Out out

There are few things better than an unexpected Friday afternoon off, and this particular Friday afternoon I was particularly excited to be going out out for once and hitting the town for a cocktail crawl; kicking off with solo drinks at Dandelyan. 

Located on the ground floor of the Sea Containers hotel on the Southbank, this is possibly my favourite stretch of my favourite city. Even the lowering clouds merged perfectly with the steely waters of the Thames and the marvellous geometry of the buildings; as viewed here from Blackfriars Bridge.

Launched by London’s very own bartender extraordinaire Ryan Chetiyawardana, AKA Mr Lyan, it has recently been awarded the accolade of the best cocktail bar in the whole wide world (clearly they have never had a jug of Woo Woos at Yates’ Wine Lodge).

I was particularly keen to come, even if it was only a flying solo visit, as it was the penultimate day it would operate in this incarnation, before being closed for good, remodelled and reopened as Lyaness. As it was their final week, several old faces had dropped in and I could over hear the staff giving them the low down on the new iteration from my perch at the bar, from what I could pick up, it's 

From their final cocktail menu, The Modern Life of Plants, I kicked off with a Re-Supply Sour, which include Koji liquor, Compass Box whisky, raspberry and nutrient-enriched cardboard. I had to Google koji; apparently it's a fungus, Aspergillus oryzae, that's used to make fermented things such as sake, miso and soy sauce. 

While I'm still not much clearer of what was actually in it, I can tell you that it was delicious. I love the clean, bright flavours of a sour and this made the perfect pre-prandial; fresh and zingy and, as you can see, pretty as a picture.

Obviously I have decided the 'no sugar rule' doesn't extend to alcohol, and I took full advantage of that to order the Koji Hardshake, a stalwart that has stayed on the ever-changing menu since 2014. Another drink featuring koji - yes, the clue is in the name - along with blended scotch, lemon juice, double cream and liquorice bitters. The piece de resistance is a blow-torched marshmallow, spritzed with a truffle spray, that is balanced on the rim.

Perfectly balanced between creamy, spicy and boozy, this was rich and funky but without being cloying. I'm not sure if this will make a comeback in the new gaff, but, if it does, jump on it. Not literally; the gooey marshmallow will get everywhere.

After wedging, literally, myself into a tube carriage at St Paul's - God bless London during Friday night rush hour - I made it to Bethnal Green. Despite my trousers clearly being far too long for East London, I snuck in anyway and hit Mother Kelly's Paradise Row for a swift half while awaiting the Ewing's arrival.

Always a great place for a beer, or several, this visit coincided with the launch of the To Øl Mr. series, their tribute to Quentin Tarantino's cult 90s classic Reservoir Dogs. I tried a half of the Mr Orange; a double dry hopped IPA with khaki fruit (me neither), orange peel and re-fermented with To Øl instant crush brett (still no idea) at 5 per cent. It was good, but maybe not the ten-odd quid - I managed to cut the prices off when I took the photo, but it certainly wasn't cheap - it cost.

The Ewing started her night on the booze with the 9 per cent Mr Brown; an 'imperial salty caramel cookie dough double coffee fudge chocolate milk hazelnut butter vanilla cocoa crumble brown ale'.  Which was an unorthodox aperitif, but tasted quite as marvellous as it sounds.

Sensing it was probably wise to stop for ballast at some point (and you won't like the Ewing when she's hangry), we moved next door, literally, for dinner at Sager and Wilde. A wine bar-cum-restaurant they are also known for their incredible lunch and early evening menu, featuring a plate of pasta and a glass of wine or a negroni for a tenner.

We both chose the cocktail option. Alongside our drinks we enjoyed a generous bowl of excellent nocellara olives, the Ewing's absolute fave, and also some excellent lamb and caper arancini. Crisp-crumbed balls of gooey risotto studded with shredded meat and the poky pickled buds. A labour of love consumed in a couple of delicious mouthfuls.

The Ewing chose the Reginette, or little queens, made with beetroot in the pasta dough, turning it a glorious pink colour.  It was served simply with smoked ricotta and black garlic and topped with a drift of crispy breadcrumbs. While a touch of the stodgy side (which I am highly down with), I enjoyed the fiery note from a liberal dose of chilli.

