Polpo At Home

For Christmas my good friend Stealth bought me the Polpo cookbook. This was not because she thought I would like it (I did), or that we had enjoyed eating in Russell Norman's restaurants together before (we had), but because of an incident in Spain a year and a half previously. In order to practise her schoolgirl Spanish she had attempted to order dinner one night, which resulted in my getting Pollo (chicken) instead of the polpo (octopus) I had requested. Of course, I took it very well (I didn't, getting my fluent in Spanish friend, Tom, to order the right dish), but it has remained a bit of a joke ever since.

After receiving my gift my thoughts turned to a visit to one of the four branches of Polpo, so we could scoff an array of delights featured in the book while getting merry on Campari. But then I realised, what better opportunity to try out some of their dishes at home for ourselves. It (should) be cheaper and easier; we had plenty of supplies of prosecco stashed away; and, hopefully, there would still be leftovers for the day after. In fact the only down side seemed to be the prospect of all the washing up.

This DIY approach also tied in very nicely with my budgeting attempts (not spending more than twenty pounds a person on food when dining out until mid-May). Although individually the sharing dishes aren't pricey, when you get a hungry group together, consider the Ewing's gravitation towards most expensive things on the menu and then add booze to the mix, you could soon be looking at a far heftier bill than you anticipated.

With Stealth's visit booked up in the diary it was then down to the business of choosing which of the many delicious looking dishes to try. In the end it was a bit of a no-brainer; with the cold weather and the fact that I was busy at work all week and needed something quick and hassle free, it could only really have been a batch of their iconic meatballs with tomato sauce. 

At Polpo they serve four flavours (pork/beef, pork, duck and lamb); I wanted to make the duck and porcini, but ended up running out of time and going for the simpler pork and fennel (top), and, the best selling, pork and beef (bottom). I made the first batch for lunch with Stealth, and the second batch, to compare, a week later.

You can find the recipe for the Pork and Fennel version here. For my version of the basic tomato sauce: finely chop a red onion and two  crushed cloves of garlic sweated in olive oil, then add three tins of tomatoes and a good pinch of sugar, simmer for an hour, cool, blend with a stick blender and add a good pinch of oregano and another glug of olive oil to finish.

The pork version were delicious; the egg and breadcrumbs made for quite a dense ball, but they were a lot jucier than anticipated and held together well. Although I used more fennel than specified in the original recipe next time I would up the fennel and chilli even further, as I found the seasoning a little underpowered. The beef balls had a deeper, more interesting flavour, but I found them far more fragile to handle (my pork/beef ratio was 50:50, instead of the 70:30 in the book), and a little drier in texture. I did enjoy the extra garlic, though.

Both versions, when combined with the simple tomato sauce (I omitted the fresh tomatoes, as I couldn't find any decent ones in the depth of mid winter) were fabulous. Fancy enough to make a great supper with friends, but also economical and very simple. At Polpo they are served as a cichetti (Venetian bar snack), with spaghetti, or in a piadini smash (kind of meatball wrap). As mentioned above we had ours with polenta and greens, although I also may also have been caught eating them cold straight out of the fridge the next morning.

After the success of the fennel seeds in the spicy pork balls I decide to carry on the anise theme by trying something featuring fresh Florence fennel, too.

I always used to think of fennel as a summery salad and barbecue kind of vegetable, but you can now find good fennel all year round, making it a perfect way to cheer up those bleak winter months. The fennel available in the shops at the moment is beautiful. Tight, crisp heads with a bright white bulb and bright green stems, and good value, too. I can't help but lob a couple of pieces into my trolley every time I'm out at the supermarket. 

On the Saturday of Stealth's visit we enjoyed the chickpea, fennel and leek soup; whizzed up the night before, then simply reheated and served with hunks of toasted sourdough. 

To say this soup was easy would be an understatement. A couple of chopped fennel bulbs, shallot (I used an onion) and two leeks (another great winter veg) sweated in olive oil until soft, before adding chicken stock and three tins of chickpeas, simmering for another fifteen minutes and blending with a hand blender. I ended up sieving the soup, to get rid of any rough skins from the chickpeas, then sweating another couple of leeks and adding them, plus a small handful of reserved chickpeas, for a bit of extra body and texture.

