Tag: Food

A Happy, Lazy, Well-Spent Day in Glasgow

September 8th, 2022

I’m happy to report that in the big scheme of things, I haven’t actually done much today: although thinking back on that statement, I suppose I might have. I’ve just enjoyed being in Glasgow; there’s been nowhere to go, nobody to see and nothing to do that I haven’t wanted to. I’m tired but satisfied, and of course the adventure continues further north tomorrow.

If there’s a place in Britain outside London that lends itself to just ambling around and seeing where one ends up, it’s Glasgow; not too labyrinthine and not too structured, Glasgow is good for meandering and pottering. If you want to look at something, you can; if you want to stop for coffee or something to eat, you can; if you want to go shopping, you can do that too. I’ve done some of all of this today, happy for a break in my road trip, although another — a weekend on the whisky nirvana of Islay — awaits in two days’ time.

I shared with readers last night my excursion to the retail shop from which a large purchase of tweed was investigated yesterday; I should have named the store — it’s Walker Slater, with stores in Glasgow, London and Edinburgh, although it sells internationally online, and staff are happy to take calls from overseas to answer questions before orders are placed.

I would encourage anyone interested in fashion and/or looking good to give tweed a chance, and give Walker Slater the opportunity to make that happen. Have a look at their stuff; it’s absolutely gorgeous, and they cater to ladies as well as men. As an aside, the only aspect of my dealings with them to date that pissed me off was their flat refusal to sell and freight to Melbourne a tweed-covered three-seat English Oak sofa in their Glasgow store to which I took a liking. Surely such a request was reasonable? 🙂

Me at Walker Slater in Glasgow in the coat I’ve bought, with a shirt similar to those I bought in Yorkshire on Sunday.

Anyhow, I spent longer than I should have at Walker Slater today. Between continuing to roam the shop looking for things I should either buy or try on before I head off tomorrow, and speaking to my parents in Australia before their bedtime about things that might be good for my two kids (who are also my parents’ only grandchildren), I think I was there for a solid two hours — and between what was bought yesterday and what was added to it today, there’s close to £1,000 in tweed products on its way back to Melbourne: some of it in my suitcase; most of it in the safe hands of Britain’s Royal Mail. It might even beat me home.

And — happily enough — if I’ve forgotten anything, or get the urge to buy more, Walker Slater’s Edinburgh store is a ten minute walk from where I’m staying next Wednesday night. Splendid!

The downside to all this time buying new clothes is that having decided overnight to get my Glasgow Coat of Arms tattoo — the bird, the tree, the bell, the fish — and having forgotten to ring the tattoo place before I headed out, when I went there after my visit to Walker Slater, the tattoo artist was booked out for the day. So perhaps that particular decision was made for me, in a sense, although I don’t have to get my car out of the car park tomorrow until 3pm despite hotel checkout being at 11am, so you never know…it may indeed be that if I don’t change my mind this happens on my return to Melbourne, although I do think there’s something to be said for getting a Glasgow tattoo in Glasgow. Watch this space.

Thus thwarted, I grabbed my work computer and headed to a cafe I found on the bank of the River Clyde, and did some work my boss messaged me with for an hour or two; the coffee in Glasgow is at least passable (remembering we’re spoilt for it in Melbourne) and I drank too much of it, safe in the knowledge that if anything went wrong in the world then just upstream — in the Firth of Clyde — one of Britain’s Trident submarines would be lurking out of sight, armed with up to 16 five megaton nuclear warheads with a range of 9,000 miles. Who wouldn’t feel safe?

But most of the day, as I indicated at the outset, was just spent wandering, ambling, meandering, happy to be in Glasgow and with nary a care in the world for once. One job yesterday’s field trip around Glasgow revealed was that my comfortable old brogues had reached the end of their useful life: I knew the soles had worn very thin, but the rain yesterday scored me a right shoe full of water. A ridiculous sale at a retailer in Glasgow got me more than serviceable replacements for £50 — a 50% discount off marked price — and so really, I’m going home with an awful lot of new stuff too.

