Mission Burrito

When the Ewing and I first started dating, many aeons ago, both London and myself were just succumbing to our first wave of burrito love. It was before I was regularly blogging, and I decided that sampling and then writing about all the burritos I could lay my hands on would make a great new project.

Being in the first flush of love, I was somewhat oblivious to the Ewing's luke warm enthusiasm to endless helpings of sludgy beans and stringy chicken (I blame all the Margarita's we were helping the food down with) until, one fateful, hot afternoon in Islington, after becoming hopelessly lost, she finally put her foot down and would only eat a plain avocado and drink an agua fresca. The dream was over.

Fast forward to now, and although her interest is still somewhat limited, we have reached a happy compromise of burritos in moderation. A good job for me as I know our America trip would take us to San Francisco, home of the fabled San Francisco Mission Burrito.

First stop was La Taqueria, rated in both the guide books and on the web at sites such as Burritoeater as a decent shout for lunch. The large neon signs on the walls inside inside goe one step further, proclaiming that these are 'the best tacos and burriotos in the whole world'. A bold claim, and not one for a Mission Virgin like me to decide, but I was impresssed with the clean, bright interior as we arrived to the cool calm of the post-lunchtime rush; the glorious smell of grilled meat thick in the air.

After choosing our food, and ordering at the counter, we found a side table to sit down and enjoy our pineapple agua frescas while waiting for our ticket to be called.

I found this a little sweet for my tastes, but the Ewing was a big fan, helping herself to mine after she had finished draining hers in super quick time. If sweet, cold fruit drinks are your thing then the strawberry flavour are suposed to be very good, too.

The carne asada burrito with avocado. I hadn't realised when ordering, but La Taqueria are, controversially, one of the very few proponents of the Mission Style burrito who don't include rice (really making this more of a San Diego style wrap). I had mixed feelings about this, pleased that the filling was overwhelmed by extra carbs, but disappointment that the 'local' burrito I had been looking forward to was missing one critical ingredient.

In the end the absence of rice mattered very little; the burrito was a perfect mix of smoky, creamy and beany. Normally I would choose pork over beef, but here the grilled meat was gloriously charred, yet still tender. Its reasonably slender size (it's still pretty massive) and lack of rice also meant I could eat it without immediately slumping into a Cal -Mex coma, important when there are other things eager to be sampled.

The carnitas taco. I let the Ewing have a free reign with this one to start with, reasoning that the more modest bread 'wrapping' would appeal to her dislike of 'stodge'. My logic was right, and I had to quickly swipe the last few bites from her clutches so I could sample it for myself. I enjoyed this, the fatty, crispy shreds of pork topped with a fresh onion and tomato salsa, but found it a little uninspired compared to the majesty of the burrito.

By this point we were both pretty sated; an unholy mixture of iced coffees, bacon donuts, bourbon cornflake ice cream, Mexican Coke, tacos and tortillas left us struggling to conemplate yet another feed. Walking back to the BART station we saw this on the corner, a tip in my burrito research and too tempting to pass by. A quick lap of Mission Street fortified us just enough for round two of our late Mexican lunch.

The interior here was darker and more austere. Despite the gloomy surroundings the place was pretty packed; every table taken by groups of friends, families, students and workmen, who were supposed to be concreting the pavement outside but obviously found the lure of meat and beans too hard to resist.(we had to be helped over wooden planks to get in the door).

Initally I may have been slightly dubious, but I really, really liked this place. The guy serving behind the counter was very helpful, patiently listening to our butchering of his mother tounge and explaining the menu permutations to us. The atmosphere was also lively and friendly, feeling at times more like a social club than a restaurant.

The totopos, gratis with every order. I quickly got stuck in, the crispy chips ably accompanied by pots of red and green salsa and  pico de gallo from the help yourself condiment bar. As ever the Ewing maintained a slight aloofness, until finally she relented and ate one. They didn't last for much longer after that.

Lengua Taco with beef tongue. Deciding that I wasn't quite ready for the sesos (brains) taco, I went for the tongue version instead. The meat was melty and soft, and pulled apart in strands as you ate it; the flavour was a little gamey, without being overpowering. The real problem was the whitish-grey, tastebuds still on the meat, that were rather reminiscent of the top of a piece of lego and gave the curious sensation of feeling like you were touching the top of your own tongue. The salsa seemed a bit gloopier than La Taqueria, and made the taco rather soggy, but the slices of lime on the side added a nice zing.

