Go West

A day out looking at the Czech and Slovak Embassies and municipal town halls may not sound like most people's idea of fun, and my wife is no different. But when she discovered there was a soft launch at new Mexican restaurant, Killer Tomato, plus Brewdog's were releasing their live keg beer, the Ewing was much more amiable about schlepping all the way out to Shepherd Bush on a Sunday.

As much as I love them and need precious little encouragement to sit on my sofa eating them, it’s still pretty hard to get too excited about chips and dip. That said, it’s not cricket to start a Mexican meal without them and the one's served at Killer Tomato are the real deal; thick, a little oily, crisp and salty – just like the ones we were served at El Faralito, with a spicy salsa that made the Ewing bare her gums like a rabid chipmunk after eating it (not my finest hour - TE). 

This time they were served with an impossibly smooth guacamole, flecked with fresh herbs and bright with lime and garlic, and served in a deceptively indecent portion. Alongside were Tommy's margaritas, nicely made with tequila, mezcal and the requisite salty rim

The brisket – a notoriously hard meat to get right - balls appeared as a trio of unremarkable-looking bread crumbed pucks but, as with the chips before, appearances can be deceptive. Packed inside each crisp carapace was a huge hunk of cow’s shoulder, the meat slow cooked and shredded to a soft, juicy tangle. The mayo alongside was also noteworthy, packing the promised spicy punch.

In fact, I liked it so much I used the bed of shredded cabbage the balls were served on to make a kind of deconstructed slaw, lest any were to go to waste – even more impressive/unappealing for my wife, due to the lack of cutlery.

From the taco selection the sticky chicken (served with the same poky mayo as the brisket balls) was good, as was the beer battered fish and crunchy slaw – served on a funky purple corn tortilla. The flavours of 'green chorizo with chips' were more unusual with the soft sausage filling - spiked with plenty of coriander and onion before being chargrilled - reminding me of the shami kebab that’s served at my local curry house.

The special taco, chosen by the Ewing, was a chicken skin crackling with feta and chopped green chillies. I have recently discovered the joy of making crispy chicken crackling at home, usually covered in Slap Yo Mama Creole seasoning and eaten, alongside a cold beer, straight out the oven. Of all the tacos we tried, I think this was my favourite. The perfect balance of crunchy, creamy and chilli spice and giving me inspiration when I concoct my next late night drinking snack.

There’s plenty to like at Killer Tomato (beyond the generous soft launch, featuring 50% off both food and drink); bold flavours, interesting ingredients and lovely staff (but not my hand or wild eyes - TE). Portions are decent, but I’d probably need a little more ballast after a few of their drinks, especially as our second cocktail - the summer cup with tequila, Argentinian 'champagne', agave and lime was particularly lethal. 

That said, the hungry (or drunk) also have the pick of bigger options on the menu with (rice-less) burritos (including pork belly and crackling), cheeseburger tacos, crayfish tostadas and weekday lunch deals with drinks and fries for a tenner. There's also a wicked looking ice-cream drowned sandwich for desert. Two of my favourite things on one plate.

To maintain inebriation levels we crossed the street to BrewDog (not far to skip and only moving vehicles to dodge - TE), to try their new interpretation of cask ale. After giving up cask a long time ago as, in their opinion 'more than half the cask ales served in the UK are substandard in terms of beer quality. We also felt the beers we were making at the time all suited keg dispense better and that cask ale was best suited to lower ABV session beers'.

Understandable if you are supplying to other outlets maybe, but doesn't show a great deal of faith in your own bars if you think they can't serve their own BrewDog beers on cask properly....

Despite this stance against cask (one shared by many other breweries recently) a quest began, helped by writer Pete Brown, towards creating what eventually became LIVE beer. A beer that would behave with the consistency of keg but have the character of cask and would produce a perfect pint every time.

In Brewdog's words 'LIVE beer is craft ale, conditioned in a key keg, Fermented without top pressure, then lightly centrifuged to remove hop debris the beer is packaged and allowed to ferment and condition inside the keg and is served on draft at 9.5°C through a sparkler... gently sparkling and 100% awesome'. The usual hyperbolic swagger we expect from the Scottish brewers, but does it match all the fuss? 

