Addiction

Much is written about impulse and addiction in society these days, and I suppose if there was something - for me - that encapsulated this, it would be Snoggy’s South African shop in Wimbledon Station. I have be a patron of this particular store for over 10 years, spending enough money there that I should be a share holder by now! 

Whenever I get out at platform five and ascend the stairs on my way to the ticket barrier, there it is, with its signature sides of air-dried beef beckoning me to either buy a whole piece or a bag of chunks (which usually get consumed within five minutes of purchase). I think I have a problem, and an expensive one at that, but the stuff is so damn good. 

Biltong, for the uninitiated is air-dried, marinated beef; think Bresaola, but from a thinner cut and marinated in salt, coriander seeds, vinegar and other spices before being hung and air dried. I will say, it’s an acquired taste but once you get used to it, moreish in the extreme. 

Here’s a plug, the aforementioned Snoggy’s does the best in London. Correction, for me, Snoggy’s does the best in London, because I have never tasted anything like it from other vendors or the disappointing packs of the stuff (over-salted and as dry as leather) now available in pubs and off licenses across the UK. 

Snoggy’s, like a proper South African shop, sells the stuff in varying different styles. From the bone-dry, lacquer-like lean variety to the unctuous ‘wet’ and fatty. The latter is my favourite and has a flavour profile all of its own. 

Given that we’re a nation of beef lovers, I’m surprised this snacking food has not got more traction, I’m waiting to see bowls of it on the bars of smart hotels made to a house recipe. 

If you’re looking to give your jaw a good workout then this is for you. It’s beefy but with a delicate, spicy and slightly piquant taste, perfect when matched with an ice-cold lager. Coming from Wimbledon, where there’s a big South African community, there’s tonnes of the stuff available but it seems to be harder to find (in it’s fresh form) elsewhere. 

Drowoers come a close second, air-dried sausages which pleasingly snap as soon as you sink your choppers into them. Chock-full of coriander they have a savoury taste which makes them perfect as a snack to complement an afternoon in front of the box watching the rugby. 

If you haven’t tried the stuff yet, I suggest you head to Snoggy’s and queue up behind the scores of expats who are beguiled by the quality, and also the charm of the staff at who serve there. 

Go on, treat yourself to some of South Africa’s best! 

I’m turned off!

"What the hell is he on about?” I hear you cry, he hasn’t even bothered to give us a new blog in almost six months and now he decides to publish something polemic and incendiary. I’m sure you’re thinking: ‘but I signed-up for food, travelogues and witty banter’, rest assured, there will be more of this to come! However, as a lifelong politico, I feel that I must raise my head above the parapet and indicate how thoroughly cheesed off I am with the current state of affairs. 

More and more, I am becoming disenchanted with the UK Government, opposition and the deeply, deeply unimpressive calibre of a large number of elected politician. As a passionate supporter of the Conservative party, this appalling referendum has brought some of the worst excesses to the surface. 

I’m turning off more and more as I hear ‘the failure’, Iain Duncan Smith, throwing toys out of his metaphorical pram willy-nilly. His arrogant, drawling rhetoric disingenuously claiming he’s acting in the interests of the people when, in actual fact, it’s more a personal crusade. It’s a great way to mask how relatively ineffectual I believe he’s been over the many years I’ve observed him. 

Equally, the gimmicky Queen’s Speech earlier this week shows that this government is stagnating under a powerful group of bloody-minded, self-serving MPs who cannot seem to rationalise and compromise for the greater good. I’d like to see some of the policy I voted for in 2010 and 2015 actually be implemented rather than have this system held to ransom by a tyranny of the minority. 

Many like to talk about principles, well I say sod off, go and work in a different industry. Politics is about pragmatism, adaptation and evolution. Both sides of the house are seeming to suffer from an unhealthy degree of hubris which has consigned them to pointless, bitter in-fighting that impresses neither their supporters or the wider electorate as a whole.

I don’t envy Cameron’s position, but a braver man would seek to drive through unpopular, necessary policies, taking a risk to implement positive change.

The lacklustre performance of the opposition is lamentable and, how they could become embroiled in an anti-Semitism row (much of it whipped-up by the media) demonstrate how it is ever-spiralling out of control into irrelevance. 

For interested parties, the whole thing is a sorry state of affairs! a couple of weeks ago, for the first time in my voting life, I spoiled my ballot paper in the mayoral elections. I thought Zac’s campaign was scurrilous and I cannot vote for Sadiq because I deeply disagree with his political vision. 

