Riddle me this

Just a couple of weeks after enjoying a boozy, seafood blowout overlooking an Essex Estuary, the Ewing was particularly delighted for the chance to enjoy a second one in quick succession - this time at Riddle and Finns in Brighton’s famed Laines.

Inside features the obligatory high-topped marble tables, cool white tiles that bought to mind Soho's Randall and Aubin and Rex and Mariano (RIP, although its successor, Zelman Meats, is also very good).

Beware that if you are in a pair you have to sit adjacent to each other, like old people in garden centre cafes, and you may also have to share your table. Probably not an issue, but even the Ewing was frustrated by the woman opposite us, and her insistence on loudly instructing her builder on the kitchen extension down the phone.

Good sourdough came with homemade mackerel pare, taramasalata, aioli and... horseradish. Clearly I had zoned out when the waitress announced this nugget of info, so it made a surprise sinus-clearer when I loaded it up on a crust of bread.

We started with half a dozen oysters - rocks, as they hadn't had their first natives of the season - a mixture of Rossmore, Carlingford and their oyster of the day, which I felt sure I wouldn't forget, then promptly did.

You can add sauces and toppings, for an extra fifty pence per bivalve, from a comprehensive list including Killpatrick - barbeque sauce and bacon lardons; Porthilly - deep fried & served with pickled vegetables and citrus mayo; and the classic Rockefeller. And while I do, sacrilege, like a cooked oyster, we ate these au naturel (don't worry, we both remained fully-clothed), although I did anoint mine with a liberal splash of red wine vinegar with finely chopped shallots.

The Ewing took advantage of the excellent value set lunch menu, two courses for £14.95, picking the mussels as her starter, with a spare spoon for me. Having eaten plenty of mussels in my life - many of the best looking out at the flat, windy beaches of de Panne on winter trips to the Belgium coast - these were, with no sense of hyperbole, some of the nicest. (oh they were so plump, silky and delicious - TE).

Big and plump and sweet, but not like the tasteless green lip behemoths, with a velvety sauce that we both clashed spoons over. I also enjoyed the late addition of baby spinach leaves and cherry tomatoes, not quite as strange as it seems.

At nearly twenty quid (it's simply listed on the menu as 'Riddle and Finns fish pie') I hoped my choice of main would be worth it. But when a bubbling dish full of chunks of smoked fish and salmon, topped with a burnished carapace of cheesy mash and crowned with a king prawn and a scallop, appeared (I asked for it to be served without the pesky half a boiled egg) I knew I had made a good decision.

A slightly less successful one was to serve the whole thing on a round of slate. Not only did it make the thought of turning the molten hot pie out a rather unappealing one, but it made it nigh on impossible to cut my veg without the shiver inducing screech of metal on rock. I'm not normally overly fussy about my choice of crockery, but this time I was firmly on the side of We Want Plates.

My unadvertised veg meant we also ordered a side of samphire; entirely superfluous, but very good. Especially when the brackish fronds were dragged through the accompanying dish of ethereal hollandaise sauce. A pairing to rival the more familiar asparagus, with the sea vegetables' season conveniently running on right behind.

The Ewing's main was a kinda re-hash of her starter, but with with the addition of squid and clams and served with pasta, and was no worse for that. A generous portion, well seasoned, with well-cooked pasta and a cold glass of vino blanco - you couldn't want for much more.

Dessert - a chocolate ganache creation with a base of tonka bean shortbread and layer of raspberry and lychee bavarois, decorated with a melange of flowers, mint and berries - looked the part, but failed to deliver. The shortbread was soft and the ganache a little chewy instead of melty. The unadvertised chocolate truffle-type things, rolled in coconut and embedded in a swirl of lemon flavoured cream, were pretty good, though.

After several glasses of prosecco and a very nice white Bordeaux, double espressos were in order, taken while chatting with the - super lovely - staff about the influx of Wycombians to the town that weekend.

The total bill just nudged a ton. Yes, a fair bit of cash to drop for lunch, but well worth it for fine quality fish and seafood served in lovely surroundings. You could, of course, get out for far less and far quicker than we did while still having a thoroughly lovely time, but probably not quite as much fun.

