MEATmarket, Covent Garden

Firstly, a confession: this blog post has been written with the sole intention of self gratification. If you were going to eat a burger at any branch of the, rightly, much lauded MEAT trilogy, it's more than likely you would have queued up with the cool kids and done so by now. And you certainly wouldn't need me to tell you about their juicy, beefy, sloppy deliciousness.

But, as MEATmarket is celebrating their first birthday (50% off for all Twitter followers wishing them a happy birthday today), and writing about miserable meals makes me feel miserable while writing about things I've enjoyed puts a smile on my face (and extra pounds on my waistline), then please just indulge me.

Back in the day having a day off in the week meant, more often than not, grabbing the latest Time Out, jumping on the train to Marylebone and spending an afternoon eating, drinking and making merry. Sometimes I'd meet friends and family, but more often than not I'd please myself, spending a few hours in the National Portrait Gallery, finding interesting new groceries and sweets at the Japan Centre or Cyber Candy, or watch an 'arty' film in Soho. Going on weekdays also meant fewer crowds to wade through, and the illicit feeling that you really should be at work, rather than putting the world to right over a pint or two in a sunny beer garden on a Wednesday afternoon.

While I may be older and (supposedly wiser), I still get a day off in the week; although now it seems to be filled with hum drum things like hoovering, washing, cooking or waiting in for the delivery man. Last week, however, after a distinctly average weekend, I decided to take advantage of my Monday off by heading to the Big Smoke for a stroll in the spring sunshine and a spot of lunch. I debated a while about where to go and what to do, but in the end decided to let fate guide me. And fate wanted a burger...

My wanderings lead me down the Strand and to Covent Garden, a familiar old haunt which I now usually surreptitiously avoid. While it's fine if you have an interest in jugglers, human statues or overpriced chain restaurants there isn't much else to get excited about. Until I remembered MEATmarket, the second bricks and mortar incarnation of the MEAT empire; a skinny little space tucked away on the edge of the touristy bustle of Covent Garden and overlooking the resolutely old school Jubilee Market. If you don't fancy browsing through sets of antique spoons or cheap 'I heart London' tea towels then there's another, much quieter, entrance around the back on Tavistock Street.

 

The interior and vibe is far more 'fast' food than the other, more 'restauranty' branches, although the menu is broadly similar. This made MEATmarket a no brainer for this solo diner who wanted meat, drink and a bit of peace and quiet to try and finish their book on Seventies politics (far more interesting than it actually sounds...).

I started with a plain vanilla bleached shake (their other two varieties being souped up with maple syrup and bourbon, or Coole Swan chocolate cream liqueur). I can't remember the last time I ordered a vanilla shake, probably because their so, well, vanilla, but I'm pleased to say that this hit the spot. Cold, thick and creamy with just the right amount of sweetness. A simple, well executed, soft serve shake is a very fine start to any burger-based blow out and the perfect chip dip (really, try it).

 

For the main event I went for the Black Palace burger, their pimped up take on a White Castle slider served with pickles, mustard and steamed onions, and the signature dish here. I was a little dubious, judging from things I had heard/read that the grilled onions would prove a step too far, and pushing what are known to b some of the sloppiest burgers known to man into a new and dangerous territory. 

Sadly my fears were confirmed, after quickly unwrapping my parcel it was already beginning to resemble burger soup; after the first few bites, more seemed to be running down my wrists and chin than reaching my mouth. Flavour wise, however, it was still spot on, and after jettisoning most the overwhelming allium cargo, I greatly enjoyed the beefy, pink patties of charred meat, glazed with gooey cheese and topped with a slick of punchy ballpark mustard and piquant pickle slices.

I find the MEAT buffalo wings with a blue cheese dip are some of the finest in their class. Like the rest of their menu, they're not subtle flavour-wise, having been fried until crisp and doused in a vat of luminous hot sauce. If you find them too fiery, the cheesy sauce alongside provides the perfect palate soother, but I rather like the tingly sensation on my tongue.