I'm not really the biggest soup fan, and usually the idea of having it for dinner wouldn't normally fill my heart with joy, but this was one of those genuinely delicious, rich and creamy (despite the absence of any dairy) bowlfuls that made me question why I don't rustle up things like this much more often. The fennel flavour was fresh without being overpowering,  and the punch from the alliums was tamed by the nutty chickpeas and slick of grassy olive oil on top.

My finocchio adventures were still not quite over, and the following weekend I decided to modify one of the many antipasti/cicchetti in the book and turn it into a punchy, bright winter salad for the Ewing and I.

This dish simply combines grilled fennel slices dressed with olive oil and then draped with silvery-white marinated anchovies (the book serves each slice of fennel skewered with a single fillet) and a scattering of feathery dill or fennel tops. The vinegary zing of the fish with the sweet veg made the perfect pairing when scooped up with thick slices of toasted wholemeal bread. A beautiful light lunch, or equally good as part of a bigger spread.

Although all the recipes tested thus far have been successful, delicious, and, most importantly, easily achievable for an impatient slap-dash home cook like me, the thing I almost think I like most about this tome is the clever binding. Initially the visible stitching on the spine may appear more style over substance; but the pages really do all stay flat, wherever you open them at, leaving you with both hands free to pour yourself another Spritz. Cin cin!

Tommis Burger Joint, Marylebone

As much as I love the wave of, Stateside inspired, 'comfort' food that's sweeping our shores, I don't often find it particularly comforting. Yes, there's the soporific effect of ingesting huge piles of refined carbs that leave you slipping into a food coma before you've even left the table, but, delicious as it might be, this food doesn't taste like my youth.

As a girl growing up in the Home Counties in the 80s, my memories of fast food are more about a blackened sausage in a finger roll at the school fete; followed by a fairy cake topped with water icing and hundreds and thousands and all washed down with a warm Rola Cola. Maybe's there's a gap in the market?

On this particularly frigid February afternoon it was comfort I was seeking. It had started as a Very Bad Day, and while the vast amounts of wine we had drunk over a lovely lunch at the nearby Vinoteca had helped, I still craved something simple and satisfying to soak up all the excesses of the afternoon. After enduring the hell that is Selfridges luggage department, the Ewing agreed we could walk the few blocks to Tommis, the most Northerly point of Marylebone's Burgmuda Triangle, for a pit stop.

While we went looking for stripped back burger satisfaction, it's not just the food that's pared down at this bijou Icelandic import with the interior bringing to mind a strange hybrid of Manhattan's Burger Joint mixed with my old room in student halls. The counter is liberally papered with handwritten signs, and the walls are covered with a mix of cult pop and film posters and a, rather imposing, picture of founder Tomas Tómasson himself.

The whole look is finished with a spattering twinkling fairy lights strung across the windows and ceiling, that just manages to successfully straddle the line between knowingly artful and twee.

The menu is also cheeringly simple; ham, cheese, veggie or steak burgers; fries; and a selection soft drinks that, rather trustingly, you help yourself to from fridges halfway down the bijou dining space. You can also add bacon, Tommi's cocktail sauce or bearnaise to your basic burger. And that's it.

Above the drinks cabinet you will also find one of my very favourite things, seldom seen on these shores, a condiment and pickle bar. Here you can stock up 'til your hearts content on mayo, mustard, sliced cukes, horseradish sauce, tomato relish, seasoning salt and vinegar (very British). There's even some little pots with lids available for takeout. A nice touch that really lets you have things Your Way (to quote another famous burger chain).

The Ewing's, ambitiously titled, Offer of the Century featured a cheese burger, fries and soda for just under a tenner. It was perfect. Not because you couldn't find a better burger - there are several I have tried within striking distance - but because it was simple and satisfying. The patty was grilled so it was smoky on the outside and pink within, and finished with a solitary lettuce leaf, slice of tomato and a neat little square of processed cheese melted on top. Just like the burgers I remember.

