2012: The Best of the Rest

So, Twenty Twelve was a bit of a cracker. You can read about the two most exciting parts here, but there was also the excitement of two honeymoons; the Olympics and Paralympics (where we Brits decided it was ok to cry and be gratuitously nice to each other); various get-togethers with family and friends (including an 80th birthday and a  New Year spent with some of my oldest and dearest pals); and, of course, plenty of eating and drinking along the way.

As has become the yearly tradition on the blog at around this time, here's some of the random food, drink and other miscellany that I haven't got around to writing about somewhere else but seemed too delicious not to remember. (Less a conventional 'best of', more a reminder of good time past, and why these trousers feel so tight....)

The turn of the year saw a trip to Stoke Newington, to finally meet my cousin Seth and catch up with his Mum and Dad. After a lovely lunch of bread, cheese and salad from the local farmers market we walked amongst the sheep's heads of Ridley Road before calling into Tugra, on the Stoke Newington Road for baklava. It was so good we had to walk back and pick up another box to take home with us. Not the best pre-wedding diet, but certainly the tastiest.

Paris was all about steaks, pastries, foie gras and trotters. Oh, and a little romance, of course. I also can't omit to mention the fabulous cheese; not only did we bring our Neals Yard leftovers from the wedding (we had travelled straight from the reception), but we also had the most fantastic choice of French specimens at every shop and restaurant we visited. My favourite - well, certainly the most welcome - were a chestnut leaf and raffia wrapped Banon, and a little ash dusted pyramid of chevre we bought on our last morning. This, along with a bottle of vin rouge and some Poilaine raisin bread, provided the most perfect train picnic when we were delayed due to snow on the journey home. (I'm not sure our fellow passengers quite relished the pungent fromage as much as we did.)

March saw a visit to my Nan in Norfolk, with a stop off in Cambridge along the way. As well as eating  Fitzbillies buns for breakfast we also made a trip to the Cambridge Chop House. This was a great little place, with some stunning views of King's College from the ground floor dining room (there's also a large subterranean space), as well as some great, gravity dispensed local beers. 

The real star of the show, though is the meat. Specialising in good old 'British' grub, there is a focus on steak and game. We shared a pheasant wellington with red cabbage to start, followed by a whopper of a beef chop that made me feel a bit like Fred Flintstone, and some exemplary venison for the Ewing.

Considering our location there could be only one choice for pudding; Cambridge Burnt Cream with shortbread biscuits and a glass of something sticky. Those with a sweet tooth may also be tempted with the rest of their desert  their selection, including crumble, trifle and home-made arctic roll.

While writing up our cross-country American adventures, our stop in Chicago seemed to get rather  forgotton. Here were a few of the (many) best bits:

We headed to Carson's in River North for the Ewing's birthday. Serendipitously Carson's has been around since 1977, exactly as long as the Ewing (sorry, Darling), and they both seem to be wearing pretty well. Carson's specialises in baby back ribs, as well as serving brisket, pork chops and chicken, smoked low and slow in a hickory wood-burning pit. As it says on the menu - 'no boiling, no marinade, no rubs or tenderisers, no liquid smoke, NOT 'fall-off-the-bone'. Real, authentic slow-cooked barbecue'.

The Ewing and I both ordered the half rack of ribs, served with coleslaw and a choice of side; in our case their famous potatoes au gratin (spuds sliced and served with vast amounts of cheddar and cream). Ribs were good; smoky, sweet, a little chewy. The potatoes took years from my life but I like to think I added a couple of months back by eating all my veg in the form of the tangy coleslaw. They also have a surprisingly decent beer menu; my pint of Three Floyd's Alpha King went down very nicely. 

The infamous Chicago style dog 'dragged through the garden'. Chi Town weiners come served on a poppy seed bun and traditionally garnished with a luminous green relish, ball park mustard, sport peppers celery salt and a wedge of fresh tomato. Absolutely no ketchup allowed. We washed these down with Old Style beer, while watching the Cubs loose at Wrigley field on a Saturday afternoon. The quintessential American experience.

The first memorable breakfast in this round up was at Chicago's Lou Mitchell's; a classic diner, found at the start of Route 66, that's been serving breakfasts to the masses for over 85 years and where baskets of warm donut holes and packets of Milk Duds are still handed out to the lines of patrons eagerly waiting to get inside and enjoy the vast array of pastries, cakes, eggs and cereals.

