Stephen Jackson

Room 13 affords the best views and is a very agreeable size. Bear in mind, last time I asked for it, three months in advance, it had already been reserved. And we're friends of the Bras family!

Yes, if I had one criticism, it would be that it was a little too dark in there.

Samuelsson's book 'Middagstips' (sadly only in Swedish) is available from the restaurant. It has the recipe for the Arctic Circle. Also, his 'Aquavit' book will be out in October, according to Amazon.com.

Thanks for those kind words, Bux. It was a pleasure to find such a place, so small and convivial. And I forgot to mention that I found it via eGullet. So thankyou all for bringing it to my notice.

Yeah, they looked good. A table of regulars opposite us said they were fantastic. I'll definitely be going again, and I'll try a few of those strips before the mammoth piles of steak arrive.

Well, it's not something I like to make a habit of, but when it comes up in conversation, or it seems apposite, i mention it. It usually happens when places are busy and I'm kept waiting. Knowing what it's like on the other side of the kitchen wall, I'm perfectly happy to sit it out, and usually make mention of the fact that I'm in the trade and I understand what it can be like. On other occasions, especially in France, I send confirmation by fax. Sometimes they mention it. Other times they don't. So, it's not like I'm angling for special treatment. It's just a nice club to be in, and often I learn things I wouldn't have learned had I just gone for a meal, whether or not it's a technical question answered, a front-of-house discussion to be had, or a new wine merchant discovered. The reason I said it was a mixed blessing is that sometimes we try a little too hard for our fellow chefs, and end up giving them too much food!

Well, some meals start with a bang, and others just roll you gently down the hill (ha! the Blue Hill!) I'm pretty easy either way, providing the gentle roll of flavour builds slowly without jerking you around all over the place. Given that I had the very pale yet delicious scallops and brook trout to follow, the sweet, leafy soup shot was, on this occasion, perfect to get things rolling. I like little soups to start with - and from a kitchen point of view it can sit in a bain-marie all night without losing its flavour, to be jugged and poured to order, which is nice and easy, but gives the customer a nice tickle on the taste buds to start the meal.

Hey Stephen, you met Fat Guy and didn't say hello to Momo ?

NYC Day Four – Peter Luger Dinner, Peter Luger, 178 Broadway, Brooklyn What a place. We had booked a table for six, a month in advance, and could even then only get a table at 9:30. We got to our table at 10PM. The place was heaving. Outside, sucking down a few Marlboro Lights, I watched Brooklyn happen before my eyes. Goodfellas, Prom Queens, Tourists, wise locals and chatty doormen milled around; a man walked up the street with an enormous fat Winston Churchill of a bulldog, who stopped right by the door, and wouldn’t be dragged any further. We soon saw why; the busboy came out of the door with a huge bag of what I imagine were offcuts and trimmings from many long-finished steaks, and off went dog and owner to enjoy a late steak supper. Fantastic. We were then called inside… What a spectacle – a bar, chock-full of locals necking beer and wine, smart be-waistcoated waiters, most of whom looked like they’d been working there since their teens (probably quite true), and bare scrub-top wooden tables loaded with food. Wood panelling throughout, small, cosy rooms, and an almost intoxicating atmosphere of bonhomie and, let’s be fair here, gluttony. You go to Peter Lugers to overdose on just one thing, and that’s steak. I wouldn’t bother with a menu, because the waiters certainly don’t. You pretty much get told what you’re going to eat. I presume this is the case for all Luger virgins. Our waiter, an elderly Czech called Ivan, with a glint in his eye and a kind heart, told us what was good, and we were seduced. We took his advice, and ordered a couple of rounds of tomato and onion salad. It was just that, a candy-striped plate of Brobdignagian beefsteak tomatoes, layered with thick slices of raw Spanish onion. It was a world away from the delicacy and finesse I’d enjoyed the night before at Aquavit. It was joyous. Sometimes raw onion is just the thing. I ate heartily, mindful of the steak that was about to arrive. The table was theatrically cleared, and IT arrived. Three volcanically-hot plateloads of the finest looking aged Porterhouse steak, cut thick and sliced into appetizing chunks. A couple of bowls of creamed spinach arrived, and room was made for two steaming bowlfuls of the house speciality, German-fried potatoes, a sort of hash of potato and onion, crispy and soft all at once. I can't begin to imagine what the kitchen looked like. From the furious activity of the place, I imagined the kitchen an inferno of smoke and flames, of huge butchers' blocks stacked with halved cows, of enormous muscled grill-chefs, stripped to the waist and sweating like prizefighters, single-mindedly taking care of business, pausing only to gulp down gallon jugs of iced water. Dante's Bar & Grill. It's probably not like that at all, but it's a nice image. The steak was delicious. It was cooked medium-rare, abd the plates were tilted, so it rested at the table, letting out a deliciously fatty beef juice, which could then be spooned over the meat. Tender was the steak, and the dry-aging process was evident – you could taste cow. It was one of the best bits of beef I’d ever eaten. Perhaps Michel Bras’ spit-roasted Aubrac chateaubriand just pipped it for texture and intensity, but this was still seriously good steak. And the jovial ale-house atmosphere made it a magical experience. Rarely have I been in a dining room so full of camaraderie and singularity-of-purpose. People here weren’t really talking business, or sport. They were face-down in platefuls of steak. people were enjoying eating. Enjoying getting full. I got very full. We drank the cheapest red on the list, and it tasted like Cheval Blanc. I finished up with a mug of coffee (not the place for espresso, and given my disappointment at the others I’d had so far, I was glad of a change) and a hefty Maker’s Mark on the rocks. Ace. We emerged into the chilly night, reeking of onions, full as eggs, and smoked a cigarette watching the lights on the Williamsburg Bridge. I’d fallen in love with New York long before, but tonight I fancied the pants off her. We drove back to Central Park in satisfied silence, listening to Leonard Cohen. Cliched? You bet. I’ve read hereabouts that opinion is divided on Luger’s. If it’s gone downhill, I’d kill my own family to experience what it *should* be like. Because I thought it was f**king brilliant. (sorry)

