Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts

Tuesday, 31 August 2010

Viennese treat - Bistro Delicat, Battersea

I admit the last time I was in Vienna, inter-railing aged 18, I had far from a gastronomic time. Aside from a lot of amazing cake, most of my foodie memories involve bread and cheese from supermarkets at the best, and McDonalds and Pizza Hut at the worst on a rainy Sunday after we rashly decided to take a night train to Venice on Sunday night, check out our hostel on the Sunday morning and spend the day mooching around Vienna. This would've been fine if it hadn't torrentially rained, and if, in typical European-style, almost everything been shut for Sunday. Even the cake shops. We ended up riding the underground for a dry, warm activity. It was a low point. (Although I've just discovered that one of my favourite museums in the whole world Kunst Haus Vien - a visually-intoxicating museum built by and dedicated to Austrian artist/architect Hundertwasser. The man believed strongly in colour and little in straight lines - is actually open on Sunday. We visited on Saturday.)

Anyway my knowledge of Viennese cuisine extended little beyond cakes (I blanked out the other disasters). Wiener Shnitzel maybe, but I don't think I actually ate it there as I was in my weird vegetarian phase (it was a strange time of my life). So when new restuarant Bistro Delicat opened on South West London's eatathon that is Northcote Road at the beginning of July I was intrigued. Not least because it was a new restaurant in South West London that wasn't a chain (harsh, but kinda fair). Not least because of the Ikea goes uber-chic Scandi-esque decor of black and white tiles and neat pale wood table and chairs. But because it promised Austrian cuisine, and I wasn't entiring sure what that would mean on the menu...

The Boy was away playing with cars in Hungary so I met my old uni-friend, the extra-talented and ultra-liability Jonathan. He was half-an-hour late despite living round the corner. But no matter, it gave me plenty of time to study the menu, have owner Erik introduce me to some Austrian whites (which dominates the menu, white and red - you won't find a better selection in London). The French, German and English newspapers hanging waiting to be read on the white tiled walls and the Parisian bistro soundtrack (identified immediately by Jonathan as the Amelia soundtrack, appropriately enough) gave the continental-cafe vibe. As did the multi-European staff (German chef, French sous, and vegetarian French waiter 'It's difficult in France... they don't understand...')


Rye bread and olive oil was followed (with Jonathan's eventual crashing into the restaurant) with starters: Austrian curd ravioli-type pasta Schlutzkrapfen, filled with curd cheese and spinach (a heavier touch but with more bite than traditional Italian pasta):


And a charcuterie board - German Schwarzwaelder Schinken (Black Forest ham), French Bayonne ham, Austrian Tyrol Speck, duck rillette (Erik tells us it had been cooked for 17 hours), saucisson rosette, cornichons and pickled baby onions.


Mains we opted for one more predictable yellow-fin tuna with home-made pesto and tomato salad - which was everything you'd expect, but lovely nevertheless.


The other choice was a given, and I wasn't really given a choice - 'I've been told our Wiener Schnitzel is the best this side of Vienna' says Erik. I was sold. And not disappointed. Feather-light batter, paper-thin veal and a lemon in a muslin cloth (a nice touch).


Not content with showing off the Wiener Schnitzel, Erik's enthusiasm also translated into a taster of scallops and confit pork belly, which was every bit a melting moment as you'd hope.


Sides were really a bit superfluous - ratatouille (average) and intensely and addictively garlicky spinach.

Desserts, well with my past Viennese experience how could we refuse? No cakes this time, but again we straddled continental Europe with French crêpes and Austrian sweet apricot Knödel - deliciously naughty balls of dumpling that tasted like cake gone deep fried... as with the rest of the meal the Austrian elements won out. So much so I even forgot to take a picture... oh well you'll just have to go and see for yourself.

Bistro Delicat
124 Northcote Road
SW11 6QU
020 7924 3566
http://www.bistrodelicat.com/

Thursday, 29 July 2010

You scream, I scream

Filo hits CNTraveller.com and eats a lot of ice cream in the process. More pics of the scientific treats at Chin Chin Labs. Is it novelty over substance? I don't think so, I don't really care. It was yum. (And fun)





http://www.cntraveller.com/recommended/uk/the-best-ice-cream-in-the-uk

Take a lick... uhum.

