Tapas Tuesdays

While writing this blog I've frequently flip-flopped on many food related issues. My favourite cheese; my favourite roast; my favourite curry; my favourite sandwich - currently Roquefort; rib of beef; lamb dhansak (with peshwari naan and a bhindi bhaji) and bacon with butter on white bread - but my devotion to lunch, my very favourite meal of the day, hasn't wavered.

Not just any lunch, of course. Most of my lunches, like most of us, are extremely ordinary (excuse me? ordinary? - TE). Consumed hunched over my key board, trying not too get too many crumbs wedged in my space bar. Which is what makes a 'proper' lunch so very wonderful. The kind when you start early with an aperitif and a nibble or two, before segueing seamlessly into the evening on a crest of food and booze and good conversation.

Which is why I was particularly looking forward to our lunch at Ultracomida in Narberth - a deli-cum-tapas bar deep in the heart of rural Pembrokeshire. A whole day with nothing much to do except eating and drinking and poking our noses into charity shops and butchers and bakers and staring at community notice boards and estate agent's windows. The Ewing even found West Wales first zero waste store and spend a happy half an hour buying strange herbal infusions and hippy soap (a shampoo bar actually which has been a real success - TE). Getting old can be truly brilliant sometimes.

All Tuesdays should kick off with a cold glass of cava and gratis dishes of stuffed olives and fresh bread. Even better if the olives are the salty green kind I used to love as a kid, stuffed with a strip of red pepper paste you can tease out with your tongue. 

The Ewing also had much fun trying different blends of oil and vinegar, from the various bottles found on the large sharing tables that dominate the light and airy room where the restaurant is housed - get here early for lunch, queues were already building at half twelve. The best combo being judged as a mix of organic Spanish olive oil with a balsamic style PX sherry vinegar.

For such a small space the menu is surprisingly comprehensive, starting with a range of breakfasts - including the classic pan con tomate and huevos rotos, or 'broken eggs', served with fried potatoes  - before moving on to a wide range of fish, veg and meat tapas that are available all day, plus a range of toasted sandwiches that are served at lunchtime.

You can also order platters made up of a selection of the various cheeses and cured meats that they also sell in the shop, or just order drinks and nibbles or coffee with a slice of cake or a pastry. I'm not sure how Spanish rocky road or carrot cake are, but they seemed very popular.

Initially I was pretty against the crab croquettes; I mean, I love a croquette, but I had already spotted the peerless jamon version on the menu and I doubted these could be any improvement. 

So the Ewing pouted, and I relented and I was (this seldomly happens) happy to be proved wrong. The croquettes were utterly joyful; a delicate shell of golden breadcrumbs encasing a hefty nugget of crab-flecked bechamel, fried until the outside was crisp and the inside all gooey and melty.

They had both chopitos (baby squid) and calamari (squid rings) on the menu on our visit. Which, as a squid lover, showed admirable attention to detail. Tempted though I was, it was even harder to resist the cazon en adobo; school shark marinaded in garlic, vinegar and paprika, before being floured and deep fried.

These were the most glorious, and generously portioned, springy nuggets of fish. Arriving fresh from the fryer they were scoffed with an indecent haste - with only the briefest pause to sweep them through the wobbly aioli that left me with the ability to repel Dracula for days after our visit.

I also ordered the paella - which I had pre-warned the Ewing I wasn't going to share, under any circumstances - to quench a raging craving for I had had for weeks. Not only is seeing paella on a menu still a rare find, it usually necessitates two people minimum, plus an interminable wait while it's cooked. Here they prepare a batch each morning, ready for the lunchtime service, so it's ready to go when you order and there is no minimum portion size.

This was a paella Valenciana, named for the city where the dish originated, made here with roasted peppers, rabbit, chorizo and iberico pork. While I do love seafood in my rice, an unfortunate incident with Stealth, the opened wine and the unopened mussels did put me off for a while and I actually think I prefer the classic land-based version. This version was simple lovely and perfectly itched the scratch.

The Ewing, on hearing that I wasn't planning to share my rice (bar the odd forkful, I'm not a complete monster) chose the bacalao con hinojo, salt cod with roasted artichoke, lemon and more of that fearsome aioli.

This was a superb dish and I was suitably jealous - a thick tranche of fish, with burnished skin and flesh that broke into pearly white flakes that possessed the lovely gelatinous quality that come from being cured with salt before being cooked. And an utter bargain at eight quid. Throw in a couple of spuds and it would go for twice that in many restaurants.

The only real duff note was the heirloom tomato salad, with a generous topping of inky purple olives,ordered to bump up our veg quotient. There wasn't anything wrong with it, just that it seemed very 'meh' in comparison to the other dishes and the toms weren't a patch on those grown by the Ewing this year (awww...thanks babe - TE). 

Chocolate con churros feel like the kind of thing you should order when you're propping up a bar on holiday in Spain, only to presented with disappointment and regret when the bowl of tepid dishwater and greasy, cold dough sticks arrive.

Here they were everything they always promise to be; hot puffy twists of crisp batter served alongside a cup of gooey, thick chocolate for dunking. As if that wasn't enough, we also had glasses of Orujo, a strong pomace brandy, and Ponche Caballero - a brandy with added oranges, plums, sultanas, cinnamon.