My Strozapretti, gloriously translating as priest stranglers, was bathed in a rich pork ragu that had chunks of tender meat and tomatoes in a deep, buttery sauce that had been properly covered in a drift of fresh parmesan. The whole lot, including tip, was still cheap enough to be able to pay by contactless. Amazing value, great staff and excellent food.

Not quite at stumbling stage we made it down the Bethnal Green Road to the final call on our cocktail crawl. Another London venue that features in the World's 50 bars, Coupette was awarded the best new opening in 2017, and debuted at an impressive 18th on the full list last year. 

With a menu that focuses on calvados as well as cocktails the Ewing started with the 'apples'. Made simply from french apple brandy and fresh pressed apple juice, the varieties used change monthly giving it a subtly ever-changing flavour profile through the seasons. When I was chatting to the bar tender at Dandelyan earlier that the afternoon, this was the drink he recommended saying it was his favourite cocktail to drink anywhere at the moment. Quite a bold claim, and one that was backed up with it's delicious simplicity.

The cocktail they are best known for is the champagne colada, which, as it sounds blends a pina colada with a healthy glug of Moet et Chandon. Two of my very favourite things: as the Barefoot Contessa might say, 'how bad can that be?'

The answer is not bad at all, with the fizz lifting the richness of the coconut milk. Probably my drink of the day, although getting the coconut flakes through the straw did take a monumental amount of effort as I got towards the end. Who said this drinking lark was easy.

As a nightcap I took the bartenders recommendation of a tropical old fashioned, made from a Woodford Reserve and tropical cordial of pineapple, lime and mango and tropical bitters. Simple, strong and surprisingly refreshing for a digestif.

The Ewing tried the Board Room with cognac, Dubonnet cherry, coffee and smoke. This was a touch too much bonfire for me, but she still loves the odd menthol Vogue, so it slipped down pretty easily.

While we were gearing up for that to be the last round, the level of inebriation the Ewing had reached by that point lead to the  realisation that she was still a couple of drinks behind me. And so she promptly ordered a champagne colada for herself.

Not wanting to be left out (although this didn't help with any imbalance in imbibing), I ordered the champagne martini, which, surprise surprise, saw a classic martini with Grey Goose Noilly Prat being topped up with Moet and champagne liqueur and garnished with a frozen grape. This was another excellent combination, the effervescence smoothing out the rough edges of the vodka perfectly. 

Definitely at stumbling stage, our final stop on the trail was a visit to the estimable Beigel Bake on Brick Lane. While I'm a big fan of their smoked salmon and cream cheese offering (and their cheesecake, if I could actually eat it at the moment), it's hard to see past the perfect salt beef. 

Huge slabs of cured brisket, cut into hunks and stuffed into the perfectly squidgy/chewy bagels, along with pickles and a good slathering of proper english mustard. If you don't end up here after a night on the tiles, have you even been out drinking in East London? Sober me also thanked drunk me for bringing an extra cream cheese bagel back to the hotel for the morning after. Drunk me can still pull it out the bag when it's needed.

Moo and Modernism too

I usually find family occasions fraught with difficulty. Not, as you may think, because I don't like my my relatives - in fact, quite the contrary, I love spending time with them - but more the difficulty in finding things that are going to please everyone, with ages ranging from six months to sixty something, especially when it comes to eating. 

A case in point came recently when I found everyone would be descending on East London for a mini reunion. My first thoughts, after the excitement of seeing everyone, of course - turned to Tayyabs lamb chops, Beigel bake's hand carved salt beef and Orange Buffalo's spicy wings. Well, at least until I heard my cousin - a former globetrotter who now has two young children under five - suggesting to my aunt 'chain restaurants are good, all children like chips'.

 

He's right of course, chains can be great and there's plenty of examples where I'd be more than happy to eat fried potatoes with the young ones (sadly not me anymore). So when my aunt sent me the details to our reservation at Moo Cantina - a mini chain with a branch on Brick Lane and a meat-centric menu - for our family lunch, the steaks were high (boom, boom).