On our early morning visit we enjoyed endless cups of coffee and a great, old fashioned, fresh fruit salad, followed by malted pecan waffles and ethereal banana pancakes served with crispy bacon and jugs of maple syrup. Just the sustenance we needed before our 52 hour train trip all the way to San Francisco.

The second breakfast; a perfect British fry up. We enjoyed this at Greendale's Farm Shop and Cafe in Devon, and it proved just the ticket after four days of partying hard down in Exeter. While it was a shame they had run out of hogs pudding (a West Country speciality), I still enjoyed some of the best black pudding I have eaten. Never was a plate of food and pot of tea so warmly welcomed. (If you were wondering, the Ewing ate her breakfast plus my unwanted fried eggs on two rounds of toast. An impressive effort.)

No summer would be complete without one of the Ewing's celebrated swiss rolls. This year her fluffy whisked sponge had been stuffed with lemon curd and home made limoncello-spiked cream, before being rolled up and finished with a crunchy sugar coating. Boozy, rich and sticky and too good not to have a second slice.

The world's greatest cake-maker being introduced to Mary Berry. Joking aside, this exciting meeting came about as the Ewing was helping to coordinate a local library volunteer event and the lovely Mary came to give a talk and present the awards. Although she seemed immune to the charms of all the baked goods on offer (I suppose there is too much of a good thing), I did feel rather proud as Ewing's victoria sponge was the first cake to be polished off.

While I blogged about the pasta on our tour of Tuscany, Marche, Umbria and San Marino there was plenty more to write home about in this charming corner of Italy. 

Contender for the one of the best things I ate this year was this rather modest looking scoop of pistachio gelato from Cafe Italia in Cagli. The kindly chap serving us pointed out the flavours that had been freshly churned that morning (all ably translated by our friend, Marinella) before we sat and ate our ice creams and drank our espresso in the shade of the town square. Maybe it was the heat, maybe we were soaking up the Italian gioia di vivere, but never has the simple trinity of frozen milk, sugar and nuts tasted so good.

Another speciality of the Umbria/Marche region is the the black truffle. During our trip we enjoyed them with shaved on pasta and beef carpaccio; studded through cheese and salami; and infused in wild honey. I was in my element when we found this shop selling local treats in the charming town of Gubbio, and I still have a jar of gloriously funky truffle paste, ready to slather over crostini or roast chicken, waiting in the cupboard.

During our trip we made the drive over to Fano; firstly to ogle the impossibly bronzed and beautiful Italian holiday makers, slowly baking in huge rows all across the beach; and secondly to sample the Brodetto di Fanese, the local interpretation of an Adriatic fish stew. Our waiter did patiently explain everything that was in it, including monkfish, mussels and mullet, but while the finer points have been lost to the midst of Frascati and too much sun, I do still remember was how good it tasted. There can be little more pleasing than sitting eating the day's catch as the fishermen were still mooring their boats metres in front of us.

We finished with a Moretta, a type of  cafe corretto, or 'corrected' coffee which the local fisherman would use to fortify themselves on cold mornings. Consisting of a sweetened ristretto fortified with brandy, rum, aniseed liquer and a twist lemon peel, which makes you wonder how they landed any fish at all. Bloody good, though.

Another Marche speciality is agnello scottadito or finger burning lamb chops. Cooked on an open fire, they're so named as they're so tasty people can't wait for them to cool down before tucking in. They featured on the menu at Ristaronte Maria - a gem of a place up in the mountains, where we stopped for our last lunch - alongside these tiny mutton kebabs with bitter wild greens. Served pink, they were impossibly tender and full-flavoured, with just the right charred fat to meat ratio and a sprinkling of salt and lemon. Simple perfection.

And to finish our trip, a glass of icy cold campari and soda enjoyed on our terrace, complete with stunning views out across the Appenine Mountains. Salute!

In October we took a trip to Wales, via the West Country, and ate lots of ice cream on the way. 

First up the 'ice cream from an Airstream', made by Harriet's Jolly Nice and served at Westonbirt Arboretum. We picked a  double scoop of Westonbirt Damson and Herefordshire Victoria Plum, seen here teetering precariously atop its cone. To be honest, I'm not really sure which was which, but both were lovely. The top scoop was light and refreshing, more like a sorbet than an ice cream, while the bottom scoop was rich and almost cream cheese-like in flavour.