These wings make you work hard for your dinner; being small and knobbly, with a decent amount of chew. But for my money they're worth it, far outweighing the flabby, gloopy, overly sweet lumps of protein that masquerade as wings elsewhere. There also the true definition of moreish, and no matter how much I wanted to grab a lid for the container and take a few home for later, I knew that all that would remain was a pile of bones

Like its brethren, MEATmarket is bold, brash and big on flavour. It's also very good fun. On my visit, admittedly on a quiet weekday afternoon, my trucker-capped server was unfailingly polite, offering to bring a lid for my uneaten wings (no chance) and leaving me in peace to read my book after my fast food fest. I even spotted founder, Yianni, himself; rearranging the magnetic letters while plotting his next steps to total burger domination, no doubt. Come hungry, leave happy (and covered in a light sheen of burger grease and hot sauce).

Claridge's, Mayfair

'Under certain circumstances there are few hours more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea'. Henry James

Any eagle-eyed readers (hello, Mum) may have noticed the proliferation of tea and cakes on the blog lately. This indulgence in one of Britain’s most refined pastimes was crowned by our recent trip to the iconic Claridge’s for afternoon tea. The idea was originally suggested just after Christmas, but the endearing popularity of the place (and the recent TV documentary) meant we had to wait until mid-April for a weekday table for six; which happened to coincide nicely with the Birthday Boy’s special day.

The whole place is just dripping with a discreet razzle dazzle that, from the moment the top-hatted doormen help you through the revolving entrance, can’t fail to charm. The hotel has serious pedigree, and from reading the potted history here, nothing much seems to have changed; you can still imagine bumping into all the Bright Young Things, Hollywood stars and exiled kings who have been here before. Carey Grant even proclaimed he would rather go to Claridge’s than heaven.

The tea rooms are just off the main lobby area. A civilised oasis of art deco inspired calm, complete with musicians to soothe you as you eat your sandwiches. We were shown to a long table flanked by a huge leather sofa, with views out to the pianist, and topped with two comfy armchairs. Of course the sofa made the perfect cheesy photo opportunity, and the staff were only too happy too oblige.

The choice is simple - afternoon tea, featuring a set selection of sandwiches scones and patisserie, served with out without a glass of fizz. The hardest decision is what brew to drink; the tea menu stretches to a dozen or so pages, featuring all manner of rare tisanes and infusions.

It went without question that we would have fizz, although we stuck to ‘regular’ Veuve Cliquot, baulking slightly at the supplement for the rose. As Stealth sagely pointed out to the Birthday Boy, ‘it won’t taste thirteen pound better’.  The flutes themselves are large and generously filled, so at least being slightly pissed takes the edge off the extra expense. And, of course, one can never tire of champagne, darling.

While it may be slightly disappointing to not be offered any warm treats, such as savouries on toast boiled eggs, quiches or other such afternoon staples in days of yore, the food is, as you’d expect, top notch. First come plates of sandwiches, sans crust, filled with cucumber - obviously, smoked salmon and cream cheese, chicken and salad, egg mayo, and ham and tomato. While it may have sounded the most pedestrian, the ham was possibly my pick of a, very good, bunch. Thick, hand carved slices of meat with the comforting tickle of mustard. The walnut bread with chicken was quite also delicious, but the cucumber, benchmark of the finest high teas, was unforgivably soggy.

You may think, as I did, that it would be almost impossible to ever get full eating such dainty morsels, but after being offered, and eating, our second round of sarnies we thought it best to move on to something sweet before we got too stuffed.

To accompany the next course we were served our choice of teas; the Claridge’s royal blend for the plebs, the Tregothan Cornish Earl Grey for the Ewing, and the First flush Darjeeling (the champagne of teas, doncha know) for me. The tea was a glorious thing, from the elegant stripy art deco teapots, to the delicate silver strainers and the box of sugar cubes - from which we had to restrain Stealth on for purloining for her magic tricks.

Most importantly, the drinks kept coming, every time I could see the bottom of my cup, a be-suited arm slipped in to top it up. It typified the service on our visit; friendly, professional and, most importantly, unobtrusive. 

The scones at Claridges are rather unusual, coming in both apple and raisin flavours and being accompanied by dishes of their signature Marco Polo jam and plenty of clotted cream. The scones weren’t the very finest I have partaken in, but they did possess a subtle and unusual fruit flavour which paired nicely with the tea-infused jelly.

The arrival of the cakes heralded the only moment of discord. There were four different types of seasonal desert, but only three of each on the platter. Sensing there could so be teaspoons at dawn, our waiter quickly stepped in to assure us that more could be ordered if required. Despite initially not being too keen on sharing, we all soon learnt that they could be divvied up so everyone could get a taste of everything. Apart from the Ewing and her chocolate brownie; no one would dare to ask for that to be split….