In this confusing world where everything seems to be about double patties smothered with toppings so sloppy that cutlery (or a straw) seems the only way to take your dinner down, this was a  simple revelation. There were no bun crumbling issues, or fillings that turned to soup and ran down your sleeves; the patty was the right size for the bread and the toppings didn't overwhelm the meat. In short it was everything the Ewing wanted, and comforting, too.

My steak burger, a premium mix of rump, rib eye and fillet, was no less tasty, but slightly more underwhelming as it cost nearly twice as much. I also found the brioche bun - usually my favourite vehicle to transport patty to mouth - a little too sweet; possibly as it wasn't overwhelmed by drippy, grease slicked, fillings.

The saving grace was the bearnaise sauce, the nectar of my gods and the perfect dip for both the burger and the excellent, Mcdonalds-esque, hot and crunchy fries.

While it may not win Best in Class, Tommis would certainly be in line for a Highly Commended ribbon; which, in a over crowded burger market, is not as much of a back handed compliment as it may seem. Sure, you may not leave thinking the burgers have changed your life, but you'll also leave happy, without indigestion, and dare I say it, actually comforted. And there's a lot to be said for those simple things in life.

Square and Compass, Worth Matravers

Although the drizzle, dark winter nights, and the time I seem to spend stuck on the M25 may sometime get me down, I do still love this Sceptred Isle. While the idea of Old England may seem like rose tinted nostalgia, the prospect of walking through a beech forest in autumn, or a bluebell wood in the spring - or knowing that your only two hours on the Eurostar from some Continental chic when it all gets too much - means I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

One of my very favourite corners of this green and pleasant land is the Isle of Purbeck, a glorious part of Dorset that includes such delights as Swanage, Studland Bay, Corfe Castle and Poole Harbour. Fortunately we now have a home from home in Bournemouth - originally when my sister lived down there, and now with our friends the lovely ladies, AKA Leo and Jo G - meaning the charms of this little Peninsular are merely a short drive away when we go to visit.

What seems like a very long while ago, Jo promised to take us to 'the pub with the stones', a fabled hostelry she told us served only pies, cider and ale through a small hatch. We spoke about it so often, without ever being organised enough to actually get there, that I sometimes wondered if this mystical place actually existed. Luckily it did, and finally we managed to coordinate a trip to see the ladies where a visit to the Square and Compass would be top of our itinerary.

I recently wrote about the wonderful Royal Standard of England, and the Square and Compass is hewn from the same stone. It's located in Worth Matravers, one of those idyllic picture postcard English villages that seems to be preserved in aspic, complete with the Swanage Steam Railway passing to the north and chocolate box limestone cottages clustered around a duck pond.

The pub itself is perched up upon a hill side, with gorgeous views out to the sea. The roads around are very narrow and winding, but there's a large public car park available to the right as you drive down into the village (or save yourself a couple of quid and try and nab a spot down by the pond). Walkers may feel smug as they can indulge in an extra pint or two, but there's still that hilly hike home to consider, which always seems twice as far when you're inebriated. 

Luckily for us Jo had drawn the short straw and was in charge of ferrying everyone about for the day, so I headed straight for the bar.

Like the Royal Standard, The Square and Compass has a veritable history, dating right back to 1776, and not much seems to have changed. Customers are still served through two small service hatches, separated by a blackboard listing the ciders, including home pressed by the owners, spirits, soft drinks and real ales that are available. 

There was a constant bottleneck of people jostling to chose their tipple of choice and passing condiments up and down the corridor on our visit, so I can only imagine the crush on a busy summer's day. My advice: make your choice and get out the way smartish. Or, even better, do as Leona and the Ewing did, and find someone to do your bidding while you scarper find a spot in one of the pub's rooms or spacious beer garden.

Service was clearly well oiled and ran with a brisk efficiency, despite our accidental attempts to infuriate the barman by requesting additional pasties every time he thought we had finally finished ordering. As well as three different types of pasty (veg, cheese and meat) there were also some exciting looking pies, which we saw both advertised on the board and being eaten by other patrons, but which the barman seemed reluctant to proffer any further information about (probably a deliberate attempt to be rid of us after the third visit to the kitchen to fetch us more pasties).

