Love and War, London Style

One of the many things I love about being English is the juxtaposition. Take our famed obsession with the changeable climate. I don't suppose many people in Oman or Quito or Corfu greet their colleagues with a detailed meteorological breakdown of the probability of rain between now and lunchtime. Don't like the weather? Wait five minutes.

It's the same reason I remain so entranced by London; the great melting pot where a five minute walk that might take you through grimy estates, sprawling parks, cobbled mews and fancy high rises. And couple of weeks ago I got to see it in its full, fickle glory; from conception to death in one short afternoon (obviously not literally, for a start I'm pretty sure we still have obscenity laws although it's sometimes hard to tell walking through an aforementioned park in the summer...). 

Fear not though, if you thought I was about to get all serious on you, there was plenty ice cream and beer involved in my adventures, too.

The day started off in one of my favourite places in the world, the Southbank (it actually started in my office, but that's far from one of my favourite places, although it does have the benefits of aircon). Despite the noise and the crowds and, on occasion, the shameless tourist-focused cynicism, the sight of a Waterloo sunset or walking over the Thames and seeing to the London Eye on one bank and the Houses of Parliament on the other never gets old.

On this particular afternoon I had two goals; to secure myself a lobster roll at the Festival of Love before a preview visit to the reopening of the Imperial War Museum. And while it did seem rather sad, in both senses, to be going to the Festival of Love solo, I reminded my self of Woody Allen's famous words onanism, and reasoned I'd also save myself the expense if having to spring for lunch for the Ewing as well. 

Bob's Lobster van found - look for the VW splitty with the retractable roof under the Hungerford Bridge - and lobster ordered, I snagged a deckchair tucked in the shade behind the van and kicked things off with a (not quite cold enough) can of lager while waiting for my roll to be toasted and assembled to order.

While they also peddle prosecco on tap, beer was the ideal choice with the mercury still steadily rising, and a Hobo fitted the bill perfectly with its easy going honey and hay aroma and gentle carbonation (read: it was fizzy and alcoholic, it hit the spot).

A few minutes later and I was acquainted with the main man; a buttery brioche roll, toasted and stuffed with copious amounts of lobster meat and finished with a sprinkling of secret herbs and spices.

It was a triumph, quite one of the best things I have crammed in my mouth recently (and there's been a few...). The lobster was poached gently to stay soft and buttery, the brioche superlative - I'm still imagining what it would be like heaped full of crispy smoked bacon - and the secret spiced stuff on top pleasingly Old Bay-ish without being overpowering.

Yes it wasn't cheap - 14 bucks and without even a pickle spear or a few crisps on the side - but it was beautiful. I was already in love.

Next up was a wonder around the Festival of Love, which is celebrating the Same Sex Couple Act  with a programme of free events based around the seven different types of love. Differently-themed weekends, performances, poetry, talks and pop-ups including the Bloody Oyster double decker bus and the Look Mum No Handss cafe, jostle for space along the river. 

I particularly enjoyed walking through the Temple of Agape a 'celebrating the power of love over hate', and walking through the Museum of Broken Relationships, for when love goes bad. on the weekend 30-31st August you can even particpate in the Big Wedding Weekend where all couples, gay or straight, young or old, are invited to marry or renew their vows on the stage of the iconic Royal Festival Hall. Nothing like a good old mass matrimonial knees up.

To finish, a visit to the Snog bus was due. Gargantuan crowds - unsurprising, given the heat - moved pretty swiftly and soon I was in possession of my medium Snog, original vanilla flavorful, served with passion fruit, raspberries and, lest it should seem too healthy, crumbed chocolate brownie chunks.

I eschewed sitting on the top deck in favour of enjoy my snog under Waterloo bridge. Not quite as racy as it sounds, although a tub of fro-yo, brownies and berries is probably about as exciting as you could hope for  while still fully clothed (despite the fearsome heat I didn't want to scare the horses...) on a weekday lunchtime.

I've got a soft spot for frozen yoghurt, and this went down a treat in the heat. I especially liked the lip-puckering combo of classic fro-yo mixed with zingy passion fruit - which I convinced myself was contributing towards my five-a-day - and with an added dollop of protein and calcium for good measure.  For traditionalists, or those not wanting to part with the best part of a fiver for a tub there are classic Mr Whippys and orange lollies available from a several ice cream vans along the way.

