New York Food Talk

It’s that time of year again, when a weekend in New York looms in Big Apple style on the pre-Christmas horizon. I have long associations with this city; it was in New York that, as a foetus, I first kicked my mother from the inside out, thrilling her with the reality of impending motherhood. It was as a teenager in New York that I first rode in a stretch limo and played the piano with my feet at FAO Schwarz, just like Tom Hanks did in Big. It was in New York that my Stateside friends threw me a surprise birthday party, the only one I’ve ever had, when I’d tiptoed out of London in order to avoid another year older. And now, decades later, the inspiration to skip, kick and jump my way up and down that little island known as Manhattan still ignites me from the moment I start to plan a visit.

Some people like to shop in New York City. There’s certainly plenty of opportunity to do that: from bargains to be found at Century 21, located somewhat eerily adjacent to 9-11’s Ground Zero and its ever-present conspiracy theorists, through to the air-kissing environs of Barney’s and Bergdorf’s at the other end of the spender’s spectrum.

However, shopping is not what gets my Big Apple Fires a-burning; it goes deeper than that for me. There’s a vibe about Manhattan which ripples invisibly through the air, up and down the grid of streets and avenues, and straight into my soul. It’s the small things, as much as the skyscrapers, that thrill me here: the excitement of buying Motrin at Duane Reade (SO much better and more cost-effective than Nurofen), Chinese being spoken in Chinatown in front of windows of crispy fried ducks hanging by their feet, a glimpse of hand cuffed to briefcase in the diamond district, meetings beneath the clock at Grand Central Station. A smile threatens to break every time I see a yellow cab with bent plastic fender or when I hear someone in a deli order “pastrami on rye!” or when I pass a man wearing a battered Yankees cap or when a debate starts over where to find the best bagels in the city. Even when struggling to decide whether to go to the MoMA, the Guggenheim, the Whitney or the Frick because, goshdarnit, there’s just too much choice, I feel a constant buzz buzzity buzz.

Plenty of people go to New York to make money and/or spend money and there’s plenty to do there for all tastes and ages. Shoppers ogle at the animated Christmas windows, romantics sigh at chestnuts roasting on street corners and in every crowd you will spot Big Brown Bloomingdale’s Bags. It’s a melting pot of art and culture and music and design and hippy and chic – all in a mere 23.7 square miles. As might sound familiar to those In The Epicurienne Know, it’s New York’s food that really gets me going. There’s such a wealth of variety to be had, just begging for the attention of food lovers like me. So where have I been so far?

• The Red Flame Diner with its bottomless cups of coffee and evil stacks of pancakes swimming in maple syrup and crispy bacon is a breakfast favourite. It’s so busy here at weekends that there’s no time for pleasantries. Order, eat, pay and move outta the way for the next in line. Please note: I’ve never seen the place without a line, but it does move fast and it gives you plenty of time to read the How To Help A Choke Victim poster, just in case.
• Les Halles, the restaurant called home by travelling chef Anthony Bourdain. With a mouthful of cassoulet you could close your eyes and think yourself in Paris, so authentic is the atmosphere. It would be easy to believe that a tornado had picked up a brasserie in France and plonked it down, intact, in the middle of New York.
•  Nobu Next Door is the no-reservations little sister to Nobu, located just next door to the main restaurant in Tribeca. It serves delightful small plates, including Nobu’s signature black cod in miso but it’s a bit of a trek and to be assured of a table, you really need to get there after 10pm. Even then, there will be a queue. Your patience will be rewarded, if you can stay awake after a long day exploring New York.
• Mama Mexico’s on East 49th Street (and another located on Broadway) is a Mexican food-lover’s mecca. The guacamole is made at your table by one of the friendly wait-staff, tasting better than any other guac on earth, there’s plenty of choice and the portions are so humongous that we watched an entire table of eight leave smiling with doggy bags. Not one of them finished their main. Nor, as it happened, did I. Mama Mexico’s even offers take-out, a BIG reason for me NOT to move to New York. I’d probably never cook again.
• Union Square Cafe is a place I will always cherish because the grim-faced bouncer carded me there when I was a ripe old 27. I laughed as I pulled out my passport. “This is no laughing matter, ma’am.” he growled. Au contraire, mon frère! I took being asked for ID as a massive compliment, though, and told him so, bless his size thirteen cotton socks.
• Spring Street Natural was recommended by a former colleague who knows New York well. I had a divine tuna steak there, served rare to perfection. The food is as healthy and organic as it is possible to be, but not at the expense of taste or portion size.
• Brasserie Ruhlmann on Rockefeller Plaza is faithful to Art Deco style, as it takes its name from a great designer of that era – Emile-Jacques Ruhlmann. Another former colleague whisked me into this restaurant for lunch and a whirlwind catch-up session when I was in town a few years back and my, what a treat! The food was divine, the service infallible, and the atmosphere absolutely authentic. The disappointment was in having to squeeze as much out of it as we could within the one-hour lunch-break time-frame. I guess I’ll just have to return when we’re less hurried.
• Heartland Brewery is a chain with multiple locations. It’s ideal for a laid-back bite with a Heartland beer in hand. The menu is quintessentially American fare with old favourites like Classic Caesar Salad, Clam Chowder and St Louis Smoked Ribs. You can have Maine & Jumbo Lump Crab Cakes with a side of Idaho Mashed Potatoes or a burger of free-range South Dakota Bison with Hand Cut Idaho Fries, ‘cos ‘dem taters dere dey all do come from Idaho, ya know. Being a brewery I must also mention their beers. They have great names like Indiana Pale Ale, Farmer Jon’s Oatmeal Stout and Indian River Light. I tried Cornhusker Lager and very pleasant it was indeed. With more time on your hands, you might even be tempted to take a Voyage of Beer, enjoying a sampling of Heartland’s six classic beers.

Other New York experiences in the Epicurienne catalogue include eating very average Chinese in an ominously-empty Chinatown restaurant, (now I am furnished with foolproof tips for that area so hopefully history won’t repeat itself in that neck of the woods) where the biggest action took place in the fish tanks. I’ve lunched with the glitterati at Barney’s and twirled spaghetti in Little Italy and ordered pizza delivery at a friend’s Midtown apartment. I’ve hung out with the son of an Irish immigrant who made his fortune pouring beer for the folks of the Upper East Side and I’ve stood with dropped jaw as a woman ahead of me at Dean & Deluca ordered a “skinny decaf soy latte” which is very Sex and the City but defeats the purpose of drinking coffee in the first place. However, my finest hour when eating in New York? Sitting opposite the man I love in the Pomodoro Rosso and NOT getting dumped. You see, the Pomodoro Rosso is THE recommended break-up restaurant in the comedy series, Seinfeld. It also does a very good Sunday brunch menu, which is some consolation if you’ve only just realised that ‘he’s just not that into you’.