Whatever you decide on, the baked goods are home cooked every morning and once there gone there gone. So get down here in good time if you don't want to be subsisting solely on crisps and cider (not that I'm sure that idea sounds all bad...).

Taking the opportunity to soak up some of the, seldom seen, winter sun we sat on the stones, admiring this family of wooden deer while the local flock of hens pecked around our feet for company. Should the weather be a little more inclement then there are a warren of cosy rooms inside, complete with wooden benches, flagstone floors, and roaring log fires that are lit on chilly days.

A pint and a pasty in a sunny beer garden overlooking the sea is surely one of life's greatest pleasures. The pasties were piping hot and hefty, with a proper glossy pastry crust cradling the traditional, thinly sliced, potato swede, onion and steak filling. One of the very best examples I have tasted (despite being two county borders from their original home) and needing nothing more than a glass of the local Palmers Copper ale for accompaniment.

Despite a detour past the petrol station on the way down for a much needed crisp and coke stop (Leona had been at her leaving do the night before), our pasties were soon quickly demolished, save for a scattering of errant crumbs on the grass. Luckily there were plenty of spare dogs around happy to hoover up any stray morsels.

It was also a chance for the lovely Jo G to finally make her, long overdue, first proper appearance on the blog. And, as you can see, she was clearly as enamoured with the home made pastry products as I was. Smoking hot, and the pasties were a pretty scalding temperature, too....

If Palaeolithic objects are your bag, then there is an adjoining Museum with 'fossils and local finds' - started by Ray Newman and now curated by his son, and the pub's owner, Charlie -  featuring examples collected from the surrounding Jussrasic Coast area. I did try and offer up these three unwanted artefacts, but sadly they were rejected and had to return home with me.

As if the pub wasn't already popular enough just from slaking the thirst of locals and walkers alike for more than two centuries, they have also gained a reputation for live music in more recent years. It's also the site of a two week stone cutting festival in the summer, a jazz festival in September, the host of a heaviest pumpkin competition in the autumn, and a bottled beer festival to close the year. A truly eclectic mix of English eccentricities are catered for.

There seems little more to say about the Square and Compass, other than a few apt words from Dorset's most famous son, Thomas Hardy: 'Where we are would be Paradise to me, if you would only make it so'. 

A fabulous part of this country, crowned by this fabulous place.

Dosa World, Bournemouth

There can be few more satisfying things than clocking off from work early on a Friday and heralding the start of a long weekend with copious amounts of curry and lager. This weekend was no different; while we may have exchanged our local Chiltern-based Kashmiri eatery for the exotic South Indian delights of Bournemouth's Dosa World, save from a little tail back on the M4 and a few quibbles on the journey down, we were just as excited about getting a bit of spice in our lives.

This must surely rate as one of the least auspicious entries (certainly outside London) in the Good Food Guide. While the rest of the Dorset chapter seems to feature fancy hotel restaurants, gastropubs and posh beach-based eateries, Dosa World is a no frills strip lit cafe on a rather unlovable stretch of the Christchurch Road. 

Luckily we hadn't been put off by the unforgiving neon glare, sparse interior or reports of maddeningly slow service (which proved to be mostly true, but was made up for with warmth and charm) and were soon nursing large bottles of very cheap and very cold Kingfisher (the Sri Lankan, Lion Lager was sadly out of stock).

From the huge, and slightly bewildering, menu, we decided to start with the Gobi 65; a veggie version of the famous Sri Lankan Chicken dish, featuring small florets of cauliflower fried in an alarmingly bright, but rather moreish batter, and sprinkled with spices, raw onion and fresh lemon. This was quickly followed by the Nethili Fish Fry, delicious little bone-in anchovies strewn with sweet cooked onions. Piping hot, fresh and zingy, both dishes made the the perfect beer snack to whet our appetites.

For mains the Ewing chose the innocuous sounding Kerala Fish Curry while I chose the Chettinadu Mutton. I love mutton and this didn't let me down; rich chunks of meat on the bone in a glorious tomato and onion spiked gravy, with just the right smack of chilli heat. Pieces of buttery light Veechu Parota , a traditional Sri Lankan bread, made the perfect vehicle to greedily transport the remaining sauce to my mouth.