Weighing in at nearly two pounds this whopper was too much to manage after all our other Mission delights. Luckily it had been as carefully and neatly swaddled as a new born baby, meaning we could safely transport it back to our hotel, the silver foil helping to insulate it for a good few hours until we felt strong enough to brave it.

Luckily I still had room for beer, in this case a dark, slightly sweet Negra Modela; perfect with all the smoke and spice. The Ewing was particularly thankful for hers, after I assured her the pico de gallo wasn't that spicy (turns out that it was).

This is the real deal, rice'n'all, super burrito mission style. Tempted as I was to go for the carne asada this time I chose the al pastor; marinaded pork cooked on a spit with onions and pineapple. Despite my Mexican overload that afternoon, the glorious smell coming from my bag meant I couldn't resist unpeeling it from its silver wrapper as soon as I got home. Within minutes it had been devoured, leaving a trail of fallen rice and salsa drips in its wake.

Although I actually didn't miss the rice in La Taqueria's version, the extra carbs in this were spot on. The rice had been cooked with herbs and tomato, and was well seasoned, combining perfectly with the mealy, sweet pinto beans. The middle featured a cooling seam of avocado and sour cream resting on the spicy, smoky shreds of pork, and the pineapple and onion lending a slight sweetness to cut through the slightly fatty, crispy meat. This was a supreme burrito; despite any reservations about the rice the Ewing wolfed her half down without complaint, too.

While it might not always be pretty or chic, both our stops featured big, honest, good value food that doesn't taste cheap, or stodgy, or bland. The subtle spicing on the meats, as well as the different marinades and cooking methods mean the flavours remain distinguished, and the array of salsa, beans and toppings mean that there are endless permutations of the simple burrito and taco to be enjoyed.

It would be impossible to talk about the Mission Burrito without saying a little something about the area that begat such a wonderful thing. Taking the BART to Mission and 24th Street we were immediately hit with a wave of heat and colour; wall murals and painted houses and shops brightening every corner. As well as our Burrito fix we also made room for donuts and ice cream (at Humprey Slocombe and Dynamo Donuts, whose magnificence are to be saved for a later post) and a visit to Casa Lucas, the popular Mexican supermarket on 24th Street.

The Ewing, proudly clutching the aloe vera leaf purchased as a DIY aftersun substitute (a menace that lurked by the bathroom sink back at the hotel, ready to attack me every time I turned the tap on).

They certainly like their beans. Also note the sacks of maize flour and hominy used for tortillas, pupusas, and tamales on the bottom shelf, and the Rice-a-Roni on the second shelf down. This popular boxed convenience food bears features a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge and the tag line 'The San Francisco Treat!', as it originated in the Mission District.

Now, in me, Homer Simpson has a rival for the biggest pork rind lover in the West, but even I wasn't too convinced by these pickled specimens in bobbing menacingly in their glass jars. Curious as I was, these stayed on the shelf for another time.

Now, that's is more like it, shelves and shelves of hot sauces and canned chillies. I couldn't go home without grabbing some chipotles en adobo and some Tapatio sauce weighing down my suitcase.

Goat's milk caramel lollies. Although I didn't try one of these, I did buy some cajeta, after our delicious experience at Chicago's Girl and the Goat earlier on our trip. It currently sits in the cupboard, awaiting some culinary inspiration (or the point where a sugar crash and lack of options forces me to drink it straight from the bottle).

Sadly we only had time for one lap to experience the Mission's Mexican fare, meaning we missed out on such delights as birria (goat), chile rellenos, or the Californian tofu taco (maybe a good thing).

But how ever long you have to spend, this is a wonderful, colourful, vibrant corner of San Francisco, and an essential stop for anyone looking for some fabulous food and Cal-Mex culture.