Fortified and full of amore, I left the Southbank and headed down the Waterloo Road to Lambeth for a rather more sobering afternoon of reflection and commemoration. As a representative of the WW1 Centenary Partnership, I had been lucky enough to be invited to a preview of the reopening of the Imperial War Museum in Southwark.

With its new glass atrium, built by Foster and Partners, the former site of the notorious Bedlam hospital looks more magnificent and sobering than ever.  A V-1 Doodlebug and a Harrier Jet join the iconic Spitfire and Sopwith Camel suspended in the skies above, while other exhibits on land include a Reuters Land Rover damaged in an attack in Gaza, a bombed out shell of a car recovered from a Baghdad market  and a menacing, Czech built, T-34 tank.

The Holocaust galleries remain as powerful as ever, while the surrounding rooms house a variety of exhibits and stories from conflicts of the last century that range from the Maggie puppet featured on Spitting Image, to imploded glass bottles and tiles found at Hiroshima, to a twisted window frame from the World Trade Centre.

The primary reason for my visit was to see newly configured Great War galleries, featuring over 1,300 objects and including an overhauled trench experience that attempts to evoke the difficult, and often brutally short, life of a soldier fighting on the Front.

The display runs on two sides of a u-shape, with the war – including the war at sea and campaigns in the Middle East, Africa, Gallipoli and the Western Front represented on the outside wall, and the home front – including Germany’s – on the inside. Here you can find out what life was like at home during the First World War in Britain and its former Empire. Discovering the reasons why men signed up for service and the contributions women made to keep the troops fed and fighting.

Reopen fully as of the 18th July, the exhibition, like the museum itself, is a poignant commemoration to the brutality and senselessness of conflict, asking us to question the ‘three Cs’: Cause, Course and Consequence. It also leaves you with the hope that love really can conquer all.

Fox and Hounds, Christmas Common

Like Orwell, I frequently muse about what makes a pub perfect - as can be seen in my previous ramblings on the Royal Standard of England in Knotty Green, having recently enjoyed another lovely lunch there with my sister. If you haven't read Orwell's essay, The Moon Under Water, you probably should. Suffice to say after you've finished reading this.

I imagine the Fox and Hounds would be an Orwell kind of pub. For a start the setting, hidden on the Oxfordshire/Buckinghamshire border, is impossibly picture postcard pretty. As is the pub itself, a handsome building covered in rambling greenery and dating back to 1643. Inside is a cosy front bar with inglenook fireplace, and a larger open plan dining area. It's proved a pretty versatile space through the years, the 2010 election even saw it used as a local polling station, but the main draw on such a glorious day was the chocolate box garden at the front.

Shaded picnic sets, a pile of dog bowls piled by an outside tap and a perfectly manicured herb patch - where the sous chef appeared intermittently to collect fresh sprigs of rosemary - make this a perfect spot to while away an afternoon. Like mad dogs and Englishmen, we braved the glare of the full midday sun, unable to predict quite how long this fleeting good weather may last.

To slake my thirst was a glimmering pint of Breakspear's Oxford Gold. Is there anything better on a summer's day in a sunny pub garden than a classic cask beer? I've yet to find it. A quintessentially English drop and a well kept example of this eminently quaffable golden ale

I  could tell the burger- glazed with a thick slice of Stilton that properly melted over the top - was going to be good when I held it aloft and a stream of juicy goodness spurted down my sleeve (steady).

The patty itself was hefty, and grilled perfectly to retain its pink and juicy centre, although I did have to ditch most the salad inside as the rather weedy bun struggled to contain its ample cargo.

The Ewing, attempting her first solid meal post-abscess trauma, went for the lasagne and salad -spookily mirroring my first meal post-abscess trauma, eaten on an American Airlines flight somewhere above the Atlantic with plastic cutlery and a grimace. Thankfully this was much nicer.

While baked pasta may not illicit too many oohs and ahhs this was classic pub grub; tasty, generous and well made. I could tell it was going down well as every crispy crust of garlic bread and crunchy mouthful of salad was greedily braved by the patient, and all assistance offered with my hovering fork in hand being firmly rebuked.

We finished off with a post-prandial walk around the rolling countryside, that lead - unsurprisingly, even with a map in hand - to us becoming hopelessly lost. Thankfully the feeling of good cheer from our lunch remained, despite the attempts of a fearsome pack of horseflies tried their hardest to drain every drop of blood from me, and we managed to retrace our steps without descending in to either stony silence or noisy admonishing.

