Penny Arcades, Pint Shop and a Bun for My Trunk

Birthdays start out fun. There's parties and cake and games and hey, you can even cry if you want to. Then come the first 'milestones', where you can buy cigs (legally) and celebrate with a pint in the pub you've been drinking in for the last year (apologies to my favourite barmaid, Janet, at the White Hart, Beaconsfield). 

Thereafter the lustre of that special day tends to wane somewhat. Each advancing year brings less fun and more wrinkles, and instead of Castle Greyskull and Transformers you get socks and shower gel. That is until you reach a 'certain age'. It's hard to know exactly what that age is, as it varies from person to person, but you know you've reached it when you announce - unbidden and usually very loudly - exactly how old you are to all and sundry.

At 85 and still going strong, my Nan has reached that age. Although to be fair she still talks about all the 'elderly people' around her without the slightest bit of self awareness that she may now fall into that category herself. But they say you're only as young as you feel, and with the energy it must take to edge her perfectly manicured lawn and cut all her hedges, something she still does solo, I seem positively geriatric in comparison.

Of course, we didn't really need the excuse of a birthday to jump in the car and motor to Norfolk for the weekend, with good old Doreen being such amusing company in most circumstances, but it's nice to have a reason to celebrate. And where better than a day at the seaside and more specifically one of my favourite childhood haunts, Wells-next-the-Sea.

An afternoon playing in the penny arcade and walking along the sea front would take years off anyone's life, with a fish and chip lunch, bags of fudge from John's rock shop and a couple of bottles of strong Norfolk cider from Whin Hill to take home, adding them swiftly back on again. The perfect sort of afternoon.

After a few days of shepherd's pie, ice cream in the garden, toast and homemade marmalade washed down with a few too many of the afformaentioned ciders, we probably didn't need to visit Cambridge for Sunday lunch on our drive home. But we did anyway, ending up in the Pint Shop, a pub cum restaurant on Peas Hill boasting a wide beer selection and spit roasted meats on a Sunday. 

We chose to eat upstairs, in their shaker style stripped back dining room; a tranquil spot that was rather akin to eating in a Vermeer still life. Refreshment, chosen from a large board of rotating libations, came in the form of a Pulp Fiction grapefruit saison from the Nene Brewery; a zippy little summer number; and a pretty pedestrian Hopmen of the Apocalypse from Totally Brewed in Nottinghamshire. 

To eat we both chose the spit roast lamb shoulder with homemade mint sauce, mashed roots, greens and roasties from the Sunday set menu. A good roast is notoriously hard to get right but, as promised by the friendly barmen downstairs, this was a superlative Sunday dinner if, at 16 quid, a little stingy in its portioning. Add some cauli cheese and another slice of meat and it may have even rivalled my mother's famed 'rost' lamb. A Roscoe favourite.

A brief interlude before pud saw me sampling a pint of the staid but perfectly satisfactory Meteor bitter from the Star brewery in Lincolnshire. The Ewing's choice was the, far beefier, Something Something Darkside; a mashup between an imperial stout and an imperial IPA from West London's Weird Beard. A decadent, smoky and licorice-licked, BIPA - not one to take too lightly early on a Sunday afternoon.

Pictures of the desserts seem to have turned out in soft focus, a look that makes them look more like stills from a Euro porno than pudding. I would say it was because they were so seductively alluring, but in reality I think a blob of grease from the roasties got on my phone lens.

Sadly they couldn't live up to their fuzzy glow; my buttermilk pudding with saffron gooseberries and 'rough snap' (a not very snappy, oat biscuit) paled against the magisterial example at the Wheatsheaf Inn a few weeks before. Full praise though for the glowing golden gooseberries which were spot on and reminded me of why I fell in love with this quintessentially British sweet and sour fruit. The Ewing's pear and frangipane tart passed muster, but felt like a bit of a lacklustre finale.

Not wanting to depart without having that sweet spot thoroughly scratched, we managed to fit in a quick visit to Fitzbillies Cafe on Trumpington Street - Cambridge is certainly up there when it comes to great road names. Purveyors of traditional cream teas, puffy choux pastries and flaky sausage rolls, Fitzbillies remain renowned for their gooey chelsea buns which became a firm favourite on our last visit to Cambridge.

With the mercury nudging upwards, I was pleased to see a cooler incarnation of their famed yeasted bread product was available in the form of chelsea bun ice cream; a fragrant and rich lemon-scented and currant flecked joy that I would happily eat all year round.

Of course I couldn't pass up the chance to get my hands on some of their neatly coiled curls of syrup-soaked dough and we also bought a brace to take home for tea the following day. Quite as delicious as they look and rounding off a perfect weekend of simple things; sun, sea, smiles and sugar. Here's to the next one, Nan, and many more to come.