King John Inn, Tollard Royal, Wiltshire

The King John is a brick and flint coaching inn, set in the picturesque village of Tollard Royal, right on the Wiltshire/Dorset border. It's a lovely rural pub; mixing style with tradition, and attracting a mish-mash of eccentric villagers, Range Rovers, corduroy, wet dogs and Guy Ritchie. (His Ashcombe Estate is just up the road, and, having yet to read a review that doesn't mention this fact, why buck the trend?) And thanks to my mum moving here a little under three years ago it has now become a local away from home.

Despite having set up camp at the bar on several precious visits, and enjoyed some lovely alcoholic afternoons and Christmas drinks (with Guy, no less. Well, he was there too...) thanks to Alex and Gretchen the owners, we had never actually managed to eat a proper meal; rather a bone of contention as my sister and her boyfriend had been to eat there just after my Mum moved down to Wiltshire.

With the Jubilee weekend coming, and a whole four days off work to overdose on cake and bunting, my mum and Sam invited us down for a few days. Lured by the promise of a meal at the King John and a lighting a beacon on the highest point of Cranbourne Chase, we packed up a tin of the Ewing's homemade scones for the WI church tea, and set off.

The menu is short and concise; a choice of half a dozen starters and seven mains. The steak and souffle are a constant presence, while the other options vary with the seasons. One thing that's central to their cooking is local sourcing, the provenance of all the main ingredients is shown on the menu and none is from further that a county border away.

Good house baked bread and local butter to nibble on .

My scallops, cockles and lobster sauce. Exquisitely sweet bivalves and a wonderfully deep, glossy reduction. My only real complaint was their wasn't enough of it. For eleven quid it would have been nice to have seen a couple more cockles an a little extra watercress adorning such a huge plate. As you can see, I made pretty light work of this one.

The Portland crab, my Mum's favourite dish on the menu and the Ewing's choice on our visit. The camera does lie in this case, with the ball of sweet, creamy white meat being a little larger than the picture suggests; and the perfect amount for the crispy, oily toast it sat upon.

I can quite see why my Mum raves about this so much; for my money crab from the South coast rivals that to which I've eaten anywhere in the world. Trips to Lymington to eat crab baguettes with my sister was a favourite treat back when we were students.

My rump steak with salad, fries and Bearnaise sauce. This decent chunk of pavé de coeur was as local as you could hope for, hailing from Iwerne Minster, just across the fields from the pub. I found it a little strange that the lump of hot meat had been positioned on a bed cold salad leaves, rendering them a little warm and soggy, but a careful bit of repositioning managed to salvage most the greenery.

A good couple of inches thick, and well charred all over, the steak looked rather past the rare I requested when I first cut it to it, but leaving it to rest for a further few minutes saw a rosy blush reappear. The flavour was wonderful; deep, smoky, nicely chewy and properly beefy. Exactly what you want from a simple piece of meat, even when slightly overcooked for my liking.

The fries and Bearnaise were both exceptional. Although the ramekin of sauce seemed a little miserly at first, it was so perfectly rich, glossy and buttery that it provided the perfect amount for dipping the impossibly crisp and fluffy potatoes. Certainly worth the calories.

My mum and Sam chose the lobster thermidor, fair value at £22.00 for a decent sized, locally caught crustacean. The Poole Harbour lobster half was big and sweet, the chunks of buttery meat standing up well to the rich, cheesy sauce. The plentiful dish of chips were the same ones I had enjoyed, a very good vehicle for any left over bechamel or seafood juices.

The Ewing ordered the roe venison haunch salad, and was rather surprised and intrigued to received this. It was more like a late spring Sunday lunch in a bowl, with caramelised baby carrots, greens, roasted beets and bacon sharing the space with some butter-soft venison chunks.

Despite being a little tricky to eat from the enamel dish, this was a very enjoyable plate of food; the mixture of sweet, bitter and salty working together nicely. There was also a goodly amount of rich gravy, perfect for mopping with the crusty bread. A nice, simple idea for the warmer weather.

My Rum Baba, a firm favourite that is seldom seen on this side of the Channel. Apart from its rather non-traditional rectangular shape, this was my pudding perfection. The buttery yeast dough was saturated with a rich rum syrup and dried fruits, and came with a scoop of gloriously smooth vanilla ice cream and an extra shot of golden rum.

