Ding Dong Merrily on Vietnamese

'Tis the season for goodwill to all men and Stealth has obviously been very good this year as she has found Regina in her stocking (steady on), a much lauded admirer that the Ewing and I were super excited to properly meet.

Our destination was near Regina's hood, on the Kingsland Road, home to some of the best Vietnamese food in London. Although after promising to display model behaviour, motoring our way though several bottles of pre-dinner fizz at Stealth's before our rendezvous may not have been the wisest idea. 

As you can probably see... At least the alcohol helped sustain us on our travails from E&C to Hoxton on a busy Friday night, as well as fueling lots of loud and raucous conversation (sadly mostly unintelligible by this point) to match the restaurant's lively atmosphere. 

Things kicked off, in a an edible sense, with the staple summer rolls with pork and prawn. Funnily enough, one of the first restaurants I took the Ewing to was Song Que, stalwart of the Kingsland Road, where I introduced her to summer rolls and funky bowls of pho for the first time. Time has mellowed the experience to a romantic memory, but I'm pretty sure the reality was fraught with some sort of emotional drama. Nice food, though.

This time our starters passed much more peacefully. The rolls were on point, gossamer rice paper folded around juicy chunks of  crustacean, noodles and a thicket of fresh herbs although looking at the menu in the clear light of day, I'm rather disappointed I didn't try the shredded pork skin or prawn floss versions.

Aubergine with fish sauce was also very good; the smoky skin split and the virginal flesh anointed with the gentle funk of fermented fish and topped with a tangle of green onions. A Nigella-esque description that doesn't quite convey the swarm of locust-like chopsticks that hungrily descended moments after it arrived at the table.

The comprehensive menu meant we could of had our pick across South East Asia, with delights ranging from char grilled goat to beef wrapped in betel leaf to minced eel, but who can resist a great pile of crispy spring rolls, triangles of prawn toast and sticky spare ribs sitting atop a rustling heap of deep fried seaweed. Not us clearly, and these were classics done with aplomb.

While Stealth and I were dispatched to find more wine  - it's BYO, with a pound head corkage - the ladies chose the mains; Regina went with the duck, a hefty portion stir fried with smoky onions and chillies, while the Ewing chose a similar dish, this time with a heap of prawns and the added citrus zing of lemongrass. 

Normally, lemongrass isn't a flavour I enjoy too much, reminding me of the hot cloths the stewardesses thrusts at you when you've woken up somewhere over the Atlantic with a cricked neck and covered in your neighbour's dribble, but here it was very nice. I also now have to try and make myself like it, as the Ewing has taken to attempting to grow industrial amounts of it in a window box at home. (still very leafy with not much stalk - TE).

Stealth, before leaving on mission, had asked for 'prawns in a pot', which, after being such a good girl, is exactly what Santa bought her. I have to confess I originally though this was one of her made up epithets for dishes she doesn't really know the name of, but I checked and it's there; stewed prawns in a pot, or number 113 on the menu if you'd like to try it.

Unfortunately I didn't, so can offer only limited thoughts on it. While I would normally hesitate to endorse something Stealth recommends - this is someone who's signature dish is frankfurters and fried eggs and frozen veg, eaten out of the same pan it's cooked in to save on the washing up - it did smell rather delicious, even if my soft focus picture isn't doing much for it.

My request for frogs legs had been replaced by the more staid suggestion of chilli satay lamb in my absense. A clever choice, seeing as they were both sitting opposite and thus sparing themselves the spectacle watching me gnawing on assorted amphibian bits.

At this point a good blogger would say something pithy, or at least something useful, about their dish. Unfortunately, success on the wine finding mission meant that - despite the alarmingly garish hue - I only rememebered eating it after finding the pictures on my phone the next morning. By all accounts I hoovered it all up with gay abandon. So it must have been quite good, at least.

A night out in the East has to end with hipster cocktails in a dingy bar and where better than Shoreditch institution Jaguar Shoes. G'n'Ts and bad dancing in the underground room rounded off a very merry evening with fine company, even if it meant the only festive fizz I could face the following day came in the form of two dispersible aspirin and a Berocca. Merry Christmas, you filthy animals.

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: Zelman Meats, Soho

You'd think that, by having a risk management course that conveniently coincided with Zelman Meats first 'proper' opening night, the blog might have finally made it ahead of the curve. But, judging from the vast lumps of bloody protein and truffle-draped fried potatoes that were punctuating my Twitter stream the week before, I was still playing catch up.