And seeing I’m always very happy to endorse good businesses (which I do unsolicited and without notice to the business in question: it’s purely my own recommendation), dinner was a splendid find: Amore Ristorante Pizzeria, just outside Glasgow’s Merchant City precinct.

If you’re in Glasgow and looking for an excellent place to eat, pick this. Inexpensive, good food, large portions.

I’m happy to eat something other than traditional Scottish fare in Glasgow; I know the week ahead will be filled with venison, grouse, salmon, and all the other delicious things produced in Scotland, particularly in the north and in the clean, cold waters around it.

I made an error last night in picking a place masquerading as an Italian restaurant, which even arrogated to itself an Italian name (which will not be mentioned in this post): suffice to say the fare on offer was food-grade effluent, a waste of money, and an affront to the cuisine it purported to peddle. The only thing missing, thankfully, was a case of botulism.

So readers will appreciate that attentive, smiling service in pleasant surrounds counts for much; most will also appreciate that a “starter portion” of mussels in a rich, garlicky tomato and onion sauce with garlic bread — for £8.95 — raised an eyebrow when it arrived at my table with 29 mussels (and a further three that didn’t open, which should always be regarded as inedible). Incredulous at the generosity of the serve, I wolfed it down. It was nothing short of sensational.

Mussel starter at Amore Ristorante Pizzeria, Glasgow: before…

…and after…

A main course of traditional lasagna was more realistically portioned, but generous nonetheless; containing pieces of real beef and topped with real parmesan (not that awful dried stuff some of these places inflict on their customers), it too passed with flying colours.

Lasagna at Amore Ristorante Pizzeria: the parmesan is finely grated, not the dried stuff, despite its appearance.

But dessert…ever since I discovered tiramisu in Melbourne’s “Little Italy” — Lygon Street in Carlton — in the mid-1990s, I have rarely not ordered it when it appears on a menu; this could have been sensational, but there was little (if any) booze in it, the Cottee’s (or similar) chocolate syrup over it was a tacky and unnecessary addition that detracted from the dish, and mint sprigs — as renowned British food critic Matthew Fort has oft opined — should never appear on a plate as in most contexts, they’re inedible.

Supermarket chocolate syrup is a tacky and unnecessary addition to a fine dessert like tiramisu.

So eight out of ten for this: a splendid dinner to end a lazy, happy day in my family town.

And deep regret that tomorrow, it’s time to move on from here.

AND ANOTHER THING: it’s funny what you find in supermarkets these days; I went to Sainsbury’s this afternoon to buy additional bags of Bassett’s Jelly Babies for my kids as I’m stockpiling them (the BEST jelly babies in the known universe): £1-£1.50 at retailers in Britain for a 190g bag; $8 (£4.70 at today’s rates) for the same thing in Australia if you can ever find it. Anyhow, check this out.

59p buys you more of a mouthful than you might have bargained for at Sainsbury’s.

59p at Sainsbury’s.

No words.

And suffice to say, I didn’t buy it…
By Tre, Pol and Pen Shall Ye Know Cornishmen…

August 30th, 2022

…and for all that, I’m in Tintagel; it doesn’t sound like it lives up to the billing really, until one notes it’s actually known locally as Trevena: and so, like scores of other towns and hamlets across Britain’s rugged, beautiful south-west, Tintagel fits the formula by which shall ye know Cornishmen.

For the first time in the week and a half since I arrived in Britain, it’s actually pleasantly cool; part of this derives from the fact the first couple of places I stayed in after leaving London were heritage listed out of being allowed to install air conditioning in their buildings (does this shit sound familiar to readers in Melbourne?), and part of it derives from the fact I’m on the coast, with an open window, and a lovely seaside breeze is filtering pleasantly into my room.

But first things first: I posted a picture of sunset over the River Exe in Topsham last night; perhaps sunset shots will become a mainstay of the remainder of this trip — and perhaps they won’t — but here’s one overlooking the water from my hotel.

Sunset over the water as seen from Tintagel, Cornwall.