While I was gently groaning with syrup-soaked pleasure the Ewing was having a similar reaction to her chocolate terrine with a shot of Turkish coffee. The terrine was impossibly rich and thick, just like the centre of a very decent chocolate truffle, and heaven for a confirmed chocoholic. The glass of coffee provided a needed bitter counterpoint for the sweet stickiness of the pud.

Overall a lovely dinner and, with the rather sizeable bill, a very generous treat from my mum and Sam. Although some of the portions may be a little on the bijou side, the flavour, presentation and quality of the food meant we all waddled away sated and happy after our meal.

The chance to recline and digest our meal at leisure was cut somewhat short by having to rush straight off after the last mouthful of pud, so we could catch the mini bus up to Win Green and see the beacon being lit for the Golden Jubilee celebrations. Bottle of red in hand it was a rousing end to a very nice weekend.

Pie Wars - Big Apple Vs Windy City

The Ewing and I were very blessed on our American trip; good weather, good company and a wonderful adventure. There is of course always some rough with the smooth and the nadir of this holiday came late on a Monday afternoon at a very windswept Coney Island. After my camera had broken, my watch had stopped and sand had blown in my hot dog we decided to abandon the beach and find Totonno's, the famous coal fired pie shop just off the sea front. While finding it proved easy enough, seeing it was closed until Wednesday finally tipped me over the edge. After a (very) half hearted attempt to kick a small tree The Ewing took charge and marched us off to the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge, home of Grimaldi's Coal Brick-Oven Pizzaria.

Patsy Grimaldi Learnt to make pies at his uncles in Harlem, before moving over the bridge to his Brooklyn storefront (Manhattan had, by that point, banned any new coal-fired ovens for safety reasons). What happened next was a saga featuring sell-outs, franchising and naming-wars deserving of its own mini-series, but all we really need to know for the purpose of this story is that Grimaldi's has just moved to a new location on Front Street, and is still serving coal-fired pies.

Getting there in the late afternoon meant we missed the worst of the lunchtime rush, although even at that time there was still a good 20 minute wait (and you have to join the same queue for take out too). But the lure of a crisp pizza and a cold beer was enough to keep us going.

I, of course, had to have an icy Brooklyn Lager while the Ewing went for a much needed sugar rush, in the form of a bottle of Olde Brooklyn cream soda. I will drink pretty much most things (that includes my Nan's parsnip wine), but still firmly believe that cream soda is the Devil's work. The Ewing polished it off in double quick time though.

In case we were pining for home they had very thoughtfully put the Manchester Derby on the TV, and considering the slightly fraught previous couple of hours it made a welcome distraction from our hunger, tiredness and general dislike of each other by that point.

Thankfully the pizza restored our good mood; we shared a medium red pie, half with garlic. The combination of homemade dough, fresh mozzarella cheese, crushed tomato and a handful of fresh basil is simple perfection. The cheese was milky and melty, the tomatoes provided a little tannic sweetness and the crust managed to be both soft and crispy in all the right places. The garlic on the Ewing's side gave the simple flavours an extra edge and, as our waiter pointed out, would certainly keep the vampires at bay. I would have liked to give the sausage or spinach a try to, but the simple things in life are often the best (as I am living proof) and it would be hard to improve on this triumvirate.

While I didn't have time (and the second stomach)to compare it to any other coal fired NY pies, what I can say, as someone regularly subjected to high street pizza chains in the UK, is that I still dream about it now. And as someone that's always constantly thinking about the next thing they're going to chow down, there can be no higher praise than that.

The blistered underside of my first slice, hot out the oven. For the first time in a long time I ate my first piece with out the adornment of any flaked chilli's, pepper, BBQ sauce or mayo to dunk the crusts in. (Yes, you heard me right readers, mayonnaise.) All this wedge of this pizza needed was to be gently folded down the middle and enjoyed while the mozzarella was still springy and warm, accompanied by a long draught of icy lager.

The Chicago deep pan pizza is a much maligned thing. We met an rather waspish, young East coaster while travelling on the train to San Francisco who proudly told us that he and his friends would never dream of eating such an abomination; even in the Second City itself. I, however remained undeterred;  Saturday afternoon at the baseball followed by Saturday evening eating pizza sounded like the makings of a pretty good weekend to me.