We emerged into the daylight to be greeted by a bright and breezy early autumn afternoon, The perfect weather for a slightly pissed (well, the non- designated driver), walk along the shingle, both buoyed by another wonderful seafood lunch and already planning our hat trick. In fact, the only thing I wouldn't want to repeat was the unplanned dunking in the North Sea. Eating all that fish hasn't metamorphosed me into a mermaid quite yet.

Zaap Thai, Leeds

However hard you try to escape it, this time of year feels pretty sad. It’s cold and grim outside and everyone’s given up the booze and is on some weird fad diet which means the fridge at work is currently full of neon green drinks, yoghurt and mackerel fillets in contrast to the pre-Christmas platters of sausage rolls and mince pies.

Short of a fortnight on the beach in Mexico, I find the best way to counteract the gloom is with some spice. A panacea for the palate, deadened this year not only by the usual festive onslaught of chocolate and cream, but also a nasty cold, kindly bestowed upon me by my loving niece the Gingerbread.

Thankfully salvation was at hand in the form of Zaap Thai, a ‘street food’ restaurant in the Grand Arcade, Leeds, that's the brasher younger brother to the perennially popular Sukothai mini-chain.

Inside they've gone full-throttle with the garish Bangkok street market theme, with walls adorned with everything from kick boxing shorts to boxes of soap powder to the crowning glory of a pair of remodelled tuk tuks that you can sit in to eat your lunch. The ersatz effect shouldn't work, but it does, in an endearingly ramshackle way.

As our lunch stop was breaking up a cross-town pub crawl - and I had already promised my Aunt, whom we were staying with, that we would return in a respectable state for dinner - we eschewed booze in favour of a soft drink menu that included thai green bubble tea, chrysanthemum tea and roselle juice (no, me neither).

The Ewing's thai iced coffee hit the spot, being sweet and strong and served long in a dimpled pint pot with plenty of ice. My bonkers sounding and equally bonkers looking, butterfly pea juice with soda and lemon looked like a fancy cocktail and tasted like fancy Ribena.

We started with the Ewing's favourite, the mighty prawn cracker. Although these were the more resilient, darker kind (a better shrimpy flavour but none of that Skip-like ‘fizzle’ on the tongue) as opposed to the paler Chinese variety. No matter, a basket of warm deep fried things served with chilli jam is never going to last long in our company.

First up of our sharing plates was the Nam Tok Kor Moo, or grilled pork neck served with Isaan salad. As much as I love green stuff, a salad normally suggests the bland and the boring, suitable for dieters or the infirm. In contrast the best Thai salads are a vicious assault on the senses; an invigorating mix of fresh and fearsome.

This was no exception; a crunchy bed of raw red onion, iceberg lettuce and fresh herbs topped with strips of grilled pork neck, tossed in a pungent ground rice and fish sauce-based dressing made the perfect combination of salty, stinky, sour and spicy. And it was hot. In fact thanks to the ramped-up chilli quotient - or perhaps in homage to the dishes translated name, 'grilled pork waterfall' - tears began to gently roll from my eyes as I ate it.

No matter as we had ordered another salad, the classic Som Tum Thai which, despite having a menacing red squiggle signifying 'hot' next to it on the menu, I felt confident would have a cooling and calming effect on my throbbing tongue....

Needless to say this was, if anything, even hotter; a sinus-clearing mix of fresh green papaya, ground shrimp, cherry tomatoes and peanuts liberally strewn with both dried birds eye chilli and strips of fresh red chilli with well balanced flavours that are so often missing in our wan approximation of foreign fare.

The best bit of the experience, or certainly the most amusing, came thanks to our requested addition of pou, or raw crab; strange crunchy lumps that I quickly put to one side but the Ewing persevered trying to eat. Unsure whether to bite through it whole, like a soft shell crab, or painstakingly strip the jelly-like flesh from the carapace, she called the waitress over, seemingly oblivious to the chilli-induced tears causing a cascade of mascara down her cheeks.

While trying not to show alarm at the two sweating, sobbing spectacles in front of her, the waitress diplomatically asked if this was the first time we had tried it, while pointing out the crab was there for flavour and should be 'sucked and then discarded' (and you must try them, they are most delicious - TE) in a friendly yet amused air. I like to think I suffer these indignities so you don't have to.

Our final dish, a mussel pancake, was mercifully chilli free, but made up for it by arriving at the table in a skillet slightly hotter than the surface of the sun. Initially I was a little dubious of the thought of lumps of hot mollusc suspended in an eggy batter, but this was another fab plate; huge amounts of super fresh seafood in a crisp and well-seasoned fritter, studded with spring onion and scattered with fresh herbs.