That’s all for today. In the next instalment I’m going to write about places on the Epicurienne Hit List, New York Edition. I may need some help choosing where next to dine…suggestions are welcomed because this is a case of so many eateries, so little time. And sadly, only one mouth.

An Emus-ing Review of Boots

October in London: it’s dark in the morning, a chill is in the air and at work the central heating isn’t working so we wear scarves all day long. It isn’t even Hallowe’en yet.

Cue a timely newsletter from the folk at Fuelmyblog asking for interested bloggers to review the snug boots made by Australian brand, Emu. I needed no prompting to reply. This sort of footwear is right up my street, having a reputation for being both warm and comfortable. I fired off an e-mail to say I would be more than happy to review a pair of tall, black, Bronte-style Emus.

The boots arrived yesterday, which was perfect timing as it was a cool 18 degrees Celsius in the office. With blue lips I skipped back to my desk, box under one arm, to try them on. Opening the box I pulled out the Emus and smiled. In smart black suede with merino wool lining, they have a sensible rubber sole with the sort of traction that should help me to stay upright in the snow this winter, a feat not easily achieved. The boots certainly looked warm and comfortable from the outside, but how would they feel once on?

I pulled on the first boot and – what? – my foot would only go so far. I wriggled my toes and felt scrunching. Ah. This doofus had forgotten to remove the paper ball keeping the boot in shape. Paper ball jettisoned, I tried again, this time with success. The boot fitted perfectly and my right foot had found its cold weather heaven. Until that moment on an early winter’s morning I had not realised exactly how cold my feet had been.

For some time I kept just that one boot on. I didn’t think I could get away with wearing my Emus to meetings; at least not yet, but while I was at my desk I could at least get a feel for them. Eventually realising how odd I must have looked with loafer on left foot and Emu on right, I reluctantly removed the Emu, wishing the day away so I could take my Emus for a test drive after work.

On leaving the office it was suitably cold, grey and dull, but I was now happily wearing my Emus, every step taken a delight to my spoiled feet which adore comfort such as this. It’s like walking on a sheepskin, with full support, especially in the arches, and on sitting down I had to stamp my feet a couple of times to make sure they weren’t floating above ground.

The verdict? I love Emus and may well invest in a tan pair in one of their different styles. But this is not the end of this tale.

Earlier in the day French Colleague had noticed my Emus sitting under my desk.

“Aaah, you have EEEE-mus!” she enthused, “I have them too. I prefer them to UGGs.”

“Why’s that?” I asked,

“Because they have better traction. Actually, I have two pairs of Emus now.”  Quite the menagerie.

That can only be a good thing for me as long ago I stopped wearing heels in the street due to a rather nasty accident. I caught a heel between cobbles, resulting in a broken front tooth, severely bruised knee, grazed forehand and grazed hands. No, I didn’t call a ‘trip-or-fall’ lawyer, although perhaps I should have, given the size of the dental bill. Overnight I changed from no-pain-no-gain perpetual-heel-wearer to flat-footwear-afficionado. There’d be no more heels caught in cobbles or tube station grates for me. Heels are now reserved for work or special occasions.

On the travel footwear front, Monsieur and I will be visiting Portugal in a few weeks. Breton-Crêpe-Lover was giving me advice on Lisbon this morning when suitable footwear came into the conversation.

“In the streets there are lots of… what you call… stones, errr…”

“Cobblestones?”

“Yes, cobblestones, so you shouldn’t wear heels. Just flat shoes.”

Looking at my feet she noticed the Emus.

“Yes, those are PER-fect.” she said with a nod. “Wear THOSE in Lisbon.”

So not only are my new Emus comfortable, toasty-warm and soft on the sole, they’re also going to keep me safe from broken teeth. What a relief.

Useful links:

Fitness Footwear UK stockist of Emus with FREE UK delivery

Their homepage is here.

The Wedding That Wasn’t – Part 3

To read the previous instalment please click here.

So far, so good. Monsieur and I may not have been walking down the aisle, hand in hand, or trying to knock our female friends unconscious with a low-flying bouquet, but we were certainly enjoying our private celebration of The Wedding that Wasn’t. In one afternoon we’d checked in to a wedding cake hotel, hung out at the driving range, practised our putts and swum in an indoor heated pool. All that activity had worked up our appetites, so we spruced up and set off downstairs to dine at the Club’s Park Restaurant.

As we were greeted by the maître d’ –  ”Good evening, Madame-Sir,” following him into a sumptuous dining room, my heart sank. Our day at Stoke Park had been wonderful; how ever was dining here going to live up to our now extremely high expectations?

Monsieur and I were seated at a table for two in the centre of the room; we were not by a window nor tucked comfortably into a plush banquette by the wall. At first I felt a little exposed but we soon overcame that hurdle when the menus appeared. Then, torn between food porn and people-watching I realised that the tables were spaced out in a way that our neighbours’ conversation could not be overheard. At least, not yet. I do like that in a restaurant.

The bread basket was offered and I permitted myself one soft, small brown bun, still warm from the oven. The butter melted slowly into it indicating that it wasn’t too hot or cold, just perfect. Then it was time for some Serious Decision-making as we selected our starters. There was something on the menu for every palate, including vegetarians. Would I choose the pan-fried scallops with celeriac purée, crispy pancetta, port reduction and caviar? Or perhaps I’d try the ragout of chicken winglets, chorizo, girolles and flageolet beans, served inside a filo casserole pan with madeira jus? Even the vegetarian option was sophisticated as opposed to a tie-dyed celebration of lentils; Stoke Park veges could enjoy the goat’s cheese, sweet potato and basil roulade with pear and fig salad and walnut vinaigrette.

 

Following our amuse bouches of a mushroom cappuccino?? (at least, I think that’s what it was) served with tiny spoon in tiny Mad Hatter’s teacup, the starters appeared, and not a moment too soon, for the afternoon’s activities had caused a persistent rumble in my stomach. I’d chosen the decadence of seared foie gras served on a brioche crouton with baby spinach, red grapes, pomegranate and sweet muscat sauce.  Neither piled high  nor lilliputian, the starter’s serving was just the right size to stimulate the tastebuds without overloading them.

Monsieur’s first course was a tian of Dorset crab, lobster, prawn and avocado with a cucumber and pink grapefruit dressing. It arrived shaped into a small but perfect tower on the plate, a work of culinary art. Apparently there are various definitions for tian, from layered vegetable preparations to casserole dishes, but in this case it took the meaning of layered presentation. I could tell that Monsieur was torn between tearing into it with his fork and simply contemplating its beauty from afar. The ending here was somewhat predictable, though, and the tian was consumed in its entirety.