It was only as I paused for breath after the final mouthful of meat that I realised the Ewing had gone rather quiet, save for the odd spluttering sound. Now, I'm used to her regularly proclaiming, 'it's burny on my tongue' (a deliberate misquote of the great Ralph Wiggum) when there's the merest hint of  capsaicin in her dinner, but, having tried some for myself, I can confirm it was hotter than the concentric circles of hell itself.

So hot in fact that after, foolishly, going back for a second helping it rendered me temporarily deaf in one ear. Not brilliant when you only have one half of a pair functioning in the first place. Much sweating, eye watering and spluttering later, I can confirm the plentiful pieces of meaty king fish steak in the full flavoured, thin coconut-y gravy were worth the searing pain and momentary loss of senses. While suffering over your dinner isn't everyone's idea of fun, this food wasn't just all mouth and no trousers; there was real flavour and flair amongst all the searing heat, too.

Luckily the Chicken masala dosa was a little more mild mannered. A delicate and crisp Indian style crepe that proved a welcome respite from the searing heat, especially when combined with the cooling, fresh coconut chutney. Peeking inside revealed a generous amount of delicately spiced potato and meat filling, and it was also served with a strange, sweet orange relish, which tasted more like a microwave tikka sauce, and some, rather nicer, daal and mixed vegetables.

The Ewing rounded the evening off with a, much needed, cooling mango milkshake. Sweet and soporific, it was a little too sickly for me, but it successfully soothed one burnt tongue.

Dosa World is a little gem in a sea of chain pubs and chicken shops. While it may not be fast and it may not be flashy, it is authentic, tasty food that's all freshly cooked to order. With a table overladen with food and a couple of beers each, we still struggled to spend twenty quid a head; top value, and it would be even cheaper if you visit for one of their bargain lunchtime specials. 

So lucky Dorset dwellers, forget your bargain bucket and get down here for a real meal deal. 

Brick Lane: Lamb Chops and Lox

As Johnson famously said, 'when a man is tired of London he is tired of life', and while I would find it very hard to become jaded to my hometown's charms, I find myself heading back to familiar central haunts; Soho for dinner, the West End for some razzle dazzle, maybe the South Bank for a walk at the weekend. Sometimes the lazy days of browsing record shops in Notting Hill, buying patchouli in Camden Lock, picnics at Kew Gardens, or traipsing to gigs in the wilds of Brixton or Kilburn seem an awfully long time ago. 

In order to get right into the nooks and crannies of this city I love I devised a mission for the forthcoming months, ably assisted by the Ewing and Stealth, to dust down my trusty A-Z and get out and see some more, less familiar, corners of this glorious city; starting with a Saturday in the East End. 

First up was a lunch of our national dish; curry. While the merchants on Brick Lane pedal their wares to unsuspecting tourists, everybody in the know knows that the best place for Indian food is Tayyabs. And I mean everybody. Located down a grimy sidestreet in Whitechapel, this Punjabi hotspot, first opened in 1972, may be one of the worst kept secrets in London. The famed queues at the weekend (and most weeknights, too) spill out down the street, reservations or not. The only saving grace seeming to be the enticing scent of sizzling meat that perfumes the air, and starting on the BYO six pack that they charge no corkage fee for as you wait to finally make it through the door.

As good as the food is purported to be there are also small grumbles about the cramped environs (despite expanding to three floors of the original building) and rushed service, but choosing a late Saturday lunchtime proved to be a wise move, as we were soon lead down to a nearly empty (it soon rapuidly filled up), spacious basement dining area, and swiftly given poppudums, chutney, and a bottle opener for our Cobras. So far so good.

We started with a sizzling platter of the infamous chops; manna for a lamb-loving carnivore like myself and comprising of the perfect ratio of spice, fat, meat and char. The long bones meant plenty of gnawing potential and proved a sticky, smoky, and justly celebrated delight. Although I managed to bag the extra fourth cutlet in our portion, I could have eaten a whole rack of these beauties without trouble.

The Ewing also ordered a portion of decent Tikka Paneer, the crispy, spiced exterior giving way nicely to the mild and milky, squeaky-cheese centre.