For me Dead Pony Club - the only beer that's currently been given the LIVE treatment - is a pretty solid session pale ale anyway, so it's hard to say this new twist added much. Serving it through the sparkler aerates the beer, giving a nice tight head and some body to the beer, but mutes it's hoppiness. Overall a refreshing, if not standout, pint which, as it's served slightly colder than cellar temp of 'normal' cask, is well suited to this weather.

When I was last in Australia my sister told the Ewing and I about the Coldstone Creamery, an ice cream parlour where deserts are customised with different 'mix ins' on a block of frozen granite, and where she and her friends had spent their gap year gorging on their icy creations. Now, I’ve eaten lots of ice cream pretty much all over the world, but suddenly visiting their Manly branch in the north of the city became a quest of almost mythical proportions.

After taking the ferry across the bay and stumbling around in the heat trying to find it (in the pre-smart phone days, and of course having no map and no idea…) eventually we asked a kindly chap, who seemed greatly amused to hear about our mission and helped direct us there.

Of course, the ice cream couldn’t live up to the expectations, but I think that’s somehow the point with these things, the thrill of the chase. And while Four Winters, our next stop, didn’t quite have the excitement of our Manly mission, the ice cream here - created by adding dry ice to the liquid ice cream base – is even more dramatic.

They had run out of waffle cones, a disappointment for Ewing and a rookie mistake for an ice cream parlour, but the tubs – a seasonal pina colada for my wife and kunefe for me – were still pretty good without. (I thought it was quite an icy concoction which had lost the lovely creaminess of real ice cream, but that's just my opinion of course - TE). I particularly liked the my choice, based on the Middle Eastern sweetmeat where layers of pastry are stuffed with fresh white cheese, topped with pistachios and soaked in fragrant syrup. 

Here, the freshly whipped vanilla ice cream base is mixed with crispy strands of syrup soaked noodles and sprinkled with fresh pistachios. While it may have been better with a cheesy centre, what wouldn't, it was an interesting combination of textures and flavours that made a nice change from chocolate or strawberry

As a reward for patiently poking around student halls and army barracks with me all afternoon, I took the Ewing to get a bun for her trunk, or more accurately a upmarket desert from Maitre Choux, French pâtissier  Joakim Prat's exclusive eclair shop in South Kensington.

The Ewing chose the  Pure Arabica Coffee, a glazed choux bun stuffed with coffee flavoured creme patissiere that has both added butter for texture and whipped cream for lightness. No surprises that it was pretty good, the coffee bringing bitter edge to the pillowy, sweet pastry.

As we are currently experiencing an Olympic medal rush in Rio how could I resist the hazelnut and milk chocolate treasure, an eclair that 'has it all'; filled with hazelnut praline and chocolate creme patissiere then coated in chopped hazelnuts and more chocolate and finished with gold dust. Gilding the lily has never tasted so delicious. Now, if chasing concrete and eating and drinking were Olympic sports....

Scotch Ale Trail - Glasgow edition

Will Self recently wrote a nice little article on ‘The joy of doing the same thing over and over again’ in which he recounts a story of whenever he visits Melbourne he always eat at a Japanese restaurant on the edge of Chinatown, and always has the same thing. Then followed up with the fact he’s only been to Melbourne twice and ‘it just so happens I ate in the same restaurant on each occasion'. Nevertheless this was sufficient for me to confidently predict I will at some point in the future eat there again, and moreover for me to also feel distinctly cosy about the prospect.’

Which pretty much sums up how I feel about Nice and Sleazy’s; although I’ve only visited Glasgow twice, each time has been punctuated with a lunchtime visit here, accompanied by a White Russian, a routine I’m already very happy to be in, and one I would hope to continue on subsequent visits to a city that already has a fond place in my heart.

Alongside our three pound a pop milk-based cocktails (you can also get a black Russian for the same bargain basement price, alongside cheap jugs of Williams Jester IPA) we stayed to try out the new Meathammer burger menu; a decision which proved a remarkably sound addition to the old routine.

I tackled the Grinder - a Stilton burger dripping with lashings of garlic butter that would certainly preclude any app based dates after eating, the only hot thing being my fiery garlic breath (tasted great, though). The Ewing was swayed by the Worldeater – a umami bomb of mature cheddar, Parma ham, caramelised red onions. dill pickle, tomato and bacon relish and parmesan crisp - recently voted by critics as Glasgow’s best burger and fully deserving of its plaudits.

