Peter Green

February 26, 2009

Really pleased you liked Hereford Road!
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Hey, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have known!

Like I say, I'd almost choose to live near Hereford Road now.

(Although being retiring to Kits in Vancouver has its attractions, too).

:biggrin:

p.s. - I did wear a large coat. 007 would've been proud.

February 26, 2009

The Second Sitting – Part 3 – afters

I came back, slowly, through through the streets. I watched, forlorn, through the window, as people went about their holiday shopping.

When the taxi hit Edgware, I asked the driver to let me down. It was still early.

I felt like a phantom on the streets, which is when I’m most comfortable. I meandered up the West side of the road, taking in the Mediterranean grocers, and travel agents offering packages to Lebanon and Cairo.

The shisha market is an interesting thing. The British ban on smoking in restaurants sent the great masses out, unsheltered, onto the streets of London, where they feed, despondently, upon their nicotine sticks.

You would have thought, in these instances, that the shsha (“hubbly bubbly” to some of us) market would have fallen upon foul times. But it seems to be quite the opposite. They’ve been thriving since the ban, with clientele looking to smoke, and finding a well serviced venue available for their water-filtered needs.

It’s a curious walk, and one I enjoy. The cafes are full of Japanese and Brits and Koreans, all pulling on their hookahs. It takes me back to pleasant times in Cairo, a few decades back, when you never knew what was going in that pipe

And then I made a hard right turn.

Connaught Street. How could I not wander down a street named for my own elementary school?

They were shutting down, but I fell upon the stray elements of a street market, all nettle wines and fine floral assortments. The police were cheerily waving vehicles away with their beacons, whilst sipping on Starbucks outside of their cars.

People were selling interesting produce, and various jams and canned assortments….along with jerked beef and chutney.

The rain was turning to snow.

February 26, 2009

The Second Sitting – Part 3

I owe thanks to Food Snob for pointing me in the right direction.

This works on a number of levels. First he’d directed me here, to Hereford Road. I’d come out this evening, traeling farther West than is my wont in the freezing rain, not only to partake in the nasty bits that so well fit my mood right now, but also to trace the diaspora of St. John, the legacy of Fergus Henderson that is now cooking about town.

I’d been disappointed in what I’d read of St. John recently, and, given the efforts I went through to get there last time, had decided to invest what little time I had in some of the offshoots, hoping for the same happiness I’d had at Smithfield’s Market those years gone by.

First, I needed to find it. I’d walked to the Edgware Station, past the shisha muggery, and stared down the roughness of that hole in the ground – home of bombings and Clive Barker stories – and fumbled in my pocket for the mass of change I’d need to get close to Hereford Road.

As I scrabbled amongst the clutter of my coat pocket, the weight of realization came down upon me. I was about to spend the better part of the evening walking to and from tube stations, the old (very old) up and down, and spending close to the fare of a taxi to not even reach my destination.

Years back, I was slightly taken aback that my Omani friend looked at us in shock when we said we were taking the tube.

"I've never taken the tube. Why would you do such a thing?"

Her words ringing (stridently, she's that way) in my ears, I walked back into the rain and hailed a cab, running on Harrow to Bishop’s Bridge, and then down Westbourne Grove. Westbourne was one of those streets that reminds me that people do live in London. Restaurants, small grocers, more restaurants, pubs, and yet more restaurants.

Food Snob, in his coverage, had brought up an interesting point of Tom Pemberton’s (the chef). And I’ll quote the quote here:

”It seems to me the area lacks a strong neighbourhood restaurant. Our main priority is to provide genuinely high quality, interesting and affordable British food in a relaxed environment.”

Generally, when people start spouting mission statements, I ball my fists and look to cause some pain. But these words are seeping up, like ghosts from the floorboards. Celina Tio wants a restaurant that will serve find food, but without the fine food pretensions (and costs). Vancouver, as I’d noted in the December trip, was very much of this philosophy; that it’s good to be a destination, but you really want to be a good, honest eatery for your neighborhood.

And even my favourite, the Four Seasons Bangkok, concentrates on keeping the local crowd happy (an attitude that is helping to carry them through these lean times in the Land of Smiles).

But I ramble. I’m old. We came here to eat.

After an Abbot and Costello routine of “Where to, gov?” “Hereford Rd” “Okay, gov. Where on Hereford Road?” “The restaurant, Hereford Road.” “There’s a lot of restaurants now on Hereford Road, gov.” “No the name of the restaurant is Herefeord Road.” “What street is it on, then?”

