was one which both had a (wrongly) positive view of human nature and one which sought to engineer the state to level competition, stifle aspiration and lazily churn out lowest common denominator policies, which looked good on the surface but were deeply flawed beneath the surface (like American cars). It preached the message of freedom of equality but the freedom to succeed was unattractive and should be frowned upon, even now the British public are wrongly sniffy of those who do  well in life. Indeed, it would seem that to the ‘modern’ liberals who dominate the Labour Party and the Liberal Democrats  ‘success’ is a dirty word, never mind that it’s these ‘successful people’ who drive the economy.

It seems that we now like nothing better than seeing prosperous people dragged through the mud, or to point out the privileged background some of our stars have had, as if it were some social faux pas. The Labour Party have based the last five years of their rhetoric trying to create a culture of social envy, you only have to look at the cringeworthy Chris Bryant’s exchange with affable singer James Blunt (Hugo Rifkind writes a good analysis of this spat), but also statements made by Ed Miliband and co at the dispatch box. Impressive Conservative minister, Esther McVey, summarised it so very well in a Yorkshire Post article towards the end of last year that I don’t think I need to add to much more! 

Lastly comes the unpleasant arrogance the liberal left seem to have when it comes to political parties with contrarian messages. I’m no fan of UKIP but I am sure there are plenty of level-headed, socially aware people who vote for them and I don’t think it serves any good purpose to level insults at them. However it seems to be open season and the Labour Party have branded them as ‘neanderthals’, ‘sexists’ and ‘chauvinist pigs’, stuck in the mould of 1950s small ‘c’ conservatism. For them these people are unacceptable and must be censored, insulted and put in the stocks to have rotten cabbages thrown at them. Rather than try and beat them on policies, which would be tricky for them as their’s are almost as ludicrous and UKIP’s are non-existent, they turn to the politics of the playground and seek to insight anger and outrage through insults and questions of the party membership’s moral integrity. 

Perhaps its a sign of where we are going though, with more and more people ‘deeply upset’ and ‘mortally offended’ by the smallest remark, news story or criticism. It seems as the liberal left bandwagon marches on, that more and more freedom of expression disappears, avenues to success are bricked off and 

I don’t think that Cameron has all the answers, no-one ever does, but he’s a far more human character. Despite holding to some of the principles of a social democracy, he places far more value in a smaller, less intrusive state in which we are able to enjoy a higher-degree of personal and collective freedom than we ever could experience under a Labour government. 

It deeply worries me that come May 6th we might have a Labour government, and one which will seek to govern every aspect of our life, manage British business and make offending people (especially them) a political offence. Of course, this is a slight exaggeration, but I hope that this short article with make you take a careful look at this current opposition which seeks to govern us for the next five years. 

A humble crumble to start the new year!

Oh goodness, a new year has started and I am desperately trying to be good, but it’s so difficult, especially when you're are surrounded by smug so-and-so’s knee-deep in dry January... sadly I don’t think my constitution could stand it, nor my social diary! But I am back dear readers, ready for another year of fun and frolicking. Do I have a resolution?... no, except to be better about posting on this blog as I noticed it seemed to tail off a bit last year. 

Perhaps when I was berated yesterday, by a client, for not posting enough was a wake up call, telling my poor old fingers that they should once again commit themselves to the keyboard and tap out more pointless musings. 

So where to begin as the chill winds whip at my windows and the ice melts in my tumbler of Canadian Club? Why not with a cheeky recipe, something rib-sticking to really warm the 'cockles of ye heart' and foster good feelings in these lean times! 

It gives me great satisfaction that the world’s most famous pear is a thoroughly British variety. Developed by a green-fingered school teacher of South Berkshire in a little village called Aldermaston, it the legend has the ring of Thomas Hardy about it. When ripe it has a lusciously sweet, fragrant flavour and, for me, is the perfect cooking medium as it holds its shape making it suited for use in a crumble - in direct opposition to those who like their fruit stewed to the point where even a toothless nonagenarian could eat it! 

Many a crumble purist will also be taken aback by my favoured choice of topping, citing that the traditional butter and flour crumb or oatmeal are far superior, that’s their view. This topping has a wonderful crunch and a pleasing salty sweetness and comes from the brilliant Claire Macdonald who’s Seasonal Cooking and More Seasonal Cooking are classics of the UK cookery lexicon. 

The use of a few cloves and a pinch of cinnamon add a spicy aroma that complements the whole dish. Of course, you can vary the recipe to suit your tastes and don’t feel bound by just using pear, other popular fillings such as apple & blackberry, blueberries and rhubarb work really well.