Zaap wasn’t just a pleasant surprise, the food we ate blew me away; literally and figuratively. Yes, the menu’s peppered with plenty of anodyne crowd-pleasers - although there’s nothing wrong with that (definitely not - TE) - and the decor isn’t going to do it for everyone (it did it for me- TE), but I loved the fact we could sit amongst the neon bustle, sipping luminous drinks and giving our jaded taste buds a proper working over, for less than fifteen pounds a head.

While that might not quite be Bangkok prices, and there are (mercifully) no Mekong whisky buckets to wash it all down, being in South Yorkshire and not South Easts Asia, we could stroll down to the newly opened Headrow House after lunch to calm our tongues with a beverage. And not just any beverage, but an unpasteurised Czech lager straight from the tank, freshly opened the day before our visit. Cold beer and spicy food; I had tears in my eyes for all the right reasons.

The Three Little Pigs at the Tickled Pig, Wimborne

Earlier this year my Grandad moved down to Wimborne and some friends got married. Not much to link the two together, or so you'd think. But the food served at the wedding - a deliciously meat heavy feast of salt beef salad to start followed by Dorset lamb - was from the catering arm of the Tickled Pig, whose bricks and mortar restaurant/cafe also happens to be based in Wimborne.

After an aborted attempt to eat here on a previous visit that was derailed by a trip to the hardware store coupled with rampant hunger (the Pig is on the opposite side of the town to Grandad's new place), we made it safely on the second attempt.

Inside, the ground floor restaurant/cafe shares its space with a newly opened deli that sells everything from locally grown herbs and flowers to chocolates, cheese, pasta and pickles. There's even 'ready' meals prepared in their own kitchen, which you can buy to takeaway with a bottle of Tickled Pig branded wine.

My moules frites were rather moules with a wedge/roastie potato hybrid and a hunk of bread. Like many people with a grizzly seafood story - I shan’t put you off your lunch - I only really fancy mussels when a certain mood takes me, and wondered if the day after an all-day hangover (with hints of concussion from some over-zealous dancing near a low hanging speaker) was the right time to choose them. 

Luckily I had faith, and these were some of the best bivalves I have eaten for a while. The mussels themselves were plump and sweet and singing of the sea and while the advertised samphire was missing in action there was plenty of the promised fresh chilli and a good lick of cream to tone down the salt and spice. A bottle of Sovereign ale, brewed in nearby Corfe, made a good match

Grandad’s pork was served two ways; medallions of pan fried fillet and a hunk of slow cooked belly, propped up by a huge puck of breaded and deep fried mash (like a potato croquette on steroids), carrot puree and cider jus and a scattering of token kale. I assume all was well, as it was dispatched in double quick time (along with a few of our chips) with special praise reserved for the belly, which had that perfect wobbly fat/meat ratio and shredded upon the mere sight of a knife.

While we were waiting for our lunch Grandad had told us of a crackling disappointment (surely the worst kind of disappointment) at a local hostelry he had recently eaten at, but there could be no complaints with the pig skin on offer here. He was especially lucky as not only did he have a giant shard on his lunch, they also bought an extra mega scratching out after they had cleared our plates. Cue much envy from the rest of the table. (the crack-o-meter was off the scale! - TE)

From this angle you may be mistaken for thinking that the behemoth chips rather overwhelmed the Ewing's burger, but taking into account both perspective and the fact the chips could have sunk the Titanic, it was a very solid sandwich. While I would rather have a burger that went out and not up – being as I haven’t quite evolved my boa constrictor’s dislocate able jaw –the cricket ball shaped puck of Devon Red beef had stayed admirably pink and juicy within. 

The real stars of the show, however, were the smoked Dorset red cheddar and home cured pancetta (both available to buy from the deli) which added a huge umami bomb to proceedings. The Ewing also fell hard for the little ramekin of homemade burger sauce which she used to dunk her huge chunks of fried potato, side salad and, when she ran out of food on her plate, fingers.