What a labyrinthine, convoluted place Cornwall is; on my last trip to Britain I stayed in Penzance (about 40 minutes further south on the M5 Motorway) which is literally a drive-in, drive-out type of destination; Tintagel is a different proposition altogether, with the last 20 miles of my drive after leaving the M5 spent navigating spidery laneways barely wide enough for one vehicle, let alone two, at speeds of less than 20 miles per hour and on roads probably unfit to travel on even that quickly. And after leaving the M5 at Launceston (pronounced “Lansen”, for the benefit of any Taswegians reading), perhaps 30 different towns were signposted — and passed — en route to Tintagel.

And then…as if from nowhere, a thriving, bustling little town centre sprang into view; I took some photographs of it after businesses began closing, as today was a Bank Holiday in Britain, and the high street you see below was teeming with thousands of people just a few hours ago.

Thousands flocked to Tintagel for the August Bank Holiday today…and thankfully, most of them were gone by 7pm.

I’m staying in an old castle — the Camelot Castle Hotel — and I expect I may have more to report on this when next I post; I met the owner this evening (who lives onsite), and he’s given me a tantalising snapshot of the history of the place, but I expect there’s a lot more to be learned. I’m catching up with him again tomorrow, but already I know, for example, that a Dracula film was shot here; Sir Edward Elgar wrote one of his symphonies whilst staying here; other luminaries over the past two centuries have ties to the property; and even monks have a connection to it through their work at the old Tintagel Castle — now in ruins on an island just off the Tintagel coast — stretching back centuries.

The Camelot Castle Hotel, Tintagel, as seen this afternoon as I arrived and readied to check in.

What I have also learned (and this is where I become a bit subterranean and euphemistic about what I say) is that what I have already ascertained about the area, its history, and those of its features that are little-known these days — after all, this place has a history stretching back well over 1,000 years — are perfect for the purpose I wanted to research for one of my novels.

Tintagel was the legendary seat of King Arthur: its high street is filled with merchants selling everything from wizardry artefacts based on Merlin to eponymous pubs and cafes seeking to eke out a living by trading off the Arthurian past.

If nature calls in Tintagel, be sure to have your 20p ready: I was astonished (and disgusted) to see this barrier at the entrance to a “public” toilet block. Apparently it’s to offset the cost of water. In reality, it’s despicable.

Frankly, I thought the pizza dinner I had at the Olive Garden — a lovely Italian-run bistro at the eastern end of the high street — was better than what any of these establishments might offer. The model for designing and ordering pizza was a masterstroke: here’s your basic margherita pizza for £9; now add ingredients to it for £1 apiece.

I’m not going to specify which ingredients I added — I don’t want to fuel the bullshit debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza, for example, or whether in fact anything aside from tomato, cheese and basil belongs on it at all.

People should order what they like, and what tastes good. It is a matter of fact that irrespective of whatever does or doesn’t “belong” on pizza, there are thousands of purveyors of bloody awful pizza worldwide that isn’t fit to feed the dog if taste is the main criterion on which it is judged. To that end, I am happy to report the fare at the Olive Garden was delicious. It was regrettable when the last bite was the only one left on my plate.

I’ll be back to post again tomorrow, and perhaps I’ll show a little more of where I’m staying. But it’s great to be back in Cornwall, and tomorrow is a big day in terms of detailed, painstaking research to ensure I can write authoritatively about the place when I go back to Melbourne — even though the option to walk down the main street, for example, won’t be available on a whim — and even if it takes a little while to get to the third of the three novels I’m working on.

After all, the first one is only just nearing the point I can start to think about tarting it around to prospective publishers. There’s more to do in the series before I get onto what I have in mind to set here 🙂
Interesting Dinner: Côte Brasserie, Chiswick

August 26th, 2022

Someone, somewhere, will accuse me of being a culinary heathen for this — and had I known I was wandering into one of a chain of 80+ restaurants expecting a decent meal, the admonishment would probably have been to myself in the mirror — but a visit to Côte in Chiswick on Tuesday night, following the aroma of tomatoes and garlic, proved a surprising find indeed.