You can see how this went.

But, we did arrive, and it wasn’t that hard to find.

Myself, having been eager to lose the ramoras of my “team”, had shown up far too early. It was dead. But dead is fine when you’re looking for brains.

The restaurant is much as Snob described it. Attractive, relaxed, much like the love of your life after one (but not more) good cocktails, and things are just….comfortable. Reds and honey coloured woods. If I lived near hear

As Snob has said, the bread is a fine thing. Soft, pliable. I wish I had a wife like this (with the fat on the side, you see – I’ll pay for that later, I know). ‘

I fell upon the bread in a ravenous fashion, not having fed at all during the day. I’m irregular in my dining when left to my own devices, and I had to pull myself back from the bread and butter, ‘lest I dampen myself for what was to come.

Living where I do, I miss good baking. When I was home in Vancouver, and here in London, it’s a joy. Like rice, there’s a smell that just reaches into a homely corner of us, and caresses us ‘till we purr like a cat.

The appetizer is what I’d come for . George A . Romero at the deep fryer, these came very lightly breaded, a dusting really, and still retained that soft, full cholesterol flavour. The aioli – with it’s off-yellow appearance -was a nice idea, the garlic and mayo putting the right bumpers on what was already a delicious treat of soft organs.

The room makes good use of mirrors to give the impression of greater width, but this has the unfortunate side-effect of allowing me to see myself (yes, I do cast a reflection). While I am a big fan of The Beat, watching myself while I am eating is not an appetizing sight.

Especially with a meal as fine as this.

As a second piece, I had the duck livers and hearts, with green beans and tarragon (dragon’s-wort). There’s a much different, more ferric taste to normal duck liver (as opposed to foie gras) that I find appealing.

The heart gave off a bit of satisfying red, and had that chew that I love in fowl organs. There was a wheezing finish as my last bit of Valentine’s was rendered forth.

I’ve been drinking a rioja with this, the robust flavour of the wine working well first with the brains, and then standing firmly forward with the duck bits.

Obviously, with the three of us at the table (me, myself, and I) there were some lapses in the conversaion. I covered these by reviewing the menu to our mutual benefit.

I did notice that the venison here was 13 STG, as opposed to the rather unilateral 22 STG throughout the tourist digs. They were quite correct when they said they were looking to be affordable, they knew what they were looking to do.

I overhear from the next table that they have devilled lamb’s kidneys on toast. I never heard of that! I’m outraged.

But then I turn back to the feeding frenzy of hearts and livers, and I settle down.

And the potted crab sounds good, too.

But the better part of the menu is on the appetizers. The mains disappoint, at least in the reading. Venison , rabbit, duck ish.

I opt for the loin of Middlewhite Pork. This comes extremely moist. The light glistens off the natural goodness of fat that swathes fine pork. The crackling sit proudly atop, while the flesh nestles up against the greens, looking for comfort.

I’m of mixed emotions on the service. I do feel a bit neglected, with crumbs left on the table and wine not poured. But I can always pour my own. Still, compare with the nightmare of British service in the 90’s, this is more than a head above (but it’s still hard to reconcile service in the UK with what we get in North America, Australia, and Asia).

Looking in greater depth at the menu (my irises open up with time in the dark) I see mackerel, sole, and hanger steak on the menu.

I’ve now finished approximately three loaves of bread, two riojas, brains, hearts, kidneys, and a massive feast of pork. I ruminate on the subject of dessert, as the sound of honeycomb ice cream is quite tempting, but it’s 8 p.m., and I’m grinding to a halt, like a gargoyle in the morning light.

I disappoint my waitress, telling her that I would go home for sleep, instead.

“Sleep, not sheep.” I have to specify.

And my last note of Hereford Road is the happy sound of a champagne cork.

Again, I would like to thank Food Snob for directing me here. As he said, this is not “fine dining” per se, but rather an expression of what dining should be (more often than not). This is a restaurant I would go out of my way to return to. It’s almost enough of a reason for me to search out a flat near here for a vacation. Like the restaurants in Vancouver, it’s a place that can work itself into the fabric of everyday life.

You probably get the idea thatI liked ths, neh?

February 25, 2009

November 27 - AKA Sean

I woke up again the next day, and did what I needed to do.

