Prawns, Steak and Strawberries

Prawns steak and strawberries; a disparate selection of ingredients that sounds like the reply if you make the mistake of asking a five year old what they want for dinner - I still fondly remember my best friend from primary school answering 'smoked salmon' when his mum asked him what he'd like in his daily sandwiches. He was descended from a prime minister, so clearly he had refined tastes.

Lunchboxes aside, I'm still no clearer on the rationale behind the spring set menu being advertised for at the Kings Arms in Christchurch, or even if there was one. But if the combination sounds incongruous, these remain some of my favourite ingredients and my inner-five year old was very excited.

I have eaten at the the restaurant, found in an imposing Georgian building in the centre of the town, before. Although that occasion - with a large group of friends, well lubricated with plenty of wine - ended up with a wedding being crashed, some impromptu magic with a bowl of sugar cubes and an unfortunate incident with a frying pan.

This time was far more staid; a quiet weekday afternoon with just me and the wife and a couple of other tables occupied by ladies wot lunch. We didn't completely pass up on the vino though - cunningly picking a large glass of rose each, to pair with both the seafood and beef and to usher in the beginnings of summer, where having a chilled pink drink in hand in the middle of the day is pretty much the rules.

My starter was the Poole Bay shrimps, described succinctly as 'small prawns with toast'. Like their more famous cousins from Morecambe, these were sweet little commas of crustacean served bathed with their sweet herby juices on hot buttered toast. A simple plate of food that sung through the quality of the local ingredients.

The 'light vegetable crab and ginger and broth with spiced prawn dumplings' was more like the gloopy chicken and sweetcorn soup that comes as part of the meal for one at every old school chinese takeaway - which is no bad thing in my book. It was also mined through with a generous helping of springy little seafood stuffed dumplings. A solid start.

Bavette is one of my favourite cuts of steak although, as Rowley Leigh so succinctly put it, it turns to sisal carpet if overcooked. Here, although it was advertised as being served rare, someone hadn't read to the script and it was pushing past medium when it arrived. No matter, it was a decent piece of meat, served bathed in an even better sauce infused with garlic and thyme.

Unlike the steak, the chips were verging on underdone, although they were just on the right side of pale and interesting and were compared, favourably, to Maccy D's by the Ewing, a connoisseur in such matters. And, although not up to the standards of breadcrumbed onion rings and sauteed mushrooms my mum used to make to go with a steak, the classic watercress and grilled tomato garni were good.

A classic pairing in America, strawberry and rhubarb is still pretty novel combination on these shores. While I can see its potential - sweet berries complimenting the sour rhizomes - here my crumble filling was sadly wan and watery. Thankfully, the dish was redeemed by the crisp, crunchy topping and a masterful strawberry-infused custard, like a kind of grown up angel delight, which I was happy to just spoon from the jug.

Having been spoilt for mille feuille after visiting Jacques Genin in France earlier this year, this strawberry and cream version was always going to have a lot to live up to. And whilst it couldn't scale the dizzy heights of the Parisian pastry master, it was a more than passable effort with commendably flaky pastry, good creme pat and plenty of strawberry sauce.

And yes, while it probably wasn't as much fun without the jaeger bombs and the smuggled boxes of exploding fun snaps, what in life is, and at least I could still remember it the next morning.

You can also catch the menu, alongside the complimentary glass of fizz, during the Christchurch Festival - from 1st to 21st May - at the Christchurch Harbour Hotel. Although the last time we were in town, for the Festival Street Market, I was very happy lazing in the sun with a couple of pints of raspberry cider and a curried lamb pasty.

Hospital Food

Recent research has suggested that, far from being a sign of being stuck in the past, nostalgia can actually be good for you. Of course, we’re not talking about the mawkish and sentimental clinging on to the ‘good old days’, but more the ability to use positive memories to confront fears of our own mortality. Deep stuff.

Recently I was able to put this theory into practice when visiting dear old Grandad, who was still in Northwick Park hospital after a fall. Arriving straight from work and feeling pretty ravenous we headed straight to the canteen. And, even more joyfully, they had crumble and custard on the menu.

Everything about NHS custard screams nostalgia to anyone that ever went to school in the UK. At once managing to be  gloopy, thick, lumpy and watery; like a kind of fifth matter that exists like a rogue plasma in a state somewhere between liquid and solid. Whist some (most) people may baulk at the thought, to me it was some sort of culinary nirvana – although it should be noted that at my first parent’s evening my Mum and Dad were amused to hear a glowing report from my teacher on my burgeoning appetite. My particular lunchtime favourites being plum cake (and, of course, custard) and cheese ‘pie’ (nothing like a pie).