My favourite was the custard and puff pastry millefuille, a truly decadent slice of deliciousness. The miniature shots of lemon meringue pie (they bought extra, so we could all have one each) were also pretty joyful; tart lemon curd, buttery biscuit crumbs and glazed Swiss meringue. Glazed fruit tarts were as pretty as a picture and the chocolate mousse topped chocolate brownie was sinfully squidgy and rich, just as it should be.

As a nice touch they also bought the Birthday Boy an extra brownie topped with a candle. At this point extra cake was totally unneeded, but very much appreciated. Luckily we had the Ewing to help polish it off.

In case there was any danger we would still be hungry, six little boxes of chocolates arrived along with the (sizable) bill. Afternoon tea here isn't cheap, starting at £40, and rising to £63 with a glass of rose champagne. But they say money can't buy class, and that's something Claridge's has in spades. Which is something that can't always be said for me and my lovely dining companions....

Duck, Prunes and Carrots

Recently I've been re-reading Pierre Koffmann's fabulous Memories of Gascony. Part memoir, part recipe book, it follows the young chef as he makes his annual visits to his grandparent's farm; charting the local food, festivals and familial exploits through the changing seasons. It's a wonderful window into rural South West France; celebrating the simple things in life. And it always fills me with a yearning to eat foie gras and drink Armangac. 

This is my interpretation of a dish in the book (the original fed 12) made using duck legs and prunes, two of the best known exports from the Gers region. I love prunes, and it saddens me they always seem to get such a bad rap - seen merely as a fruity laxative or 'health' food and something to be endured rather than enjoyed. Good prunes (the best are from Agen) have a wonderful, smoky liquorice-tinted edge and can work equally well with both salty or sweet flavours. 

Duck is another underrated ingredient which I never seem to see enough of. As with chicken the legs are more flavoursome, more forgiving to cook, and much cheaper than the breast. Duck fat is also the nectar of the gods, and any extra gleaned from cooking this recipe should be saved for brilliant roasties or for making confit. With the life expectancy of the French being only second to that of the Japanese the antioxidants in the prunes and red wine seem to be successfully counteracting all the saturated fat. Luckily the rest of the bottle used for making the sauce also makes the perfect accompaniment for the finished dish.

To serve alongside I wanted some sort of root veg, and what better than the humble winter carrot. Instead of just chopping then up and chucking them in the pot, or steaming them in the usual batons, I decided to serve a whole glazed carrot per person. After peeling and trimming I covered them and slowly cooked in the oven alongside the duck, before finishing with a light butter and brown sugar glaze. Very simple and looks great on the plate, too.

Koffmann uses duck livers pounded with Armagnac to thicken his sauce, If, like myself, duck livers aren't forthcoming then remove the lid and cook uncovered until sauce is reduced, or alternatively, thicken with beurre manié - mix a small knob of butter with the same amount of flour, whisk into the sauce and cook out for a few minutes until it is thickened and glossy. 

If you want to keep things simple, and a little more rustic, then you can omit straining the stock. Just add the prunes to the dish about half an hour before the duck legs are ready and serve straight from the casserole - thicken as above, as needed. You might want to add a few lardons of bacon, for an extra smoky savouriness, along with the duck at the beginning. Cook until gently browned and continue as per the rest of the recipe.

Duck Legs with Prunes and Carrot

Serves 2 (double up as necessary)

2 duck legs

Sea salt

1 onion, chopped

1 clove of garlic, chopped

1/2 bottle of red wine

2 bay leaves

1 sprig of thyme

Splash of brandy or Armanac

10 prunes

2 large carrots, peeled and trimmed

1 small knob of butter

Pinch of sugar

Pinch of salt

Preheat the oven to 180c

Salt the duck legs on both sides, place in a casserole, skin side down, and lightly brown on each side.

Add the onion and garlic and cook until they have both softened. Drain off any excess fat, then add the wine, bring to a boil and simmer for a few minutes. The liquid should be almost covering the duck. If needed top up with a little water or chicken stock.

Add the herbs and place in the oven for about an hour, or until the duck legs are tender.

Remove duck legs to a plate and cover, strain the liquid into a clean pan, add a splash of brandy or Armanac and reduce until glossy - alternatively thicken with beurre manié (see above)

Add the prunes and simmer for a few more minutes.