Of course as you get older you realise setting any sort of arbitrary rules about what makes anything great - pubs or otherwise - often leads to anembarrassing loss of face when you change your mind, or, much worse, stubbornly missing out on things. But, as so very often, I think George was right;

'If anyone knows of a pub that has draught stout, open fires, cheap meals, a garden, motherly barmaids and no radio, I should be glad to hear of it.' Well, the Fox and Hounds may just be the one.

Lenos & Carbon, Elephant and Castle

Columbia has featured quite prominently in the news recently - well, certainly if you've paid any interest to the small soccerball tournament that's just finished in Brazil. Firstly there was the 20 year anniversary of the tragic killing of Andrés Escobar, followed by the far happier memories of James Roderigez netting the Golden Boot, with one spectacular effort being voted the goal of the tournament. 

It also so happens that Elephant and Castle, my usual weekend stomping ground, has the highest Colombian population in London; which is still pretty much apropos of nothing if you happen to be Stealth. Not only does she have a less than cursory interest in football, recently announcing 'the Match of the Day theme tune makes me feel sick', but she's still barely even registered the Latin spirit of the area. Pretty hard to miss, especially on a Saturday when the thick cloud of smoke from the chorizo sausages being grilled on split oil drums, alongside a loud Latin soundtrack and huge swathes of bunting, bursts out from under the railway arches.

Despite her startling lack of observation skills she is nothing if not up for trying something new, which is how we found ourselves on a deserted Rockingham street, just off the main E&C roundabout, on a muggy Monday afternoon.

As well as a fridge crammed full of sugary soft drinks such as the lurid Inca Kola and icy lager, they have a range of homemade fruit smoothies.  The South Americas are known for their huge range of native fruits that are seldom seen on this side of the Atlantic, and here you can chose from flavours including naranjillo and soursop, or the more familiar blackberry and mango. 

I tried the passion fruit flavour,  up there with the best beverages I have imbibed this year. Perhaps a bold claim for something containing not a drop of alcohol, although the #peckhampunch I had been knocking back at a party the previous Saturday ran it close (and contributed to the factor I still wasn't back drinking alcohol several days later...). 

To eat I chose the Bandeja Paisa (literally translated as platter from the Paisa region, found in the northweat of the country and home to the Colombian Coffee-Growers Axis), the national dish of Columbia that's known for it's generous portion size and for the variety of different delights all found on one plate.

In fact, I found it rather like an English fry up for coffee growers (stay with me here) being as it contained beans, sausage, fried bread and eggs and a slice of pork belly that could be, if you really squinted, mistaken for a extra thick rasher of streaky. Granted, white rice, plantain, ground beef and avocado don't often feature at your usual greasy spoon, and an arepa is pretty far removed from a fried slice, but I found this pick'n'mix of meat and carbs equally effective at hangover busting.

The slow stewed beans, studded with salty porky bits, were a particular highlight, alongside the grilled meats that were rich with salt, garlic and smoke from the grill. And while I rued the fact the Ewing, a confirmed plantain aficionado, wasn't here to try some of this vast specimen, it did leave all the more for me. To mop it all up the arepa, a ground maize flat bread cooked on the griddle, was interesting, but possibly a taste I haven't yet fully acquired.

Another handy thing about eating with Stealth is the delegation of ordering, meaning I can essentially chose two dinners (although the flipside to this being half my food usually gets swiped from across the table).

The Patacon con Todo I chose for her was another mix'n' match affair, this time based around patacones, or deep fried green plantains, that are flattened to resemble a corn tortilla. The plantain base is then served 'con todo', or with everything. In this case heaped with a variety of meats - shredded beef and chicken and fried cubes of crispy pork belly - shredded cheese, pineapple sauce, garlic sauce and guacamole.

On its arrival, Stealth marvelled at the appearance of her dinner - announcing excitedly 'I've never seen anything like this before'.  Thankfully, this turned out to be a good thing. And while it may not be much of a looker, each component managed to be distinctively delicious when eaten alone as well as in tandem with anything else on the plate (or mine, for that matter). 

Brevas con Quso y Arequipe, figs cooked in syrup served with caramel and white cheese, were frustratingly beyond either of our appetites, not a real surprise considering the portion sizes. Hopefully I'll be back soon enough to sample this intriguing sounding, diabetic coma of a desert, but on this trip a pleasingly full stomach and a vanquished hangover would have to suffice. 