My “team” was wondering about dinner.

They wanted to bond.

“What are you going to eat tonight?”

“Brains.”

I can end a conversation when I need to.

February 25, 2009

Nov 26 – Cemeteries of London

I had hopes once. Dreams. Aspirations. Hope…..

Amongst those, the greatest thing that a young man like I could hope for was….

Free beer.

I’m a simple man.

In conjunction with the event I was attending, they’d organized a number of pubs to be open to folk of our persuasion. This seemed like the sort of thing that would do my soul well, a social event to pull me out of my ursine solitude.

It was a mistake.

It seems I was leaving a swath of mistakes, spilled like bodies, in my wake.

The pubs, themselves, were fine. Middle-aged, if not old…the stuff of Chelsea. Trite menus posing as the Far East while swaddled in the furs of the North. Not that I mind such pretensions. This is London, after all.

But they were far too crowded. I’m not adverse to a crowd (always an admirer of Poe) but when it means that I’ve a wait of more than ten minutes to take a pint, I take umbrage (if not turn bitter).

My umbrage spilled over into bad temper as I considered the slimy sandwiches and cold, greased sausage rolls that had been put out for us. Bits of old cheese that had breathed its last, and cold fried things that claimed a descendancy from Siam.

I questioned my purpose here.

I watched as an extremely hairy fist, one that would dwarf my own, descended upon the cheese bits, to scoop them up amongst fingers more like sausages than the sausages themselves circumscribed upon the table.

I left.

Into the cold and rain.

I tried a second pub en route. I wanted to believe in the dreams of my youth, in those lofty aspirations of drinking freely from the bitter teet of British ale.

Again, a wait far longer than I needed for a pint of Hemlock Bitter. Fool that I am, I waited for a Burton’s Bitter, received it a half hour later, and then questioned my existence.

About me the youth of my industry (aggressively male, hearty chaps that set my teeth on edge), except for a middle aged cluster of DEC VAX geeks, who looked suspiciously upon me.

I left my bitter upon the ledge on the street, and backed out.

The next pub I tried…..They proudly advertised a beer on the chalkboard…The World’s Biggest Lie……

They didn’t have it.

They lied.

I did smile at that.

But then, the “food” arrived.

Domino’s pizza.

I’d had enough.

I can afford to pay for good food and ale. I realized, in a cold flash of reality, why there was no one here that I recognized.

I’ve changed over the years. Where once I was cheap all the time, now I have no issues with paying for value.

But I’m still cheap.

I could have taken a cab from Hammersmith back to the Arch, but I chose a bus. I like the feel of a bus’ cold windows against my face, and the chill egalitarianism of common suffering.

But there’s a part of me that also revels in this. To rest my face against the window, and watch the world pass by. To slowly roll down Knightsbridge, past the Christmas fairy lights display of Harrod’s (is it still Egyptian owned?), to see the ice skating , Albert Hall, and the subdued splendour of the Palace.

I’d mentioned before, in our last post, “our fine traditions”. I am, I admit unashamedly a scion of our imperial traditions. I can sympathize with the Huguenauts, with the Highlanders, and the Irish. Perhaps I have little in common with the Normans, but I don’t bear a grudge. (I’ll just do their knees)

I like London. As with Bangkok it calls to a part of me that’s far darker than the Canadian side. A more literate, cold blooded side.

Staring out the window, I slipped into a fugue state, and just smiled.

And the darkness lifted.

I alit at the lower corner of Hyde Park, the bright chill of the evening dimpling my cheeks.

There was a hunger upon me.

I stopped at the Met, but Nobu was booked out.

I tried the Dorchester, but The Grill was booked out.

Finally, having worked my way up Park Lane in a state of evil glee, I fell upon the Cumberland.

I walked into the lobby, the light and glass and art, cricked my neck back, and unbuttoned my greatcoat.

I unfurled.

A mere question , and I was welcomed and escorted down amidst the glass panels of the entryway.

It’s a hard room, cavernous, with the hard sounds from sharp corners. The walls were a dark red – as a friend once described that colour, the deep red of a whore’s purse – and th reverberation of the techno beat that pulsed through the place.

I was placed to the side and above, somewhat of a stray, off from the boister and clamour of the hall.

And it was a boister and clamour. In this time of financial distress, the Brasserie was packed, and there were no tears shed that I saw.