Things got off to a good start with a large bottle of Quilmes, a popular (a pretty much the only) Argentinian beer. As with a few weeks ago, when I was chugging cans of PBR along side my fried chicken, it's  sweet, malty beer that doesn't have much going for it on its own, but when served cold slips down deceptively well alongside grilled meats and salty foods.

The sharing starter board, given an atmospherically fuzzy glow through my grease-speckled camera phone lens - was a tasty and interesting assortment of Argentinian chorizo sausage with roasted peppers and onion, lightly battered fingers of fried squid with garlicky mayo, hunks of baguette with a punchy chimichurri sauce and disc that resembled a pancake, but was comprised of gooey, grilled provolone cheese.

It was nice to see chancho, a hunk of grilled pork collar, on the menu, and it didn't disappoint. Served simply with a sauce criolla - a fresh onion, pepper and tomato salsa - a rocket salad, and a side of excellent sweet potato fries, and all with change from a tenner.

We also sampled couple of incarnations of the eponymous 'free range beef sourced from lush grass fed cattle'. Firstly a flank steak - 200g, grilled and served with a salad and fries for £12 at lunchtime, which proved a well-flavoured strip of meat, served with charred edges and a nicely pink centre. There was also the Lomito Porteno a rib eye sandwich with roasted peppers and provolone cheese advertised on the menu as 'one of the top ten sandwiches in the UK'. While I'm not sure who made the pronouncement, I'm pretty sure my cousin Will was in agreement.

While tempted by the smoke sausage platter, served with the curious addition of guacamole, in the end the Ewing attempted to compensate from the previous night's excess with the 'seasonal' salad. Thankfully chunks of avocado meant she didn't miss out on her vitamin E, alongside flame grilled peppers and fresh peppers, and crisp chicken strips, all nestled on a bed of well-dressed leaves (insert joke about East London fashion here). 

The younger contingent were also well catered for with a very good grilled chicken sandwich, stuffed with mozzarella and tomato; Moo burgers and chips; and a big platter of nachos to share. We also shared some interesting sides including the Salad Olivier, a kind of ensalada russa of diced boiled potato, carrot and peas, dressed with mayo; and a Revuelto Gramajo, a dish of scrambled eggs with 'onion, ham, peas and fries'.

Who could resist the lure of a desert named Sweet Tony, a toffee and chocolate mousse with cream and strawberries. Certainly not the Ewing, who enjoyed it, although not as much as my Uncle enjoyed his carajillo (coffee with cognac, or in his case, amaretto) the beloved beverage of Spanish bin men, served here in wine glasses and a steal at only four pounds.

From being somewhere central, where we could all get together and eat chips and drink wine, Moo ended up exceeding all our expectations. While the food was decent, and decently priced, where they really impressed was with the charming service. From stowing our assorted luggage, to re-configuring the furniture, to expertly dividing sandwiches to stop pre-teenage squabbles, and being delightful with baby Louis, nothing was too much trouble.

While the rest of the family rolled, contentedly, back towards Stoke Newington, we took the opportunity to chalk off stop three of the Brutal Tour with a visit to One Moorgate Place, home of Institute of Chartered Accountants' Hall. More accurately we where here to see William Whitfield's 60's extension, constructed in a Modernist style that's quite at odds with the Victorian neo-Baroque styling of the original building.

When I was growing up our neighbours, who lived directly opposite, decided to paint the front of their garage with large colourful blocks that resembled a Mondrian painting. Which might have looked pretty incongruous on a warehouse door in backstreet in Whitechapel, but rather less so when attached to a house in leafy Buckinghamshire.

While I’m not sure their impressionist recreation was quite to my parent’s more modest (not modernist) tastes, I was rather a fan of the bold colours that brightened up my dreary provincial view; which is exactly how I felt when I saw the Brutalist extension to the Hall. The incongruousness of the addition is, for me, the epitome of what makes the juxtaposition of London’s architecture – this time as part of the very same building - so thrilling. 

You can read more about the whole building here. I'm just waiting for the currant refurbishment works to take place so I can go for lunch at One Moorgate Place, the restaurant found in the basement of the hall. I wonder if they serve chips...