Add the duck legs and any resting juices to the pan and heat through gently.

Serve the duck and prunes with the glazed carrots, the rest of the red wine and some French beans or puy lentils

For the carrots

Place the carrots in a small roasting dish, add the butter, sugar, salt and a good splash of water.

Cover with foil and roast in the oven for about 30 minutes, or until the carrots are cooked through but not mushy (put them in the oven about halfway through cooking the duck).

Remove foil and put back in oven until the water has evaporated and the carrots are lightly glazed and golden.

The Big Society, Oxford

'Food critics are forever doomed to compare everything they're eating now to everything they've eaten before.' The Ewing, 2013. 

My wife came out with this little nugget as we we sat digesting our lunch at The Big Society in in Oxford; and, I must admit I guess she may have a (rather depressing) point. While you try to look at each breakfast, lunch or dinner in context there's always the memory of the perfect meal, or,even worse, the perfect ideal, there in the back of your mind. A reference point with which to gauge each and every mouthful you eat.

It's not that I even remotely consider myself a food critic, merely a greedy person with an opinion (and we all know what part of the human anatomy they're linked with), who likes to write about some of the things I cook and meals that I eat. I certainly have no interest with darkening the internet with my negative views of certain places/experiences (although I'm fairly confident no one pays much heed to my opinions anyway). But I guess it does get harder and harder to look at things through new eyes, especially when so many places seem to be following the same path.

Anyway, back to our lunch. The Big Society is a large pub serving American style 'fast' food on The Cowley Road. While it is situated opposite the lovely Atomic Burgers, the fact they both sell meat in a bun is really the only link between the two. While Atomic Burger focuses on 80s kitsch, the Big Society seems to have very much modelled itself on a certain Marylebone burger joint. Hence the Ewing's earlier comments; how does it compare to places in the Big Smoke, and is there a point in doing so?

The greeting that welcomed us was as bright and cheery as the spring sunshine that was finally beginning to peek through the clouds. Our friendly bar tender explained that drinks and food are ordered up the bar and bought to your table when ready, and even helpfully let us try some of the beers they had on tap before we made our choice.

The beer is served in 2/3 of a pint glass (at 2/3 pint prices). A nice idea, meaning you can try more without forgetting what you're drinking. I found it especially cheering to order a couple of drinks, pay with a tenner and get a note back with my change. My choice, the Big Society Pale Ale, was perfect, with massive amounts of juicy hops to deal with all the rich meat and cheese. The Ewing enjoyed something a little smoother and maltier, brewed in nearby Abingdon.

While the menu looks suspiciously familiar - with the food served on metal trays, and the drinks in jam jars - they say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; and while there are many similarities, the Big Society have stamped enough of their own style on the place to give it some of its own unique Oxford character. The Ewing particularly liked the murals decorating the walls, and there's also a large beer garden, wi-fi, and a ping pong table to help burn off those burgers.

We chose a selection of different dishes and sides to share; fried chicken, slaw, cheeseburger, fried pickles, mac and cheese and chilli cheese fries. I really fancied sampling the hot wings, too, but even I sensed ordering anything else would have been sheer folly, as well as struggling to fit on our tray).

The things that had been in the fryer; the chicken, pickles and chips; really needed to stay acquainted with the hot oil for longer, to become properly golden and crunchy. As it was, they were - a bit like myself when the sun comes out - rather on the pale and flaccid side. A minor shame, as the ethereal pickle batter had adhered to the spears like a second skin, a very hard trick to get right, and the chicken (thumbs up for dark meat) was tender and nicely spiced. And the onion rings I saw being delivered to other tables looked pretty majestic, too.

The chilli cheese fries, despite suffering from pallid potatoes, were, however, brilliant. The chilli itself, a thin, bean-less and fiery mixture, was the best I have eaten in a very long time and made me rue not trying the chilli dog. Luckily for me, they proved too spicy for the Ewing, so I got to enjoy most of the sticky, meaty, greasy bowlful of goodness myself.

The red cabbage slaw was also bang on, providing a cool and creamy counterpoint to the chilli heat. We fought with our forks over last shreds, leading to me - (not very) hilariously - to sing Purple Rain every time the vibrant violet sauce dripped across the table. There was also a thimble of mystery dressing/dip on the tray that looked a bit like a lumpy pint of milk found the fridge when you return from holiday, but didn't have much discernible taste of its own.