Tuesday, 25 May 2010

Eat, pray... nah, stuff that, just EAT: Bali

In my travelling tummy experience often the best meal you’ll eat in a country is the simplest. Goo-y creamy mozzerella and you-can-still-taste-the-green-of-the-vine tomatoes in Rome, a bowl of steaming fresh mussels in white wine and skinny just-crisp-enough frites in Bruges, a so buttery-it’s-almost-melting warm croissant fresh from the boulangerie in Paris (not forgetting the Malboro Red on the side – there’s a reason why those French women are so skinny). Well, in Bali it was noodles, fried noodles. I was obsessed.

My new obsession ‘mie goreng’ literally means ‘fried noodles’- that’s it. Although, like its closely related counterpart ‘nasi goreng’ aka, you guessed it, ‘fried rice’, it was rather more than that. My Lonely Planet Bali and Lombok described it as ‘fried noodles with mixed goodies’ but like all the best recipes it depends on the chef. At the core is noodles fried in a piping hot wok with vegetables and a sweet soy spicy sauce, some warungs (roadside food stall-cum-restaurant) would add a fried egg or omelette on top and a variety of crackers – prawn, peanut, vegetable – on the side. Sometimes it’d be with pork, sometimes with chicken, sometimes just plain and simple but always great, and even better, less than £2. I’m sure there is usually shit-loads of MSG in it... uhum, sorry yes we’re calling it umami now. But who cares I was hooked.


We arrived in Bali at night after a long, long, long flight, thrust blinking into the humid darkness and then the bustle of the airport immigration hall. There was a small smiling Balinese man holding a sign with my and Choux Boy’s names, confused looking queues for visas and huge signs about the death penalty for drug dealers everywhere. Not that that was really an issue... I was there ‘officially’ to review some hotels and write about Eat, Pray, Love; unofficially, as always, I was there to eat, eat, eat.

First stop: Jimbaran Bay in South Bali and fortunately, given we hadn’t seen a bed in over 24 hours, only 15 minutes from the airport. Jimbaran Bay, I’d cribbed up from the Lonely Planet, which came to be known as ‘the bible’, is famous with locals and tourists alike for its string of seafood warungs that run the length of its golden arc. From lunchtime you can smell the smoky, salty smell of barbequing fish hauled from the colourful wooden fishing boats that dot the sea if you are up early enough to the ramshackle fish market at the north end of the bay. After sunset the tables stretch down the sand to replace the lapping waves as the tide retreats and candles ripple through the smoke.

The Boy turns from Choux Boy to Action Man on holidays. And he was a man with a plan for Bali – surfing, bodyboarding, sailing, snorkelling, scuba diving were all on our activity agenda. I was a little bit afraid. So day two and cooking school was perfect – an activity and I didn’t even need to get wet. Plus I get to ask a million questions about Balinese food, double win. This was the discovery of mie goreng, this was the start of the trip’s obsession. We start at 8am with a trip to the fish and produce market. The average Balinese day starts well before sunrise at around 4 or 5am with a trip to the market (which opens at 2am!) to get food for the day – no fridges equals daily trips. There was everything crabs, sardines, sharks, mullet all from the bay. Woven baskets full were bought and strung onto thick bamboo poles between two men to be run along the bay to a warung.

Most of Balinese cooking, we’re told, revolves around the key roots: galangal, turmeric and ginger which are on sale everywhere in the produce market along with chillis, Balinese limes (smaller and sweeter), bunches of Thai basil...

But on to the Mie Goreng...


Mie Goreng
courtesy of Wayan Suratha head chef of Warung Mie at Four Seasons Jimbaran Bay (and the Four Seasons Cooking School – hence the rather precise measurements and obsession with julienning)

100g boiled fresh noodles
5g chopped garlic cloves
10g red chilli – julienned
25g carrot – julienned
10g spring onions – julienned
40g chopped onion
10g Napa cabbage
8g sliced leeks
1 tsp fish sauce
1 tsp light soy sauce
1 tsp sweet soya sauce
3 tsp oyster sauce
1 tsp Chinese wine
½ tsp sesame oil
1 tsp chilli sauce
1 tsp white pepper

To garnish
25g of sliced omelette
5g fried shallots

Heat up the wok and pour in oil. Add garlic and fry for 3 seconds before adding onions, napa cabbage, leek, red chilli, carrot, spring onions. Pour in fish sauce, soy sauce, sweet soya sauce, oyster sauce, Chinese wine, chilli sauce and seasame oil. Add noodles and toss well. Check seasoning. Serve topped with omelette and shallots with crackers.