Happily, my motivation is spurred by greed rather than getting there first (although if you're greedy, that's not a bad place to be). And, of course, to a enduring love of rare meat that goes back to my birthday meal each year as a child; rump steak with fried mushrooms and onion rings. A love of meat that even trumps the sadness I felt when I found Zelman would be replacing the venerable Rex and Mariano, with their infamous Sicilian prawns and other raw fishy things. 

Before meat there has to be drink and, fortuitously, I just happened to wander past Brewdog's latest Soho gaff en route to dinner. Less fortuitously they, after 4 days of being open, had run out of Ballast Point Sculpin, but I made do with a schooner of Jack Hammer and a rather nice pounder (that's 16oz, or 454mls if you're metric) of Modern Times Blazing World, perfectly described with three words; 'hoppy, dank, amber' across the front tin.

Whereas Rex and Mariano went with an open plan, zinc pipes and white tile approach, Zelman has gone classic steakhouse, complete with comfy leather booths and dark little nooks and crannies. Another big change is the ordering system. Where as R&M had a novel but frustrating (possibly because the Ewing is horribly clumsy (endearingly - TE) and I'm just a heathen (correct - TE)) iPad ordering system, Zelman goes back to the old school with real people - my waiter, a lovely chap from Rimini, being a real charmer. 

Thankfully not all the best bits of R&M have been lost; the red prawns are currently available as a starter on the (regularly changing) menu, which can now be found chalked up on blackboards, positioned at head-tilting angles around the restaurant.

If I could imagine a perfect dinner, it might look a lot like this. 300g of roasted picanha (or rump cap to us non-Brazilians) thickly sliced and served with chimichurri, fresh truffle and parmesan fries (get the truffle fries) and a glass of Malbec. A cheesy, beefy, funky, garlicky joy; eaten to the sound of my own gentle sighing.  

While rib eye is classic, bavette is for the cool kids and the loin was considered so good that Henry VIII knighted it, I've always loved a bit of rump, and this was a plate of childhood birthday dreams come true. Rather like a roast on steroids (they also offer Sunday lunch, which I imagine would actually be a roast on steroids).

Excuse the meat porn, but in the words of the White Stripes (if they were ever faced with beef this tasty); I've said it once before, but it bears repeating now. 

They also currently have roasted Chateaubriand (available in portions starting at 200g) and Fred Flintstone-esque roasted beef ribs on offer, alongside various things involving feta, courgettes and aubergines, if you're that way inclined.

After weighing up the risks - I knew my earlier training would come in handy - I decided that finishing with a slice of Will's Nan's apple pie was in order; and, being that I was throwing caution to the wind, with a glass of chilled Tokaji alongside. With crisp, buttery pastry, tart apples and coming with both vanilla cream and ice cream, it proved a gamble worth taking.

Shotgun BBQ

Remove everything that has no relevance to the story. If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there.

Anton Chekov

It all started out East with doughnuts. Not just any doughnuts; puffy, generously stuffed orbs, freshly baked by Brad Mcdonald and his wife Molly sold outside their yellow front door on Hackney’s Columbia Road Market on Sundays. The next step was to move West to Marylebone to open the much lauded, American South inspired Lockhart. Now the Mcdonalds have branched out again to Carnaby, with Shotgun BBQ, a homage to the low and slow.

The lunchtime menu starts with a selection of snacks to share, followed by a selection of that British staple, the sandwich, each with a little Southern twist. There is also a selection of regularly changing smoked meats, sold by weight or as a combo plate. The latter to which you can add a glass of wine or Four Pure beer for just an extra couple of quid.

'Cheese and chive dip' came with some, rather frightening looking, shards of dehydrated cabbage stuck in the top like sails on a haunted pirate ship. The cabbage was inspired, but sadly too brittle to scoop up the pleasingly old school creamy mixture in which they were embedded with much success. Of course, the Ewing was happy to improvise with a digit. (Is what they are made for - TE)

The smoked meat plate was a simple joy and surprisingly substantial. The pork belly was good (isn’t it always), especially when doused in a little KC hot sauce, but the brisket really stole the show. The red-rimmed strips of beef bringing to mind all the barbecue superlatives; smoky; juicy and, err, meaty; that I hoped they would.

The ox tongue bun with oyster mayo and a heap of melting onions was halved and then pretty much inhaled. Yes, if you're trying to find fault, some may find the potato bun rather on the sweet side (southerners sure love their sugar), and the briny note of the oysters became lost in the background, but for me the slippery, smoky mix of allium and offal - nicely spiked with a punch of pickled cucumber - made the perfect sarnie. 