NYC Day Three – Aquavit Dinner, Aquavit, 13, W 54th St. I’d been here before, so I knew what to expect, but again, I was not disappointed. Again, the mixed blessings of letting on you’re a chef. You get lots of food. Lots. The dining room at Aquavit, for those who’ve not been, is in a kind of atrium of a hollowed-out townhouse, one wall is a bronze sheet with water cascading down it. It, along with the wide open space and echoing chatter, lends the room the feeling of eating dinner at the foot of a glacier. Perhaps that’s the idea. Marcus Samuelsson, the chef at Aquavit, loosely themes his food around the dishes of his native Sweden (and he looks *exactly* like Martin Dahlin, football fans), so seafood and berries feature highly. He’s also into playing with flavours, textures and temperatures, so each meal is a bit of a rollercoaster for the mind and body. It was very good indeed… To start – a little spoon, upon which rested a super-ripe cherry tomato, filled with goats’ cheese and topped with slivers of raw hamachi tuna. In one mouthful, crisp, fresh, appetite-inducing flavours. Amuse-gueule – A ceviche of sea bass, tip-top fresh, with a splash of creamy-smooth parsnip puree (super sweet – must have been a baby parsnip for that intensity of flavour) and topped with a fine macedoine of pear and cucumber, which worked brilliantly. To start – Samuelsson is famous for his ganache of foie gras, a little flowing pudding, similar to the ubiquitous chocolate fondants one sees on almost every menu. It’s like a tiny suet pudding which, when cut, releases a trickle of molten foie gras. It is stunning. This time, the ganache came with a duck sausage ( a little dry, as if they’d used breast meat and no fat, but delicious nonetheless) on a stripe of duck/cherry reduction – super-intense – and a mini-quenelle of asian pear sorbet. The combination of big flavours and clean gracenotes was memorable. Then – Oh, God, not another freebie – a mid-course of Jerusalem artichoke soup, in which floated a delicious dim-sum-style ravioli of crab, and a fantastic chunk of seared watermelon with a little sea-urchin flesh on top. This was brilliant. The soup, fluffy, light and earthy, mingled well with the fresh crab, and the caramelized waternmelon and urchin combination was a fight to the death between rich intensity and crisp freshness. Main Course – A beautifully-cooked, well-rested piece of aged NY steak, cleft in twain, topped with ceps, and served either side of a fantastic swede (rutabaga) puree, which was studded with shards of palm heart. A well-reduced jus added the required moisture, and the whole dish was a great success. Desserts – we were given a tableful of treats, and the standouts were a buttermilk sorbet with fresh fruits, and a fantastic glassful of roasted pineapple with granita of green tea, topped with white chocolate foam and a tuile made of dark Muscovado sugar. Refreshing. Wine – a good Sancerre, and one of my favourite reds, a Mas De Daumas Gassac from the Languedoc. Terrific stuff. With dessert, I went against form and tried one of the flavoured aquavits upon which the restaurant prides itself. Lemongrass and Grapefruit. It was icy-cold and full of clean, crisp citrus flavour – cleaned things up nicely. Coffee – again, poor espresso, but what the heck. Another great meal.