Our second Brewdog visit of the trip was to the Glasgow branch, conveniently opposite Kelvingrove and is possibly my favourite of the ones visited so far, being light and airy and having  a lovely view across the park to the museum.

Scottish brews on tap were lacking – there was a Oskar Blues tap takeover but the Ewing though her favourite Ten Fidy stout might be a bit much for mid-afternoon – but I was happy to try their Candy Kaiser, a new northern German style retro altbier, that Brewdog describe thus: 'we’ve dialled down the dry-hops to zero, but cranked up the malt to create massive aromas. Toasty, toffee and floral notes duke it out for supremacy in the headspace of your glass'. While the Ewing finally got her chilled bottle of Pumpkin Head, heady with autumnal spices.

King Tuts, like Sleazy’s, was on my Glasgow must do list after my teenage pen pal – the lead singer with Bis, no less – sent me a flyer advertising their gig there in the mid-90s. For years it remained a mythical nirvana until, over a decade later, I finally made it north of the border and dragged the Ewing to sit in the, very real, gloom and drink fizzy lager to a soundtrack of my teenage angst. This year she had already vetoed a return trip, but after looking for the next spot to stop for a drink and realising we were practically outside, it seemed fate had intervened.

Something else that had also intervened since our last visit was craft, that five letter word that meant the range of beers on offer was no longer limited to Tennents and Wife Beater; indeed they now even have their own lager breweed for them by West. 

Alongside a tankard of the house Tut’s we also tried the Gladeye Rye IPA brewed by Drygate and, in a moment of notoriety that almost matched the time I ate the first ever hotdog off the warming rollers at Cineworld High Wycombe, we got to sample the very first pint dispensed through the new tap. A very timely taster as our next stop was the Drygate microbrewery proper, to see how the magic was made.

Drygate /The Vintage (yes, one name would be much easier) is multi-faceted microbrewery/event space/ bar/ restaurant that has opened on the site of the Tennent’s plant (aka the Wellpark Brewery that was originally known as  Drygate), a ten minute walk to the West of the city centre. Lager lovers despair not, the Tennent’s site still operates as a multi-barrel multinational operation next door, providing over a third of Scotland’s fizzy yellow stuff as well as distributing beers such as Sweetheart Stout and Caledonia Best across the globe.

Save for the sparkly lights all seemed deathly quiet outside, even for a Wednesday evening, so it was a cheering surprise to find the open plan /restaurant bar area buzzing. We were greeted warmly, both by the staff and the thick malty fug that hung in the air, before choosing to sit on communal drinking benches by the bar, which also afforded us a view of the beer-making action happening in the next door.

Things started sensibly (after an afternoon spent mostly drinking in bars and snoozing in the Kelvingrove) and promisingly with schooners of Outaspace, their apple ale. The latter being particularly curious, especially as it is one of their core beers, being a kind of lager/cider hybrid that would be particularly welcome in the warmer summer months, if such a phenomena makes it to G31.

After that things became hazier when, realising that the beer list was packed full of local cask and keg brews that we had barely made a start on (not to mention such delights as Buxton’s Wyoming Sheep Ranch), we decided the best idea would be to order two flights….

Now the headache has finally subsided I can confirm this was in fact the correct decision, meaning that we got to try such brews as ‘unfiltered Tennent’s straight from the tank (who thought the familiar brew could get hipster points – still tastes of piss, though) Cromarty's Rogue Wave pale ale and a couple of fine dark beers, a Red Eye Flight porter from Tempest and William Brothers Black Ball stout. 

Surprise of the night, however, was a wildcard picked by the Ewing of the Thistly Cross elderflower cider. Initially I was upset that this apple-based interloper had sullied our range of hop based libations, but on sampling it I can confirm that it was a very fine variation. A tipple to which the cliché ‘dangerously drinkable’ could have been designed. So good that I (who?- TE) have even created a hybrid version at home using cloudy Strongbow and homemade elderflower cordial. Best served in pint glasses over ice with a Nurofen chaser.

The Ewing's haddock risotto topped with a gooey poached egg and peppery watercress was comfort food at it's finest; a mixture of salt and smoke and buttery yolk that reminded her of her Mum's 'yellow fish, mash and peas'.