Chicago deep pan pizza can broadly be seen as being served in two styles, regular deep pan, or stuffed. Both styles feature the tomato on top of the cheese, but the stuffed version offers an extra layer of dough between the cheese and the sauce. I was keen to try either, but Grimldi's, the most famous stuffed pizza in the City, was the closest to our hotel, and so it was that we excitedly (well, me, the Ewing wasn't really as eager to experience its doughy delights) made our way there for an early dinner.

Inside is just as you expect it to be. Groups of families, friends and young couples soaking up the 'atmosphere' provided by the rolling sports news on TV, retro Chicago inspired prints on the walls and plastic red-checked tablecloths. If all this sounds unappealing, it isn't supposed to be. The place has a genuinely friendly, buzzy feel, and while it certainly wouldn't be considered a place to linger for an evening, it provides the perfect backdrop for some solid grub.

Amongst all the watery Bud, Coors and Miller there were a few decent craft beers. I enjoyed the 312, a wheat beer from the local Goose Island Brewery. The Ewing went to town with the Windy City Hurricane cocktail, surprisingly strong and tasty despite its modest price tag and lurid cherry garnish.

We tucked in to a house salad while waiting for the pizza to be cooked (they are made to order and need about 40 minutes to cook through). The salad was nice, nothing too remarkable, until the Ewing had her first encounter with ranch dressing....

When the waiter had asked what dressing we wanted, before quickly reeling off a huge list, my mind went blank and I plumped for the first one I could remember. I've always enjoyed ranch on my salad, usually while on holiday in the States, but I could tell from the Ewing's look she was less than impressed with my choice.

After eating the first few leaves unadorned by any dressing she reluctantly poured a little bit on the rest of her plate. Well, readers, the rest was history. To say she enjoyed it was quite the understatement, not only did we have to slather it over all the rest of the salads we ate during the trip we now have a fridge full of it (Paul Newman brand, as the Ewing is impressed he gives all the profits to charidee) In fact, she's probably standing by the fridge necking some straight from the bottle as I write this.

This pizza is a serious beast. Even the 10'' is vast, containing serious amounts of meat and dairy, sandwiched between the thick, bread-like crust, and needing a cake slice to lever each piece out of the pan. Eating it was like swimming into a molten river of cheese, like bobbing up and down in a viscous pool of creamy mozzarella. I was shovelling it in at such a frantic rate that at one point that I nearly choked trying to swallow what must have been the half a pound of cheese that seemed to be stuffed into every piece.

If all this sounds like a terrible thing, trust me it wasn't. (The Ewing, of course, may have a different view, having to watch me grimace and splutter across the table.) Granted, you would need to be a fan of a substantial slice to get this best from this offering, but I really enjoyed it. The crust, as thick and doughy as it seems in the picture, was surprisingly ethereal and buttery without being greasy at all, and the cheese was studded by chunks of wonderful, fennel-spiked sausage.

The real litmus test for this pizza was the Ewing, who I was convinced would reject it out of hand for being too dense and stodgy. Instead she got stuck in like a trooper, managing nearly two slices before waving the white flag of defeat (only a little less than I ate). What was even more surprising is that I found her in the hotel room eating the cold leftovers a day later. Despite the cheese being a solidified mass by this point, and the crust being a little on the crispy side, it was still a rather moreish snack to enjoy in bed while watching the NBA playoffs.

The best pizza? I'm going to completely bail out of making that decision and call it a dead heat. What I do think, as wonderful as Grimaldi's offering was, is that coal (or wood) fired pie is fairly common (if not always great), while Chi Town really is the only home of anything approaching a good deep pan pie. While a good blistered crust with simple fresh toppings is now available in many places around the globe I would have to take a trip back to the Windy City to experience the beauty sinking my teeth deep into gooey cheese and sausage surrounded by a perfectly buttery crust.

So if you find yourself in the Midwest, don't be a pizza snob and try to find the hour to spare to experience one of these beauties. You can always eat the ranch salad while you're waiting.

Girl and The Goat, Chicago

I love birthday meals. No matter how jaded you become about ageing another year it always feels special to be able to go out and celebrate the passing of time with friends and family. When I found out we would be in the Windy City for the Ewing's special day, I set about finding somewhere to mark the occasion. Despite being almost overwhelmed with great dining possibilities, one place that kept cropping up during my search was The Girl and the Goat.