Stealth's Dark Sugars (aka the Blog is Invaded)

Clearly Pies and Fries’ loyal readers are primarily interested in updates about Stealth’s life and long for more pictures of her to be uploaded to the blog.  So, as a special November treat, I, Stealth, have written a guest blog…

Too early for Christmas cheer, too late for the evenings to have any light, winter had engulfed everyone’s psyche. Flu stalked the office, passing from desk to desk until it returned to its original host and began its relentless crawl again. The minutes were physically moving towards the weekend but the Friday feeling eluded us all.

So the blog begins in a soulless office, where pasty faces peer into multi-coloured spreadsheets and colleagues argue over the merits of karaoke as entertainment.  Our hero, Stealth, decides to make her escape and so she creeps from her desk, keen that her absence is noticed at the latest possible moment, and starts her cycle to the East End.  With every revolution of her pedals she can feel the footsteps of those who have gone before her: Dickens, Defoe, Cromwell, Wilde ...

The reality is that I could keep this up forever, and it would be forever because I don’t know how to end it.  So, I’ll stop now and get to the point, because today my heart was warmed by a lovely chocolate shop: Dark Sugars.

In order to ingratiate myself into The Ewing’s favor and in an attempt to usurp the cat ‘Pusskins’ from his bed so that I had somewhere to sleep, I had headed to Brick Lane to get her a salmon bagel. As I locked up my bike, I was delighted to stumble across Dark Sugars.  The shop is set out as a homage to chocolate and, given The Ewing’s well documented penchant for cacao, the perfect place to pick her up a treat.

I could write about how truly charming and passionate the chap who served me was.  Or I could mention that the chocolate is laid out on Ghanian wood so that customers have a sense of where their food has come from.  Or I could tell you that in a beautiful London twist the shop was opened on Brick Lane during Black History Month because the owner wanted to bring some African diversity to what is already one of the most diverse places in the world.  Or I could tell you about how absolutely delicious every truffle is. Truth be told, though, I couldn’t do any of it justice. Suffice to say that the fact I’m writing this and took photographs of the place is a testament to what a pleasure it is to go.

Brick Lane, Curry Again

When it comes to Sunday dinner there are three choices I favour. The good old roast, when you’re feeling traditional; a barbecue when it’s too hot to contemplate lashings of gravy and Yorkshire pud; and a curry for all other occasions. It may not please the purists, but in a country where tikka masala is our national dish why not slather a bit of tandoori marinade on your chicken dinner before falling asleep in front of Songs of Praise.

Of course many may think that filling up on ghee-laden mountains of rice and bread and spicy platters of charred meat, all washed down with fizzy lager, would be a disaster come Monday morning, when you’re slumped back in the office battling with the gastric consequences of that extra bhaj, but alternate weekend working means Mondays are my Sundays. Ergo Sunday evening is my Saturday night.

Stealth probably doesn’t know what day of the week it actually is, but is always up for a good curry, so after a sunny afternoon stocking up on beigels and drinking glasses of fresh watermelon juice and avocado smoothies on Brick Lane we met her at Needo Grill, the final missing piece in my quest to try the Whitechapel trilogy that also features Tayyabs and the Lahore Kebab House.

Needo was set up by the former manager of Tayyabs, so you have the pick of their lauded dishes without the mile-long queues.  Inside the red and black decor is smarter than Lahore and brighter than Tayaabs, although constantly spying yourself in the mirrored walls isn’t conducive to ordering yet another round of naan bread. Drinks are BYO, so we stocked up with large bottle of cold Cobra from the nearby corner store en route.

To start we shared the mixed grill, a platter of sizzling lamb chops, seekh kebabs, chicken tikka and grilled onions. While I’m not sure these were the best incarnations of the classic that I have had - the lamb chops particularly lacking the requisite fat and char ratio - they possessed a pleasingly fierce chilli kick that went well with the sweet yoghurt and mint dip that had appeared with our plate of poppadums.

Since our previous trip to Tayyabs had been marred slightly by Stealth claiming she had been struck by a gastric ulcer, before lying sweating in the corridor by the loos (never a dull moment) I took this opportunity to reorder the stalwarts, plus the pumpkin, that we had been too stuffed to order before. There was also a buttery nan for me that was mostly eaten by Stealth (no, no, I don't want one, really) plus two roti that were mostly eaten by Stealth, too.