The mac and cheese was decent; the pasta still had bite, the sauce was good and gooey, and it was bronzed nicely on top. My favourite elbow macaroni had been replaced with the larger penne rigate, but the Ewing didn't seem unduly bothered, and happily scoffed the lot.

The cheeseburger was very fine; bright orange melty cheese, squishy, slightly sweet bun; excellent burger sauce, crunchy shredded iceberg; and a juicy patty that was a little crumbly but extra beefy. My only real criticism of this was size. While it was more than enough as part of our mega feast, all alone, even when served with the hefty portions of fries they offer, I fear it might struggle to satisfy. 

Ultimately, we decided over much heated debate, the main criteria for a good meal remains the same, no matter where you are and what your eating. Namely does it taste good, did you enjoy the experience, and would you want to go again. And in all cases, the Big Society scored a big thumbs up.

And, though it may not score quite so highly for originality, just like with our recent visit to Red's, this is a place where the staff seem to really care about the food they're producing, and have managed to create a laid back and welcoming ambience that made our visit such a pleasure. And, far from ruing the spread of this burger and beer based cuisine, I just wish there was a Big Society in my town.

The Chocolate Theatre, Henley

Come along inside…. We'll see if tea and buns can make the world a better place

The Wind in the Willows

Growing up where I did, the river Thames meandering through local villages, blossom-edged hedgerows and striped green lawns, may sound quite idyllic - unless you happen to be a teenager who actually lives there. No fast food, no cinema, and two pubs where everyone not only knows your name, but your age, too. Luckily, the Big Smoke was only a short train journey away.

It was only when we reached our later teenage years, and learnt to drive, that the local bucolic pleasures started to be appreciated. Afternoons spent in country pub gardens and country drives before sat nav or mobiles, where half of the fun was getting horribly lost. One of our favourite trips was over to Henley, where you could hire a boat on the Thames for a few hours, take a picnic to eat on the bandstand, or go for a cream tea at the Henley Tea Rooms.

While the tea rooms are still here, they have been recently taken over and renamed the Chocolate Theatre Cafe. The Ewing's idea of heaven. Gone are the the cosy dark wooden booths (which I do miss a little), to be replaced by a far brighter colour scheme and a five metre long glass cabinet that's crammed with home made chocolates, ice cream, cakes, gateaux, biscuits and pastries. They also offer a range of home cooked breakfasts, light lunches and cream teas. And, living up to their name, a menu of 25 different types of hot chocolate, ranging from white chocolate with nougat to extra thick Italian style.

We both chose the Henley Royal Cream Tea, a choice of sandwiches; scones with cream and jam; and a pot of tea for two. The tea was fine, although, being made with finest Thames Valley tap, suffered in comparison with the sparkling clear and bright brew we had enjoyed at Bettys a week earlier. There was also only one small pot to share, with no extra hot water offered, so we were already feeling parched again before our scones had even appeared.

There's a decent selection of freshly made sandwiches to chose from, all served with crisps and, as a bonus to keep my hair curly, served with the crusts left on. Sadly my chicken with a lemon tarragon mayonnaise and dried cranberries was pretty lacklustre. The filling was almost completely devoid of flavour, and the meat had a strangely soft consistency. The Ewing's smoked salmon and cucumber was far more successful; generously stuffed with fish and served on a great malted bread.

Raisin scones were good, served warm and with generous lashings of clotted cream and strawberry jam - surely there are not many things more disappointing as not having enough cream and jam to anoint your buns. Eating these made me realise how wonderful a simple cream tea can be; the sort of food that provokes an involuntary 'mmmm' every time you take another bite.

In a moment of sheer folly, I prepared my scone 'Cornish' style (that is with the jam on the bottom, cream on top), while the Ewing stuck with my favoured 'Devonshire' style (cream first). Apart from being told off by my wife for getting jam in the cream pot, and the jam-on-top incarnation looking rather more photogenic, I can scientifically say that flavour-wise they were both as divine as each other.

Of course, we couldn't leave without trying some of their eponymous chocolate based-goods. As we were far too full to do justice to their comprehensive hot chocolate menu, we chose a couple of slices of cake to take away. While everything in the cabinets looked great, especially the key lime meringue pie, Ameretto cheesecake, and apple tart; the Ewing went for the towering chocolate fudge cake, while I had the wobbly white chocolate and raspberry mousse cake. Both very much worth the calories when devoured the following afternoon.