After Jimbaran Bay we travel round the coast and away from the crowd to East Bali and Amankila. And my second Balinese obsession ‘salak’ fruit (don’t worry I was acquiring, not cheating on my food obsessions, I was still having mie goreng for lunch almost every day). I was immediately drawn to it because of its skin. It looks and feel exactly like snakeskin (how long would it last fashioned into a bracelet before I started smelling of rotting fruit I wondered...) The skin is thin and easily peeled away in satisfying strips to reveal the knobbles of the three of four segments of fruit beneath. Good ones were sweet, not juicy but crunched a bit like an apple. The best one I eat was off the basket on the head of a Balinese woman during a hike near the small village of Wates. Our guide Kawit said they were the best in all of Bali...


Goodbye to the mountainous jungle of East Bali, a speedboat and it is replaced by the flat, sand-circled tiny paradise isles of the Gili Islands. Gili Meno, Gili Air and Gili Trawangen, our home in an unairconditioned beach shack for the next five days – which in turn was home to some of the best banana pancakes I have ever eaten, but maybe everything tastes better in the sunshine.

In an island that you can walk around in two hours it will come as no surprise that on this leg the obsession was fish. Fresh, simple, barbequed fish. Sat cross-legged in a thatched-roofed, cushioned balé, large Bintang beer, grilled snapper – there’s not much else I could have asked for, well air-con in the beach shack...


Speedboat, minibus, Ubud. The cultural heart of Bali, but I was still thinking with my stomach. Across from our haven of a hotel, Uma Ubud, a smoking, tin shack with Nuri’s painted in huge white letters on the corregated roof.


(Inside Nuri's: Eat, Pray, Love - Tongue, in, cheek)

It looks slightly like it belongs in a war zone. The infamous Naughty Nuri’s. You’ve got to try the BBQ ribs, and lethal martinis.

Of course, we did. But they never quite beat...

(Nuri's Mie Goreng - me liking)

Sunday, 16 May 2010

Beanz Meanz Heinz

‘You work too hard, you are very tense’

Somehow I don’t think my spa therapist is right right now. I’m lying being scrubbed by sand flown in from St Barts in a treatment room that looks like the VIP room in a flashy nightclub: all low lighting, fibre-optic trim and mirrors, everywhere. Every time I open my eyes I catch sight of my semi-naked sandy flesh. I close my eyes, tight, well I supposed I did get up at 3.15am to meet four journalists I’d never met before and board an ash-free BA flight to Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino Airport. Yes, I was back to Italy. And it was the lure of three Michelin-star dining that got me here.

The Rome Cavalieri is much like the rest of the inhabitants of the city of seven hills: good looking, a bit flash and swaggering with confidence. Oh and like the city itself there are artefacts everywhere. Perched on one of the hills overlooking the Vatican City, it is a church for the worships of beautiful things. Warhol’s, works of Italian masters and Louis XV furniture are crammed in every square inch of lobby, suites and corridors. Everything is superlative: the most expensive spa treatment (it involves a 600 euro pot of platinum), the most impressive views (well it does have one of the seven hills spots) and the best restaurant in Rome. Five week waiting lists (a year for the terrace in summer), a water menu longer than some wine lists and three Michelin stars. It’s the only three Michelin star restaurant in Italy, let alone Rome. According to the guide that means it is ‘worth a special journey’. We’ve made a special journey.

I have to pinch myself. For the second time in as many weeks I’m at the hungry end of a gourmet tasting menu. The previous twenty four hours have been equally surreal: sat on Karl Lagerfeld’s sofa (ok, so he sold it but it’s still his, his bottom has been there), coffee in the palatial apartment of an Italian princess, met a man who makes leather jackets for President Mugabe (in exchange for snakeskins it appears) and took a cracking swing at a polo lesson. I’m living someone else’s life. A very rich Roman’s life.

The restaurant in question, La Pergola, sits in all its opulent glory on the top of the Cavalieri presided over by German Heinz Beck. The neighbouring Penthouse suite, a favourite of George Clooney, Leonardo DiCaprio, Julia Roberts et al (she recently stayed for weeks while filming Eat Pray Love) has a secret back entrance and a pre-reserved private table (for 8,000 euros a night there isn’t a waiting list).