Firstly we have the worst picture (not a single effort to capture this was in focus) of the best dish, the fabled dry meat. Never has a moniker been less appealing and, thankfully, less deserved, the ‘dry’ describing the lack of gravy rather than the texture of the dish itself, reminding me of a rendang, with soft shreds of sticky mutton in a thickly reduced and well-spiced sauce.

Accompanying were two vegetable choices.  The first was the Dal Baingan, a mixture of nutty lentils and smoky baby aubergine – although I notice singular, rather than the two we were served at Tayyabs. The consistency of lentils was also slightly looser. 

We also tried the Punjabi Tinda, or baby pumpkin, curry, with a pleasingly grown up sweet and sour flavour and, again, lashings of ghee (in case you fear veggies are actually good for you).

Overall I’d pick the dry meat at Needoo and the grilled meat at Tayyabs, but I’d give either a firm recommendation (the Karahi Ghost at Lahore Kebab House also deserves a mention) without much hesitation. 

Going at an off peak time, we arrived at about half five on a Sunday evening, also means  less hurrying and harrying by the waiter, who graciously lent us their bottle openers and provided jugs of iced water long after we had finished our main meals.

As always after a curry, pudding was a stretch too far. We had, however, bought Stealth a present, in the form of a Cinnamon Tree Bakery biscuit from our visit to Wapping market, to nibble on later.

In fact both Stealth’s gingerbread elephant and the Ewing’s shortbread owl were most appropriate, forming the first instalment of a new series ‘owners who looked like their baked goods’ - even featuring the adoption of an cigarette trunk for extra added likeness.  

A cheering Sunday night scene of friend swapping biscuits (Stealth bought us some earless rabbits lovingly baked by our friends Claire and Kam) and certainly one that was worth missing the traditional joint of British beef and golden heap of roasties for.

Brick Lane: Lamb Chops and Lox

As Johnson famously said, 'when a man is tired of London he is tired of life', and while I would find it very hard to become jaded to my hometown's charms, I find myself heading back to familiar central haunts; Soho for dinner, the West End for some razzle dazzle, maybe the South Bank for a walk at the weekend. Sometimes the lazy days of browsing record shops in Notting Hill, buying patchouli in Camden Lock, picnics at Kew Gardens, or traipsing to gigs in the wilds of Brixton or Kilburn seem an awfully long time ago. 

In order to get right into the nooks and crannies of this city I love I devised a mission for the forthcoming months, ably assisted by the Ewing and Stealth, to dust down my trusty A-Z and get out and see some more, less familiar, corners of this glorious city; starting with a Saturday in the East End. 

First up was a lunch of our national dish; curry. While the merchants on Brick Lane pedal their wares to unsuspecting tourists, everybody in the know knows that the best place for Indian food is Tayyabs. And I mean everybody. Located down a grimy sidestreet in Whitechapel, this Punjabi hotspot, first opened in 1972, may be one of the worst kept secrets in London. The famed queues at the weekend (and most weeknights, too) spill out down the street, reservations or not. The only saving grace seeming to be the enticing scent of sizzling meat that perfumes the air, and starting on the BYO six pack that they charge no corkage fee for as you wait to finally make it through the door.

As good as the food is purported to be there are also small grumbles about the cramped environs (despite expanding to three floors of the original building) and rushed service, but choosing a late Saturday lunchtime proved to be a wise move, as we were soon lead down to a nearly empty (it soon rapuidly filled up), spacious basement dining area, and swiftly given poppudums, chutney, and a bottle opener for our Cobras. So far so good.

We started with a sizzling platter of the infamous chops; manna for a lamb-loving carnivore like myself and comprising of the perfect ratio of spice, fat, meat and char. The long bones meant plenty of gnawing potential and proved a sticky, smoky, and justly celebrated delight. Although I managed to bag the extra fourth cutlet in our portion, I could have eaten a whole rack of these beauties without trouble.

The Ewing also ordered a portion of decent Tikka Paneer, the crispy, spiced exterior giving way nicely to the mild and milky, squeaky-cheese centre.