We ate slowly, savouring each morsel, for this was not food to be rushed, and we were not in a hurried environment, although the maître d’ often appeared to check that everything was as it should be, each time calling us “Madame-sir”. He was practised in the efficient running of a fine dining establishment, that much was certain, dashing in silent fashion from table to table, seating any new arrivals, farewelling those on their way out, flourishing menus and assisting with wine selection or the deciphering of gastronomic terminology.

In between mouthfuls, Monsieur and I were thoroughly enjoying alternating between a delicious chablis and thirst-quenching Hildon water but we didn’t have long to contemplate grapey notes between courses. Our mains arrived at just the right interval, having allowed us time to ruminate over our delicious starters but not enough time to fret over tardiness in the kitchens.

Monsieur was in carnivore’s heaven with his Beef Wellington. Served with seasonal chanterelles and warm cherry tomatoes (still on the vine)on a bed of mash, he thought nothing of ordering sautéed potatoes to add to his meat- ‘n’-two-servings-of-the-same-veg main. (It even came with the letters SPC in puff pastry – the initials of the Club).

My choice was the trio of fish. Presented on an oval, almost fish-shaped platter with thumb hole at one end for serving, I enjoyed three entirely different, yet complementary, types of fish. First was red mullet ‘escabèche, a delightfully tender fish with zesty marinade. Next was John Dory with pea purée and confit fennel, which struck me as a humourous five-star approach to fish ‘n’ mushy peas. Last on the platter was sea bream with baby provençale vegetables – essentially a  ratatouille of mini-veg to match the serving size. For a fish lover, such as me, this was heaven. With a few sautéed spuds pinched from Monsieur’s side order, I couldn’t fault it. Everything tasted freshly-caught, ‘never seen a freezer’, and had evidently been prepared with the utmost attention to the detail of both recipe and presentation.

But we hadn’t finished yet. Oh, yes, there was still dessert to come, and somehow, thanks to considerate portions, we miraculously had room to accommodate another course.

Monsieur tried the Tiramisu Plate – a chocaholic’s perfect falling-off-the-wagon platter. Everything was tiny – the bitter chocolate pot, the artful spoonful of mascarpone and kahlua ice cream, a teeny coffee soufflée and quenelle of tiramisu. Yet the richness of the combination of small tastes just about finished Monsieur off. Even so, I don’t think he would ever have considered not finishing every last bit.

Feeling in the need of  a fromage fix, I indulged in the cheese platter. “But please, no blue cheese,” I told the waitress, feeling very When Harry Met Sally in such a high-maintenance demand. Sure enough, the cheeseboard arrived laden with perfect small slices of soft cheeses and hard cheeses but not a blue in sight. I didn’t touch the homemade walnut bread, which looked wonderful but which would only have stolen the last precious intestinal centimetres reserved for cheese. Instead I nibbled on the oatcakes and grapes and perfect slivers of celery to temper the strength of the cheeses and even so, I was quite ready to turn my back on food for a few hours at the end.

And so, feeling like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Monsieur and I rolled ourselves out of the restaurant and up the narrow set of stairs to our room, where we had earlier stored a bottle of New Zealand’s Lindauer bubbly (if you haven’t tried this yet, do! It’s affordable and doesn’t give you a sore head the following day.) with which to celebrate The Wedding That Wasn’t. We needed ice so called the porter who brought it to the door within minutes, asking, with glint in his eye, if we’d like champagne flutes. Either he’d done the turn-down earlier, spotting our bottle chilling in one of the sinks (there was strangely no fridge or mini-bar in the otherwise beautifully appointed room) or he was accustomed to people bringing their own bubbles to Stoke Park. Once he’d left, I couldn’t decide if this chap was superb customer service, a psychic in our midst or a spy.

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Monsieur and I lay there in the Hastings Room, warm and comfortable on the soft bed, sipping on bubbly and talking about the superb day we’d just had. But no, we couldn’t laze about for long. We had to get a full night’s sleep, for the next day we’d be trying our hand at the championship golf course. Tee off was set for 9.40am and you can’t play 18 holes without breakfast.

The Wedding that Wasn’t – Part 2

To read part 1 of this series, please click here.

After weeks of waiting and wondering and harassing Monsieur for information, which was not forthcoming, we had finally reached the surprise destination where we’d celebrate The Wedding that Wasn’t. As we drove off the road, through pairs (plural) of gatehouses and up a drive snaking smoothly through immaculate surrounds, I spotted golfers with carts and clubs to the right, a little church and a bridge and a long, glassy lake to the left. Then, before us rose a big white building in colonial clubhouse style. This was Stoke Park Club. This was the surprise.

We drove across crunchy gravel between the clubhouse and a putting practice green punctuated by lots of holes marked by little red or white flags, and into the car park, which was like a Who’s Who of luxury car manufactury. There were at least five Range Rovers in the first row, various Porsches, in both Carrera and Cayman styles, BMWs with windows tinted for anonymity, Mercedes large and Mercedes small, a Ferrari, a couple of Astons (I had to bite my knuckles, so beautiful were the Astons) and so on. Picking a spot that wouldn’t give our own car an inferiority complex, we walked back to the clubhouse, which strangely enough reminded me of a wedding cake in its whiteness, to check in. I suppose I had weddings on the brain.

Once inside the ‘wedding cake’, the staff were consummate professionals, evidently seasoned in dealing with the demands of the super-rich; we could tell. We had two people dedicated to checking us in and two different porters insisted on helping us with our bags at different times, in spite of the insignificance of our luggage in both size and weight. Following the second porter we passed through a bar hung with impressive artworks, a couple of guests therein looking like advertisements for Pringle as they sipped on post-golf refreshments.

Along a dim corridor with life-size portrait staring at us from its end, we climbed a narrow staircase to our room named after a long-dead soul called Hastings. A little ante room with antique armoire of ancient mahogany gave onto the bedroom in one direction and bathroom in the other. As I checked the bed for bounce Monsieur shouted to me from the bathroom – “It’s bigger than the bedroom! Come and see!” And heavens, so it was. There was room enough between power shower and bathtub to play skittles, should one ever consider that a good way to pass the time.

Back in the bedroom I threw open the window to find the fifteenth hole just yonder. Yes, this was a golfer’s paradise, and novice golfer though I may be, my hands were itching to grab a club and give this lush course a whirl.

Not wanting to waste too much time indoors, in spite of the plumpscious cushions and armchairs-with-a-view, we trudged back to the car to retrieve our golf bags, heading across an expanse of perfect grass to the driving range. This was no purpose-built range with partitioned areas from which to fire our little white balls. No, this was an open-air driving range at ground level on real grass. 