I’ve blundered badly in the past by choosing to eat at places exuding enticing aromas — a visit to a pizza joint in Victor Harbor in South Australia many years ago is a particularly vivid example that sticks in my mind, even now — but always a sucker for French food, the smells emanating from Côte as I walked to Turnham Green train station the other day were irresistibly persuasive, and I determined to return for dinner that evening.

The concept of chain restaurants offering a decent meal sits awkwardly with me at the best of times, however; and the previous evening — soon after arriving in the UK — I had a deeply unsatisfactory experience at nearby Franco Manca on the Chiswick High Road, which I’ve since learned is yet another multi-site operation, and had I been aware of this I might not have ventured into Côte at all.

In any event, such concerns would have proven unfounded.

I started with French Onion Soup (£6.50) which reliably upheld the tradition of this fine starter; while it could have been served hotter (and the molten Gruyere was so stringy it needed to be twirled like spaghetti to avoid embarrassment), it was fresh, vibrant and delicious, with croutons that retained an element of crunch despite their immersion in the soup.

What followed was a revelation: Breton Stew (£15.75), a tomato-y, onion-y, garlicky bowl of oceanic goodness; packed with prawns, squid rings, a delicate fillet of sea bass and a dozen little mussels in a thick tomato broth which offered the faintest hint of chilli warmth, this was one of those dishes one rues eating the final mouthful of.

Dessert came in the form of a Tarte Au Citron (£6.75) — something I am rarely able to resist ordering whenever it appears on a menu — which was rich, crisp and sharply lemony, served with a “blueberry salad” (in truth, a little cluster of blueberries atop the tart), a layer of brûléed sugar that was perfectly caramelised just to the point further heat would have turned it acrid, and a generous dollop of vanilla crème fraîche.

Two beers — a French lager called Meteor (£4.75 apiece), which goes on my must-find list for when I return to Australia — rounded out the meal. The service was pleasant, professional, and adequately attentive.

If there’s one criticism I’d make, it’s that portion sizes could have been slightly larger, although I know from past experience this is quite a common observation to make about dining out in Britain.

Still, for a grand total of £42.35 ($A71.80 at today’s rates) — including the ubiquitous 10% “service charge” — this was a good meal at a very reasonable price, and not least when it’s remembered the same three courses in Melbourne would almost certainly have cost as much as 50% more. The beers alone would have left little change from $30 in an Australian restaurant.

And in doing a little reading on Côte after my visit, it came as no surprise at all to discover well-known food critic Jay Rayner — a tough marker if ever there was one — has given rave reviews to the company’s offer to market.

Should Côte ever decide to open restaurants in Melbourne, I’ll enthusiastically spruik its merits. This was a dining choice to some extent inadvertently made, but well worth it.
I’d Kill To Have This In Melbourne

August 25th, 2022

The Borough Market is better than any retail food market in Australia, Melbourne included.

It’s probably no surprise to those who know me, but one of my favourite places on the planet — literally — speaks to the foodie in me, and to the addiction to top quality ingredients I’ve developed since graduating 25 years ago from burnt pancakes to being a serious kitchen enthusiast and cook.

And nobody who’s eaten at my table refuses a return invitation.

It was probably inevitable, therefore, that one of my first forays out in London this week was to the Borough Market; even in Melbourne (the so-called food capital of the Southern Hemisphere) the markets we have — which are excellent, don’t get me wrong — aren’t a patch on this.

There has been a market on this site in Southwark for over 1,000 years; the market claims to have operated since 1014 “and probably much longer.” My only complaint with it is that it isn’t located 38 degrees south: I’d kill to have this in Melbourne.

Since discovering the Borough Market on my last trip to the UK in 2008, I have dreamed about this place, with its seemingly endless array of purveyors of the finest ingredients from British, French and other providores: all of which are, by and large, superior to the nevertheless excellent fare we’re blessed with in Australia, and allowing for the currency conversion (with one dollar buying 59p at time of writing) is generally cheaper than what we have access to at home.