Very serious looking young men scurry about doing a dodging dance as they fluff napkins, swap cutlery and offer me a table for my bag the second it touches the ground. There’s a six course menu, bread appears, butter under a glass dome, the famous water menu (including a Swarovski incrusted number for a whopping 200 euros). One of the young scurriers appears with a trolley dedicated to salt – I opt for the black volcanic one from Hawaii.

Ding ding. Round one – a clam and celery amuse bouche with carrot foam. The carrot foam dissolves the second it touches my lips, it tastes like a carrot breathing into my mouth after a day on the beach. But it works. You knew it was going to work, don’t doubt a master.

Bouche amused, now it was time to really get going: a starter of duck liver terrine with smoked apples almonds and ameretti. Soft, smooth, rich with the kick of smoked apple puree and dusted crust of almonds and ameretti - it ticked every box.

A fresh kick came with the infusion of veal, herbs and Tonka beans with tuna tartare and green tea sorbet. I didn't know it at the time but this was possibly my favourite course, I am a sucker for perfect raw fish, but if the raw fish wasn't enough the little golden nugget of a veal dumpling that was nestling next to it sealed the deal. Plus the cold raw fish/ sorbet v.s hot broth and veal dumpling combo was enough to make my mouth want burst into song.


'Don't stop me now, I'm having such a good time, I'm having a ball...' In comes the pasta course, it's Italy it would be criminal to miss it: ricotta tortellini with pecorino and broad beans.

In at four was Cannolo of scampi and vegetables, olive sauce and tapioca with Campari. I know it is three Michelin star but is it wrong to compare them to the best spring rolls you could ever eat? Italian spring rolls if you will...

Into what could now be described as the 'main course' portion of the meal. It was a game of two parts: opening with black cod with marinated anchovy's vinaigrette and sweet chilli pepper. There was a lot of debate as to what our black shard consisted of - it was fine pastry no doubt but charcoal? Was that a hint of liquorice, a nod to things to come?

And after a short interval: liquorice flavoured shoulder of Iberian suckling pig with herbed potatoes. It tasted like it had been griddled on a pan made of liquorice - the lightest hint of flavour was all it took.

After that all the menu said was 'Grand Dessert'. Grand, n. 1. impressive in size, appearance or general effect 2. stately, majestic or dignified 3. highly ambitious or idealistic 4. magnificent or splendid 5. noble or reverved 6. highest, or very high, in rank 7. main or principal 8. of great importance, distinction or pretension 9. complete or comprehensive 10. pretending to grandeur 11. first rate, very good, splendid. It turns out it was pretty much all of them and it was only just beginning...

First out to set the scene: an amuse of coconut ice cream and mango with a shard of burnt sugar. We were into sweet gear. Then came the tower...


Filled with drawer upon drawer on all sides with petit fours. One between two, 12 drawers, three morsels a drawer - 18 petit fours each. Needless to say I didn't manage it (I could barely manage to pick it up), and especially when I was told the Grand Dessert hadn't even begun...

A flurry of tiny plates - they keep coming down in front of me.


Chocolate and coconut soup, liquorice souffle, baked raspberry almost brulee..

And more come flying over my shoulder.

Champagne jelly with strawberries, frozen coffee with coffee cream, whisky ice cream with crushed biscuits and a dark chocolate finger filled with mousse... I could barely think straight as my spoon dipped from each onto the next (or could that be from the dessert wine that was now flowing). It hit the spot - light and rich, warm and cold... every sensation, every texture, it was very very grand. And we were there... the end of the meal. What a meal. And, for a tasting menu, it was refreshingly light. The man himself came round from table to table as we drank our freshly snipped herbal tea.

                              
The secret? 'Chefs who have secrets don't have creativity'. He revealed that he'd studied insulin oscillation, his was 'a light kitchen of Mediterranean flavours' - there was no reason that gourmet food couldn't be good for you. I'll eat to that Heinz.