Furthermore, both waxed on and on about unity, social concepts and the like. As I sit here now, writing this, delayed on a London Overground, I was gobsmacked at how no candidate wanted to discuss the one and only thing I cared about in this race for mayoralty, transport (in particular trains and tubes). I have no regrets on spoiling the ballot and would do it again at the General Election if there was no choice.

At the end of the day our elected representatives need to get their heads out of their own fundaments and start looking at practicalities and real problems opposed to intellectual dramas cooked up in their ivory towers!

Choppy Waters

It seemed that over the last year I caused something of a small sensation, at least amongst my friends, off the back of a post I wrote about the perils of using Tinder. Wow, I thought, I must be something of a minor Dickens, penning such incisive social commentary. Wow, had I yet to have some real life experience! 

2015 began promisingly, with, as the reader can imagine, a couple of Tinder dates. These led to little, except being ejected from the infamous Admiral Codrington pub for a little too much ‘heavy petting’. I think the words of the bartender were ‘that’s enough of the floor show’. A good tale, but I have yet to darken the doors of that particular establishment since. Was it a good omen for the year to come? That’s for you to decide. 

Following another number of pricey and rather disappointing dead-ends through the labyrinth that is the dating app, I decided that the best thing was to eschew all forms of online succor and try my luck in the scary, real world. I must say that it has been a damn sight more successful but also a little more frustrating when thing have not worked out. That’s where I find myself as I write this post. 

When I write this, I must try very hard not to come across as some scorned lover or a melodramatic fool, it’s an unattractive quality and, those who are familiar with me know that I am intense enough as it is. 

Writing is a great therapy and perhaps a great way of casting off one’s sorrow at the peril of another’s rancor. I hope not to the latter, it’s certainly not my intention to hurt anyone, as such everything remains in vague terms. 

I’ve always believed the best things happen when you’re not looking for them, a much harder thing to achieve than you would believe! But so it was that, riding on a high from great weather, great booze and a few hours bantering with a best mate I headed to a party in Central London. 

It was one of those nights in which everything clicked, especially my charm. I’m an acquired taste at the best of times and I met a few kindred spirits that night. Most notable there was one, an attractive girl, fun, sparkling conversation, great figure... I think we all know where this is going. Drink followed drink, followed drink followed drink, until we were all huddled around a kitchen table drinking slivovitz and raising toasts to imaginary luminaries, conceived on the spur of the moment...

...The next morning hit me like a ton of bricks, but I had woken up with someone rather attractive and with great chat (the most important thing, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise). Peeling myself, reluctantly, from bed, I helped/hindered in cleaning up the aftermath of the party and made my way to Finsbury Park to take advantage of a free ticket to Wireless - a hugely generous present from a very special friend. 

The seeds were sown and the dating started. I’m afraid I am a novice, but I invest, and I threw the kitchen sink at it, great restaurants, largesse came to the fore. I am sure that most men reading this will share a certain concern, in that dating is an expensive pastime in which there is often little reward... It makes me sound very bitter, don’t get me wrong I have no regrets but when you look at the bank balance, it’s a chastening experience. 

In the basest terms of this dating escapade, we had: a fish supper (a bloody good one too), drinks, many more drinks, sex, dinner, drinks, drinks, drinks, weepy friend turning up, night at home, drinks, drinks, drinks, drinks, drinks, drinks, both too drunk for sex, museum visit, drinks x 6, dinner, drinks x 8, argument, grumpy cab ride, sex, 1/2 week of texting... end! 

Wow, I have put it in the most base terms, and it feels a bit harsh, but it’s hard to describe a fling (although I felt it was a little more than that). It was one of those terrible situations when I feel I was more into it, more indulgent and as a consequence more vulnerable. 

I wanted this to develop into something more but, you know what, you cannot force someone to be interested in you and if they want to end it in the early stages, for whatever reason, then fair enough. I’m mature enough to understand, no-one wants to feel trapped. Better to find out now than later down the line. 

I think the worst moment is receiving a text to the effect, it’s terribly impersonal more than anything else. An anodyne statement that it’s over coupled with a half-hearted excuse, rooted in the virtues of personal freedom and my personal welfare. It always seems that I obtain this kind of statement on inappropriate platforms or at inappropriate times, which never helps; I remember one occasion I had a break-up call on a train whilst sat with my then managing director, stalled outside a Nottinghamshire power station!  

Such is life I suppose and it’s best not to look back in anger but focus on three weeks of great fun shared with someone entertaining. It had its moments, but overall I had a great time and it went to prove to myself how much I enjoyed dating. I look on, and look forward to the next romantic adventure with no hang-ups. 

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 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 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...