How does your garden grow - The Botanist, Marlow

While my existence may appear chaotic, underneath I’m one of life’s planners; give me half a chance and I’ve probably already made a spreadsheet plotting it’s probability in great detail. While I try to bow to random spontaneity when the occasion demands it (rubbish, she hates surprises - TE), I like to read menus, I like to see dishes online, I like to plan what I’m going to have for dinner three weeks hence (and then change my mind at the restaurant, to try and feel as if I’m really living on the edge) which is what made a last-minute lunch booking at the Botanist, with only a cursory glance at the website, so out of character.

Still, I’d had a discussion with an enthusiastic work colleague who was also planning a visit, plus found out they were knocking 50% off the bill in January as well as offering a special Ginuary menu for those who were still prioritising enjoyment above hepatic function after the excess of Christmas, so what could go wrong…

By the evening I was already having a small sense of foreboding when, after looking at social media, I noticed there were very few pictures of food, but lots of glitzy cocktails, dazzling teeth and tans of a Trumpian hue. Now, I like a flaming fishbowl along with the rest of them, but I doubted its suitability as an accompaniment to my quiet Sunday repast. 

It got worse when I did find pictures of the food and realised the conceit derived from their name meant that mayo was served in watering cans, garlic mushrooms and chocolate mousse came in a trowel (mercifully as separate dishes) and chicken liver pate arrived in a mini flower pot, complete with its own chutney-filled wheelbarrow.

Now, I’ve eaten a roast on a breadboard (with a lap-full of gravy), fritters from old spam tins and even barbecue ribs from a galvanised bin, but I started to feel a bit We Want Plates, especially as we were going for lunch with Stealth - someone who manages to be both far more spontaneous (believe me, she's not either - TE) but far more curmudgeonly (yes, I think both things are related).

Still, I was attempting to practice my edgy New Year New You abandonment and Stealth was trying to be more accommodating - read hungover and happy to leave the organising to someone else – while the long suffering Ewing was just hoping that our Millennial indignation was kept in check and we didn’t get too carried away with Ginuary, being as she was the designated driver.

On enquiring about Ginuary our waitress told us that, while available all through the month, it isn’t advertised on weekends ‘as they don’t want people to know about it’ (cunning -TE). Which perhaps explains why two of our G&Ts (we doubled up to make full use of the offer) initially arrived with no gin. Still, it would be churlish to complain too much at less than a fiver for a double and Fevertree tonic in this neck of the woods. It was also good to try a few hitherto unknown English gins, from Hunters, Langleys and Poetic Licence respectively. Stealth didn’t even complain about the basil leaves and cardamom pods floating in her glass.

After steeling myself for a starter that looked like it had been assembled in the shed, I actually found myself disappointed they had run out of the chicken liver pate. No matter, the calamari was crisp and well-seasoned and I still got a novelty watering can full of mayo for dipping.

The Ewing and Stealth made classic opening choices with a bacon-crumbed baked camembert and a scotch egg – both served on disappointingly prosaic wooden boards – respectively. The gooey cheese, served with apple slices and wholemeal toast for dunking, was particularly good. I can’t comment on Stealth’s pick, being an avowed oeuf-avoider, but if anyone’s in the market for a hot sauce hand model, get in touch.

Our mains bought a full compliment of proper plates, and very nice ones at that, with mine playing host to the classic roast beef dinner. Even my cauliflower cheese came in an eminently sensible enamel side dish. Pink meat, plenty of parsnips, crispy yorkie, well-cooked veg, glossy gravy and the aforementioned cauli; this was a properly first class roast in every respect. Even the horseradish had that sinus-clearing oomph that bought a little tear to my eye.

The Ewing and Stealth also kept up the bovine theme. My wife went for broke with a - well-judged - rare rib eye, chips and peppercorn sauce and Stealth picking steak and ale pie with peas and sweet potato fries. A pie which also gets bonus points for being a pastry product with four walls; no Casserole with a Lid here. Again, it was comfortingly rib-sticking stuff served in ample portions - clearly the Instagrammers hanging out here on a Friday night stick to a liquid diet.

Bucking the practical trend, my rice pudding with amarena cherries and honeycomb came in an old fashioned glass jelly mould. Which may have looked pretty, but meant I lost most of my cherry sauce to the indentations at the bottom of the glass, despite the valiant attempts of my probing spoon (this is why you have fingers - TE).

Freshly baked cookie dough, served in its own cast iron pan and topped with caramel ice cream was both as tooth-janglingly sweet and delicious as it sounds, but the strawberry on the cake, literally, went to Stealth’s skewer. After all the sensible tableware, I think it gave us both more joy than we’d care to admit to have desert served dangling vertically.

While they offer a range of various savoury skewers, ranging from lamb koftas to salt and pepper pork to jerk salmon – the sweet version impales berries with marshmallows and chunks of chocolate brownie (and a random piece of apple, which did cause some customary grumpy consternation), to be doused tableside in toffee sauce. 

