Pie and peas on sea (and some ice cream)

For those last weekend who had the (mis)fortune of being in Weymouth, you may have seen - and it was certainly pretty hard to miss - Cher and her band of merry sailors. Led by the curly haired Goddess of Pop, we took to the streets in an attempt to remake 1989's soft rock classic Turn Back Time . Just a standard Saturday, really.

For those who weren't so lucky to catch us, it was a sight to behold. I'll spare you the gory details - what happens upon the HMS mobility scooter stays upon the HMS mobility scooter - but even the salty sea dogs of Wyke Regis learnt a few things that night.

But first the seamen needed ballast, and what better than a good old pie and a pint at the Handmade Pie and Ale House, a renovated pub on West Street selling exactly what it says on the tin.

We had already got stuck into the Jagermeister jelly shots so a pint of very quaffable Charles Well's Try Time - a beer brewed to celebrate (although there wasn't much to celebrate later that evening) the rugby world cup - was a welcome relief. If you order a pie from the set menu, between 12-5pm each day, you also get a free drink with your dinner.

I had the steak and stilton - rather menacingly marked with an 'ss' on top - served with mash and garden peas (pipe, model's own). This was a nigh on perfect pie; double crust, shortcrust pastry (infinitely superior to puff); generously filled with tender beef and a good cheese to meat ratio. Mash was decent, peas buttered and there were lashings of extra gravy (rather gloopy and from a packet, but it lubricated things well enough).

The Ewing chose the GKC pie, filled with chicken, wild mushrooms and garlic and served with a 'We Want Plates' combo of a mini colander full of peas and mini fryer full of chips. Presentation quibbles aside - you can easily decant the accouterments onto the plate, although the rectangular shape makes eating a bit tricky - this was another exemplary pastry product. 

Again, they didn't skimp on the filling, with the decent wack of garlic being particularly welcomed by my wife; less so by anyone else that came into contact with her the following day. I'm also glad I wasn't around fellow dining companion, the Doctor, the following morning, after he chose the breakfast pie -stuffed with sausage, bacon and baked beans - alongside a side of extra beans. 

Probably the first and last time you'll see Cher and her sea captain brandishing plates of pies. In a nice touch the kitchen also personalised the pies with happy birthday messages and even bought a colander of broccoli for the pea and bean-avoiding Cher. Distinguished service crosses all round for the food and the staff who put up with our antics with a healthy mix of good grace and bemusement.

While the pies all went down with no complaints, Cousin Eamonn wasn't such a big fan of the chicken wings; memorably describing them as 'too chicken like'. The stripped piles of bones on everyone else's plates suggested the sentiment wasn't a shared one.

One thing that certainly couldn't be described as chicken (see what I did there) was aunty Pat, seen here an action shot with first mate Winston on board, cruising the streets on her battleship. Add in a crushing sporting defeat; a bride drunk on blue WKD; potential incest on a pool table, concussion in The Closet and a melting drag queen and you've got a pretty standard Saturday night out.

While the following morning dawned clear and bright for some, most of us, unsurprisingly, felt decidedly foggy and grey around the edges. Still, it was nothing industrial strength tea and bacon sarnies couldn't cure and we were soon out enjoying the sunshine with a stroll along the Esplanade.

For ice cream in Weymouth read Rossis, who have had an ice cream parlour on the Esplanade since 1937. To say I was excited about a restorative frozen treat (that karaoke is hard on the throat) by the sea was an understatement. It was also not an understatement to say that upon reaching Rossis - after trudging across the huge expanse of hot sandy beach, it’s art deco sign winking at me like a beacon in the sun - only to find the door firmly shut, made me feel somewhat like Lawrence of Arabia chasing the mirage in the desert.

So onto plan B; Boho Gelato, of Brighton fame, who we first visited at their original location and have just opened in a second spot by Weymouth Harbour. The shop, in contrast to Rossi's art deco curves, is like stepping into the future, with clear cylinders holding today's flavours suspended in the stainless steel and glass counter.

I chose a base of salted caramel ice cream topped with white chocolate and passion fruit ripple, modelled here on the harbour bridge. Both were excellent. the caramel swirl that mined through the former had a salty smokiness while the tropical passion fruit cut through the richness of the white chocolate.

The sorbets were also fantastic, with their eye popping colours and flavours including alphonso mango and raspberry with elderflower. The Ewing sampling the peanut and caramel sorbet alongside a tart and bright sour cherry version.

As is always the way, the minute the Ewing and I parted, she with all the money, and she had made it out of earshot, I noticed that Rossi’s was now open. Cue my most athletic moment of the whole weekend (or possibly on par with the previous night’s dancing to Wham!) as I hurtled down to the shore, risking wet toes and sand-filled shoes for some change for my cone.

