POLISHED

Isn’t this fantastic?  Isn’t this what all restaurant bills should look like?  Four simple statements: pig troters (sic), rabbit, duck, bottle of red. Isn’t it also, arguably, what all meals should be like?

The trotters were in aspic – the blandness of the aspic and the intense porkinesss were a winner, especially since it came with a little jug of vinegar:

The duck looked like this, it’s stuffed with apples, and you can’t lose with that can you?:

The rabbit was in mustard sauce and was good too, but not very photogenic, and though not as good as the duck, and I did have some food envy.

This was all, as you can see from the bill, at the Daquise, a Polish restaurant in Thurloe Street, South Kensington, and I realize I’ve been going there for a very long time. Although since the restaurant has been in business since 1947 there must be people who’ve been going there much longer than I have.   

Below is how the Daquise looked it in 1970 – two doors away from a Wimpy Bar – and it’s survived much longer.  Sometimes (if not all that often) there is justice in the food world.

There was, apparently a very serious fire there in 2005 but the place been restored in order to look very much the way it always did – and the menu has been gently updated without making you think it’s getting fancy.  There’s still borscht and black pudding, but I remember I always used to order the stuffed cabbage and that seems to have gone from the menu.

BLOOMING WITH RELISH

Here in London I’ve been eating the inner and outer parts of pigs (I’m not sure that they all constitute organs).

Here at a restaurant named Noble Rot on Lamb’s  Conduit Street, my companion and I ate the set lunch – the starter for which was  pig cheek salad.  Sounds quite humble – but it was an absolute stunner.  Fatty, tart, - and yes, there was greenery too:

And on the menu at Josephine’s Filipino restaurant on Charlotte Street there was something  described as “deep fried pork flowers served with spicy vingar.”

Now you understand the “bloom” reference. I asked the waiter what that was and he said “pork skin” – so of course I ordered it.  It looked like this:

The internet suggests that there’s only one restaurant in the whole world that refers to this dish as pork flowers - and that's Josephine’s.  It’s more usually known as Sitsaron Bulaklak, sometimes referred to as ruffled fat or chitterlings, and more anatomically as pig mesentery.  Now, I perfectly understand the need for euphemism in food, but these are definitely not pork skin.  They were nevertheless really, really good.  Chewy, of course but deep fried so also crunchy.

And at the Punch Tavern in Fleet Street, on a Monday night when the whole area seemed strangely deserted and bleak, there was this serving of pork crackling.  

I suppose crackling’s a euphemism too.

DELICATE AND TENDER

You’re surely familiar (I mean, I’ve banged on about it often enough) with the great early scene in the movie The Quiller Memorandumin which Alec Guinness (Pol) recruits George Segal (Quiller) for what sounds like a suicide mission.  Guinness toys with sandwiches throughout the scene. The screenplay is by Harold Pinter.

POL bites into his sandwich and grins at QUILLER … He offers the sandwiches to QUILLER.

POL. Some leberwurst ?

QUILLER. No thanks.

POL. Or some schinken? (He examines the sandwich.) No, wait a moment, what am I talking about, this isn't schinken, it's knackwurst. What about some knackwurst?

QUILLER. I'm not hungry.

P0L. Aren't you? I am.

He bites into the sandwich, chews a moment and then stands.

     You don't mind if I eat while we walk?

Comedy of menace – we got it!! So imagine my excitement when I was shopping in the Waitrose by Russell Square in London, and found the “Delicate & tender German sausage selection.”

Now you and I may not think that German sausage is especially delicate or tender but you can’t argue with Waitrose, can you?  As you see, the collection consists of “coarse Shinkenwurst, succulent Bierwurst, and smooth Extrawurst. 

I’d have thought those adjectives were unnecessary, but again Waitrose is the boss

Now, only a fool would attempt to parody our Harold but I find myself imagining a scene in which some British spymaster in Berlin might say to one of his charges,  “No, wait a moment, what am I talking about, this isn't succulent Bierwusrt, it’s smooth Extrawurst. What about some smooth Extrawurst?”

And then imagine my further excitement in finding that Waitrose also sells Bury Black Puddings, from a company that claims (and once again I wouldn’t argue) that black pudding is a superfood.  

Their website also has recipes for Vegetarian Black Pudding Samosas, which does raise suspicions, I mean come on, have the courage of your convictions, guys.

I don’t think these were the tastiest black puddings I ever ate.  I think they needed more fat, and I wish I’d bought some that I saw when I was up in Sheffiield, but fried up with potato they were good enough.  The thought that they were a superfood didn’t help much.

My friend Phil was once offered a job as an apprentice black pudding maker in Lancashire.  The job description said something like “Mustn’t mind wading ankle-deep in blood.”  He declined. The main objection to doing such a job, I imagine, is that it would take all the joy out of eating black puddings, and nobody wants that.

SCRANNING IN SHEFFIELD

I have been in Sheffield eating like a lord, and also like a Sheffielder, which in many ways is same thing.