(NB, in the absence of pictures of Stealth enjoying her aforementioned feast, here is one of her demonstrating her latest trick. That's magic.) 

'Easy' One Crust Cherry Pie

Choosing a favourite fruit rather feels like choosing a favourite child - is it the first bite of a crisp russet in October; a juicy Clementine at Christmas; a slice of watermelon on a summer's afternoon or a pale pink stalk of rhubarb brightening the late winter gloom? While my mind changes as quickly as the seasons, if push were really to come to shove, I think it would have to be the English cherry. The fact that they are still only available during the late summer makes them taste even sweeter for those few blissful weeks where I’m never far from a brown paper bag full of the little red fruit.

One dark moment came a few years ago when, after preparing dinner, I sat down to greedily munch my way through a pound or two. On eating the first few, my lips began to tingle and burn - immediately I thought of my mother who, at about the same age as I then was, had developed an allergy to cherries whilst eating them on a picnic in France. Suddenly, a grim stone fruit free future loomed, at least until I pieced together the evidence and realised the unpleasant burning sensation was related to the fact I had been previously chopping fresh chillies, and, thankfully, had nothing to do with the cherries at all.

I have always studiously avoided using fresh cherries in recipes; primarily because there just perfect eaten as they are, but also because of the lack of a cherry pitter in my life. This summer, having bought a crate of local cherries large enough that even I had trouble finishing them, I decided to finally make the leap and buy one to make Delia Smiths one crust fruit pie, from her peerless Summer Collection.

Suffice to say, the pitter lasted about four minutes - just the time it took to realise the time spent saved pitting the cherries would be spent wiping spurts of cherry juice from the walls/floors/cupboards/my eyes...

Eagle-eyed readers may have also noticed the quote marks around the ‘easy’ in the title of this blog; if the cherry pitter wasn't enught of a pitfall, I still had to make the pastry. While I set out to attempt it in a bullish frame of mind, reasoning if Delia said it was simple then surely it must be, my first effort ended up crumbling onto the floor, into the cat’s bowl, on the bottom of my shoes and, finally, into the bin. The situation, as now seems customary with anything involving pastry making in our house, quickly descended into a row, with the Ewing’s attempts to help lift the dough onto the baking sheet also ending in an unmitigated disaster.

With the Ewing safely upstairs sulking, I persevered with a second batch, this time using the trusty food processor rather than by hand. While this second attempt had the opposite problem of being rather too wet, as opposed to resembling sand, it was, thankfully, far easier to roll out.

After the bitter and bloody battle that proceeded it, the pie turned out to be a hard won success. Especially when served served warm, in thick slices with plenty of vanilla ice cream.

One Crust Cherry Pie with Hazelnut Pastry

Adapted from Delia's Summer Collection

For the filling

700 g pitted cherries

40g caster sugar

2 tbsp semolina/polenta

1 egg yolk

For the glaze

1 egg white

For the shortcrust pastry:

175 g plain flour

50g ground hazelnuts

80 g butter 

1/2 tsp ground cinnamon

Make up the pastry by sifting the flour into a large mixing bowl, then rubbing the fats into it lightly with your fingertips.

When the mixture reaches the crumb stage, sprinkle in enough cold water to bring it together to a smooth dough that leaves the bowl absolutely clean. 

Give it a little light knead to bring it fully together, then place the pastry in a polythene bag in the fridge for 30 minutes. 

Pre-heat the oven to gas mark 6, 400°F (200°C). 

Then roll the pastry out on a flat surface to a round of approximately 35 cm as you roll, ragged edges are fine.

Carefully roll the pastry round the rolling pin and transfer it to the centre of the lightly greased baking sheet.

To prevent the pastry getting soggy from any excess juice, paint the base with egg yolk, then sprinkle the semolina lightly over to soak up the juices from the fruit.

No turn in the edges of the pastry: if any breaks, just patch it back on again.

Brush the pastry surface all round with the beaten egg white .

Place highest shelf of the oven and bake for approximately 35 minutes or until the crust is golden brown. 

Aobaba, Walworth Road

Sometimes a favourite place can be more than just the sum of its parts, especially when you’re suffering from the effects of one too many shandies the night before. 