Wales has a, rather surprisingly, strong ice cream heritage thanks to the influx of Italian immigrants that moved to the area from as early as the 18 century who soon began opening cafes, ice cream parlours and fish and chip shops. Two of the best known purveyors of frozen deserts in South Wales are Verdi's and Joe's, both of whom have branches in the Mumbles. 

Our first port of call was Verdi's, where I chose a  DIY sundae consisting of scoops of chocolate and vanilla ice cream, hot chocolate fudge sauce, mini marshmallows and a sugar wafer. While this was good (smother anything in marshmallow and chocolate and it would be hard to refuse), the coffee and stunning views were better.

A brisk walk along the Mumbles seafront and we were ready for our second ice cream of the afternoon. While the surrounding may not be as aesthetically pleasing (the outdoor table we sat at faced on to the Mumbles Road) the place was packed with pensioners and school kids all happily tucking in to cones and coffee.

I was tempted by another marshmallow and chocolate sundae, to compare with Verdi's effort earlier, but in the end I couldn't turn down a scoop of the intriguing-sounding Welsh cake. This was right up there with Cafe Italia as my scoop of the year. A rich, spicy nutmeg and cinnamon ice, studded with juicy raisins. A scoop or two of this on a warm Welsh cake would be a very fine thing indeed.

Or final stop was Shepherd's in Hay on Wye. A beautiful, old fashioned parlour that specialises in, as you may have gleaned from the name, sheep's milk ice creams. After dutifully eating our pannini and soup, alongside a couple of well made macchiatos, we made sure to leave enough room to sample a scoop or two. 

As it was the day before my birthday, I decided to celebrate with a slice of their homemade ice cream cake; stripy layers of hazelnut, chocolate and vanilla ice cream on a sponge base, all doused in whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Worth getting another year older for. The Ewing's choice was slightly more refined; two scoops of sheep's milk ice in the intriguing, and delicious, blackcurrant and liquorice, and amaretti and marsala flavours.

What better way to end the year with yet more cake. This time it was Dorset apple, one of my favourites.  The first slice was eaten on Weymouth Harbour; a well deserved breakfast after missing our original hotel breakfast as the Ewing was 'struggling' somewhat after the merriment of the night before. Clotted cream crowned the weekend's excesses.

The second slice was eagerly consumed after a very wet and windy Boxing Day family walk on Burton Bradstock Beach (just down from the more famous Chesil, scene of some very tedious, but not yet forgotten, pebble measuring on my school geography field trip). This time there wasn't a tape measure in sight, just a slice of this, rich with fruit and spice and with a crunchy sugar crumble topping, and a cup of hot tea. 

After all the year's far-flung excesses it's cheering to remember that sometimes the simple things in life are still the best.

Ferry Plaza Farmers Market

Not much can get me out of bed on a Saturday morning. Excepting those dismal weekends where I have to get up for work, usually the only thing that can lure me from under the covers is the promise of a bacon sandwich and endless cuppas. Our final Saturday in the States was somewhat different; today was the day for our long awaited trip to the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market.

After a stroll along the Embarcadero, basking in the morning sunshine, we spotted the throngs of people and rows of stalls selling local fresh fruit and veg outside the ferry building. CUESA (the centre for urban education about sustainable agriculture), who run the market, have a stall offering helpful advice, including what's in season, and even have maps available to help guide you around, so you don't miss any of the good stuff.

Map in hand we started our self-guided tour outside the main entrance; California is a produce powerhouse, growing nearly half US-grown fruits, nuts and vegetables. Here we saw, amongst other things, bunches of multicoloured carrots, crates of plump strawberries and piles of still dewey herbs and salads, picked that very morning. The quench our thirst we drank freshly squeezed blood orange juice and blueberry limeade. While the Ewing bought some giant, sweet grapefruit, to be abandoned later, uneaten, in the hotel room due to lack of suitable eating implements.

I find it hard to have favourites when it comes to food, usually it's whatever I'm stuffing in my mouth at that particular moment, but I (think) I can definitely say cherries are my favourite fruit. For a start they are one of the few truly seasonal foods While you may be able to get imported ones from somewhere outside high summer, they taste so so inferior and are so expensive it really isn't worth the trouble. Secondly they are jolly good fun. Who isn't instantly cheered at the sight of a bowl of ripe cherries? When my sister and I were young there was nothing more fun than picking through a brown paper bag full of the ripe fruit, hooking any 'doubles' over our ears like over sized earrings.