More sweetness came with sides of fondant sweet potato (clue’s in the name, really) that had been topped with crunchy pecans and lashings of butter, and some decent barbecue beans, made with baby pintos and topped with sesame seeds. Coleslaw was a little wan in comparison, but I perked it up with a good squirt of the house made Carolina mustard sauce.

Having spent far too many hours of my life staring at sites like Roadfood, the home made Nana pudding – a southern trifle-like classic layered with chopped bananas, cream, custard and Nabisco wafers (like a kind of round sponge finger), was the only dessert for me. Looks wise it didn’t disappoint, being served tableside from a huge glass dish that put me in mind of Blur’s ‘There’s No Other Way’ video, but set in Charleston not Colchester. Taste wise it was also on the money, as evidenced by my wife snaffling her pudding then ‘helping’ me finish it

Happily for Chekov, we squared the circle by going back to where this story started; with a doughnut. Again, not just any doughnut, this one being a limited edition 'pineapple delight' - the ten available when we visited rapidly being chalked off on the specials board during our meal, much to the Ewing's consternation. And a delight it was, the crisp fritter-like surface pock-marked with fruit-filled craters and glazed with icing. Definitely worth the suspense.

Going Solo: Morden and Lea

Normally, I'm a pretty big fan of being left on my lonesome. As Woody Allen knows, lots of things are better on your own. I've travelled around Oz, got tattoos, got drunk (thankfully not together) gone to the cinema, eaten kebabs on Primrose Hill, pork pies in Birmingham and coconut ice on Bournemouth pier, all quite happily sans company. The one thing, however, I've never really got into is dining on my tod. 

But, with life being fleeting (and, more importantly, Stealth off gallivanting and leaving me at a loose end), I decided to brace my self for the horror of Piccadilly Circus on a sunny Friday evening. Eschewing the glistening ducks suspended in the windows of Wardour Street and the serving hatches peddling flaccid slices of pizza for a pound, my destination was Mark Sargeant's first solo London venture, Morden and Lea.  

The restaurant - named after cartographers Robert Morden and Philip Lea, who were the first to map out the what's now known as Soho - is split into two; a casual all day dining area downstairs and an upstairs restaurant offering a la carte, with two or three courses for £29/35 respectively. I wanted to sit at the bar, which was upstairs, but asked for the downstairs menu, with it's list of trendy small plates and tartines (posh things on toast) much more suitable for nibbling solo whilst perched precariously on a stool.

Of course first drink of the weekend - traditionally after my cousin Will has given his Facebook klaxon - is always the sweetest, and this cold glass of Picopul got things off to a good start. Buoyed by the Friday feeling (and possibly slightly pissed), I even gave a few chapters of my book a go (now minus its Burger Bear bookmark).

First out of the kitchen was a salad of flaked smoked mackerel , peppered with punchy capers, red onion and grassy parsley. All very light and sprightly, if a little uninspired. Smoked mackerel still remains a favourite, though; which is handy, as I could still taste this come Saturday afternoon.

Better was the 'heritage carrot salad', a humdrum name for a beautifully bright mix of roots. Pureed, picked and otherwise jazzed up with liberal applications of olive oil, micro leaves and crunchy pine nuts. I can quite see why Peter battled with Mr MacGregor for the spoils, although I did pause over ordering when Time Out (rather less than palatably) described it as 'misconceived... presenting the uber-fash veg du jour in three different forms, (that) fell into the fail-zone'. Just goes to show you shouldn't believe all you read (says someone working in policy and comms).

Next up was Insta-favourite, the crab sausage roll - a white crab meat packed tube of pastry served with a brown crab mayo and watercress. This bronzed and shiny crustacean-stuffed delight deserves all of its plaudits. The accompanying mayo would be the stuff of dreams slathered in a sandwich, although here I would have preferred something a little sharper as a lubricant.

Now, when I had looked at the bar menu, I had noticed one glaring absence; no gypsy tart. This tooth-achingly sweet confection, that is much beloved in the Garden of England where it originated, is already rivaling the Hackney's Marksman and their honey and butter tart in the best of the sugary pastry stakes this summer.

Having not had the pleasure of sampling the latter yet, I can confirm the former is a very fine thing indeed. The wobbly mousse, made from evaporated milk and brown sugar, is cradled in a impossibly thin pastry crust, the burnt toffee sweetness cut through with a cricket ball of clotted cream balanced on crisp biscuit crumbs.

Wine, seafood, a sugar rush and some fascinating company (that never answers back). What more could you want on a Friday night? (errr....your wife sat opposite you, you fool - TE)