As they were out of vanilla ice cream, she chose a scoop of eton mess, swirled with meringue, fruit coulis and popping candy - ensuring our meal went out with a wiz bang, or an enthusiastic fizzle at the very least. Rather like our New Year efforts to embrace the new.

Anchor & Hope, Waterloo

I've spoken about hygge here before - the great Danish concept to which our nearest equivalent word is probably cosy, like a big wintery hug - although on that occasion I was with a tee-total and love sick Stealth and ended up drinking all the negronis and cuddling up with myself.

This time I had a dinner date with my darling wife at The Anchor and Hope, one of London's first gastropubs. An epithet that, over a decade after they opened, probably sounds like being damned with faint praise, but the Anchor and Hope blazed the trail headed by St John and the Eagle that saw stripped back British food firmly back on the map.

It also must be a leading proponent in the no bookings game, except for their Sunday lunch, when you can now reserve in advance. While it might be an ongoing frustration for some, at least you can cosy up in the 'pub bit' next door, or outside if the weather's not inclement, with a nice bottle of red while you wait for your table to be called. Which is just what we did.

The first paragraph of Matthew Fort's review - back in the early 2000s when below the line didn't exist, so no comments moaning about London-centrictism (although south of the river was barely classed as London then) - simply recited the menu, and all these years later I could happily do the same.

Warm snail and bacon salad, jerusalem artichoke soup with foie gras, whole turbot roasted in duck fat, seven hour Swaledale lamb and potato dauphinoise, suet crusted pheasant and chestnut pie, Longhorn mince and tatties, buttermilk pudding and salted caramel sauce. I would go on but I'm in danger of short-circuiting my keyboard

In the end it had to be the cassoulet for two, a bubbling earthenware dish crammed with garlicky sausage hunks, slabs of pork belly, confit duck gizzards and a leg, sticking majestically from the burnished breadcrumb and parsley speckled surface. If a picture says a thousand words then I think this one is saying oof repeatedly with a Gallic undertone.

The main reason that this got the nod above the other assorted delights on offer is it was the same dish I had on my first trip here with my uni friends one winter's day more years ago than I care to count.

Retrospectively, I find it a little strange to consider they agreed to such a rich dish, their diet at uni comprising that of most teenage girls; mostly coffee with skimmed milk and giant bags of Malteasers. Not to mention sharing with me is always fraught with danger.

If there's anything more huggable (no, of course not literally, think of the grease stains) than a wobbling array of crisp-skinned meats bobbing in a thick stew of creamy cannellini beans then please send it my way for a cuddle.

Even the gizzards were remarkably well-mannered; little avian nuggets that provided a welcome texture contrast to the unctuous pig bits and mealy beans. A green (and red) salad of bitter leaves cut a swath through the richness and lent a slightly more virtuous air to proceedings.

As if I was in need of anything more soporific after such a magisterial main, a bowl of clotted cream rice pudding crowned with a dollop of damson jam pushed me nicely into that post-dinner slump of sheer contentment.

I love nursery puddings and rice pud is right up there with the very best of them. And while normally I shy away from mixing it with fruit (after an incident at school camp as a child, enough said), the addition of sharp plum worked a treat. The glass of icy Muscat, recommended to go alongside, gilded the lily nicely.

In a surprise move, the Ewing eschewed the chocolate and hazelnut pie with cold cream (much to my chagrin) for the baked vanilla and poppy seed cheesecake with poached quince. The cheesecake struck the perfect balance between the lemony clagg (good) of the cream cheese and buttery crunch of the base which bought to mind my Nan's version - from the Hellmann's cookbook - which is very high praise indeed. Added quince is always a good thing and the suggestive slice of amber fruit added a perfumed sweetness. 

A couple of espressos later and we were ready to face the long road home. Luckily even the cold December night couldn't dent the warm glow we had inside.

Bites: Gone to the Dogs

When I was younger my parent's used to tell us the story of their honeymoon - taken at the holiday park in Ilfracombe, Devon - where the newly married couple pressed their noses against the glass of a restaurant in town and dreamt of coming back and eating all the fancy seafood dishes they couldn't afford. By the time me and my sister were born the family finances were much improved, but this bittersweet and touching tale remained a favourite. 

Which brings me to David Ramsey's the Dogs - recently opened on our first visit, now a doyenne of the stripped back food scene - where I stood outside with the Ewing exactly six years ago - not quite penniless, but certainly rather financially constrained - and dreamt of going inside for dinner. (While, ironically, the Dogs may be known for their value grub, our diet on that trip mostly consisted of stocking up on unseemly amounts of hotel buffet breakfast followed by scotch pies and snowball cakes.)

But, as Gabrielle sung, dreams can come true; so after a long and slightly soggy day in Auld Reekie, a change of socks and forty winks, I was looking forward to a few beers and a menu that 'champions Scottish and British ingredients, in dishes that will comfort and excite'.