For the uninitiated The Girl and the Goat is a über trendy restaurant run by Top Chef winner Stephanie Izzard. For those of us across the pond the name probably doesn't mean too much, but even now, two years after opening, this place is still smoking hot and booked solid. Now normally I'm quite happy not to mingle with the beautiful people, and consciously avoid anything too hip and cool, but with a regularly changing menu of goat inspired treats, bacon fat gelato, ham frites and creative cocktails, it looked the perfect choice.

Being unusually organised I managed to snag a Friday night reservation (made three months to the day in advance), but even then there were only 5.30 or 10.00 time slots available. I chose the earlier sitting, (we would be arriving from NY, and probably still jet-lagged from our UK flight, meaning it would feel much later anyway), and excitedly began to cross off the next 92 days.

The menu follows the 'small plate' formula, the choices arranged into veg, meat and fish, with another separate menu for bread, oysters and goat based dishes. Two to three dishes are recommended per person, which meant the only real trouble we had was narrowing down what to have.

The 6th Borough. Ingredients: alcohol, alcohol, alcohol. This was one of those fancy highball cocktails that makes you feel like you're in Mad Men as you're drinking it (but look more like you're sucking on a lemon). According to the website it contained Plymouth Dry Gin; Luxardo Maraschino; Amaro Nonino and Dolin Dry Vermouth. It tasted burny, in the best possible way, and kicked things off nicely.

A bread service is offered at four bucks a pop. If that seems a little mean then consider that there is a separate bread menu, with each type being generously portioned and accompanied by its own accoutrement's. I was torn between the pretzel bread with beer butter, bread served with 'not Campbells' tomato and mushroom butters and, our eventual choice, the aMAIZEing bread, served with romesco mole and avocado yogurt. 

The bread was warm and crumbly, and contained a seam of basil butter that soaked into the friable corn crumb. The dips seemed almost superfluous, but it seemed rude not to eat them, the fiery, smoky mole being perfectly tempered by the cool, grassy avocado yogurt.

Pinn Oaks lamb tartare, English pea tapenade, tuna aioli, water crackers. I was excited to try this, but also a little scared of the idea of chunks of raw lamb suspended in a fishy dressing. It turned out to be far less worrying than I imagined; a rather delicate, and quite lovely combination.The addition of the peas lifted the gamey, salty flavours and the home made water crackers were perfectly crisp and delicate.

Pan fried shishito peppers Parmesan, sesame and miso. I wanted to get at least a few veggies in to our meal and had read that the peppers were supposed to be very good. Shisito peppers are a (mostly) sweet Japanese pepper, very similar to the Spanish padron. Here they had been blistered over a high heat to give them a lovely charred edge, but instead of the more familiar rock salt and olive oil garnish they had been doused in an extremely moreish Parmesan and miso dressing. This East meets West combo was sweet, salty with those lovely gooey, crispy bits where the dish had been flashed under the grill. Unusual and delicious.

Diver scallops, braised duck, marcona almond butter, green papaya and green almond nuoc cham. An interesting take on surf and turf with a South East Asian twist. The Scallops were gigantic; seared on the outside and perfectly snow white and wobbly in centre; the fatty duck complementing the crisp, tart shreds of papaya.

Confit goat belly, bourbon butter, lobster n' crab, fennel. There had to be some goat on the menu and this dish seemed like the proper choice for a celebration. Although it might have sounded like a rather challeging combination yet again everything fitted together like a perfect culinary jigsaw. The goat was rather like a decent piece of pork belly, with that deep, slightly funky taste, and the sweetness lobster and crab was coaxed out by the river of bourbon butter thay were wallowing in. The fennel and salad freshened  everything up with a subtle aniseed twist.

We followed our mains with a triple hircine hit of goat's cheese cake topped with a goat bavaroise, cajeta (goat caramel) and candied beets. The Ewing called this out as being just the right side of 'goaty' but I must confess I found the farmyard flavours pretty mild and undistinguished, with the sweetness of the beets and cajeta nicely complementing the fluffy bavavoise and, slightly denser, cheesecake. I usually find 'deconstucted cheesecakes' a bit of a let down, but after all the food consumed before this I was glad to see the biscuit crumbs were restricted to a light scattering on the side.