But I didn’t mind being on the side. I never mind being the mongrel.

The atmosphere of the place crept into my bones, and pushed aside the malaise that I’d been enjoying, lingering over. But this was better.

With a grin, I ordered the confit duck and the foie gras terrine. I wasn’t of a mind for anything fancy this evening. This came wrapped in parma ham with a French bean salad.

The pate came a jaunty tricoleur, a river of pink through the middle, the parma girding the whole like the moat of midaevil illustrations.

And the duck, that noble bird, found itself ensconced beneath a French woman’s armpit of herbs and micro greens.

The contrast of the shreds of duck, pulled away from the bone, contrast well with the heady richness of the pate. It’s a solid combination, not fancy. If somebody mentioned “ethereal” I was in the mood to put the boots to him. This wasn’t ethereal. It was the parts of dead animals, well cooked to the point that all the inherent goodness in the flesh was there to be taken.

I finished the plate, and considered my next.

As a second course, I was torn. Cornish mussels marinier or pork ossobucco? I smiled over this.

I’d been drinking some white thing from France that I really can’t place at this time. It was wet. I wasn’t (a nice change). But the wine wasn’t as “cutting” as I might have asked for. Still, it was well fruited to bring up the pate, so I shouldn’t complain.

Solomonic, I asked if they could do small plates. Unfortunately…no.

I took the mussels.

I could put up a decent photo of this, but it would be from a different meal. Let me make do with describing them.

The muscles were pink, like salmon flesh. Pleasing would be the word I’m looking for.

Think back. Think of those days as a clean limbed youth when you ran the beach and collected up the fruit of the sea, and then threw your shellfish down around the flames to wait for the caves of Alladin to open for you.

Yeah, I don’t know where this stuff comes from, either.

I like mussels. Part are the remembrances of my youth (see above). Another part is that, like a smoke, mussels give me time to plan my next stage.

It takes a lot of planning to be spontaneous.

As they weren’t doing small plates, they suggested the menu from the fine dining side. Who am I to say “non”?

I settle on an interesting dish of confit snails and truffles.

And then I asked for a wine that would match.

I love to mix things up.

They bring out the sommelier from the fine dining side, and, as business is now dying off, we have a great time talking of wines and flavours.

Like a snake’s skin, the roughness of my spirit is shedding.

The wine he brings is quite intriguing (but. remember, I know nothing of wine). It’s very forward, but with a pull back that is a joy. That feel of the flavour reaching to the front of the palate, and then retreating. A tease of a wine, but with the promise of violence back there.

It turns out to be a pinot noir, a Burgundy. A Mereu (? My notes may fault me) 1er cru of Limoges (?). This works with the plumpness of the snails, and leaves me feeling….relaxed.

I’ve now had a good meal in London. It’s been far too long. It’s not a fancy]/i] meal, by any means, but a very satisfying one.

Sated, I pass on cheese and dessert. This is enough.

Smiles, I thank the staff of the now nearly empty Brasserie, and pass into the cold of the night.

February 25, 2009

Nuryungji

(Yoonhi and I spent some time arguing about nuryungji or nuroongji. She was lying down and didn't want to get up to spell out the hangul for me)

The story I have on this is partially what Nakji had said, "You don't waste rice".

But the other part is very much nostalgia. With the advent of the electric rice cooker, you don't cook (and burn) rice in pots anymore, so you don't have this "end of the meal" item. Over the years, a lot of people have waxed nostalgic over this, and there's now an industry out there burning rice and selling it specifically for nuryungji.

Can't say it excites me too much.

Pickled jellyfish, though.....mmmmmm........

February 24, 2009

After having spent time with Siggi Hall at the WGF, I'm very curious to hear how the bankruptcy of the nation has affected dining there. Hopefully, not too badly.

I haven't been yet, but skyr grows on you, and that lamb they raise is excellent.

(Black Death - Brennivin - is another matter)

Cheers,

Peter

Edited - I found the a link to the Wall Street Journal piece

February 23, 2009

The Second Sitting – Part One and a wee bit

I’ve spent time on Edgware in the past, and I have my places.

The Mason’s Arms, on Berkely Street, is just around the corner from the shishas and fez of Edgware. I’ve liked the quiet atmosphere, and its still much the same.

This was executioner’s row, in ages gone by, and the prisoners were held in the little cubby holes down below before being take to the Tyburn tree at the south end of Edgware Road.