In contrast to Boho Rossis had one flavour on offer; natural (although it seems they can offer up to three at a time, including more outre sounding choices such as coconut, forest fruits and cookie dough) which actually came as a welcome relief from the relentless choices faced in this modern world. I ordered my 99, the seaside classic, before hot footing it across the road and to the beach just before the drips started. (not towards me I noticed- TE)

While, especially in contast to Boho’s fancy colours and swirls, it may not have looked terribly exciting, the ice cream was exemplary. Light and smooth like a whippy, but with a sweet, and soothing milky-ness. The kind of ice cream I imagine the Famous Five eating, sliced into blocks and held between rectangular wafers, when on their way to solve a mystery.

And then finally - hangovers abating and ice cream cravings satisfied - we were left trudging slowly over wet sand; just as Morrissey might have sung about in a late 80s classic. For once I wish everyday was like Sunday.

64 Degrees and Tilly Gingerbread

Last week saw the Ewing's birthday and after taking her wine tasting, when she had to drive, giving her a t-shirt emblazoned with cats which, even as a avowed feline lover, she has vowed never to wear in public, and then spending the rest of the bank holiday in a caravan in 50 mph winds I thought it only proper to take her out for a belated celebratory meal.

The venue of choice was 64 Degrees in Brighton chef Michael Bremner's small plate pean to dehydrators, blow torches and water baths (the restaurants name coming from the temperature that they cook their hen's eggs). Sat at the snazzy space age counter, a perfect vantage point to watch the chefs work, makes quite a change from the previous week's fish and chips on the beach and pints of bitter in front of the log fire (gas fire).

The menu has three short sections labelled 'Fish,Veg and Meat', obviously we wanted everything. To help while deliberating I enjoyed a Spirit pale Ale, a worryingly new ageish sounding beer from Hug Brewing whose tasty tropical hoppiness belied its low ABV. The Ewing got stuck into a spritzy white from Sussex, served in strange IKEA like tumblers that I nearly accidently topped up from the water carafe several times.

We started with new season's asparagus served with pink grapefruit, hollandaise and almond. Any shred of decorum left went out the window as we attacked this with fingers, harder than it looks when your sitting on a stool and sharing a plate; luckily both shirt fronts and dignity were left intact. A dish with a real spring in it's step, both literally and figuratively.

Next up was tuna, seared and sliced and served with a passion fruit emulsion, pomegranate, radish and micro coriander. Again a plate of fresh simplicity, the clean, sweet fish holding up well to the funky, sharp notes of the fruit.

Croquettes of sticky shreds of compressed pork cheek encased in breadcrumbs, came hot and crisp from the fryer and were served with a mushroom ketchup of deep fungal depth, even if it wasn't much of a looker. Alongside was yet more fruit, this time in the form of charred lime, and a tangle of pickled onions which both cut through the richness admirably.

The final savoury plate of smoked chicken, peas and whelks was a late switch that saw us jettisoning a lamb rump and seaweed dish. The Ewing was scared by the whelks, after being scarred several times previously - most notably during a 'romantic' meal in Paris that saw us grimacing over blubbery pigs trotters and rubbery fruit de mer - but thankfully it turned out to be a very sound move.

It may not have been the best looking thing we ate, but I think the pea mousse/foam, as Exorcist like as it appeared, was the highlight of our whole meal (it was divine!- TE). The sweet whelks were chopped finely enough to avoid being their usual briny choking hazard and the gentle smokiness of chicken rounded out proceedings. 

The rum jelly bear has already become a bit of cult choice for pud; it's boozy, jellied deliciousness only improved by a Tony Montana-esque pile of citric sherbet served alongside it. Proving that you can still have fun as a grown up.

There was also espresso and, very good, chocolate truffles for the the more adult amongst us, although I think the Ewing felt a little pang of jealousy when she saw the impressive looking chocolate malt desert make its way to an adjacent table (looked amazing-had serious pudding envy - TE).

As we were paying the bill one of the charming team of staff asked us what our plans were for after lunch. After being so well fed, even we felt a little embarrassed to say 'going for an ice cream', so we cited the less greedy sunding option of 'going for a walk' instead. Before then feeling obliged to valiantly stretch our legs along the seafront, so we could at least try and blame the sea air for sharpening our appetites so quickly.

Fortuitously Boho Gelato, a experimental micro ice cream parlour renowned for it's quirky flavours such as bourbon and bourbon (biscuit and whiskey), beer sorbet and cucumber and rose. The Ewing surpassed herself with a triple scoop of licorice, chocolate cherry pavlova and Small Batch coffee sorbet, and easily dispatched the towering mountain of ice cream.

When I came to pick my flavour, there could only be one choice. The blackberry, gingerbread and white chocolate (with a scoop of cinnamon and fig on top) as, after an impatient nine months of baking, we had heard the exciting news that the Gingerbread baby - nicknamed after my brother-in-law's 'strawberry blonde' hair - had been born in Sydney the day before. A very memorable way to mark my sister's first (Australian) Mother's Day.

Obviously, being the loveliest baby that you ever did see, I'm obliged to share at least one picture of little Matilda Rose. And this one, with a very proud Grandad Tom, is a favourite. I'm already looking forward to sharing a few bottles (milk to start with, of course) with her.