NYC Day Two – Craft Dinner, Craft, 43, E 19th St. – One of the best meals I’ve ever had. Such quality and simplicity in massive doses. This place *made* the trip for me. A beautiful dining space, well-spread tables, cool leather wall, and dim bulbs hanging by the dozen from the ‘factory’ ceilings. We sat opposite the bar, and were immediately made most welcome. I had a fino sherry, which was a good choice to accompany the amuse-gueule: Amuse-gueule – Bruschetta with a thick, barely-warm ‘stew’ of cannellini beans and cavolo nero, drizzled with olive oil. Crisp bruschette all round, and the beans were smooth, creamy and tasty, with the iodine twang of the cabbage and grassiness of the oil making for a delicious mouthful of flavours. The juices were now officially flowing. To begin with – The table ordered the roasted foie gras, sweetbreads, rabbit ballotine, garlic and herb risotto and yellowfin tuna sahimi. The foie gras was a huge wodge of seared liver sitting in a small bowl with a strong, silky reduction of what I presume was chicken glace, dessert wine and a few brunoised vegetables. It was ambrosial. The ballotine was brilliant – really rabbit-y, tender and moist. The sweetbreads were crisp-roasted, and unctuous within, and the yellowfin was so fresh, we presumed the donor was still alive when it was filleted. The risotto was impeccably knocked-together, creamy and balanced, with a perfect bite to each grain. No accompaniments, as is the way of Craft, but this just means you get quick, clean hits to the palate of perfectly-executed, faultless flavour. Good country breads, yeasty, chewy and used to great effect, mopping up the drizzles of oils and sauces. Then – Roasted guinea hen, braised lamb shank, Dourade, Venison. Sides of: cipollini onions, roast salsify, roasted hen of the woods, roasted hedgehog mushrooms, potato gratin, roasted fingerlings, potato puree. We were hungry, ok? The guinea hen came in a large copper dish, the breast roasted and carved, the leg mi-confit style. It was a delicious bird. The lamb shank was rich and winy, loaded with rosemary and garlic, but in no way overpowering, the meat full of good lamb flavour, and tender as you’d imagine. The dourade was two large pieces of filleted fish, quick-seared, with a great golden crisp exterior yielding firm just-cooked tender flesh within. My venison was the best I’ve ever had – obviously marinated for a good long spell in red wine with lots of juniper, then blasted through a hot oven and rested well. It was a huge, tasty piece of meat. The mushrooms were, well, roasted mushrooms, good earthy flavours. The potato puree was in the Robuchon style (loaded with cream and butter, triple sieved, passed though silk pantyhose and whipped by angels wings, then drizzled with oil and sprinkled with chopped chives) It was brilliant. The gratin was creamy throughout, and not bombarded with cheese as many are. The cipollinis were soft and golden-roasted, and I ate most of them, because they were damnedly good. And Then – Well, you have to try a little cheese, don’t you? $22 got us a selection of all six cheeses on offer, and all were in prime condition. Especially good was the Roaring Forties blue from Tasmania – aggressive yet seductive – and the Old Quebec Cheddar, which, to use my local phrase, ‘made my ears laugh’. Oh, And Then – Battle-scarred but determined, two of us made it through to the dessert course. I had the gingerbread, and my wife had the chocolate tart. We had sides of comice pear, butterscotch ice-cream and hazelnut ice-cream. It was all fabulous, perfectly-executed stuff. My gingerbread was a huge sense slab of stodgy (in a good way) molasses-ginger cake, and was excellent. Wines – We had a pleasant Savennieres, a very good Russian River Pinot Noir, and the desserts were accompanied perfectly by a Huxelrebe Trockenbeerenauslese from Erich Bender. Nectar. Coffee – I was the only one to make it to the coffee stage, and it was another disappointing espresso. For a country noted for its coffee appreciation, I can’t believe how many badly-made espressos I had. No crema, thin liquor, and way too much Kenyan which just makes the stuff taste burnt. You need at least 50% Santos to get the right result, in my opinion. But hey, out of all that only the coffee came out bad. It was a truly unforgettable meal. I popped downstairs to see chef and thank him personally – goodness, he’s young. And Matthew MacCartney, the maitre d’, was very pleasant and interested in what we’re doing over here. I also pointed out an unnoticed Alfred Portale to him, which he thanked me for. Always good to know when the opposition is in the area! Craft is, quite simply, fantastic, and I will remember my meal for many, many years to come.