“One for the road”, indeed.

Perhaps that’s why I like it here. The history of blood, death and pain that make up the underbelly of our fine tradtions?

I took a Badger from Dorset and unwound by the fire. The scarf came off my neck, I unbuttoned the great coat, and slowly stretched out by the fire.

Things would have to change. Perhaps not this Badger, which was a beautiful beer. Fresh, they’d just opened the cask, the last one having failed upon us at the bar.

Tomorrow was another day. Another 10 hours hidden away doing things. But the evening would be another matter.

I had a mission.

February 23, 2009

The Second Setting – Part 1

I love this job.

It was around 7 a.m. when we landed at Heathrow. My luggage, my hardware, and myself all did our best to approximate a weary traveler, and stumbled off the plane and through the halls of LHR.

The chill bit as we came out through the jetway.

And it was dark.

I shouldn’t come North in the winter. The birds are smarter than I.

At least I was dressed. Bundled in greys and blacks I fit in with the desparately cold Nigerians that had just disembarked off the neighboring aircraft. Most of them were prepare with their heavy black wool coats.

Immigration never seems to care about me. It’s a cursory “how long are you here for, Sir?” a query as to purpose (as if I have one) and the quick chop in the passport.

There’s another page gone.

I messed about with trains for a bit, getting the right one to get me to Paddington, and from there, through the general scrum, I fought my way onto a taxi for Edgeware and my hotel.

At least in the cab I could sleep for a bit.

I hate flying.

At the hotel I dropped my bags, plugged in the things that needed plugging, showered, dressed, and went to work.

That was the rest of the day.

Grim.

This set the tone for the rest of the week. Wake, wash, work, and then, when the sun was long gone, go out into the night to feed.

Maybe I should get canine implants?

I won’t go into details of the business, but I didn’t get out much. People were brought to me, I’d talk to them, and they’d leave.

I’d stay.

When that first day was over, I made a terrible mistake.

I catered to the needs of others, putting theirs ahead of my own.

I hadn’t learned. This had been the downfall of my last trip.

I’d had good intentions. When the team returned to the hotel at the end of the night, dropped off by our minders, I’d tried to work with the concierge on where to dine.

Locanda Locatelli was booked up, at least if I wanted to fit in 6. Likewise, we weren’t going to get into Gary Rhode’s place. The group didn’t feel like Indian. And nobody wanted Lebanese.

The concierge suggested BIagi.

The gnocchi were good, but overall things just weren’t….well….quite there. The snails I started with were tough, and, for an Italian place, there wasn’t enough garlic.

Nothing wrong, really, but nothing altogether…right.

Why do I do these things to myself?

It was my own fault. I’d tried to cater to everyone else’s needs.

That wouldn’t happen again.

Something inside me hardened.

The temperature dropped again.

February 23, 2009

That little hiatus - now finished - fed back directly into family life back home. Birthdays, dinners, socials with my friends. The stuff of the 1950s. Put an apron on me and a fork in my hand.

To put this next trip in context, I was faced with a long period of solitude, should I so choose.

After the painful bonhommie of the last trip, I felt more reclusive, more diffident.

I so chose.

Let's change the beat.

February 23, 2009

Tempus Fugitives

I’ve been remiss.

But there were things that needed to be done.

So, let’s clean up old business.

I owe you some photos of the Old Mill. These I lifted off of my friends’ camera, which explains why they look good.

This was the front part of the dining room. We’d be sitting out in the open area with the view of the river.

This was the terrine of pork belly. Yeah, wrap pork in bacon, that’s the way to do it.

HeHere’s the tortellini we admired so much. The sauce, with that rich bisque just cried as we ate it.

And this was the hot cured salmon. Good, but not in the same league as the other two starters.

This is what I’d forgotten when I wrote of the meal. She’d had the tenderloin with foie gras. I’m getting old if such things are slipping my mind.

My friend’s lamb.

And my venison

And here’s our cheese plate.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As mentioned above, too, I did do some shopping at the local market.

As expected, there was the usual panic getting this moved through the kitchen before anything went off.

I was extremely impressed to find buckshot pellets in my wild rabbit.

The duck went with blueberries after I’d smoked it for a bit.

And I used the blackberries to sauce the venison after a pan roast.

Cool.