There stood a column at the far end of the range, making a suitable target for our shots. Alas, it was too far for me, for Monsieur and even the pro practising next to us did not possess drive enough to do that column damage. We later learned it was dedicated to a certain Sir Edward Coke, a lawyer of some note in his day, yet a column of such grandeur looked quite odd in its setting of trees and undulating landscape, the green below spotted with range balls; such a monument would surely look more usual mid-square in a market town or at the end of a street of Georgian terraces.

Sir Edward WHO? And well to ask for this former tenant of Stoke Park counts among his many achievements the prosecution of the gunpowder plotters, including the infamous Guy Fawkes. Their crime of treason saw them hung, drawn and quartered for conniving to blow up the Houses of Parliament, such were the gruesome punishments in the England of 1605. Nowadays this legal great is remembered by a column in a golf course in a park in a home county in England but really he should stand proud in Westminster where law is made.

Back on the range Monsieur and I were off centre in more ways than one as we fired our little white balls at Sir Edward. Something was off. I couldn’t get my shots past the 150 yard mark and some were embarrassingly shy of achieving any sort of respectable distance. Apart from learning how to position my feet and back when driving down the fairway, I’m also learning that some days, no matter how hard you try, all golfing technique escapes you and it doesn’t need to give a reason why. Today, in the beautiful Stoke Park, Monsieur and I were experiencing one of those days.

The sun was fast-disappearing now, a slight chill developing, so we ditched our clubs to try a different sort of relaxation – in the spa. Housed in a modern building next to the car park, this was one serious pampering operation. No fewer than four uniformed staff met, greeted and guided us on entering. I was led past counters of softening potions and lotions to the ladies’ changing room while Monsieur was taken in the opposite direction. Inside were rows of oaky lockers, more country club than gymnasium, and pile upon fluffy pile of fresh sunshine-yellow towels. There were hairdryers aplenty and Molton Brown body products, tissues and cellophane-wrapped shower caps and spacious limestone shower cubicles in which to wear them. It was official: Monsieur and I were in our very own episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. How wonderful everything was.

I was reunited with my Frenchman at the heated indoor pool, looking out towards the golf course through tall, arched windows running the entire length of the pool. The rear wall was pleasantly interrupted by a built-in aquarium filled with yellow fish that matched my towel. As we lapped and tried to avoid the Splashmonster, a man old and hairy enough to know better than belly-flop water all over his fellow pool-mates, I watched the French couples frolicking at one end of the pool. The men were attractive and the girls so slim that I wondered whether they ever ate solid food or simply existed on Slim Fast. Suddenly I felt very fat, even though I’m more curvaceous than fat, the by-product of which is that I grew my own breasts and didn’t have to buy them in. Those girls were practically flat-chested but somehow, on them, even that was sexy. Still, I needn’t have worried myself with body-type comparisons because, as I’d later discover, there are some things you just can’t fix, no matter how fat your wallet or silthe-like your figure. But first, Monsieur and I would eat.

The Wedding that Wasn’t – Part 1

Monsieur and I were to be married this year, but as we’re grown up and responsible, we made the grown-up and responsible decision to postpone the happiest day of our lives, just in case we lost our jobs, something that was a very real threat at just the hour when the demands for deposits various were due.

Some grown up and responsible months later, the day that was to be our big day approached and I felt a tinge of sadness.

“Darling, I think we should do something to celebrate, especially as it’s a bank holiday weekend.” I said to Monsieur, eager to eliminate the threat of regret.

“You’re right,” he agreed, “I’ll look into it.” Even better, Monsieur was making the arrangements and if there’s one thing I can say about my future husband, it’s that he’s VERY good at surprises.

At first I thought we’d be going to a restaurant, perhaps somewhere with a star or two after its name or even a starless wonder with enough starch in just one of their white tablecloths to keep a man’s shirt collars stiff for a year. Yes, the sort of place that makes a girl feel adored, even when she gets out her camera to snap the foie gras from sixteen different angles.

And so, as I can’t remember a single time that Monsieur has failed in surprising me, I spent an inordinate amount of time fantasising about where we might be going. Before long, curiosity got this particular cat and the Epic Inquisition began.

“So where are we going?” I demanded on a daily, if not hourly basis, sometimes by e-mail with giant, red font in BOLD.

“It’s a surprise.” came the reply, over and over and over again. He would not budge. He would not stir. Monsieur would simply smile that infuriating smile he has when he holds a secret.

Then, the week before our celebration of The Wedding that Wasn’t, Monsieur let slip that we would be staying overnight wherever we were going. No, he would not be whizzing me off to Venice for some O Sole Mios in a bobbing gondola; I knew that much because Monsieur’s passport was at the consulate. We’d therefore be somewhere in the UK, but where?

Next he booked a car – another clue to toy with. Knowing that Monsieur would never drive 5 hours to spend a single night at a place, only to drive 5 hours back the following day, I figured that our destination must be relatively close to London. Hmmmm. But where?

The e-mail font got bigger and bolder, but still Monsieur wouldn’t tell me where we were going. I felt like a five year old counting the sleeps until Christmas. At long last D-day dawned and we packed our overnight cases.

“Bring your golf clothes,” instructed Monsieur. Ah, apparently small white balls would be involved in the surprise, as he pulled our golf bags out of the closet.

“And a swimsuit.” he continued.

“And something smart to wear to dinner.” Well, that was a given. I’d taken for granted that I’d have to dress up for some special food on our special occasion. After all, Monsieur has never been a fish ‘n’ chips-on-a-freezing-beach-with-a-bottle-of-wine-sort of romantic.

Then we got into the car with our clubs and our bags and some little white balls and drove out of London. Goodbye, Westfield Shopping Centre. Goodbye Heathrow Airport. Goodbye Windsor Castle… and  just before reaching the Slough of John Betjeman’s disparaging poem of the same name, which starts with ‘Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough, It isn’t fit for humans now.’, and only worsens in its damnation of the town, we turned off the motorway.

“We’d better not be lunching in Slough,” I thought to myself in unattractive snobbish manner, as Monsieur turned the car this way and that, eventually easing it onto leafy back-roads dappled with shade. Here were not concrete block buildings and superstores but tall brick walls and gate houses and hedges and vicarages and lots and lots of green. Perhaps we were going to Bray? It wasn’t far from here and Monsieur and I have long planned to visit Heston Blumenthal’s Fat Duck for some bacon and egg ice cream, among other culinary delights.

“I know where you’re taking me.” I said, rendered smug by my skills of deduction.

“No you don’t.” replied Monsieur, rendered equally smug by his own self-assurance.

And with that, we swept across to the left, onto a broad driveway climbing a gentle slope amidst the handiwork of Capability Brown and the manicured greens of a golf course.

No. I didn’t know where Monsieur was taking me. Not in the least.