Staying with the Scots ale trail theme we both chose Williams Bros beers; Grozet a gooseberry-infused wheat ale, for me and the Fraoch heather ale for the Ewing. The latter was particularly interesting, being based on the Gaelic recipe for 'leann fraoich' (heather ale) - purportedly the oldest style ale in the world - with it's peaty, malty notes.

Perfectly pan fried hake, sat atop a pile of cockles and mussels in a creamy, dill-flecked broth bobbing with chunks of potatoes and turnips, was as lovely as it's list of ingredients suggested - the only thing missing being a hunk of crusty bread to mop up every last drop.

The 'venison, sausage casserole and barley' was a gratifyingly simple affair. The deer had been slow cooked to a sticky sweetness alongside winter veg and while the Scots have a penchant for beef sausages - one of the only things the Ewing is not keen on (the other being me singing 'Saturday Love') - this was served with a pork snag and a big mound of fluffy, spiced barley to soak up all the gravy.

Side orders of honey roasted carrots and in-house pickled cucumbers hit the spot, the zingy cukes being a surprisingly good match with both the venison and creamy fish broth. In an attempt to eat as much of the menu as possible, we also asked for roast spuds with bacon, although were probably rather relieved the order didn't make it to the kitchen.

The Ewing's green apple trifle was a sight out of the seventies, with it's wonderfully bright swirling layers and crisp bruleed top. Despite the lurid appearance and the slightly incongruous choice of filling (an apple never strikes me as a particularly 'trifle-able' sort of fruit) this was great fun.

Toffee rice pudding, mined with chunks of honeycomb and dark chocolate, was as close to a hug in a dish as is possible. Add a wee dram of of Macallan 10 year fine oak and I was very glad I was on the inside looking out.

Castle Kebab, Elephant and Castle

Alongside her love of noodle soup, Stealth’s favourite food remains a Turkish/ 'Lesbian'ese hybrid - although I haven't known her to turn down much that's edible, in all honesty. This is borne of two factors; firstly the convivial nature of eating; this is a cuisine where you are served lots of different dishes to share (or, in the Ewing's case, not) with those dining with you; and secondly thanks to her father, who often worked and travelled in Turkey and grew to love both the people and the cuisine. 

So much so, in fact that when Stealth’s sister revisited one of her father’s favourite haunts in Istanbul, years after he last been, they remembered him as Mr ‘Three Rice Puddings’ (a moniker I’m secretly rather jealous of).

Happily for her, Castle Kebab, a new Turkish gaff has opened a few minutes’ walk from Stealth’s flat – there is also ‘The Best Kebab’, (ever so) slightly further up the road, but Stealth considers the extra couple of hundred metres an affront, so I haven’t been able to judge the rather bold claim promised by their name.

While Castle also may also struggle to live up to its regal title from the outside, inside, past the strips lights, chilled cabinets stuffed with meat-laden skewers, and row of chairs for people waiting for their takeaway shwarma fix, is a pleasant, if rather basic, dine-in area.

Efes are icy cold and bought quickly. Stealth barely lets the froth settle on her top lip before another one is on its way. They also offer exotic fruit juices and Ayran, a carbonated yoghurt drink, which is supposed to be rather refreshing in the heat - the Ewing’s a big fan, but I still slightly fear the idea of fizzy, fermented milk and stuck to the booze.

A saucer of piuant pickles and some squares of pillowy Turkish bread turned up to to munch on before our starters; a selection of borek (cheese stuffed feta parcels); kisir (bulgur, parsley, and tomato paste); and grilled onions served with spicy turnip juice - this same juice can also be ordered as a beverage on its own; needless to say, we didn't.

Stealth particularly loved the borek; being both crispy and greasy and with a pleasingly molten Feta centre that reminded her of holidays on the Bosporus (or something). I’m not even sure I got to try the kisir – so much for this sharing lark – but it looked very pretty anyway. The onions were good; a mix of sweet and sour with a charred and smoky edge.

Stealth chose her main from one of the trio of changing stews in the window; her pick being an unassuming but brilliant mix of waxy potato chunks and lamb kofte in a thin tomatoey gravy and topped with grilled tomatoes and green chillies.

I continued with the cop shish - very similar to the standard shish kebab, but with smaller chunks of meat, meaning more surface area for all the delicious crispy crunchy bits. The lamb was superlative, tender, and juicy and smoky; while the tomato flecked bulgar and fluffy rice alongside did the job of providing ballast.

A little too much ballast perhaps, as we got half way through before downing forks, defeated. No matter as the Ewing was a very thankful recipient of the doggy bag I schlepped all the way home, even managing to transport the two pieces of baklava back without too much syrup spillage. 

With our usual over ordering and enthusiastic beer consumption I didn’t have the chance to sample even one of their Sutlac (rice pudding) let alone a trio, but something tells me we’ll be back before very long.