Take Bobby’s, the run-of-the-mill sandwich shop I used to live near, that provided crusty tuna rolls and ice cold Coke to stave off the most fearsome of hangovers; or Drew’s Bakery, where I’d stop for a Saturday morning pain au chocolate, or even some of their fabulous lardy cake, to make weekend working more bearable. And who can forget the, life-giving boxes of greasy TEFC fried chicken the Ewing and I would scoff in bed after a night on the tiles.

Now there’s a new, and thankfully a little more sophisticated, saviour in town; Aobaba on the Walworth Road that also has the bonus of conveniently situated within staggering distance of Stealth’s house. Because while we’re told you’re supposed to get wiser as you grow old, in reality it seems the hangovers are just getting worse…

While the bright but rather sterile Aobaba might not be quite like hanging around back street Hai Noi (probably a good thing) I can attest that after an epic Bank Holiday weekend when I thought I would never feel quite the same again, salvation came in the form of a bowl of their Spicy Hue Noodle soup.

It’s described on the menu as beef shin, pork ball and pork meat in a spicy lemongrass broth with rice noodles; and while I’m not quite sure it lives up to the sum of its parts, a large bowl - complete with a forest of Vietnamese greenery, bean sprouts and bird’s eye chillies to really blast the cobwebs away - costs just seven quid.

It’s everything you could want from your lunch; soothing soup; a flotilla of fresh herbs; meaty protein; chilli heat; and lots of carby noodles, growing fat in the broth at the bottom. Not a perfect example in its field, but it’s hard to put a price on stopping that queasy stomach and pounding head that’s  achieved with a few slurps from a bowl of this nectar.

For simpler tastes the chicken Pho, with rice vermicelli noodles, shredded meat and herbs, is the Ewing’s go to reviver. Simple but effective, although even a bowl of this combined with a sweaty schlep around the E&C subway couldn’t stop the Ewing falling into a post-lunch slumber on the train home.

While they are best known for their bubble teas, I think I might prefer the fresh fruit smoothies. I’d recommend the pineapple as being particularly good for digestive distress, although I haven’t yet summoned the courage to try to durian flavour.

The novelty of the classic boba tea still hasn’t worn thin though, and I’d rate the efforts at Aobaba as pretty decent. Although the flavoured ‘bubble’ selection available on any one visit can be a bit hit and miss there's enough choice to mean I can always try something different every time.

The last one I tried, the milk tea with red bean and coconut served black tapioca pearls, comes recommended, making a nice change from my favourite order of milk tea with black pearls. While the green apple with pineapple jelly cubes or mango boba is great refresher in the hot weather.

Another menu staple which has proved elusive - annoyingly my visits often precede the fresh bread delivery, or I turn up after it's all gone - are the banh mi, or traditional Vietnamese baguettes.

The baguettes are the authentic rice flour-based variety, which means the bread has a lighter, crispier crust than the standard French baguettes that they have evolved from after its introduction to South east Asia during colonialism.

To me banh mi is fusion food at its best; here they have a selection of fillings - from the classic Saigon with roast pork, ham and pate, to spicy lemongrass chicken. The buns are then finished with fresh red chilli, coriander and a handful of crisp pickled veg. At, on average, three or four quid each they put M&S pallid prepacked offerings to shame.

Lest you get the impression I’m always already inebriated when visiting, Aobaba is also a good place to have a drink too. They serve a trio of SE Asian beers, Hai Noi, Hue and Saigon, at £2.50 a pop, the cheapness atoning somewhat for the not-quite-cold-enough temperatures. You can also buy crates to go from the adjoining shop.

The beers also make perfect accompaniments to their range of snacks and starters. The minced grilled beef and pork, wrapped in betel leaves, attractively nicknamed ‘dead men’s toes' by the Ewing, being particularly nice if rather unphotogenic. They also have a selection of, rather average, steamed dumplings providing ballast for a pound.

After eating it's well worth going for a browse in the attached Longdan supermarket. As well as fresh rice flour baguettes and green pandan cakes there’s also a good soft drink selection; Thai and Vietnamese varieties of Red Bull (this stuff will really give you wings), lurid basil jelly shakes, roasted coconut juice, soya milks and fruit sodas for all your re hydration needs

They also stock a wide range of Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Korean and Japanese store cupboard essentials a large selection of both fresh and frozen meat, fish, fruit and vegetables. It’s also a good spot to seek out cooking utensils, pots and pans and tableware. There's even a nice selection of bamboo hats, perfect for the inclement weather of the Walworth Road

Wild Strawberry Cafe, Prestwood

The Ewing and I don’t often argue (well, much anyway) but come the summertime we always manage to have at least one exchange of words over three small letters: PYO.