Given that, I was really tempted to poach it, but while Yoonhi humours my cooking, she won’t let me cook to my humour.

It made a good pie.

There, that really does tie up the first sitting.

Now, let me get my head around the second part from late November.

It was better.

And colder.

February 22, 2009

Kelp, I need somebody......

Miyokguk yesterday, not that it's anyone's birthday. They started early in the day, boiling down the oxtail (but sister-in-law uses clam...we can't get clams), and then soaking in the miyok (kelp). We keep boxes of the dried stuff around. A bit of roasted sesame, garlic, sesame oil, chopped spring onion...the usual stuff.

As you can tell, I've kept my pagan ways and continue to put my rice in my soup.

We've also been making a lot of pa kim chi lately. The spring onion is good right now.

February 21, 2009

Cool garden. Did you happen to notice what material they used for the walls of their raised beds? Concrete poured into forms, perhaps?
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Could've been concrete, that's the best bet, given how clean the lines are. But it had the look of a clay finish......

Man, now I won't sleep!.....

I like the look of that curry, too. C'mon, you didn’t sneak a taste?
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Hey,Bruce! Did you see how fast her hands were moving with that knife?

Rule 15 of romance: keep all your body parts attached

February 21, 2009

Wow. Fun filled trip with good food. What more could a woman ask for? Nice to see you return to the City of Angels again again. The love the North so this was a trip I'm glad to have read about. Can't wait too see where else you end up this year.
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It's going to be a busy year........

February 21, 2009

Peter: You're like the Energizer bunny - you just keep going! Another wonderful travelogue. It's always a learning experience reading yours and Rona's posts. Thank you!
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:biggrin:

Now I have to start listening to non-stop Coldplay and get the London stuff done.

February 21, 2009

Part 18 – Gone

It was the morning of February the 16th, and time was up. We checked out, packed ourselves into the Four Seasons Mercedes (might as well leave in style, say I), and headed out, with plenty of time to spare.

Or so we thought.

Eleven kilometers from the airport, traffic halted. Well, not really halted, but came to a crawl.

Forty-five minutes and 1 km later, we passed the still burning wreckage of a passenger vehicle.

Remember those LNG containers in the back?

But we’d enough of a margin that we weren’t too late at the airport. There was just enough time for some miso ramen for Yoonhi, and then we were running (Yoonhi ran, I limped very fast) to be the last on board our flight.

And so it ended almost where it began.

With noodles.

February 21, 2009

Part 17 – Tapping Out

Having gorged to the point of doing a Mr. Creosote, there was obviously only one matter left for our attention.

“What would we do for dinner?”

I blame M. It was her instigation.

Actually, we were debating between Chinese and Thai seafood, and it occurred to us all that it’d been awhile since we’d had a good Thai seafood meal.

So……

Som Boon is fairly well know. They’ve some five branches around town, and M, E, Yoonhi, and I set off for the one by Chula, the Boontadthong branch.

I’d been warned to watch my head, but I hadn’t realized that every one was warned. The piece of styrofoam they’d put on the ceiling, coming up from the car park,was very well dented.

Having paid my karmic due (it had to be karmic, as, with my toe damaged, the burden now rested on my sole) I was delighted to see that I was back on track, having ended up in a Thai seafood restaurant that served sake. Hakatsuru.

They must do a good trade here with the Japanese, as not only did they two or three sake, but they also carried shochu (which probably would have stood up better to the spices in this meal).

I know it’s juvenile, but I can’t help but enjoy finding bits like this.

We started with stir fired bitter gourd tips in oyster sauce (something we always enjoy at Tawan Daeng).

And we had what I think were zucchini stems with garlic.

Raw prawns with nampla, lime, and lots of chilis, lemon grass, and stuff are always a good thing to have.

And soup. We needed soup. The tom yam goong was a nice flavour – slightly soft.

We’d mixed up the prawns a bit by this point. They were looking a lot more fun. I hadn’t noticed the chili paste to go with them before.

The grouper with crispy basil was just plain pretty. And the meat of this fish, thick and fleshy, was just rightwith the spiced strength of the sauce.

The big draw here is the chili crab, though. Our waiter, watching me take pictures, came by for this one and posed the claws.

The sauce is extremely rich, just oozing calories at you, and its one of the joys of life to scoop this sauce onto your rice and chow down.

And the crab meat is pretty good, too (but I hate having messy fingers).