After the inevitable detour on the way out to buy cheese (a palate-stripping blue and a manchego wrapped in rosemary) and vermouth, our postprandial stroll took us to a second pudding stop at the gelato and gin shop, Fire and Ice. Whilst I picked a restrained (and exceptional) frozen yoghurt with blackcurrant a ripple, the Ewing went full out with Gethin's cider sorbet and a gin and tonic sorbet with orange.

The only downside was, after enjoying such a joyful day of half-cut gluttony, it had to be followed by worse for wear Wednesday.

Wycombe Bites - Heidrun

Like the old adage about buses, we’ve seen two ‘craft beer’ bars springing up within a stone’s throw of each other in Wycombe in the latter half of this year. Which is pretty revelatory for a town who’s drinking culture was until recently (like many other towns in England) dominated by ‘Spoons, Stella and Strongbow – the very beverage that bought me and my wife together, in the pub garden of the Antelope, July 2008.

The first of these to open was Heidrun, which, I presume, is named after the goat in Norse mythology who consumes the foliage of the Læraðr tree and produces mead for the warriors who have died in battle. I’ve yet to see any mead on their regularly changing beverage list, although they do always have Thistly Cross elderflower cider, which I first got into on a trip to Glasgow and remains dangerously drinkable. They also have a cute little courtyard garden that somehow manages to invoke a feeling of the South of France rather than South Bucks on a warm evening.

Inside is bijou but equally swish, with white and green tiled booths and a central horseshoe-shaped bar with stools covered in powder grey suede; soon, no doubt, also to be covered with stale beer and sticky fingerprints. The bar itself is dominated by their 20 keg and cask taps which regularly change - ergo so does the beer menu, which seems to have just been reprinted every time I visit as I seem to be perpetually hunting down the most up-to-date one.

One thing you can be sure of, once you’ve got hold of it, is there’s going to be some good beers listed. It's not just a mecca for hop heads either, as they offer a large selection of wines and cocktails from (very good) spritzes and sours through to Manhattans and margaritas and bloody marys to wash down brunch at the weekend.

Some of the keg beers I’ve sampled so far include; Burning Sky l’ete; Mikkeler's Ich Bin Berliner (the raspberry version); Buxton and Omnipollo's Lemon Meringue Pie and Thornbridge Lukas; all solid summery choices. There's normally some Kernel, Beavertown, and Magic Rock on offer and I’ve also drunk a lot of Siren, including Pompomocello, their Proteus IPA and the delightful Caribbean Chocolate Cake stout.

Cask beer, following a theme in this town, is less successful; a friend found their half of Brighton Bier pretty much undrinkable while the Ewing’s Arbor Umm Bingo and Stealth's Jaipur were served flat and too warm, making it taste incredibly sweet and syrupy. All beers, regardless of type or method of dispensation, are reserved in the same stemmed glasses, which might also upset the purist.

One thing that definitely won’t disappoint are the freshly baked sausage rolls. A giant cylinder of juicy fennel seed-flecked pork wrapped a carapace of crisp pastry, served with a homemade beer ketchup. Originally the aforementioned ketchup was more like a bowl of Heinz tomato soup, something I actually quite enjoyed, but it seems to be getting a little more substantial on each visit. The magnificent sausage roll itself remains peerless even if it is a proper knife and fork number, taking it out of true bar snack territory.

The scotch egg is equally swanky, coming encased in black pudding and served with mustard mayo and watercress. It looks very tasty, though - even for a vowed egg-avoider like myself. Oeuf fancier, Stealth certainly made quick work of it.

There is, however, a notable absence of crisps and scratchings, although you can get a tumbler of warm nuts for four quid. As nice as they are (and they are nice, as I got to sample a complimentary taster during one afternoon spent propping up the bar), I’d be just as happy with some posh crisps (preferable Pipers chorizo flavour, which I've discovered taste exactly like a saveloy). 

The rest of the menu is also on the spendier side for Wycombe, although they are clearly trying to lure in a different calibre of clientele than most of the surrounding establishments. I’m not sure how many takers there are for the £28 steak or the 18 quid pork chop, but the burger - at 13 quid, served with good parmesan truffle fries and more of their beer ketchup  – is decent; fluffy brioche bun, pink and juicy patty and lots of pickles.

The capable kitchen are equally adept at deserts and I would recommend the churros, served with a salted caramel dip. Even the Ewing liked these, despite her antipathy for the tubular doughnuts they serve in Spain, which was unfortunate for me as I had to share. I’m also still awaiting the baked custard tart with poached rhubarb to make it back on the menu.

As if beer and sausage rolls wasn't enough they have recently started offering beer flights - six quid for four quarter pints. If you really want to go for it you can go flying with wings, adding a portion of their buffalo wings to the mix for a tenner. You should definitely do that.

So, while maybe not quite in the league of Aegir - the ale-brewer of the gods who served his beer from a cauldron given to him by Thor, complete with glasses that never ran empty and parties that lasted all winter long (which is pretty much all the time in Scandinavia) - Heidrun is still pretty good for a new kid (boom) on the block.