The best tea rooms should be a calm and civilised oasis, that appeal to every strata of society, and that was certainly true of the Chocolate cafe. On our visit we saw young men, meeting up with their mates for a catch up over ice cream; families with sticky fingered children eagerly pressing their noses against the cake cabinet; tourists who appeared at turns both bemused and enchanted by this slice of middle England; ladies who lunch, buying big boxes of cakes to take home; and couples looking for a chance to ignore each other over a quiet slice of cake and the weekend papers. A special mention, too, for the helpful service, which remained very attentive and efficient, despite the obvious popularity of the place.

Although the Thames was cloaked in foggy drizzle, the Chocolate Theatre's beautiful riverside location means there's few places nicer for a postprandial walk. And while the weather may have been more befitting the local Canada geese than us pair of intrepid adventurers, we managed to get far enough to burn off at least half a scone and a triangle of sandwich before retreating to the car. Next time I hope to walk far enough to justify a mug of their peanut butter hot chocolate.

Thanks to the Henley Standard for the exterior photo.

Reds True Barbecue, Leeds

The origins of 'real' barbecue - the cooking meat in the smoke of a charcoal fire, rather than directly over the flames - are debatable. It probably came from the Caribbean, introduced to the New World by Spanish explorers, and quickly took off in the Southern States of America soon after the pig had been introduced. Soon there were smoke stacks popping up all over the lower US as 'cue took hold.

While we have a long tradition on this Isle of smoking fish, seafood and even cheeses, barbecues here have always meant charred sausages and raw chicken. There have been many ersatz places - usually with a faux cowboy theme, selling boiled ribs basted in sugary sauces and bottles of Bud, such as our visit to Leed's Rib Shakk last Easter. But, for most Londoners it took the opening of the Pitt Cue Trailer under the Hungerford Bridge in 2011 to finally show us the delights of meat with a proper smoke ring.

Soon, Pitt Cue found its own bricks and mortar gaff in the centre of Soho and was awarded best newcomer in the 2013 Zagat Guide. Suddenly it seemed our meat lust had been unleashed as dozens of other 'cue joints clamoured to open in its wake. I've even smoked my very own Roscoe's Root Beer Ribs.

One of these pretenders is Reds True Barbecue in central Leeds, opposite the aforementioned Rib Shakk. Not only do they have the slow cooked meats served in chipped enamel dishes, and a selection of craft beer and bourbon with pickle juice chasers, they also have a no reservations policy, too. 

Luckily we were in town early with my uncle John, a man who loves meat possibly more than any one else I know, and who was quite happy to brave the biting winds and join the Ewing and I at the front of the queue. As it was a Tuesday lunchtime, I wondered if we may have been a little over cautious by arriving before their noon time opening; but as the doors were unlocked a cluster of about twenty people had built up behind us, and within fifteen minutes of being seated there was already a waiting list.

The menu at Reds, unlike Pitt Cue's brief single page, is a comprehensive tome. Normally this is a sure fire way to set off the warning sirens, and a nightmare with someone as indecisive as the Ewing. While it's probably a bit too sprawling overall, essentially it all comes down to smoked meats, grilled meats, sides, and a selection of (mostly meaty) salads and sarnies.

Pleasingly there's a roll call at the back of the menu, listed under 'the Believers', of all the producers that supply the restaurant. Everything that they can source locally, from the meat, bread, cheese, eggs, salad and ice cream, comes from Yorkshire (with the tatties from over the border in Lincs).

Each table is furnished with a rack holding a variety of sauces that would make any condiment lover's heart beat a little faster. All homemade, except for the 'Judas ketchup' at the end, they showcase all the great American 'cue styles; from the mustard-based sauce of South Carolina; to the vinegar-based sauce of the North Carolina; to the most familiar, smoky and sticky Kansas City incarnation.

Having sampled them all, I can attest that they're all worthy - although the Triple 8 hot sauce, while tasting good, was disappointingly wimpy, heat-wise. If you're really craving more capsaicin, then they do offer a chance to pimp your ribs with their 'Epic Unholy Sauce' for an extra pound. 