That’s a real, whole Monkfish at Day Boat Fish: and one hell of a way to greet customers, to be sure!

Someone once claimed to me that the “nutrient content” of ingredients in the UK was “lower” than food we can buy in Australia: that for example, a piece of British beef was less nutrient-dense than its Australian equivalent. Seriously…such utter garbage is readily debunked by visiting a place like the Borough Market, and in any case, even if it’s accepted poor food is readily available in the UK, that acknowledgement demands the concession that there’s plenty of rubbish on the market for consumption in Australia, too.

$A65/kg…Cote de Boeuf from Northfield Farm is similarly priced to comparable Australian beef, and looks delicious.

The great drawback of being a tourist (in my case, at least) is that save for something to eat, I couldn’t buy anything: I have nowhere to cook it! So “wandering and wishing” was how I spent the afternoon. Non-aficionados may laugh, but markets like this are like a playground to me.

“World Famous” might be exaggerating a little, but these sausage rolls – which I generally don’t eat – are sensational.

Feeling like lunch, I bought a sausage roll for £5.50; this might sound expensive until it’s pointed out the “sausage rolls” are more like meat loaves for one (that’s them in the middle right-hand shelf, above), and quite the departure from the stodgy muck sold in convenience stores and most bakeries. In fact — were one resident in London — a raid on the Ginger Pig would be obligatory, yielding pork pies, pasties, and other delicious things.

This “garden” produces a wild mushroom risotto that is a taste sensation – and I don’t go in for “vegan rubbish” at all.

It was probably a good thing I found the bakery stand first, really, for Turnips — one of many excellent purveyors of fruit and vegetables at the Borough Market — was selling fresh-cooked wild mushroom risotto (for £8.50, which is a bit steep); when I sought to smell it cooking, the stallholder handed me a disposable spoonful to try. It was one of the best things I have tasted in a very long time: velvety smooth mushrooms — possibly with chanterelles and/or ceps — melded perfectly with creamy rice and seasoned beautifully, with a hint of rosemary. Had I not eaten the log-sized sausage roll, I probably would have handed over a tenner and change for a serve of this with some black truffle grated into it.

And I’m generally dismissive of anything remotely vegan, or even vegetarian.

Beautiful British summer berries at Turnips at the Borough Market.

Wandering around this foodie nirvana reinforced the reality that this market is better than anything we have in Australia: even in Melbourne, with its abundance of food markets such as those in South Melbourne, Prahran, the Queen Victoria Market in the city and elsewhere, we simply don’t have anything as good as this. All of our markets, while boasting some excellent merchants, offset the quality of the overall offer with stallholders selling what can only be described as food-grade crap. Dear old Queen Victoria, I’m looking at you through an especially critical lens, although you’re not the only miscreant on this measure. It’s a shame.

There’s another market in London at Spitalfields that I believe some gourmands contend is even better than the Borough Market. I’m not planning to go to Spitalfields to find out; for one thing, I simply don’t have enough time in London on this visit to do everything. But in a sense, I don’t have to: whenever in London, the Borough Market is a happy place for me…even if I can’t cart a load of stuff out to cook!

Charcuterie in a market like this is mandatory.

Some of what awaits to tantalise and tease at Neal’s Yard Dairy at the Borough Market, London Bridge.

Shellseekers Fish and Game…addicted to venison as I am, this would be a regular port of call if I were a Londoner.

There is another excellent reason to visit the Borough Market, of course, and that’s for dinner: Roast Restaurant — also discovered on my stay in London in 2008, but known to me prior to that thanks to British MasterChef (“proper” MasterChef, not the retarded “look at me” abomination produced by Network Ten in Australia) — is sensational, and whilst I didn’t dine there on my day visit, I’m going back before I hit the road around the UK at the weekend.

And for this reason, it feels fitting to end this post with another image, which just seems to beg the question of what to order for dinner…

“Deliciously British” is an understatement, if past experience is any guide.