A Wintry Wahaca with Qype

Pity poor Monsieur: he’s the one responsible for my love of Mexican food, the complex moles, the cactus salads (hold the spines) and the juicy ceviches. Yet Monsieur wasn’t with me at Wahaca last Thursday, for a much looked-forward to evening with Thomasina Miers, the Executive Chef and co-owner of London’s Mexican street food sensation, Wahaca.

Along with a couple of dozen perpetually-hungry fellow-Qypers, I was invited to Wahaca in the mammoth Westfield shopping centre to test the new season’s ‘Cold Months’ menu. With sharpened teeth and notebook at the ready (but no camera, where on earth was my camera?) we listened as Tommi explained the dishes we were about to try. Then I had the great good fortune of sitting next to her. Tommi was nothing less than the perfect hostess, juggling gastronomic inquisition from guests with managing the event and staff. It looked effortless, but I’m sure it wasn’t. This is a woman with (invisible) nerves of steel. She won Masterchef after all, something Tommi admits was scary, propelling her into the world of professional cooking. Then, two years ago, the first Wahaca was born in Covent Garden, a new take on Mexican street food with reasonable prices and a no reservations policy.

Tommi’s Wahaca business partner, Mark Selby, also joined us last night. Equally affable, he welcomed us all as we arrived, work-weary but excited to spend an evening with he and Tommi and a kitchen doling out delicious Mexican food. It’s evident that in business, Mark and Tommi are well-matched.

The Westfield Wahaca opened with the mammoth London shopping centre last year, but once through its doors you’d never know it had neighbours like Debenhams and other high street stores. Its atmosphere is slightly sultry with dimmed lighting, functional wooden furniture and bursts of  colour. The patrons themselves add splash and vibrance to the space, each bottle of tabasco or plate of taquitos or stack of Mexican bean cans or chunky hand-blown glass of margarita with salted rim enhancing the overall vibe of originality. Yes, I like it here.

Now onto the important part – eating. Tommi asked us for honest feedback, to find out whether or not the new menu would work. Would it be good enough to serve to her public?

First up were smoked herring tostadas served with a squeeze of fresh lime. The smokiness stayed in my mouth for a minute or so afterward, which is a very good thing because I love smoky flavours, especially with fish.

We looked on, bemused, as bowls of feta, tortillas, coriander and avocado were smothered by jugfuls of black bean soup. Then, taking our Tommy Tippee-style plastic spoons, dipped into the muddy mix, we sucked our spoons clean of the dark and spicy creaminess. It looked so wrong but tasted surprisingly good, if a little heavy on the heat at our end of the table. Usually I’d never order such a pond of bubbling mud with mystery ingredients concealed within its depths so this was a surprise for me. Yes, it was good but no, I probably wouldn’t order it again, at least, not unless I was sharing my slurps with a rugby team. It was served in bowls of a size that even sharing between four of us, we barely dented the surface. Perhaps if the bowls were smaller I’d be keener? No, there are plenty of other options at Wahaca to delight me so I’ll pass on the black bean soup for now, but it did create some interesting debate about coriander (like it or loathe it?) and spoons.

“I like the spoons,” said one Qyper.

“Yes, everyone likes them.” Tommi agreed, “so much so that we’ve had to put  a spoon amnesty on our blog.”

“A spoon what?”

“A spoon amnesty. So many people take them home in their handbags that we’ve had to offer an amnesty so people can bring them back.”

I can see why. They were dotted about our tables – sturdy, and ergonomically comfortable to hold in their pretty baby colours of lime, raspberry and sky blue, but no, I did not take home my spoon, although I’d be interested to know where to buy my own set, just to add a touch of fun to the dining table at home.

The huitacoche (corn fungus), field mushroom and cheese quesadillas, folded into warm triangles, were winter-warming and delicious. With a dab or two of red salsa, I thought “I’ve just found my new comfort food!” Yes, this time I had seconds, but that was silly, really, because there was so much more yet to taste.

There were soft corn tortillas topped with shredded slaw, goujons of Baja California fish and a zingy drizzle of chipotle mayo. As an A-FISH-ionado, myself, I can smile and say these were good. Very, very good. I enjoyed the winter salad of butternut squash and spelt, with pickled hibiscus flowers and orange to sweeten the combination and chilli and radish to warm it. The baked pollock was also tasty, flaking into tender tomato-infused morsels; this would certainly take the bite out of a chill winter’s day, although by this point I was slowing down my intake so that by the time we got to the burritos, I didn’t have  stomach enough remaining to comment on whether the cabbage in it detracted from the overall texture or flavour, one of the debates taking place amongst this avid crowd of food lovers.

Concerning the bar contents at Wahaca, usually I’d jump right in and order one of their delicious margaritas, but tonight I accepted the offer of a Modelo Especial beer with fresh lime. It was a very pleasant lager indeed. Then, as the food arrived, the wine was poured – red or white. I chose white, but couldn’t tell you more than that, apart from the fact that somehow, when my back was turned or perhaps when I was paying more attention to something that was about to enter my stomach, my water glass was filled with wine, too. So when I went to have a gulp of water after a particularly spicy bite of something, I managed to down half a glass of wine before I realised what it was. That was a truly dumb Epicurienne moment. I’ll be more cautious in future!

Under Mark’s guidance, we tasted three tequilas from the Wahaca stable: a Blanco (white), served cold, a Reposado (rested) served at room temperature and an Añejo (aged), also served at room temperature, with a lovely, caramelly tang. As many will confide, I, too, have had the occasional clash with tequila, but the selection we enjoyed last night was an utterly different sensory experience to student union layback sessions in a vintage dentist’s chair. This was refined, smooth, flavoursome liquid, to be sipped and savoured, not consumed in one swallow. This was tequila for grown ups and it was better than good. Click here to find out more.

But now I was flagging. The past few weeks have been hell at work, the stress of it strangely absorbing all appetite along the way and causing sleep to be elusive. Last night it picked its time to catch up with me and I had to leave the party early in order to catch some much needed zzzzs. But first, churros. What a delightful end to this tasty respite of an evening – dipping doughnut fingers into molten chocolate. How very Willy-Wonka-Does-Mexico it was. After a few wicked bites of churro and a quick word to TikiChris and Mel Seasons, I left Domestic Sluttery table-mate, Alex and Qyper Jessica to enjoy my espresso because I had to leave, lest I face-planted into my salsas, which would have been very poor form indeed.

**Huge thanks must go to Tommi and Mark, and all the Wahaca staff who helped this week’s event to be such a success, including those hardworking, unseen folk in the kitchen. Everyone was kind, patient with our neverending questions, and generous to the hilt. Thank you, thank you, thank you all.