These cherries were both local and massive. I can't remember if they were particularly cheap (probably not) but they were very good value, providing plenty of entertainment as we munched our way through a pile, while sat in the sun at the end of the Ferry Plaza pier.

Outside the back of the Ferry Plaza was just as bustling, with yet more stalls and many happily munching patrons out enjoying the beautiful morning. As well as produce there is also freshly prepared food and drinks here on the pier, coming from both from outdoor concessions of the static retailers inside and producers who are just here for market days.

The first 'must' stop on my self-guided face-stuffing circuit was for brunch at 4050 meats, and, more particularly, to get a big bag of their famous chicharrones. I didn't get around to eating these until a couple of days later, and with all the other food I consumed at the market this turned out to be no bad thing.

These were quite unlike both our British scratchings, with their layers crispy rind, soft fat and tufts of hair; or American pork rinds, which are light, crunchy and brittle. Instead these snacks resembled mis-shapen quavers, and dissolved on the tongue in rather the same way. The difference between these and the maize-based cheese snacks being that the chicarrones melted and 'fizzed' to leave a rich, lard-like coating, flavoured with sugar, salt and spice, in the mouth.

While these may not be to everyone's taste, and even I found the richness meant half a small bag in one go was plenty, they are perfect for poricine aficionados. I can't imagine there would be much better accompaniment to a cold glass of Anchor Steam Beer on a warm evening.

Thanks to the magic of Twitter, as soon as I had woken up in my motel room that morning, a mere half a mile away from the Ferry Building, I had seen 4050 Meats had posted pictures of the day's menu board. I had already decided: A fried chicken Yum Yum would soon be mine.

The picture above cannot do justice to one of the best things I ate during our whole three week trip. It really was that incredible. A piece of impossibly juicy chicken had been coated in crushed chicarrones (yes, that's right, it already sounds awesome), before being fried and topped with crunchy slaw, fava leaf aioli and jalapenos. The Ewing's version ditched the slaw for a perfectly cooked fried egg, that gently oozed its golden load all over the gently toasted Acme bun as she bit into it.

The Hog Island Oyster Co. has a restaurant at the Ferry Plaza, but also has a stand outside on market day. Their oysters are mostly grown locally, 40 miles north of SF at Tomales Bay. While you can get baked oysters, chowders and grilled cheese sandwiches at their bar, outside it's just the oysters of the day, on ice with a slice.

The Ewing with her collection of bivalves. There were two each of the three varieties here, although I'm dammed if either of us can remember what they were (I think one was the Hog Island Sweetwater, and possibly a Peter Point, too?) As mentioned before I'm not the biggest fan of 'sea snot' but I manfully gulped the smallest one down. It was actually rather pleasant, although that may have been more the picturesque setting, or the midday sun going to my head.

Cap'n Mike's Holy Smoke Salmon, home of the smoked salmon 'Swim Jims'. These were a fishy take on the more common meaty brethren and made a very good snack; sweet, smoky and nicely spiced, like a kind of fishy sweet (although far nicer than that may sound). It was my great regret we couldn't pick up some of their San Francisco style lox, but with no fridge at the motel, and a belly full of Yum Yum, we had to pass on by until the next time.

Cow Girl Creamery, another well know Ferry Market institution. The very friendly lady manning their small stall outside was very happy to let us sample the wares, including a milky, yet surprisingly flavoursome Mt. Tam triple cream and St Pat spring to summer hard cheese, wrapped in nettle leaves.

The Red Hawk is their take on a European washed rind cheese. This had been washed in salt water, and had gained a pleasing, meaty pungency, without being nearly as overpowering as the Epoisses and Muensters found across the pond. The Lady at the counter explained that the Europeans tended to be the biggest fans of the Red Hawk, and it was our favourite too. The chunk we bought would later be enjoyed in an Acme bread sandwich, with a slice of good Mortadella and a glass of red.

Boccalone: Tasty Salted Pig Parts. This did exactly what it said on the tin. As well as selling house made salamis (you can see them hanging up to dry in cabinets around the shop), choritzo, sausages and other charcuterie, they also make a variety of sandwiches to eat either perched at the counter, or wrapped up for takeaway.

Sadly I didn't rate my changes of getting a piece of their jellied head cheese, blood pudding, or a bag chiccioli (pressed pig fat and skin) home in one piece, but I did pick up a brown sugar fennel salami for the suitcase. They also sell mortadella dogs. Another reason, if any more were needed, to get myself back on a plane heading Stateside pronto.