Monday, 19 April 2010

Dining on Cloud Nine

‘I don’t think I’ve tasted olive oil until this weekend’

Choux Boy’s right. Somehow we find ourselves at the beginning of an eight course tasting menu (well nine we decided it was equivalent to if you counted the olive oil course and petit fours as half a course each) at Castel Monastero in the Tuscan Hills. I’d asked Antonio, the maitre d’, what he’d recommend from the menu. Let me hold it right here and explain something now. Sometimes in my day job I get to go and review 'honeymoon' hotels. Sometimes, I just maaaay make sure these are foodie. And sometimes, just sometimes I hope that we will be offered a tasting menu at one of these stupendously-more-luxurious-than-I-could-ever-afford hotels/restaurants. Well a girl can dream. Dream with her stomach... Don't hate me.

‘Well why don’t we sample? We could do a little of the, ah, salt cod, then, maybe you like to try the polenta, then we maybe do something different each... the saffron risotto with lamb ragout and the veal tortellini...’

Thank you thank you thank you thank you god.

‘... Then do you like fish? How about we do one bream and one meat.’

The Boy had been eyeing up the rabbit confit.

‘Or we could do a main course of the rabbit confit?’

Antonio, this gets better every second.

‘And maybe we could taste some wines together to go with the food?’

Antonio, I think I love you.

But back to the olive oil, we kick off this adventure with the olive oil. Now I’ve always been a fan of the bread and oil and balsamic instead of bread and butter routine (call me pretentious or call me weird) but different types of oil, and olive oil sommeliers? It’s very like tasting wine, we discuss the types of olives, a single olive oil or a blend of olive type, where the olives were grown, the method they were pressed by, the colour, the smell, the taste and the aftertaste. He knows his stuff.

First up a Terre di Siena (a D.O.C) made very near where we were staying and from three types of olive (in the middle of the picture). We were told to look out for the flavours of artichoke and green tomatoes and the distinctly green tinge. Next a Chianti Classico (bottom), made from one type of olive, this was stronger and spicier with the scent and flavour of fresh herbs and a peppery aftertaste. Lastly one called Locanda Rosso (top). This time a blend of two olives which are grown further north by the sea so you could taste the saltiness.

I hadn’t even managed to go 1,2,3 in a lingering fashion before our appetizer arrived: a salad of pecorino cheese, roasted tomatoes, confit duck, olives and pearl barley.


Next up salt cod with a tomato elixir and olive oil foam (though how they get olive oil to ‘foam’ is beyond my culinary imagination) And after a brut rose from Franciacorta to whet our wine appetite, with Antonio’s direction we moved on to a clean, fresh white with the salt cod.


Starters round two and it was potato polenta and ‘pecorino di fossa’ and duck ham. To cut through those hefty flavours, Antonio plumped for a Vernaccia di San Gimignano.


Time for the traditional middle pasta course. This is one of my favourite things about dining in Italy – four courses as standard. I admit, I'm a glutton. And Antonio hasn’t let us down with his selection a creamy saffron risotto, not too light, not to heavy, topped with lamb ragout plus my absolute favourite part of the meal so far: melt in the mouth morsels of veal tortellini served with a smear of creamed cauliflower.



Wine change mark four for the main – and to straddle the needs of my light fish and the Boy’s rich confit rabbit leg we have a light and punchy Brunello di Montalcino 2003. The fresh bream comes with a tomato crumble, fennel and dots of aubergine cream – light and bright flavours that are the perfect complement.


We’re pretty full, but nowhere near defeated in our quest to taste every last bit of Tuscany. Round, where are we now, five, six? Cheese. All pecorino – 18 weeks, 24 weeks and 38 weeks. Served with fig, citrus and red berry jams/chutneys plus white honey. Plus not one but two wines – a sweet from Umbria (Antinori produced Muffato della Sala) and a classic Chianti. I love the tender almost rubbery 18 week cheese. I love all of them. I have to stop myself from eating myself into a cheese coma.


A pause... and then a plate. A sliver of pistachio parfait and a Chinese gooseberry.


Mmmm. But that’s not even dessert. More sweet wine? Yes, please. The real thing is here. For me, a hazelnut tower and pistachio ice cream. Nutty crunchy creamy heaven. The Boy gets three tiny espresso cups housing tiramisu three ways – classic, with cherries and with amoretti biscuits instead of sponge.




We’re done, well, a couple of macchiatos and petit fours? Oh go on then, in for a penny in for the pounds. And after three hours, nine courses and six wines we were done. Thank you Antonio. Thank you.

If you can get yourself there dear reader do say hello to Antonio. Say hello very nicely...