Like the food, there's also a big list of drinks, ranging from whiskey 'boilermakers' to craft beer chasers, as well as a good selection of wines and cocktails. If you're up for a party then buckets of Dixie lager and growlers (six pint jugs of Brooklyn Ale) are available. We were rather more modest in our choices, sticking with Anchor Steam Beer and Anchor Steam Porter, with its rich toffee and liquorice notes.

Something I was also keen to taste was the Snake Dog IPA from the Flying Dog Brewery in Maryland, whose cans and bottles are designed by peerless Raph Steadman. Weighing in at a fearsome 7.1%, and listed on the menu as having 'a tropical, almost Um Bongo nose', how could a child raised on 80s packed lunches resist. They weren't wrong with their desciption; this power hopped beast has a massive aroma which is quite intoxicating, before you've even had a sip. The flavour is a little more restrained, with a grapefruit-bitter edge. A very fine IPA indeed.

Booze free options include a very nice, and not too sweet, housemade sweet tea - made with Yorkshire tea no less - and a tart housemade lemonade.

I sampled a feasting plate with a half rack of St Louis ribs and a Texan hot link sausage, accompanied by mac and cheese and sweet potato fries. The meat fell from the ribs with a surprising ease, perhaps a little too easily for my liking, but the smoke flavour was nicely judged and the bbq sauce slathered over them sweet and tangy. The hot link, a smoked pork and beef sausage that's a speciality of the Lone Star state, was wonderfully garlicky, with a good lick of heat.

Initially sides seemed a little bland, with the fries on the soggy side and the macaroni cheese a bit toothless, but as the flavour of the smoke from the meat grew, it was good to have some carb-y comfort blankets to offset the spice. A shout out for the pickles, too. The addition of the sharp and crunchy cucumber spears almost made it feel as if I was getting one of my five-a-day.

The Ewing's Donut Burger; two chargrilled patties topped with cheese, bacon and Red's special sauce. Monstrous or genius, depending on your perspective. As only a few errant blobs of sauce and crumbs remained at the end, the evidence firmly suggested the Ewing was in the latter camp; and from the couple of bites she (un)happily shared with me, I have to agree.

While I'm not sure I could have dispatched the whole creation without it becoming cloying (the piquant burger sauce certainly helped), the springy, fresh donut was rather like a good brioche, and was far preferably to many a sub-par bap I've been presented with. If you remain unconvinced, then their other burgers come with a 'glazed artisan bun', which sounds rather good, too.

All hail the majesty of Uncle John and his Bucket O'Bones. The menu didn't lie, this was literally a metal garbage pail stuffed with a selection of various different bone-in delights - including burnt ends, beef ribs and babybacks. Although he generously offered them around, apart from the Ewing snaffling a couple of bones, he gnawed his way through the entire thing. And then took down a mini loaf of cornbread, a dish of barbecue pit beans, and a taste of all our other other sides..... Beat that, Adam Richman,

A special mention must also go to the amazing bbq pit beans; spiced beans with added onions, chunks of burnt ends and pulled pork, finished off in the smoker for four hours.

Although obscene amounts had already been consumed, the Ewing wasn't prepared to leave without at least sampling a slice of the peanut butter cheesecake. A layer of  peanut and cream cheese sandwiched between a chocolate ganache topping and chocolate biscuit base. I was rather enamoured with this, although the Ewing wasn't quite as convinced.

Uncle John didn't let the side down, enjoying a fudgy Mississippi mud brownie with a scoop of Yorkshire vanilla ice cream, while I decided to have my ice cream in liquid form, choosing the Reds Ultimate Shake. A combination of chocolate fudge with a slice of their 'award winning' caramel apple pie, all served in a glass pint bottle from a local dairy. While I enjoyed the unusual fruit and cinnamon-spiked flavour, the texture was disappointingly thin and lacking in both pie and ice cream. More like a creamy chocolate milk than the extra thick shake I was hoping for.

While it may appear to the uninitiated that Reds is just like any other mass produced faux Americana joint, it really does feel like a lot of love goes into the 'cue here. And that lovin' feeling they put into the food obviously extends to the staff, who were quite charming throughout our visit, even when the Ewing bowled straight into one poor chap in her eagerness to get through the door. 

While a shiny new restaurant in a northern town isn't ever going to be able to evoke the smoke on the breeze and piles of  post oak piled up outside a tumbledown joint in the Southern States, huge credit must go to Reds for having the enthusiasm and knowledge to pull off such a successful Yorkshire-American barbecue hybrid. However incongruous that might sound.