The infamous Bocclaone 'meat cone'. This came with a preselected variety of meats (you can pick your own for a buck extra), including a pistachio-studded mortadella and some slices of very good salami. I also had a chance to sample some of their house made n'duja while waiting at the counter; rich and smooth with a fearsome chilli kick.

Acme bread, one of the proponents of the Bay Area 'bread revolution', leading to the rise of artisan bread across America. Although you'll find their bread cropping up everywhere, from restaurants to corner shops, only here and in their original Berkeley (whole-sale only) home will you find their full range of baked goods.

Between us we tried the alleterative Rye Raisin Rabbit (perfect with the Red Hawk cheese), levain rolls and a sour baguette. Good bread is my desert island dish, and I would be more than happy to be castaway with nothing but a bag of their buns for company.

The Mietta bakery. I wasn't originally planning to stop for cakes at all, but, while stood in the queue for a Blue Bottle Coffee, my willpower melted like the ice cream sandwiches people were chomping in the doorway. I had to go in.

It's sometimes easy to overdose on tweeness, loosing sight of the reason we loved these things in the first place, but it turns out Mietta was good call. The Ewing and I had two of the chocolate cupcakes, topped with Italian meringue and jelly beans. These were cute without being style over substance. The meringue (after our trip to Paris one of my current favourite things) was ethereal, the sponge managing the clever trick of being both dense and fluffy.

Another slab of brilliance; Miette Earl Grey ice cream, sandwiched between two chocolate cookies. Tea flavours seem to have a great affinity with dairy (having recently had Earl Grey panna cotta and matcha ice creams that were both quite lovely) and this was no exception. A properly grown up snack, the subtle, citrussy bergamont managing to hold its own against the tea and the bitter chocolate.

Blue Bottle Coffee, the site of our final, and the Ewing's most highly anticipated, stop on our gluttonous tour. We had seen our first branch on the ground floor of the Rockafeller Centre In New York, some three weeks before, but I had insisted we wait until we were on the West Coast for our first taste of the California-based brew. Despite there being many other places around for a cup of joe, the line for Blue Bottle is still the longest in the Ferry Plaza, with people patiently snaking around the market for their caffeine fix.

Blue Bottle are serious coffee purveyors in a serious coffee town. There is a particular interest in brewed coffee, their Mint Plaza branch has the only halogen siphon bar in the States; $20,000 worth of coffee machine imported (with much care) all the way from Japan. While this may all seem overly  obsessive and pretentious, Blue Bottle is very far from style over substance. This is simply about getting the very best beans and turning them into the very best beverage.

A row of ceramic drippers stuffed with cones of filter paper, ready for their made-to-order single origin drip coffee. In a world of super duper, triple skinny soy lattes with a flake on top (here the menu is very much pared back, but you can get a mocha made with Tcho chocolate and affagatos made with Humfrey Slocombe ice cream), I decided to get back to basics with one of these.

It was a pretty perfect coffee; normally I far prefer the promise of coffee (the smell of the freshly ground beans, the pomp and circumstance that surround its creation) to the finished product. A mouthful of thick and oily espresso, especially if accompanied with a brandy, is always nice after a big dinner; and a bowlful of cafe latte, with a croissant to dunk, is de rigueur on trips across the Channel, but i usually find I''m just as happy with a mug of PG Tips.

This coffee came with no bells or whistles, it was just a good cup of joe; nicely bittersweet with decent body, and not too rich to be sipping out in the sun. Normally I get bored half way through  drinking anything much bigger than a double espresso, but here I was interested to the end. It was good enough for the Ewing to buy her own ceramic dripper, to try and create some of their simple coffee alchemy at home (yes, it's still in the box...).

The Ewing tried a cup of their celebrated cold brewed New Orleans coffee. A mixture of coarsely ground beans, chicory and cold water is allowed to infuse overnight, before being served over a good handful of ice, with a splash of organic Clover milk and sugar if you want it. An ice coffee for grown ups. 

The cold brewing means the coffee isn't at all bitter, but keeps a good depth of chicory-coffee flavour that stays nicely balanced against the sweet, creamy milk. Fortunately, for those who can't come every week for their caffeine fix, Blue Bottle have instructions of how to brew your own on the website. And despite the dismal summer so far, the Ewing has had a jug permanently on the go in our kitchen, going some way to bring a small slice of California coffee-tinged sunshine to these shores every morning.