I went with the classic Bearface Lager beer battered fish and chips with side helpings of very good minted mushy peas and home made tartare sauce. Very rich but very nicely done and, being predominantly deep fried, the perfect accompaniment to soak up all the beer.

The Ewing was lured by the special of panna cotta – a surprisingly chocolate-less choice, in the end she just couldn’t resist the charm of our lovely waiter Alasdair, whose Scottish lilt made clementine jelly sound far more enticing than it has any right to.

Alongside the layers of wobbly cream and fruity stuff the whole thing was topped off by a wonderfully boozy topping of Pedro Jimenez syrup, a charming pudding with the promise of Christmas and only missing that classic Scottish accompaniment to everything, a shortbread finger to dunk.

My dessert, the freshly made doughnuts served with tonka bean and white pepper caramel was ambrosial. Cold beer and hot doughnuts may already be a classic, but this dish provided a real life When Harry Met Sally moment as I shovelled the hot fluffy orbs mouthwards, leaving a little more than a scattering of sugar and a trail of moans in my wake. (vom - TE)

If I haven’t already used far too many superlatives, pounding head aside, Vintage was the venue of the trip for me. Great staff (with even greater beards) a fantastic selection of cheap and plentiful beer from both their own kit and beyond; and some cracking cooking coming out the kitchen. In fact it's no exaggeration to say that Drygate might be my new favourite place; it's just a shame its 383 miles from my house (yes, I did Google it...).

And so we headed eastwards, back to Auld Reekie, yet another venue added to our lists of must visits for the next time. Who said routine was the enemy?

Brum Fun

I think I've had what writer's call 'block'. I ate and I ate, then I ate some more, but still the words wouldn't form (I did get a touch of indigestion, though). Slowly, as the idea of posting became more onerous, I begun to stop taking pictures of my lunch and went back to the same places to eat, so I wouldn't have to blog about them later. Was Pies and Fries finally stale and soggy?

Ultimately though, while it was nice to just sit back and smell the coffee (without trying to snap an arty picture) I kinda missed it; So grab the Rennies and let's get stuck in.

This particular adventure take us back to the Second City, or more precisely Snow Hill, the terminus of the Chiltern line. Strangely, in the fifteen or so years I've been coming to Brum, I'd never alighted here until earlier this year; now I've visited three times since March. While it misses the architectural majesty and convenience of Moor Street, it's in a much more interesting part of town. But more of that later.

First stop after ditching our bags was Brewdog, where, when faced with the comprehensive menu board above, I followed their sound recommendation and ordered a beer flight. After all, why have one beer when you can have four (not cheap though, a flight for both of us weighing in at twenty-two of your English pounds).

Pick of the bunch was Hymir, a brett fermented pale from Worcestershire's Urban Huntsman; the Ballast Point Dorado, a resinous imperial IPA; and the Dog D, a imperial stout with coffee and naga chillies from Brewdog. Whilst the latter two were belters ABV wise and we probably could have done with a breather, neither the Ewing or I could face the third of Brewdog's alcohol free Nanny State. Sometime's more is more.

Sufficiently lubricated we made our way to the inaugural Food Feast-ival at the, ominous-sounding, Coffin Works in the Jewellery Quarter. Just like it says on the tin, this was previously the site of the Newman Brothers 'producers of some of the world’s finest coffin furniture, including the fittings for the funerals of Joseph Chamberlain, Winston Churchill and the Queen Mother'.

Whilst they've recreated the ambiance of the firm's 60s heyday - complete with restored machinery and costumed guided tours - we were here for the food and drinks, all served up in the picturesque cobbled courtyard.

The disadvantage of being in such an enclosed space, as beautiful as it was, was that the smoke from the oven - mounted in an old Mini Cooper - at the Baked in Brick pizza stand meant that I ended up smelling like a teenager's kit bag after sitting around the campfire at Reading Festival (my mother would attest, that's not a good thing).

Things looked up when we actually swapped some dough for some dough, opting to share a calzone stuffed with beef shin ragu and mozzarella. All very tasty if a little pallid on top for my tastes. Any chance of getting bored waiting for our pizza to cook was also dispelled when we (for 'we' read my darling wife), befriended Tina and Rich, two very friendly locals who regaled us with stories of sewing clubs, library cuts and the local birds (of the ornithological variety), that can be spotted in the Jewellery Quarter.