***And because I was a complete doofus, not being able to find my camera, which was all the time hiding in the bottom of my idiotically-deep handbag, TikiChris has kindly allowed me to use his photos for Qype of the Wahaca event. Chris is a talented photographer, second to none. To see the rest of his Wahaca pics, click here. And to offer Chris a fabulous photographic assignment (because he’s so worth it) you can tweet him @tikichris

OTHER USEFUL LINKS

Wahaca blog

Qype

My last review of Wahaca

Gordon Gracious Deary Me… Let’s WIN some GIN!

It’s a happy day when someone sends me something food or drink-related to play with. It’s far preferable to those depressing brown envelopes with windows that usually fill the mailbox. So it is that I am the grateful recipient of a Friday with Gordon’s pack, comprising an adult-size bottle of Gordon’s gin, 6 smart highball glasses with Gordon’s logo marked ever so discreetly on their sides and a cookbook by the F-Word man himself, Gordon Ramsay.

So to what did I owe this gin-tastic pleasure? The Telegraph is promoting its new Friday supplement, The Friday, sponsored by none other than Gordon’s itself. The Friday is filled with great ideas for how to get the most out of those two precious days we call The Weekend, from cocktail recipes (naturellement) to themed takeaway ideas, relaxation tips and that useful tool – a countdown clock telling you exactly how many days, hours and minutes you have to wait for the next weekend.

Well, I’m having fun thinking up all sorts of wicked things to do with my Gordon’s tonight, but in the meantime, we have an Epic début in the shape of a competition. That’s right, G&T lovers, if you would like to win a Friday With Gordon’s pack with which to kick on your very own gin-themed weekend, you may enter here. I’m sorry to say that I have to restrict entries to UK residents only for this one, and you must be over 18 to enter because those are the rules I’ve been given by the nice Gordon’s people.

So here’s what you do:

Tell me in any way, shape or form who is your ‘Gordon Gracious Me’?

(that means in a comment, haiku, photo, video or any other way that can appear on this blog. Points will be given for originality.)

You have until midnight on Friday 9th October to send me your entries. Then we’ll take a vote and send the winner their very own Friday With Gordon’s kit.

Viel Glück, PEEPS! Now, for a word from Mr Ramsay:

Week In, Week Out by Simon Hopkinson

Simon Hopkinson does not like chestnuts. He avoids honey, and his views on New Zealand’s green-lipped mussels are clear, if harsh: “they are as tasteless as they are unwelcome,” he writes in Week In, Week Out, a collection of his weekly food columns for the Independent, released in paperback this past July. Quirks of the palate aside, this book, replete with the sort of photography that will reduce a foodie to Pavlov’s dog-style salivation, is a blissful  read.

I can vouch for this statement, you see, because when I sat down with my copy of Week In, Week Out on a Saturday morning a couple of months ago, I initially predicted spending an hour or two with it until such time as the sun lured me outside, for it was indeed a beautiful day out there with The Normal People. This plan did not work for me, however. In fact, it failed miserably. Had friends not insisted I keep my promise to attend a planned get-together, I may not have made it out into the fresh air at all that day. Week In, Week Out was my anchor to the sofa. I barely moved until it was absolutely required.

Apart from the fact that Week in, Week Out contains luscious photography and sensibly seasonal recipes, Hopkinson’s use of language is nothing less than inspired. He uses words like ‘flobbery’, gently instructs us to ‘worry not,’ in a fatherly fashion, and likens lazy game preparation to ‘intercourse with a blow-up doll: tasteless, bouncy, spineless.’ I have not had the pleasure of meeting Mr Hopkinson, yet his writing allows a very particular personality to shine through, so that by the end of reading this feast of seasonally-grouped columns, an idea of what it’s like to dine with this chap, under both good and intolerable circumstances, is very firmly planted in one’s mind.

References made by Hopkinson to his upbringing, including fondly-related memories of his mum’s Kenwood mixer and tales of his father’s forays into the kitchen, add a nostalgic slant to certain extracts, and his understanding that not everyone has 2.3 kids, dogs and extended family to hand prompt him to create a string of recipes for the childless couple’s quiet night in. This means that, for once, a celebratory meal for a mere two people, couple or otherwise, need not create excess expense or leftovers aplenty for days to come. How considerate.

The tips peppered generously throughout Week In, Week Out, are many and varied – from where to find wild smoked salmon, to how to get your hands on good, peeled shrimps and even how to bone a pair of rabbits. There are recommendations for the gastronome’s bookshelf and some noticeable reverence given to the late Elizabeth David, but just when you think that perhaps Hopkinson’s recipe inspiration is a tad too bygone in era (kidney soup with bone marrow and parsley dumplings, syllabub, poached chicken or rabbit tongue), suddenly out pops something with roots in a completely different hemisphere (chilli crab salad with grapefruit and avocado) or region (squid stuffed with minced chorizo).

Hopkinson’s mentions of meals enjoyed as far afield as Bangkok and Rome do not go astray here, yet may increase excess salivation. Places that rate high on the Hoppy Index include Amsterdam’s Oesterbar for smoked eel and impeccable peeled shrimps, Tre Scalini in Rome for espresso graniti and Cova in Milan for a cornetto or two. In the UK, Hopkinson favours, among others, Riva in Barnes for the sort of tiramisu that sounds as if it might actually make it to 10/10 on Monsieur’s tiramisu scale of perfection, a score as yet unreached.

At the other end of the foodie scale, Hopkinson displays typically passionate tendencies to rant about what does and does not work in the kitchen. He discusses torn versus chopped basil, comments on the apparent extinction of the brown paper supermarket bag and the scarcity of a decent high-street fishmonger. The confusion of metric versus imperial sizes of containers for various ingredients also rate a rant, and who could possibly disagree with this man? He may not be licking his lips or proclaiming his own cooking “dee-lish-usssss” every twenty lines, but that’s what makes this book an even better read: its honesty.

If that wasn’t enough to tweak the Epicurienne tastebuds, then the final section of the book proved to be my favourite. It’s all about eggplants, which I adore in all its forms, from fritters to baba ganoush and parmigiana, but there’s one eggplant dish which is seared into my memory: the one with miso sauce. When I lived in Sydney, my dear friend and colleague, Kayoko, took me for a quiet Japanese dinner in celebration of my birthday. When it came time to order, I deferred to her expertise. She insisted we try the eggplant with miso sauce and I’ll never forget its smooth touch against my tongue, or the subtle blending of tastes. I forget whatever else it was that we ate that evening. For me, it was all about that eggplant.

Now, years later, Simon Hopkinson has endeared himself to me forever by including the recipe for eggplant and miso in Week In, Week Out. In my opinion he saved the best for last. For that I may even forgive the fact that he doesn’t like New Zealand’s green-lipped mussels.