I find it pretty hard to resist the wobble of a panna cotta, or anything tea flavoured, and so the earl grey infused cooked cream fought off a late charge from the pain au chocolate bread and butter pudding (which coincidentally - made with good old Mother’s Pride and not fancy croissants, I suspect - was also on the menu at Grandad’s new gaff that lunchtime). It didn’t disappoint, served with homemade almond biscotti that almost rivalled the Ewing's. I would have happily eaten more than the one lone New Forest strawberry served alongside, though.

There wasn’t really much of a choice to be made for Grandad and the Ewing; chocolate brownie with honeycomb, salted caramel and the, mysterious sounding, chocolate oil, all the way (although with double crackling and a great hunk of sponge candy, I’m not sure Grandad’s dentist will be thanking us on his next visit). 

I was quick enough to swoop in for a mouthful, and enjoyed the grown up balance between bitter chocolate, burnt sugar and Purbeck ice cream, and the textural contrast between gooey and crisp that makes a good pud. I can’t say I’m any the wiser on the chocolate oil, though.

We finished a wonderful meal with some good coffee, roasted by Amid Giants and Idols, a local roastery based in Lyme Regis. Macchiato for me, cappuccino (don't tell the Italians) for the Ewing and americano for Grandad; not that he seemed to need the extra boost, being far more sprightly than a pair nearly a decade younger than him with their ages combined.

And another big pig up to Grandad, who proved he wasn't a boar, patiently posing for a selfie with the two little pigs and the eponymous tickled pig above the front door. (Grandad is THE BEST! - TE)

Sussex Charmers

After the veritable bun feast that was Louis' christening, Stealth, the Ewing and I carried on the adventures with our own version of Three Have Fun in a Caravan, by spending a few days in the lovely surrounds of Rye Harbour (minus Dick and the dog. Not a euphemism).

Trying to prove that we could accomplish more than the self perpetuating drink, sleep, suffer repeat spiral (that wasn't helped with a spot of Bank Holiday wine tasting at Chapel Down on the way to Rye), I decreed we should get a dose of sea air and a measure of culture with a visit to Bexhill to see the Ladybird by Design exhibition, celebrating 100 years of Ladybird books, at the De La Warr Pavilion.

The exhibition was a fascinating, and rather dangerous, slice of nostalgia (I'm ancient enough to say that now). Taking us back to the innocent times when blonde-haired blue-eyed children went shopping with mother, learnt about public services such as gas and electricity and got to play with knives, batteries, matches and boiling water. 

For me the best bit was seeing the classic fairy stories such as the Elves and the Shoemaker, Rumplestiltskin and the Runaway Pancake; perennial favourites that my Dad used to read to me each night as a young child. And whilst the run is finished in Bexhill, you can catch it in London  from 10 July – 27 September 2015. 

Even without the healthy dose of reminiscence, the building itself is well worth a visit being a Modernist gem, especially of a blued-skied spring day such as that of our trip. On hearing of it's opening George Bernard Shaw exclaimed; 'Delighted to hear that Bexhill has emerged from barbarism at last, but I shall not give it a clean bill of civilisation until all my plays are performed there once a year at least.'

Another sign of the town's continued emergence from its faded dog days (it's an ongoing process) was our lunch at Bistro45, an unassuming little Belgian spot set just back from the sea front. While incongruous from the outside, it turned out to be one of those gems that even prompted Stealth to chide me for not taking pictures of her lunch so I could write about it later. 

From a strong beer selection (both in scope and ABV), we sampled the Affligem - served in it's own special rack, complete with a separate glass for the sediment, to add or drink separately as you wish - as well as pints of Vedett and, one of my favourites, the classic Trappist ale, Orval. 

Mains were moules, obviously. Most of us have some sort of mollusc horror story, but the allure of a well cooked bowl of mussels keeps us coming back for more. My perfect Pastis version, with Pernod, fennel, dill and cream, was a case in point. Rustling bowls of skinny fries and crisp baguette with butter were provided for mopping the creamy, aniseed infused juices at the bottom of the pot.

Stealth went all fancy dan with a mixed seafood pot with extra squid, cockles and prawns. She also, obviously, veered off piste and requested it extra spicy - or in her words 'with loads of Tabasco' - without even a raised eyebrow from the kitchen (I still didn't get any pictures, though).

Whilst it may seem incongruous to have a slice of Flanders on the South Coast - we found out that the dad of the lovely chap that served us was Belgian, and his son had now taken over the running of the place - everything was perfect. They even, on hearing it was her birthday, put a candle in the Ewing's creme brulee and served up Black Jacks and Fruit Salads with the bill.