We’d wanted to have the stir fried clams with chili paste. Everytime M&E had been here, though, it was sold out.

.

Today was no exception. We had the grilled mussels, instead. They weren’t particularly interesting, I’m afraid. Still, you hope for the best.

E hadn’t been with the there of us at brunch, and so was still hungry. We ordered another set of the prawns.

And then I hit the wall. My time was done. Like a good rat, I just put my paws over my belly and said, “Enough”.

It was time to head back home.

February 21, 2009

Part 16 – You’re Where You Should Be All The Time

It was Sunday.

Is there any question where I would be for eating this morning?

Yoonhi had left earlier to join M for a spa treatment. M had been trying to get the Valentine’s Day special package for two, but it seems you have to be of opposite genders for this.

“That just seems unfair!”

So, rather than waiting for the two of them to finish up, I limped down to Madison.

I’ve written far too many times about this. Check out the last WGF for what I feel is my ultimate brunch strategy.

I’ll just drop in a few of my favourite shots from this one.

New on the selection this time were North Atlantic lobster claws. This is the first time I’ve seen them here.

I’d been dissatisfied with the ikura before, but today they were salty enough for me. And they had tuna roe, as well.

And I can’t get away without a shot of the foie gras four ways.

There.

I restrained myself.

February 21, 2009

Part 15 - Striking a Balance

Sure enough, with midnight ticked over, the price came due.

Enjoying champagne, having fun with boas, and not paying attention, I fractured my small toe on the immobile desk in our suite.

It's always an interesting thing to see your body parts improperly juxtaposed.

But, I have a good wife, and she straightened the toe (my lack of screaming indicated it wasn't broken) and splinted it with blue duct tape.

It's a small price to pay for a good trip like this.

:smile:

February 21, 2009

These look really good, particularly from what they say of the aroma.

But is it only available in France? That's what I infer from the website.

February 21, 2009

Part 14 (of course)- My Funny Valentine

Honestly, I hadn’t planned for the 14th installment to be the highlight, but that’s how things happen in my world (sometimes).

Comfortable in our room, we slowly unwound ourselves and dressed for the evening.

And then the bell rang.

The management had been kind enough to send up some champagne – a Laurent-Perrier.

I considered this, and thought about what state I wanted to begin our evening.

The champagne would be an excellent finish.

I’m probably a relic in this day and age, but I like dressing well from time to time. And one of the reasons that I enjoy Bangkok is that I can do this, and not feel out of place.

The invitation had clearly stated black and white, and so we were both meeting expectations.

On equal footing with the Tented Camp (and perhaps a step ahead) it had been the invitation for this party that had triggered the whole trip.

First, it is a good cause. In 2005 they inaugurated the Queen Sirikit Centre for Breast Cancer, Chulalongkorn Memorial Hospital. This Valentine’s party was in support of the centre.

Second, rather than a cozy dinner tete-a-tete, this was intended to be a party, one to bring your friends to, and to dance.

Rule 14 of romance: be prepared to dance

We were ushered through to the ballroom foyer. I do like the changes, and nights like this evening meant that I could even enjoy the new extension outside (which placed me closer to the bar).

I’d looked over the silent auction items inside, and had noted what I was interested in, but I liked being outside better, shielded in this courtyard from the traffic noise, only the crickets keeping a background beat along to the rumble of conversation.

There was a selection of sparkling wines to get us ready for the eveing, and I’d found some familiar faces to chat with. Some of the husbands had been dragged out here almost at gunpoint, but I understand that this is hardly the treat for them it is for us.

Once seated, Dr. Kris Chatamra, the founder of the Centre, spoke a few words, and was very well received. Talking with Rainer, he’s the main reason for this first Valentine’s Day party, having worked so hard to get the centre up and running.

Our first dish was the tartar of scallops and langoustine with Aquitaine caviar. Not sevruga, certainly, but used in conjunction with a nice seafood dish like this, they’re easily on par with the Chinese produce we enjoyed in Shanghai.

(And, at the last WGF, Glen was bemoaning that this year caviar is almost out of reach even in Moscow, which used to be worth the visit just for the fish eggs)

This was a very good opening. The Chilean Sauvignon Blanc (ONA Anakena 2005) was alright, perhaps a bit astringent for this dish. I would have preferred a Kiwi. I think that would have really made this dish. (But, as was, it was very good).