Eating the dream at Peter Pan Gelateria, Nuoro

Monsieur and I had been driving for most of the day, leaving Cagliari early so we could see some of Sardinia’s west coast and central areas before arriving in Porto Cervo. Our guidebooks recommended a break in Nuoro (also pronounced ‘Nugoro’ in Sardinian). One of the island’s literary greats, Grazia Deledda, was born and  lived there once upon a time and the town is touted as a cultural centre of significance, but navigating our way off the autostrada into Nuoro proved problematic.

You’d think a ‘literary’ centre would take care with its signage. Not in Nuoro. Flying blind in an attempt to follow contradictory signs with only a near-useless guidebook map to aid us, we somehow found ourselves parking next to the Cathedral. By this point our bums were quite numb with all that sitting so we were keen to stretch our legs.

The late afternoon sun stung our skin, taking us by surprise as we stepped out of the air-conditioned car. Surely the sun should have been losing its strength by now. Immediately hot and parched from all the driving we wandered through an ancient archway, down a little street to a large, empty piazza. Turning right we stopped at a bar, sheltering in the shade as we greedily glugged on icy Peronis. They weren’t enough to quench our thirst, however. Gelato would be required for that and as fate would have it, there at the foot of the street leading back to the Cathedral sat a conveniently-placed ice cream shop called Peter Pan Gelateria, so in we went.

When you’re as fussy as I am about gelato, it’s easy to tell how it will taste well before it enters the mouth. There’s the texture of the scoop – which should be creamy and pliable, not rigid and over-frozen. There’s the selection – avoid the freezers with only two or three flavours; those purveyors of gelato don’t care enough about it to replenish the empty tubs. Look also for a selection that has not only the predictable vanillas, chocolates and strawberries, but the less usual flavours like pistachio, tutti frutti, cassata and caramel-rich rafaele. Price is always a key factor: more than €5.00 for a cup of three scoops is daylight robbery, too often demanded for mediocre gelato near tourist traps. Less than €4.00 for a three-scoop cup overflowing with a surplus of generosity and creamy goodness in a tourist-free zone is well worth the money. Peter Pan asked a modest €3.00 for three huge scoops of PERFECT gelato. It felt as if we were robbing them.

Savouring our gelati on benches in the Cathedral garden, we licked the drips from now-sticky fingers, keen not to waste a single drop. My cup, filled with cocco, stracciatella and pistachio, disappeared too quickly. I frowned at the empty container.

“Don’t worry, darling,” soothed Monsieur, “we’ll stop by Peter Pan on the way back to Cagliari.”

 You just about have to be Houdini to get out of Nuoro without a proper map of the place. It’s a tangle of roads to nowhere. Following those lying street signs we went up a hill, down the other side, found dead ends in all directions, stray dogs enjoying their lone adventures and streets named after Freud and Pablo Neruda. Some time later we fell upon a road that led us back to the autostrada. With sighs of relief we were off again.

As good as his word, Monsieur took me back to Nuoro some days later for another Peter Pan treat. This time getting into town was easy as we’d come off the autostrada an exit too early, following the twist of a country road up, up, up to the hilltop town and in through the back door. This time we found the cathedral quickly, parking there once more and walking down through the arch to the Peter Pan Gelateria. But man cannot lunch on gelato alone, although I know one woman who’d be keen to try. We went in search of pre-treat savoury sustenance. 

Once more, it was hot, perhaps too hot for cooking because we couldn’t  find a single restaurant that was open, and this time there wasn’t the excuse of it being the day of worship. The bars were mostly uninspiring, the domain of the greying male, their terraces hazy with smoke through which you could just about make out the old men of the town.

Even this newsstand was closed, presumably for a home-cooked lunch and heat-busting siesta.

Even the Devil’s Own Pizzeria took the afternoon off. If you can’t take the heat, get out of Hell’s Kitchen I suppose.

These looked good. We considered going back for a takeaway panini bag if we didn’t find anywhere else. By now I was feeling dizzy. The heat combined with a lack of food made me want to crumple in a heap on the cobbled streets. I’ve heard of spontaneous combustion, but this felt more like potential human evaporation.

A giant stopwatch outside this jewellery shop caught our eye. It, too, was on strike in protest at the heat; it simply refused to tick tock and tell the correct time.  

Eventually we settled for lunch at this quiet bar just around the corner from the Peter Pan Gelateria which was our main reason for returning to Nuoro.

We were so thirsty that the cokes disappeared in seconds and the water wasn’t far behind. For once, food was secondary.

The menu wasn’t much to write home about but we were too hungry to fuss now.

The pizza came fresh from a freezer box and the pasta had been microwaved with a sauce from a jar. Never mind. Peter Pan would be next on the list and a cup of their divine wares should more than make up for a lack of gourmet flair here.

But it was closed. We stared at the opening times in disbelief. The Peter Pan people were out for their own lunch. Ah. We’d forgotten that they, too, might need a break. Heads hanging low with disappointment, we were about to turn away when we heard a yell: “Arrivo! Arrivo!”. In seconds the owner was there, opening the Peter Pan Gelateria especially for us. At that moment, the Peter Pan Gelateria became my favourite gelateria in the entire world.

We chose our flavours: limone, vaniglia, cioccolata for Monsieur, stracciatella, cocco,  rafaele’s caramel ripple for me. I thanked the owner profusely, explaining that his gelato was our main reason for stopping in Nuoro today. He waved away our thanks with the humble manner of a man who knows how magnetic his product is. Our pilgrimage did not surprise him in the least.

And once more we took our cups to the cathedral garden, slurping our spoonfuls of creamy deliciousness on benches in the shade of the trees.

I wanted to go inside to light a candle of thanks for the beauty of Sardinia, a safe trip, friends and family and the simple pleasure of perfect gelato, but the church doors were locked tight. The priest was away.

It would seem that even Sardinia’s men of the cloth are not immune to its blistering summer days. No matter. I just wonder how often Don Floris enjoys a treat from the gelateria at the foot of his cathedral’s hill. As for this pair of hungry travellers, we were just grateful to have found the hidden treasure of Nuoro, which we were fortunate enough to have enjoyed twice in one week. Now all we had to do was find that elusive autostrada and get back to Cagliari. Easier said than done.

The Good, the Bad and the Tasty

It was a gloriously sunny Sunday in Sardinia and we were leaving town. Arrivederci, Cagliari! Monsieur and I would be in the car for the day, driving up to the Costa Smeralda, or Emerald Coast, where we’d be spending the bulk of our week-long break.

On the map, it looks as if you should be able to drive straight up the east coast to the Costa Smeralda, but the east coast roads aren’t made for comfort so we decided to stick to the main autostrada which zig-zags out of Cagliari to the west coast before traversing the island to its upper eastern tip. The plan was to lunch at Oristano, a small west coast town not far from the coast. I’d read good things about a little restaurant there called Il Faro, famed for its traditional Sardinian cuisine. And so we detoured away from the autostrada, entering an Oristano that was quieter than most ghost towns. We’d forgotten that Sundays are still sacred in this part of the world. Apart from a clutch of old men sipping drinks outside a lone open bar, Oristano was closed for business. In denial, we followed the signs to Il Faro, leading us in conflicting directions until we finally located it, shutters firmly closed. We left Oristano with empty stomachs, following a coastal road north.