Stealth ably modelling our dish of Karahi Keema, a delicious mess of spiced lamb mince and sweet green peas. This was one of my Mum's signature dishes whenever she cooked Indian food when I was growing up, and eating it always makes me feel warm and nostalgic inside, especially a version as good as this.

We also sampled another highly lauded dish, the austere sounding Dry Meat; rather a misnomer as the fiery beef curry that arrived was rich and moist, containing chunks of meat of melting tenderness and a hefty spice kick. The Ewing also chose the Karahi Prawn, a speciality only served on Saturdays that featured perfectly succulent shrimps in a light and sweetish sauce, cut through with a lemon-y zing.

Veg came in the form of Dhal Baingun; smoky, soft baby aubergine served with creamy, sticky yellow lentils and Methi Aloo Gajar; a dish rich and earthy dish carrots, potatoes and fenugreek leaves. I love Indian vegetable based dishes, and these did nothing to change my mind. Absolutely spot on. I was only sad that we couldn't manage to sample some of the spiced pumpkin, Tinda Masala as well.

Foregoing rice for bread also proved a good choice; the puffed up, sesame studded peshwari and buttery plain naans made the perfect vehicles for scooping and mopping every last scrap of sauce from our plates.

To finish the Ewing ordered a banana lassi; a frosty metal beaker of frothy goodness, balancing the cooling tang of the yoghurt with the sweetness of the fruit. Chuck in a couple of the obligatory chocolate mints, some very sweet and efficient service, a pleasing slight bill (coming well within the £20 budget) and it made the perfect ending to a laudable lunch.

Staggering from the restaurant and across the Whitechapel Road, we decided to have a quick mosey about before retiring for an afternoon nap. The last time I was hanging out with the cool kids in this part of Shoreditch it was on a pub crawl for the Ewing's birthday. A lovely, if blurry, evening that ended up with the obligatory late night beigel, and I couldn't imagine coming to this part of town without a visit to the famous bakers of Brick Lane.

This place is wonderful. Crammed to the rafters on a Saturday afternoon with locals and tourists alike, all eagerly queuing for their platzels, strudel and rye bread. While waiting in line I got a great view of the inner-workings of the place, and could have happily stayed all day watching the two guys in the kitchen churning out trays of bread and rolls while swathed in a fug of steam from the cauldrons of boiling beigels at the back.

We chose a trio of treats each to take home for later; a smoked salmon beigel with a schmear of cream cheese - the proper full fat stuff, no messing here - a salt beef beigel with punchy English mustard, and a generous slice of their baked cheesecake. 

The beigels were perfect; nicely sized, endearingly wonky  and generously filled. They possessed a chewy, dense crumb and faint sweetness that married perfectly with the salt beef, carved in thick, pink slices and so good I felt instantly sad after the last mouthful. The salmon filling was simply perfect; rich and smoky fish, perfectly complimented by the cool cream cheese. The cheesecake was as reliably brilliant as I remembered it, too, the rich and wobbly lactic topping and crumbly pastry base making a fitting finale to our feast.

We also picked up a loaf of freshly baked chola and a loaf of black bread to take away. The spiral of soft, sweet chola bread with its sticky glaze demanded little more than to be enjoyed in thick slices with a little extra butter, but also makes an awesome (if entirely unkosher) smoked bacon and ketchup sandwich.

The black bread certainly lives up to its moniker. The crackling charcoal crust making way to a sinister-looking crumb, deeply perfumed with the anise-scent of caraway seeds. A serious loaf with a bitter edge that is perfectly complimented by topping with corned beef and pickle or pickled herring and cream cheese.

Although, in my heart, I'm still resolutely a West End girl, there is much to be said for the charms of the East. It's an endlessly fascinating corner of town that, despite the (still not without much controversy) regeneration and gentrification that has taken place over the last decade, juxtaposes great wealth with real deprivation. 

Walking these streets provides truly fascinating, vibrant and constantly changing cross-section of human life, with plenty of fabulous places for food and drink along the way. From the Truman Brewery, via the ultra-hip Boxpark and Spitalfields Market, right up to the to the Vietnamese restaurants that line the Kingsland Road. 

'Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London... for there is in London all that life can afford."