Refreshments came in the form of a couple of poky cocktails from the the Little Gin Company - a Cotswold Dry with pink grapefruit for me and Monkey 47 Gin with tonic and orange for the Ewing. Gin and grapefruit's a very good thing and the measures were pleasingly generous making the 80's soul records they were spinning even more welcome.

Most mortals may have called it a night after the second cocktail, especially seeing as we were just around the corner from our hotel. But who can resist Birmingham's small, but perfectly formed, Chinatown; especially when pissed.

This time we headed for Peach Garden, an insalubrious little gaff with endearingly gruff service tucked off Ladywell Walk, where the main deal is the roast meat that you can see hanging in the steamy front window. Here it's served three ways; roast duck, char sui and roast pork (and a fourth on a Monday and Tuesday, when they crack out the suckling pig).

A plate of crispy, fatty, salty roast meat on a bed of fluffy white rice and a few chinese cabbage leaves thrown in to prevent scurvy, is one of my favourite things to eat. Add a good dose of fiery chilli oil and endless cups of jasmine tea (here served in smoked glass beakers, from a giant metal pot) and there is no better way to soak up a surfeit of gin.

The Ewing equally relished her bowl of won ton soup, a lagoon of porky parcels swimming in a rich meat stock augmented with Chinese veg and egg noodles. We also shared a side dish of crunchy water chestnut slices and crisp bamboo shoots, scooped up with obligatory handfuls of prawn crackers that, eaten in my usual haste, left me with those little scratches at the corner of my mouth the following morning that mean I always vow to give up prawn crackers, or to improve my table manners, but alas I do neither (that's a shame there would be more for me - TE). 

Breakfast was a peerless selection of cheap cereal (who could resist faux Coco Pops with lashings of cold milk (me-TE)), watered down orange juice, endless cups of strong tea and piles of hot toast with butter and strawberry jam. It was glorious. Truly.

There was also a pretty decent view across the chimney tops from the breakfast room, just a shame most of it had been enveloped by a thick fog, leaving even the sparkly new Birmingham Library as merely a gentle golden glow. 'Oh the rain falls hard on a humdrum town, this town has dragged you down', as Steven Patrick might say.

Wet weather meant the perfect chance to visit Six Eight Kafe, sit back with a book (or, as as the modern way, stare at your smart phone screen for a bit) and watch the world wade down a sodden Temple Row. A Chemex for two, brewed with bright Costa Rican beans, and a slice of freshly baked chocolate mocha cake also hit the spot.

Next was a dose of (well-read) anarchy when we joined in briefly, with the Friends of Birmingham protest march in Victoria Square, followed by a dose of culture at the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery. There's a very good Pre-Raphaelite gallery if, like my wife, you're into that thing. And there's a very good gift shop if, like me, you're not. We also got to see the Floozie in the Jacuzzi, Brum's first lady. 

Final stop was a full circle to the Hen and Chickens, an unprepossessing pub in Hockley, just down the road from Snow Hill Station. Sky Sports, check. Pool table, check. Pints of fizzy piss, check. Loos with fag burns on the cistern, no loo roll and no locks, check. Best Indian food I've eaten for a long while, check....

Let's be honest, you're not going to come here for the ambiance, but get a cold Cobra in your hand and order a mixed grill (this is the 'small'), a piping hot dish piled high with crisp smoky kofte kebabs, chicken and fish pakora served on a bed of charred onions, and you can see why people make the trek.

The curries were equally strong; we sampled a sag paneer that was earthy and fragrant and a summery pumpkin curry with onion and tomato that was fresh and light. Hot rounds of peshwari and garlic naans proved the perfect way to scoop them from plate to mouth.

They'll even box up your leftovers (and you will have leftovers) that made me very happy when I saw them in the fridge the next morning. For our fellow commuters on the train home, possibly less so.

And so back to Snow Hill to begin our journey back South. Aptly, there's a statue of a bowler hatted commuter, brolly and briefcase in hand, to wave us off as we depart for another week at the grindstone. 

As the sun goes down on a broken town
And the fingers bleed in the factories
Come on out tonight, come and see the side
Of the ones you love and the ones in love
And you