Stealth ably modelling our dish of Karahi Keema, a delicious mess of spiced lamb mince and sweet green peas. This was one of my Mum's signature dishes whenever she cooked Indian food when I was growing up, and eating it always makes me feel warm and nostalgic inside, especially a version as good as this.

We also sampled another highly lauded dish, the austere sounding Dry Meat; rather a misnomer as the fiery beef curry that arrived was rich and moist, containing chunks of meat of melting tenderness and a hefty spice kick. The Ewing also chose the Karahi Prawn, a speciality only served on Saturdays that featured perfectly succulent shrimps in a light and sweetish sauce, cut through with a lemon-y zing.

Veg came in the form of Dhal Baingun; smoky, soft baby aubergine served with creamy, sticky yellow lentils and Methi Aloo Gajar; a dish rich and earthy dish carrots, potatoes and fenugreek leaves. I love Indian vegetable based dishes, and these did nothing to change my mind. Absolutely spot on. I was only sad that we couldn't manage to sample some of the spiced pumpkin, Tinda Masala as well.

Foregoing rice for bread also proved a good choice; the puffed up, sesame studded peshwari and buttery plain naans made the perfect vehicles for scooping and mopping every last scrap of sauce from our plates.

To finish the Ewing ordered a banana lassi; a frosty metal beaker of frothy goodness, balancing the cooling tang of the yoghurt with the sweetness of the fruit. Chuck in a couple of the obligatory chocolate mints, some very sweet and efficient service, a pleasing slight bill (coming well within the £20 budget) and it made the perfect ending to a laudable lunch.

Staggering from the restaurant and across the Whitechapel Road, we decided to have a quick mosey about before retiring for an afternoon nap. The last time I was hanging out with the cool kids in this part of Shoreditch it was on a pub crawl for the Ewing's birthday. A lovely, if blurry, evening that ended up with the obligatory late night beigel, and I couldn't imagine coming to this part of town without a visit to the famous bakers of Brick Lane.

This place is wonderful. Crammed to the rafters on a Saturday afternoon with locals and tourists alike, all eagerly queuing for their platzels, strudel and rye bread. While waiting in line I got a great view of the inner-workings of the place, and could have happily stayed all day watching the two guys in the kitchen churning out trays of bread and rolls while swathed in a fug of steam from the cauldrons of boiling beigels at the back.

We chose a trio of treats each to take home for later; a smoked salmon beigel with a schmear of cream cheese - the proper full fat stuff, no messing here - a salt beef beigel with punchy English mustard, and a generous slice of their baked cheesecake. 

The beigels were perfect; nicely sized, endearingly wonky  and generously filled. They possessed a chewy, dense crumb and faint sweetness that married perfectly with the salt beef, carved in thick, pink slices and so good I felt instantly sad after the last mouthful. The salmon filling was simply perfect; rich and smoky fish, perfectly complimented by the cool cream cheese. The cheesecake was as reliably brilliant as I remembered it, too, the rich and wobbly lactic topping and crumbly pastry base making a fitting finale to our feast.

We also picked up a loaf of freshly baked chola and a loaf of black bread to take away. The spiral of soft, sweet chola bread with its sticky glaze demanded little more than to be enjoyed in thick slices with a little extra butter, but also makes an awesome (if entirely unkosher) smoked bacon and ketchup sandwich.

The black bread certainly lives up to its moniker. The crackling charcoal crust making way to a sinister-looking crumb, deeply perfumed with the anise-scent of caraway seeds. A serious loaf with a bitter edge that is perfectly complimented by topping with corned beef and pickle or pickled herring and cream cheese.

Although, in my heart, I'm still resolutely a West End girl, there is much to be said for the charms of the East. It's an endlessly fascinating corner of town that, despite the (still not without much controversy) regeneration and gentrification that has taken place over the last decade, juxtaposes great wealth with real deprivation. 

Walking these streets provides truly fascinating, vibrant and constantly changing cross-section of human life, with plenty of fabulous places for food and drink along the way. From the Truman Brewery, via the ultra-hip Boxpark and Spitalfields Market, right up to the to the Vietnamese restaurants that line the Kingsland Road. 

'Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London... for there is in London all that life can afford."