For filling

6 ripe Williams pears
10ml brandy
100g unsalted butter
1tsp lemon juice
50g Demerara sugar
8 cloves 

For crumble

1 packet digestive biscuits
100g Demerara sugar
Pinch ground cinnamon
100g salted butter

Method

1. peel, core and cube the pears and throw into a bowl with the lemon juice (this will prevent the lemons oxidising).
2. place the biscuits in a carrier bag and beat the bejesus out of them on a hard surface with a rolling pin until they become crumbs.
3. melt the butter in a heavy saucepan on a low-medium heat, when it starts to bubble add the biscuit crumb, sugar and cinnamon and stir continuously for a couple of minutes. 
4. Once the crumble is warmed through empty it into a mixing bowl.
5. To assemble take a large oval gratin dish and chuck the pears piece in; douse with the brandy, dot with the unsalted butter and scatter with the cloves and sugar.
6. Top with the crumble mixture, and set aside covered with a tea towel in a cool, dry place until ready to serve. 
7. To serve place on the middle rack of a hot oven (around 200 degrees) for 10-15 minutes until the top starts to brown and the edges start to bubble. 
8. Serve with single cream or good quality vanilla ice cream. 

A very London Christmas part II

I know, I know, I have been lazy, I promised you the follow up to part one two days ago. There can be no excuse, and in my excess-induced torpor, caused in part by too many free radicals and hard partying, I have omitted to finish what I started. I hope that this little slice of festive cheer will make up for it! 

As I sit here writing this and listening to Sting’s reflective Nothing Like the Sun (Which I will be reviewing later in January), I am able to put Christmas into perspective once more. I wrote in the last post that I went into the holiday season with a sense of indifference, and I stand by that. This was definitely the best frame of mind with which to approach it. So let’s pick up the story where I left it, bloated by countless cocktail sausages and covered in a blanket of Heidsieck Monopole and Gordon’s and tonic I had gently rested my head on an Oka by Nicky Haslam cushion and passed out, legs akimbo, on the sofa. 

I rose fitfully early, parched, the morning hit me like an iron fist enclosed in a velvet glove. My tongue was felt-like and head fuzzy. The bottle of San Pellegrino on the coffee table offered little succour -  fizzy water is a terrible idea when in a fragile state. It was like sand-paper on the gullet and I groaned before dragging myself off to bed to rise at the more sociable time of 9:30am. 

In days gone by I would be up far earlier, raring to get to my stocking, frantically tearing wrapping paper open to get at presents such as a toy assault rifle, the best of Tom & Jerry, Micro Machines, silly putty, Fimo plasticine, marbles, Kirby’s Dream Land (for the original Gameboy) and a box of Terry’s Neopolitans (remember those?). This Christmas I took the stairs gingerly, made my way down to the kitchen and made a restorative cup of coffee chased with an ice cold Coca Cola. 
“Feeling delicate?” said my mother, “Well there’s no time for that, there are sprouts to consider.” Fortunately my aunt intervened, keen to offer her services as chief sprout preparer and carrot chopper. I was saved, so I quickly ducked out into the garden with a Romeo y Julieta Mille Fleur and a shot of Eau de Vie which brought some colour back to my cheeks. I was ready to tackle the challenges of negotaiting the Christmas meal. 

A few smoked salmon blinis at midday, and a glass or two of cold Champagne, whetted my appetite and prepared me to take on the turkey, ham, two types of stuffing (one chestnut, the other sausage meat), sprouts, carrots drenched in butter and chives, peas, roast potatoes and of course lashings of gravy. All this was washed down with a bottle of Waitrose very good Cave de Blebenheim Riesling, and I helped put a dent in a bottle of 2012 Chateau Batailley. 

Following this mountain of food, there was still room in the 'old tuck box' for a little cheese and some fresh fruit. I picked a plumptious pear and a couple of ripe figs to accompany some of the most amazing cheese I have ever had. I will admit that Munster is an acquired taste and, anyone who has read my 2013 posts about Alsace will know the high esteem in which I hold this cheese. There was no denying it was pungent, sweating and quivering as it was on the cheese plate, it garnered many worried looks! It has a very heady flavour, dominating the nostrils and almost burning the back of the throat. Paired with an ever excellent glass or four of Graham’s 1985 Vintage Port it was a an explosion of flavour. Indeed the other cheese were also out of this world. To recap: there was a little, square Mariolles, a washed-rind cheese with a strong aroma and grassy flavour, a Morbier which has the taste of a young Comte but is softer and a Mimolette, a bright orange cheese from Northern France which tastes like an aged Gouda (precisely because it is one!)

Grabbing a cup of coffee and a glass of Marc de Gewürztraminer eau de vie (a true firewater if ever there was one!) we decamped to the drawing room to open presents. Mine, as requested ,were pretty functional. I got some much needed pairs of needle cords, some shirts, a tie, a few books, a frying pan, an electric steamer and of course, plenty of alcohol, including a bottle of my beloved Canadian Club whisky. True to form, I drained my liqueur and filled my tumbler with a healthy tot of our Commonwealth’s finest product! 

With that, we settled down to probably the most incongruous double-bill in Christmas history: The Jungle Book (which seemed much more dramatic when I was younger) and Die Hard 2: Die Harder (a very underrated sequel), bringing to an end a true Christmas cracker. As I picked at leftovers I thought that this had been the best yet, and couldn’t wait to see what Boxing Day would have in store. 

Keep your eyes peeled over the weekend for the third and final part of my Christmas adventure...