Festive Fun, St Albans

Anyone (or the one) who has read this blog with any regularity will know my perfect Sunday roast criteria; red meat should be rare, white meat not dry; yorkies should be both crisp and squidgy, there should be plenty of suitable condiments; a dish of bronzed cauliflower cheese and roast parsnips. Always roast parsnips.

For our lunch at The Fighting Cocks, I wasn’t really expecting any of the above. For a start I had chosen it primarily because I knew it and it was central, meaning we could go for a wander around the lake beforehand and Christmas market by the cathedral afterwards; and while I was curious about its claim to be the oldest pub in England, it also made me more doubtful it would actually be any good.

Unusually, however, I was completely unperturbed about the idea of tough beef and lumpy Bisto as the real reason for our visit was to see the lovely Maz, wedding witness, and the less lovely Stealth (only joking Mrs, P). When you’ve already got a good amount of juicy gossip to digest you tend to care far less about what’s actually on your plate.

One way the Cocks immediately impressed was with the snack menu, a list so appealing I had to send a picture to my crisp fiend sister, banished in almost completely decent potato-snack free Sydney. Any pub that offers Quavers, peanuts, posh crisps and pickled Onion Monster Munch is already onto a winner.

They also had Great Heck Treasure, on cask – a brewery whose beers I’ve recently been enjoying – and this thumping IPA was no different. Perfect with our selection of pizza flavoured crisps and pork scratchings. Whilst Stealth got stuck in to her first of five gins and everyone else battened down the hatches for the long afternoon ahead…

By now I’ve accepted that ordering roast beef in a pub means an assumption of overcooked (at least for my liking). This is not always based on surroundings, previous experience or even prices – downward of a tenner and expects sisal carpet- but by employing the pessimist is never disappointed approach. Grey beef? Well, that was to be expected. Rare beef? Well, what a lovely surprise.

I don’t know if it was because we were eating early, whether it was because we specified ‘as rare as you’ve got’ or if the Cocks just always nails the crowning glory of an Englishman’s Sunday dinner, but the meat was spot on. As, indeed, was everything else from the roasties to the yorkie, via the blob of fearsomely hot horseradish adorning each plate. The belly, with its shard of crackling (no, Maz didn’t share, despite a pleading look or two) went down equally well.

After a surfeit of gin, another beer, two - surprisingly poky with the festive spirit (there was certainly some in there…) - mulled wines and the unbridled excitement of seeing the picture that hung in my childhood bathroom in their loos, it was time for my promised reward for being so well behaved, a visit to the, snappily monikered, Beer Shop on the London Road.

Like the Chesham Brewery Shop – I’m seeing a theme with the names here – they offer a range of four or five keg beers to drink in or take away, alongside a big selection of bottles and cans. Stealth and I raced ahead and got in a round of Moor Brewery Revival (big hops, low ABV, very nice), while the drivers lingered behind, making do with digesting more gossip.

The range of beers here is pretty special; there are local beers from breweries including Leighton Buzzard and Tring, alongside a good UK showing, including a vast selection of Marbles, Buxton and Dark Star as well as a whole wall of well-chosen Belgians and Americans, with the odd Kiwi and Dane thrown in for good measure.

A few quid lighter and with a haul including Flying Dog Gonzo porter, Green Flash Triple IPA (an invalubale help when wrapping presents the following week) and a bottle of Sorachi Ace for Stealth’s New Year celebrations, we decamped for a delayed pudding, in the form of an ‘ultimate’ hot chocolate from the Hatch stall at Christmas market in the Cathedral gardens.

While not normally a big fan of hot chocolate, preferring my cocoa in cakes, cookies or ice creams, and despite the absence of mini marshmallows on top, this was perfect sugary salve for frozen fingers and burgeoning hangovers; providing the metaphorical (and literal) whipped cream that topped a lovely day.

While I take a break to sit about eating Toblerone and drinking sherry in my dressing gown, here's to a very Merry Christmas to all. Eat, drink and tolerate your in-laws and I'll be back deliberating, cogitating and digesting some more in the New Year.

Fish and Chips By the Sea

Fish and chips on the beach - There can be very few things finer to an Englishman than carefully cradling your tightly -parcelled haul down to the sea front,  to be greeting by the pleasingly hot sting of vinegary fug as you unwrap your cache. Never mind if the next twenty minutes are taken up by tricky multi-tasking of fending off seagulls and turning your back to errant wind that threatens to blow sand into your dinner; that first hot chip holds a magic like no other.