Underneath this liquid with a life of its own was a particularly fine apricot crumble. Sweet and sour fruit with an oaty rubble on top that still remained mysteriously crisp despite the torrents of yellow gunge. Just £1.21 for the custard and 33p extra for the magnificent custard. Add in a plate of Cajun chicken and some of the finest chips I have had for a while (although it felt kind of counter intuitive to be eating them in a hospital) and that’s institutionalised cuisine at its finest.

Sadly our culinary trip down memory lane was thwarted when Grandad was soon transferred to Central Middlesex hospital; although of course much better for him. CMH is a much spiffier gaff, but their canteen had sadly closed before we arrived in the evening. Thankfully Beirut Nights @cafe, restaurant and shisha lounge' is to be found adjoining the hospital entrance at the corner of Abbey Road, and provided the perfect pit stop before visiting hours.

Starting our visit by being seated in the restaurant, we were soon relegated to the outdoor shisha lounge as, curiously, the pitta wraps we had chosen - alongside  a couple of mezze dishes to start - aren’t served inside. This turned out to be no bad thing; the shisha lounge was lovely and warm due to a plethora of heaters that kept the temperature raised (along with their energy bills). There was also some attention diverting cricket which pleased me, the Ewing less so.

The food was very good. Our mezze of Houmous Kawarma - the familiar chickpea and tahini dip, topped with sizzling cubes of grilled lamb and pine nuts - was exemplary. The tabouleh was equally good -a thicket of freshly chopped parsley, interspersed with just enough bulgar wheat and topped with diced tomatoes and a good squeeze of lemon juice.

These were followed by a chicken and salad schwarma wrap, enlivened by a healthy dose of fiery chilli chutney and garlic sauce (the doctors would be pleased that we were thinking of our hearts, even if our colleagues the next day disagreed) and a soujouk wrap. The soujouk being spicy little homemade beef sausages -shaped rather like the ones that come in tins with beans, but far more reputable. Delicious but rather tricky to stop the odd stray escaping from the confines of their pitta blanket, though.

All the custard obviously had the right effect on Grandad, as a couple of weeks later he was being discharged back home, shiny new Zimmer frame in tow. After a comical scenario on the first evening (with the joy of hindsight) when the district nurses didn’t turn up, I stepped in to the breach as chief cook and bottle washer whilst the Ewing battled valiantly with a medicine chart ‘for the fridge’ (it would have papered the whole kitchen) and dispensed his pills and potions. At least we now know why Grandad rattles.

After our evening’s entertainment settling him back home there was no better place for some much needed soul soothing than the nearby B&K Salt Beef Bar in Hatch End. I’ve written about this place before, but with Jewish deli food this good it bears repeating.

First up was a bowl of good old chicken soup. Here you can have it with lokshen (noodles) kneidlach (Matzo balls), or kreplach (turkey and garlic ‘ravioli’). We both chose a mix of balls and noodles, served with a plate of their caraway spiked rye bread to mop up every last drop.

Of course this esteemed dish is not called Jewish penicillin for nothing, and nothing seemed quite so welcome when it was placed in front of us.

Next up was the main draw, mountains of hand carved salt beef sandwiched between the aforementioned rye bread. Cured brisket - along with bacon and ketchup on a Sunday morning and turkey post-Christmas - remains one of my very favourite sarnie fillings. Here the meat has just enough wobbly fat at its edges (ask for it lean if you prefer) to keep things lubricated and is served with an optional schmear of poky yellow mustard and a crunchy sweet and sour dill pickle.

Latkes, crunchy little discs of deep fried of potato and onion, are a must order, even if we did end up taking most of ours home for later.

I couldn't resist a homemade desert to go, in this case lokshen pud, a homemade sweet noodle pudding made with orange juice and raisins. Yes, it sounds pretty grim, no, it really isn’t - the overall effect being something rather like a baked bread pudding, with its mixture of crunchy topping and comforting starchiness and sweet fruit underneath.

The Ewing had a giant doorstop of sticky chocolate cake - what else? - which, despite its gargantuan size, I still missed snaffling a picture of. Reports are that it was comforting and sweet, which rather perfectly describes my own little Florence Nightingale herself. Well, at least until I hear of a stubborn and forgetful kind of cake…