I think I grew up in Sheffield at a very bad time for British food.  A previous generation would happily have eaten rabbit, pigeon, pigs’ trotters, maybe even venison if they were able to get it.  A later generation grew up watching fancy chefs on tv and "experimenting" with kiwi fruit. But I grew up in the days when a mother could think she was doing right by her family when she served frozen fish fillets, and steak and kidney pie out of a tin.

Consequently I don’t often get nostalgic for the food of my youth, but the roast pork sandwiches of Sheffield (and I know they’re found other places too) continue to haunt my taste buds.  This is one I ate at the weekend from Beres Pork Sandwich Shop in the city centre.  

Beres have been in business since 1961, which probably makes them newcomers in the world of the Sheffield pork sandwich – Funk’s of Hillsborough have been around since at least the 1890s.

And you know, I like the roast pork well enough, but I think it’s the extras that really move me: the stuffing, the apple sauce, the crackling, all of them present in the sandwich above.  The crackling is only “recommended for people with strong, healthy teeth” – it says so on the bag.

It surely comes as no surprise that Sheffield is the home of a good meat pie, and so no huge surprise that there’s a restaurant on Division Street called Pieminister – part of a small chain that was actually founded in Bristol.  We tried going there at about 9 o clock on Saturday night, but were told they’d sold out of everything except mashed potato, which was surely a good sign, so we returned the next night.

The two pies you see in the picture above are the Moo – “British Beef Steak and Craft Ale,” and the Deerstalker – “Wild British Venison, Bacon, Red Wine and Green Lentil.”  Gotta say I didn’t notice the green lentil, but you tend not to when there’s venison around.

I don’t suppose hotdogs are especially local to Sheffield.  I occasionally had one as a kid, but it wasn’t a meal, just something you ate when you were at the seaside or at a fun fair, kind of like candy floss.  But after eating hotdogs in Chicago last month it was impossible to resist the “Bulldog” on the menu at the Fox and Duck in Fulwood Road, Broomhill, a pub that calls itself “a lively boozer.”  And no, I have never heard the word scran used in Sheffield or anywhere else.

The Bulldog was pretty decent, and the things on the top that look like wood shavings are in fact “grilled and crispy onions" sitting right on top of the raw onions.

There was also deep fried and breaded haggis with tandoori ketchup (fusion cuisine, we got it!).  It looked like this and was “interesting” though I don’t think it would satisfy many true haggis fans:

Need I say that Japanese food didn’t feature in my family’s cuisine, or anybody else’s at the time I was growing up in Sheffield.   Just a few years back, as my Japanophilia was taking hold, I tried to find a Japanese eatery in Sheffield and could only locate one, which from the reviews sounded very dodgy indeed, so I didn’t eat there.  But now Sheffield has a significant Asian population, not many of them Japanese I’d have thought, but even so these days you can find 15 or more Japanese restaurants in town.

We settled for the Mr Miyagi Revolving Sushi Bar, again on Division Street, just a pie or gyoza’s throw from Pieminister.  Of course like many other restaurants that describe themselves as revolving, the restaurant itself doesn’t rotate, but there’s a circulating conveyor belt that delivers the food.  In this case the empty belt continued to move at eye level, even as the food came via a waitress.  

Above is a Classic Sashimi Set, and two Oyster sashimi – which were as good as you could get most places, and more than you could once possibly have hoped for in Sheffield or within a few thousand miles of it.

BLACKBOARD ALCOHOL WISDOM

Chicago:

London:

CARRY ON CARY

Want to see what my dining experience was like on the Southwest Chief?  Well of course you do.  Best to start by saying it was nothing like this, much as I wanted it to be:

It was more like this, a breakfast bagel:

Or this microwaved cheeseburger, which was actually pretty decent:

Or cheese and crackers, that's two kinds of cracker, three kinds of cheese, Vermont Sharp White Cheddar, Mini Baby Bell and Tillamook Cheddar (which is hidden under the Vermont Sharp).  Mmmm:

Or how about the turkey and bacon club with creamy Swiss? This definitely tasted better than it looked, though admittedly that may not be saying much.

By the time you get to Chicago you’re ready for some real Chicago fare.  A Chicago Dog at Tiny Tap on the river:

The Dogzilla at Byron’s:

It was terrific, though it looked even better on the sign:

And this which was probably the most enjoyable thing I ate in the Windy City; whitefish and shrimp ceviche with potato cakes, at the Berghoff Bar:

And then back on the train, heading for Los Angeles, and more of the very similar:

"ANOTHER MARTINI FOR MOTHER CABRINI"

If you find yourself in Chicago you might very well see this fine mural of Muddy Waters, one of the godfathers of Chicago Blues:

I can’t remember who first said that the Blues is an empty, transparent vessel into which you pour yourself.  The rudiments are simple, can be quickly learned, and the moment you start playing you reveal yourself completely. If you have the soul of a suburbanite that will show.  If you’re touched by the Muses, that will immediately show too. 