The fine spring weather on our recent trip to Suffolk fortunately gave us plenty of opportunities to eat our national dish al fresco. After a morning spent taking a great tour of the local Adnams Brewery – stopping by both their private bar to try the beers followed by their shop/café to sample some wines and spirits - we took a punt on one of their pubs, the Sole Trader, a stone’s throw from the brewery and just behind the famed Lighthouse for some lunch. 

Of course, we weren't the only ones to have the same idea, and a large queue already at the door propelled us along the sea front in search of sustenance, ending up at the Southwold Pier Café.

My expectations were low; at over twenty quid for cod chips, a wally and a cup of tea twice, these were prices for London’s second home owners (a two up two down next to the brewery will set you back a cool half a million, and only two homes in the street are occupied full-time) not day trippers.

Twenty minutes later and I was left eating my words, and some of the finest fish and chips I have eaten. It may have been the vista – we nabbed a seat overlooking the pier and beach, it may have been the blue skies or it may have been the Adnams Ghost Ship, but the whole meal really was superlative. Freshly cooked to order, piping hot and generously portioned; perfection.

Of course it wouldn’t be a trip to the seaside without and Mr Whippy and a walk down the pier, and Southwold has something that sets it apart from the standard penny slot machines and kiss me quick hats. Here is the home of artist Tim Huffkin's arcade on steroids, the utterly wonderful Under the Pier Show.

The Under the Pier show truly is English eccentricity at its best. We spent a happy hour or so busily feeding handfuls of coins in various machines ranging from Whack A Banker - 'At last! A truly rewarding banking experience'; to the Quick Fit couch - 'A completely effortless aerobics workout'.

The Ewing won a billion pounds beating me at Pirate Practice and had her toes tickled and her heart listened to by the Chiropodist and the Doctor respectively, while I had my palm read in the Booth of Truth, was felt up by Autofrisk and enjoyed a condensed holiday, from the airport to the beach an back again in minutes, with Micro Break.

Then there is the Bathysphere 'an epic under seas adventure exposing some of the North Sea's best kept secrets' that include 'raw sewage, Robert Maxwell and mating nuclear waste'; an Instant Weightloss machine that weighs you to great fanfare (complete with flashing lights and sirens), before prescribing nutrients in the form of a single kernel of popcorn, freshly popped as you wait; and the Ewing's favourite Test Your Nerve, complete with dribbling dog, and Rent-A-Dog, where you get to take a borrowed pet for a stroll that's slightly out of the ordinary.

If you want a memento of your visit then be sure to try the Expressive Photobooth; a wobbly seat, lights and fans ensure the moment will be recorded for posterity, although I wouldn't recommend it for your passport photos...

Huffkin's humour also extends to the pier's water clock, which features figures of both the artist and collaborator BLAH peeing on every half hour; and an end of the pier Quantum Tunnelling Telescope quite like any other you may have looked down before. A quintessentially British and quite fabulous experience.

A couple of days later and we were lucky enough to visit Aldeburgh for a chance to sample Giles Coren’s favourite fish and chips, and as he described in the Times thus: ‘“It really was the best fish and chips in the world. Such dense, meaty fish, briney with the recent juices of the sea. Very light batter, dry with its own meatiness from the beef dripping in which it was fried, and a heady fish-meat vapour in the wafer-thin air gap between. Perfect English chips: firm, dry, almost crispy, hot, hot, hot with a ‘mouth-filling yomp’ of floury potato’

It’s sister gaff, the Aldeburgh Fish and chips shop, may be better known, but this place is purportedly just as good, and with less fearsome queues to contend with – like manhattans famous Shake Shack, they also have their own web cam to keep track of the queues.

While the take away was rather quiet for a Friday lunchtime, the restaurant upstairs was already full, so we decided to brave the elements and take our haul onto the Suffolk shingle.

While the cod and chips were a few marks off those we had enjoyed in Southwold, the batter was crisp and the chips very fine. I also enjoyed the simple pleasures of a pot of flouro mushy peas for dipping and a can of bitter shandy to help it all down.

Even the seagulls are a better breed in this part of the world, keeping a respectful distance as we enjoyed our feast, and to crown things off the sun made an appearance as I speared the final chip, meaning we could enjoy a walk down the beach to see Maggie Hambling’s Scallop, a tribute to Benjamin Britten, Aldeburgh’s most famous resident.

The the ideal end to the holiday, overlooking the swirling North Sea and feasting on a banquet of crisp cod and perfectly fried potatoes. There can be few things finer than enjoying the restorative panacea of a portion of cure-all fish and chips eaten on a Friday afternoon; a, quite rightly, veritable British institution and the perfect way to mark any occasion.