I had to take a picture of the butter. Any time I see anything that looks like Marge Simpson’s hair, it’s worth a picture.

The next dish, a tian of crab topped with ikura and microgreens, sitting in a pool of capsicum gazpacho, is an almost perfect Valentine’s dish (short of a still-beating heart, but even I admit that’s going a bit far). The colour on the gazpacho was perfect, and the flavour was extremely clean, setting back the richness of the crab and the salt-pop of the salmon roe.

This was probably my most memorable part of the meal.

I say probably as the combination of mirin, yuzu, and foie gra was brilliant. The entire table loved this dish. The cumquat compot had the taste of almost marmalade that was extremely fun to play with.

We’d moved from Chile to Australia,, with a 2007 Penfolds Private Release Chardonnay. I always like Penfolds, and this was a fine way to coast through the meal.

The sea bass with truffle poached lobster was good, the sea bass being the better part. I just couldn’t smell truffles in the lobster. And the pear and parsnips puree was a beautiful match for the fish. The pear flavour was an excellent idea.

We switched over to red at this point, another Penfolds Private Release Shiraz Cab from 2007. A good red to move to, with enough body for the next course.

There were good intentions to this course. But, while I found the meat quite good, others felt that it wasn’t cooked through enough. The slow-cooking of the lamb had left it a bit too pully for some. While the wine tied it together a bit, I felt that this dish lacked unity, or purpose, the component parts of artichoke, aubergine, and the sauce not quite coming together.

But I quibble. I still ate it, and I was still happy.

Our entertainment arrived about this time. A pair of talented Latin dancers who had way more energy than I’ll ever have. You watch people do things like this, and you’re always tempted to say “I could do that”.

Well, at least when I’ve had a lot of wine.

Dessert arrived.

This was a trio of cake, mascarpone semifreddo with a vanilla truffle foam, and a lemon basil sherbert. Fine enough, but not memorable.

And the petit fours were nicely presented; heart shaped chocolate lollipops.

About this time, the dancing started. Rule #14 bore heavily upon me, but the floor was swarmed with elegant Thai that knew what they were doing.

There are few things more intimidating than people who know how to dance.

It was fun to watch, though. I always admire the ability of a good dancer to look like he/she is figure skating across the floor. Like Tai Chi at normal speed.

Finally, when the people who knew what they were doing had retired momentarily, I did dance.

Rule 14 is inviolable.

I have to learn how to dance, I know.

The auction went well, raising funds for the Centre. While I didn’t take the items I had my eye on, M & E, who’d joined us tonight, won the lucky draw, and so I took my satisfaction from the happiness of my friends. They had tickets to Paris on Etihad (business) and three nights at the Four Seasons George V.

(Yoonhi did suggest to M that, if E is too busy, they could make a girls’ trip of it.)

We closed up before we were the last to leave, lifted the boas from the chairs, and topped up with the Penfolds.

We found our way back to the room, somehow, and then realized that there was still unfinished business.

And that was the end of the 14th.

February 21, 2009

Soba? You mean udon, right? And the chawanmushi..., with no toppings like mitsuba (trefoil). I've never seen such chawanmushi served at a restaurant before...
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You're right, Hiroyuki. I'm racing to finish this before Rona reigns triumphant again, and the fact that it was cold just focused me on soba.

As for the chawanmushi...Yoonhi pointed out to me that they were serving it with a Chinese spoon.

Still, it was all a nice change (but I'll go back to Shunbo next time).

Thanks! :smile:

February 21, 2009

You've got four plates and four sets of cutlery! Did you have a foursome staying in that room (that bed was certainly big enough!), or did they provide separate sets for the fruits and sweets?
Sigh! I miss fancy schmancy hotel service. I tell ya, it's hard being poor!
I will save up my pennies (or yens) to stay at the Four Seasons next time. Or maybe save my pennies for a Four Seasons time share. They do that, don't they?
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Yoonhi says "Yes, they brought the first set of cutlery for the fruit, and the second for the sweets".

I should look into the Four Seasons time share. I'm spending enough time with them these last few years.

Maybe they could make me a mascot?! :smile:

(WGF10 in October?)

February 21, 2009

Hehehehe Thai woman and knives. We love our knives and our men need a bit of... excitement in their lives. Knives I wouldn't worry so much that's just teasing. Now if a Thai woman gets the cleaver out... RUN! Run fast and far.
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