The nearest pub to our caravan in Rye Harbour was the Inkerman Arms, a resolutely old fashioned  -in a fascinating 70/80s style, rather than olde worlde - sort of place. There was also the bonus of meeting a wonderfully eccentric and friendly bunch of locals, who even tried to persuade us to join them in an evening of drinking discounted Southern Comfort and lemonade at the Social Club followed by a night of karaoke classics.  

As tempting as it sounded, we stuck with the far more staid option of sitting in front of the fire supping pints of Old Dairy bitter, brewed up the road in Tenterden. The best place to be as the springtime showers battered at the windows.

They also serve a menu of home cooked pub staples, with the locals recommending the fresh fish straight off the boats in Hastings. As it was Friday, we chose to have ours beer battered. A tranche of huss for me (not one of my favourites, but a southern classic that remind me of the fish suppers of my youth) and the legendary Rye Bay scallops for the Ewing. All served with the obligatory chips, peas (mushy for me) and homemade tartare sauce. 

Mere words, and not even when accompanied by this strangely day-glo photo, cannot express quite how good these sweet bivalves actually were; so I shan't bother other than to say they blew the deep fried Tasmanian scallops we ate in the harbour in Hobart out the water, and were even better than the Mancunian battered potato slices that also bear the same name. 

A highlight in an remarkably sugar free week was a Saturday morning trip to Knopps, famed hot chocolate purveyors run by the eponymous Dutchman whose name, rather aptly, translates as 'buttons'. Here you can match your poison - from a creamy 34% white chocolate right through to a bitter 100% cocoa with no added sugar, -with all manner of herbs, spices and fruits. Think orange zest, fresh ginger, pink peppercorns or dried lavender, amongst others.

I'm not normally a big hot chocolate fan, but my 64% single origin dark chocolate complete with homemade vanilla marshmallows had me, not very, surreptitiously licking the bowl. The coffee and homemade salted caramel shortbread looked pretty ace, too.

A day spent in Rye itself meant a visit to the Ypres Castle monument, with the Ewing supporting the old adage 'sun's out gun's out', in between the showers. Tucked away next door we found the Ypres Castle Inn, a little gem known locally as the 'Wiper's', with its stunning beer garden looking out across the salt flats to the sea, live music, comfy armchairs (where we resided most of Saturday afternoon, reading our books) and a great selection of local ales. 

The Harveys Sussex best bitter, brewed in Lewes, was one of the best kept pints I have had for a long time. While I do have a fondness for palette wrecking hop forward beers, with all their skunky tropical fruit and stickiness, this is the perfect example of a deliciously well balanced session beer, hopped with British stalwarts, Fuggles, Goldings, Progress and Bramling Cross.

After liking things here so much, we booked ourselves in for the Sunday lunch the following day. And, after waking to blue skies the following morning, decided a walk along the beach and back through the nature reserve would sharpen our perfectly appetites beforehand. 

Three and a half  hot and sweaty hours later - a large part of it lost in a field full of sheep somewhere between Winchelsea and Rye Harbour, although we did get to walk past the magnificent Camber Castle, built by Henry VIII - we finally arrived. Any crossness was quickly dissipated by another pint of Harveys and a huge basket of warm baguette served with a delicious and ridiculously garlicky (although not quite so good when you're staying in a confined space) houmous.

A crispy rolled shoulder of roast lamb was equally fine, as were the accompanying al dente veg, raisin flecked red cabbage and generous amounts of crunchy spuds. The gravy drenched and rather soggy yorkie may have seemed somewhat superfluous, but, after so much unwarranted exercise, I ate it anyway.

Pudding provided yet more delicious carbohydrates with my absolute favourite of all favourite things, spotted dick. While slightly incongruous in the unseasonably warm weather, it was still absolutely, impossibly wondrous, with that lovely springy texture you only get from a proper steamed suet pudding and served with lashings of hot yellow custard.

What better parting shot than a visit to the picture perfect St Thomas' Church in Winchelsea, often disputed as the smallest town in Britain. It's also the last resting place of Spike Milligan, whose tongue-in-cheek gravestone inscription reads, in Gaelic, Dúirt mé leat go raibh mé breoite. Or, I told you I was ill.