This unplanned route was a blessing in disguise. The views of unspoilt coastline against a deep blue sky and turquoise waters brought wide smiles to our faces, still pasty from a sunless winter. Passing the occasional restaurant perched on clifftops with unsurpassable views, we realised that we too would eat, so we stopped at S. Caterina di Pittinuri. Pulling into a modest parking area next to a restaurant advertising a menu turistico, Monsieur and I were set for one of the best (and worst) lunches of our time in Sardinia. The restaurant’s name, for future reference, was La Scogliera.

The  entrance was certainly unprepossing, but this was of little concern to those possessed by thoughts of lunch.

The menu looked reasonable, with plenty of seafood to tempt us, but the true surprise was the terraced eating area.

There were plenty of free tables, just waiting for hungry patrons such as ourselves to populate them. The waitress asked where we wanted to sit, so I pointed at a quiet table in the shade. “No.” she frowned. “Too far.” In rapid Italian she instructed me to pick a table that was closer to her station, presumably so she didn’t have to exert herself. Might I add that the table we were eventually permitted to take was a mere metre closer to the waitress’s station? This was far from the usual warm welcome so prevalent in the Italian region.

Unfortunately, the surly waitress was not alone in her grump. Everyone we encountered at the restaurant was to be equally unhelpful, unwilling and unhappy. Thank heavens for the view, which was a redeeming feature, as was the food, although not ordering wine or alcohol with our lunch earned us another filthy look. But let’s face it: who cares about grumpy staff  when the seafood salad tastes as if it were caught mere minutes before being tossed in extra virgin olive oil with lemon juice that tastes of the sun and landing on a plate for none other than YOU?

Just as we tucked into our plates of Neptune’s deliciousness, a party of four walked through the terrace, seating themselves at the very table at which we’d wanted to sit. Apparently, the waitresses weren’t too fussed about THEM being too far from their station. I began to wonder if they just had it in for anglo-saxon and French tourists attempting to speak Italian. Granted, I can’t recite passages from Dante’s works, but I can definitely communicate in Italian and so far at this restaurant I hadn’t found myself too challenged in the foreign language department, but when I saw how the staff reacted to the locals whilst practically spitting at our every request, I realised with sadness that our treatment had something to do with the fact that we Weren’t From Around Here.

The party of four at our preferred table were wise in their ordering. A trolley appeared, on which several platters were placed. A smiling waitress then served a selection from the platters onto each plate. Clever. Meanwhile, Monsieur’s steak had arrived but my lobster was missing in action. I’d ordered lobster catalana, and at the rate it was taking, they must have gone out to catch a fresh crustacean for me. I’m not accustomed to ordering the most expensive thing on the menu, but today I felt like celebrating, hence ordering lobster. Tapping my toes under the table, and now feeling as surly as the waitress, I received a smile from her as she apologised for the delay. Almost an hour after our starter plates had been removed, my lobster made its entrance, just as Monsieur polished off the last of his steak. The lobster was big, fire-engine red and beautiful, served with  wedges of fresh tomato and circles of onion beneath a drizzle of olive oil. My heavens, it was so fresh that I started to believe my theory about the staff fishing it out of the sea a short while ago. It was almost worth the wait. Almost. Had it been a lobster thermidor I might have understood, but this type of lobster preparation was so simple that even I could have done it in less time, and that includes catching the thing. But it looked wonderful, so I shared it with Monsieur-of-the-Now-Empty-Plate, so we could compare notes.

When I ventured inside to find the ladies’ room, I noted with disappointment how unhappy everyone looked. The barman frowned, the cashier was slumped on one elbow, the picture of intense boredom and the grandmamma of the restaurant stared at me as if I were a hooker. I can only think that my shorts were not to her taste. Not one waiter or waitress smiled, at least not at me. This place wouldn’t be winning any awards for service soon.

The loos were far from ideal but the owner’s ideals were plain, as seen in the notice below. In this place, what’s good for the goose has nothing to do with the gander. As the ladies’ was in dire need of such basics as a new loo seat and a tap handle, with a fair amount of grime on all surfaces, I can only think that the proprietor might have to wake up to the fact that he’s not a ‘civilized’ person. He also can’t spell in French (‘GENTS’ should read ‘GENS’).

We asked for the bill. It didn’t arrive. Having waited an hour for the lobster, we didn’t want to waste another hour waiting for the opportunity to pay. Taking one last look at the seascape, we went directly to the bar to pay.

I was expecting the bill to be expensive, especially as I’d ordered the lobster, but considering the fact that we hadn’t ordered wine, the total price was a shocker, forming the topic of discussion almost all the way to Nuoro. Had we been ripped off? Should lobster really cost €12.00 per 100 grams? Was that lobster really 400 grams, hence the €48.00 on the bill? It didn’t look like a 400 gram lobster to me, more like 300 grams. Had we, the trusting tourists, been duped? Later in our Sardinian travels we discovered that actually this was a fair price for the region’s five star restaurants to charge for lobster, but at La Scogliera, with its angry atmosphere and peeling paint, it felt like daylight robbery, especially with such unfriendly staff in all directions.

Back in the car park, we surveyed the bay one last time, smiling at the artistic signwriting evident on this particular gate:

And so, back onto the coast road we drove. Our bellies were certainly content but we couldn’t wait to get away from La Scogliera’s unhappy, unfriendly, unwilling, unhelpful staff. Never again in Sardinia did we come across such crotchety folk. Thankfully, this bunch were the exception to the rule, but unless you have the skin of a rhino, I’d avoid this place like the plague.

In summary:

THE GOOD POINTS: La Scogliera has wonderful views and the food is fantastic. Should you brave the Grump Bunch, do as we observed others doing and order a selection of dishes to share. You don’t have to order the bank-busting lobster; you can certainly eat lobster at more reasonable prices in the more reasonable establishments of Sardinia. There is a competitive menu turistico and the seafood salad is to die for. Monsieur said the steak was “all right”, although nothing special. My recommendation is that you stick to what La Scogliera does well – seafood.

THE BAD POINTS: Who died? The staff were horrible to us but couldn’t do enough for the local diners. Don’t dare to dine here if you don’t speak Italian. Order wine to avoid further wait-staff disapproval. If you’re female, don’t wear shorts, lest grandmamma’s  eyes narrow at the sight of them. Don’t expect to choose your own table and be prepared to wait. And wait. And wait.