And so it is with the martini glass, a transparent, empty vessel into which the bartender pours his or her soul.

Yes I have been in Chicago. I was alone and in the evenings I was enjoying some “melancholy man sits alone at the bar with a martini” moments. This one was at the Congress Hotel.  

It was so-so. As hotel martinis often are.  There may be a few guys working in hotel bars who pour their souls into their work, but they’re rare.

This next one was at Miller’s Pub, on Wabash Avenue, made by an old and caring Latino guy, and considerably better.

And the one below was consumed at the Exchequer, also on Warbash and made by an East European female bartender.  

I suppose the non-standard martini glass could be considered subversive, and the cocktail stick in the shape of a sword could be knowingly kitsch, though I’m not sure.

But then, and hold onto your cocktail napkins, I went to Rudy’s Bar and Grille on Madison Street – (also “Home of the famous Martini Milkshake” which I didn’t investigate).

And I was asked by the woman behind the bar who’s name was Ally (it was on the bill) whether I wanted my martini shaken or stirred!!  Holy Wabash! That’s an absolute first, a hit right out of the park before we’ve even started. I was also asked what kind of gin I wanted – Hendricks, and if I wanted my olives stuffed with blue cheese (I did not).  It looked like this:

It was so good, complete with the oh-so-necessary and oh-so-rare gin meniscus (which I know you can't really see in my picture). It was just wonderful, everything a man or woman might ever want in a martini.  I don’t know Ally and she doesn’t know me, but if her soul is as fine as the martini she made, then she is one of the Chosen.  The drink cost $14.50, and yes in other circumstances I might have said ouch to that.

And you know a part of me realized that it was folly to go back to Rudy’s the next night, I knew there’d be disappointment, but I did go back.  And when I sat down at the bar a fellow patron told me it was martini special night, but I didn’t know what that meant.  I wasn’t served by Ally, it was another woman, and I wasn’t offered a choice of shaken or stirred, or of gin or even of olive.  And it came with no meniscus.  It looked like this:

In most other circumstances it would have been considered a very superior martini.  And since it was martini special night, it only cost $7. Can you put a price on your soul? Yep about $7.50.

TWENTY FIVE OR SIX TO FOUR

I'm going to Chicago for a spree.  I think it'll be good, but I think it won't look like this, alas:

EAT THE HEAD

Let’s imagine, for reasons too complicated to explain, that you happen to own a largish Hulk Hogan cake pan (maybe 15 inches across) that looks like this:

Actually I’ve always thought it looked like Will Ferrell. And let's imagine one day you think to yourself, “You know, I’ll bet I could use that thing as a jelly mould.”  Even as you think that, you’re pretty sure it’ll never work, you’ll end up with a big mess, but heck, it’s only jelly.

So you get the pan and you get some pineapple slices and you add some “grape” flavored jelly and you put it in the fridge, and you hope for the best and you’re still thinking it’ll never work.  But look at this.  Out it popped without too much trouble.  Hey, sometimes I surprise myself as well as other people.

 I didn't have a plate that was anywhere near big enough to hold the finished article.   Many people have said, cut off the head and the body will die, but since this body was never really alive it didn’t seem such a big deal.  And yes, that’s lime sorbet adding the final touch.

MORE POTATO MADNESS

I’ve been thinking about spuds again, and the local Vons had these red white and blue potatoes – all-American and patriotic, though I understand there may be other countries in the world that have red white and blue in their flags

I started by boiling them.  And you know, even before I started I knew those blue potatoes were going to be a problem. I’ve cooked them before in “potato medlies” and I know they always cook faster than the other types.  And if I’d had my wits about me I’d have tossed them into the boiling water later than the others.  But I didn’t.  Call me a fool.  And then I sautéed them in goose fat with rosemary. Other than the blues being a bit soggy, they were pretty darned good, if I say so myself.

And then I saw something concerning that TV series The Deuce, the one about sex and porn in New York in the 70s.  Having seen some pornographers at very close quarters, it seems to me that Maggie Gyllenhaal is not the most convincing pornographer (pornographeuse?).  James Franco on the other hand is quite sleazily credible.

One of the show's writers, Richard Price, has been spreading the word that Campbell’s potato soup was used on camera as a substitute for semen.  He says, somewhat ironically, “I guess it took the stress off multiple takes of the ‘money shot’ although there was a certain risk in regards to excessive starch. I wonder if it boosted sales of canned vichyssoise in Times Square.”

           It seems to me there’s plenty enough real semen in the world without having to use fake stuff.  There’s long been a semen cookbook, and I discover there’s now a semen cocktail book.  Ah me.  I wonder if they're using soup on this cover shot.

So obviously I went out and bought some Campbell’s cream of potato soup. And really it was so bland that it didn’t much taste of anything at all, which I suppose was the whole point as far as the makers of The Deuce  were concerned.

On the other hand it did have all those little chunks of potato in it (one still had a bit of skin on).  I suppose it was somebody’s job on the set to pick out those chunks.  Oh, the glamor of the movies.