While in the States we ate huge amount of really very good food, but I still wanted to make room to dedicate a post to this meal on the blog. Not only was both the food and drink great, the service charming (one of the waiters was having a good old banter with the Ewing), and the atmosphere perfect for the occasion, but, as I mentioned above, celebratory meals always feel special. Although she's normally a little shy I couldn't resist posting a photo of the birthday girl herself. Here's to many more years to come.

 

Pineapple, Coconut & Cinnamon Upside Down Cake

When I was growing up the cry of, 'Mum, what's for pudding'? Was, more often than not, met by those three dreaded words: Fruit or yogurt. My mum and sister didn't really have a sweet tooth and my dad was happy with some chocolate with a cuppa later in the evening. Which left me, alone, to rifle through the cupboards for something more exciting (usually a tin of cold Ambrosia, bliss).

This cake was one of the exceptions; as soon as we were old enough to reach the worktops both my sister and I were encouraged to help out in the kitchen, and on a Sunday that meant we could make something that would bake while my dad's yorkies were in the oven. It was a cake that united us as a family around the table. Even my mum would be tempeted to have a slice, slathered in cold cream, before retiring for a snooze in front of the Antiques Roadshow.

It was the first recipe I ever learnt off by heart, a classic sponge with 4, 4, 4, 2 proportions (in old money), or increased to 6oz and 3 eggs if it was a special occasion. A recipe that was so completely perfect in its Sunday tea-time simplicity that I never wanted to change it. It was the mix of tinned fruit, golden syrup and luminous glace cherries that made it so comforting. Such beautiful symmetry. To try and fancy it it up, to mess around with something so wonderful just as it was just seemed, well, wrong. That was until I found a lonely fresh pineapple that had been pining away, unloved, in the corner of the kitchen....

It was my day off and I wanted to bake something that would cheer me up, taste good, and that wouldn't involve a schlep to the shops. Immediately it struck me: Pineapple upside down cake. My Mum had cooked it at Christmas time and it had filled me with such a happy sense of nostalgia (as well as being quite delicious), that it seemed the perfect choice.

First problem was lack of tinned pineapple, but I did have the aforementioned fresh specimen. It wasn't completely traditional, but I decided to go with it anyway. Next problem: no golden syrup, well, I could always substitute some sugar and butter, so that was OK too. I had the eggs, butter, sugar and flour for the cake, but there was also a bit of dessicated coconut at the back of the cupboard that would go very nicely with the tropical fruit. And I had read in Nikki Segnit's wonderful 'Flavour Theasaurus' that cinnamon was perfect with pineapple, too....

So that's how my new version ended up evolving. I can't say for sure it improves upon the original, but the spicy, buttery syrup and the rich, nutty edge to the sponge certainly makes a great cake. Of course, if your not feeling quite as innovative, then feel free to skip the coconut and cinnamon. In the absence of the glace version, I used bottled cherries in Kirsch, but a little dark rum added to the syrup could never be a bad thing either.

Pineapple, Coconut & Cinnamon Upside Down Cake

For the sponge

175g caster sugar

175g butter, softened
3 eggs

175g self raising flour, sieved

50g dessicated coconut

For the syrup

50g butter

50g soft brown sugar (or substitute butter and sugar for approx 100ml golden syrup)

1/2 tsp ground cinnamon

4-5 slices of pineapple (more if tinned)

Glace cherries/cherries in kirsch

Melt together the butter, sugar and cinnamon in a small saucepan and pour into the tin. (If using syrup just spoon straight into the tin with the cinnamon.)

Carefully arrange the pineapple slices in the bottom of the tin (cutting in half if necessary) and place a cherry in the centre of each ring.

Cream together the sugar and butter until light and creamy.

Beat in the eggs, then gently stir in the flour, cinnamon and coconut.

Pour the mixture into the tin and bake in the pre-heated oven for 40-50 minutes, or until a skewer inserted in the middle comes out clean.

Allow to cool slightly in the tin before turning out onto a serving plate.

Serve with double cream or ice cream.