For while the idea of spending a sunny afternoon picking soft fruits and digging vegetables wouldn’t appear, on the surface, to be a very divisive issue - and the picking its self remains a fun-filled activity - the punnets of frozen fruits that fill the freezer, alongside the endless jars of jams and curds and bottles of flavoured spirits and liqueurs that seem to fall out of every cupboard upon opening provoke an annual bone of contention.

Up until last weekend, this year was looking pretty textbook. I mentioned going fruit picking, the Ewing replied not until I had eaten at least some of the blackberries that had solidified into a great frozen purple mass. That was until she came in to the bedroom last Sunday morning and suggested we went to Peterley Farm. I, careful not to mention the several jars of gooseberry and elderflower chutney I had recently found under the bed, quickly agreed.

 

It wasn’t until a little later I found out the real reason for her renewed enthusiasm; discovering, via her parents, the existence of new pop up café that had sprung up in a yurt onsite. By this point it was too late to say no, although the idea of being trapped under canvas with the sort of people who might think it was fun to visit a farm early on a Sunday morning (conveniently forgetting this included myself until a few minutes previously) suddenly didn’t seem very appealing.

So what a joy it is to report that the Wild Strawberry Café is one of the nicest places I have visited for a long while. I would use that hoary old cliché ‘hidden gem’, but as we turned up for brunch so it seems did half the surrounding Chiltern Villages. Showing, despite only being open a few weeks, the word is clearly already getting out.

There are plenty of reasons to love WSC, first up being the charming service – seriously, I've never met such a well versed and charming group of young people, especially early on a Sunday – and the cafetieres of Extract Coffee they serve.

Having forgone my usual pint of PG Tips in order to get out on time the Mexican blend we sampled first – in homage to their heroics the night before against the Dutch – was superb, although, sadly there’s no booze, as a bloody mary or glass of fizz would be the cherry on the cake.

Speaking of cake, they also had some trays of pretty brilliant looking Danish pastries and croissants, although figuring that a quarter to eleven was pretty much lunch time, I went for the special of Stockings Farm lamb burger with a griddled courgette and feta salad.

This was, in a word, joyful; the fantastic brioche bun and slow roasted tomatoes being particularly worthy of praise and the lamb being cooked to a perfect pink within and charred on the outside. I would have perhaps preferred a slightly bigger patty, but I’m greedy like that. The salad, shared with my wife because I’m nice, was sweet and zingy with lemon at once, punctuated by little nuggets of the salty sheep’s cheese.

The Ewing chose the far more prosaic at that time in the morning, but no less delicious bacon sarnie. Rashers of crispy back on local sourdough and served with artisan ketchup or Oxford brown sauce. This was rated as very good from one of the world’s most proficient bacon sarnie makers; high praise indeed. Again, probably owing to my greed, it would have been nice to have the option to apply your own sauces as the wrong ratio can kill all breakfast enjoyment, but there was just right amount for the Ewing.

There followed a picking interlude which, as every year before, I, remembering the Ewing’s words about storage and waste -carefully picked a scant few punnets of choice fruit, while the Ewing went full out and attempted to fill the whole boot (while leaving me to try and deal with the rapidly fermenting  haul, but that’s another blog post...). Poppycock - TE

After a quick visit to the farm shop, for the superlative Lacey Green Farm cream to anoint our berries later, it was time for round two at WSC. For the second round we opted to share a large pot of the Kenyan coffee and a slice each of the magisterial cakes that lined the counter.

I had the courgette, walnut and cinnamon flavour, tall layers of sponge and butter cream that were a feat of engineering and tasted just as good, while the Ewing nabbed the last square of rhubarb and almond. Although the picture above doesn’t do it any justice, the nutty, sweet sponge was crammed full of batons of the sharp fruit and was, like the courgette number, superlative.

I’m not sure how long these guys are going to be here, but I’m hoping beyond the summer as there’s a wood burner in the yurt that would, I’m sure, keep it wonderfully toasty in inclement weather. And (as much as it pains me to recommend if it means the queues get any longer) this is - in a country that still hasn’t really embraced the joy of brunch properly - pretty much the perfect brunch spot.