Okay, folks, I gather you all appreciate reports from far and wide, so here’s a UK chef’s personal view of a few days’ feasting in New York. A memorable trip. Arrived at Newark airport, ready to transfer to Washington DC for a few days. Unfortunately, the, ahem, ‘Beast Of The East’ blizzard had laid waste to the capital, so we were stuck in delightful New Jersey for the night. Fortunately, Continental put us into the Marriott, which had beds and was warm – that’s about all I can say about it. I can’t remember what I had to eat there, but there were badly-behaved children everywhere, and ketchup. Lots of ketchup. Bad espresso. The next day was a white-out. No traffic, and precious little chance of a flight anywhere. An executive decision was made to forget Washington, and attempt to get into Manhattan sharpish. Dreadful journey on bus and train via delightful Hoboken, stopping and starting, slipping and sliding all the way to Penn Station. Trudged a bit through the snow around Madison Square Garden, and miraculously found a limo fishtailing through the blizzard. Arrived at the W Hotel on Lexington. Nice looking hotel, bursting at the seams with supermodels (and that’s just the staff). Veal-crate rooms (we moved to The Plaza after 4 days) - Bad espresso, and wheatgrass juice/roasted golden beets/pastel eggs for breakfast. Bizzarre. So that’s a big shame, as I’d been looking forward to dinner at Zaytinya (plus a visit to Red Sage, which many of the parishioners hereabouts had warned me about) – sorry Steve K, it’ll have to wait until the next time! NYC Day One – Blue Hill Dinner, Blue Hill, 75 Washington Place. – Wonderful, overall. I made the usual mistake of mentioning that I was a chef, and was therefore ‘subjected’ to an array of differing off-menu freebies and tasters. Life’s hard. My meal was as follows… amuse-gueule – shot of warm Romaine lettuce and parsnip soup – very mild green flavours to start with, lovely sweet parsnip-y finish. first course – small plate – raw scallops with mussel juice and sevruga (herring caviar) – I actually ordered the raw scallop with pomegranate and ice-wine vinaigrette, but chef was trying out the mussel juice thing, and wanted an opinion. It was quite the freshest fish appetiser I have ever eaten. The scallops were beautifully marinated, as tender as the finest smoked salmon, and the mussel juice and caviar added fantastic ‘fishy’ notes, without overpowering. Brilliant. mid-course – smoked brook trout with lemon vinaigrette, micro-greens and broad beans (fava beans, I think they call them in the US) – delicious barely-smoked trout, firm of flesh and mixing well with the lemony emulsion and lettuces. The lemon was, I presume, Meyer lemon, as it was beautifully rounded and fruity in flavour, without being astringent. Could’ve been yuzu juice, I suppose. Main course – Veal with braised romaine lettuce and roasted fingerling potatoes. Good stuff, here. Excellent meat, good saucing, but if they’re good, you can’t really go wrong. Not as devastating as the previous courses, but most satisfying. Pre-dessert – avocado with lime sorbet and salty butter caramel tuile. Astonishing. Taken apart, every part of the dessert was too powerful – the crisp too salty, the sorbet too sour, the avocado too bland, but together, it worked a treat. Great flavours. Dessert – 24-hour apple terrine with gingerbread ice-cream – I presume this is the Vongerichten recipe, and tasted excellent. Really deep caramel-y apple, and the ice-cream was pain d’epices rather than gingerbread – very spicy and warming. These sat in a foamy puddle of yoghurt-flavoured sauce which sharpened everything up nicely. Extra Desserts – chef must have thought we were still hungry, because he sent out full plates of two other desserts, a milk chocolate tart with caramel ice-cream, and a passionfruit soufflé-sorbet plate. The chocolate tart was delicious, with very short, crisp pastry and a piped whirl of milk chocolate ganache, plus a timid but delicious caramel ice-cream. The soufflé was textbook, but I sometimess find soufflés a bit too eggy, and this needed the intense drizzle of passionfruit pulp and the sorbet to balance things up. Petits-fours – Brilliantly simple. A pot of excellent pear jam with a napkinful of warm madeleines to dip and slurp. Coffee – poor espresso, the only let-down, and the first of many disappointing coffees in the city. Wines: Qupe Roussanne 1999 (very tasty- a favourite grape of mine) and a red Jumilla from Spain, which made friends with the veal instantly. Desserts saw a late-picked Viognier, and I was not disappointed. Busy little place, this dining room, and the cab driver hadn't a clue where he was going, and so dropped us at the far end of Washington Square, which fortunately gave me the opportunity to walk up an appetite whilst ploughing through the snow, humming Heidi Berry’s ‘Washington Square’ and being offered crack and/or ecstasy by two enormous but very polite gentlemen by the arch. The welcome was warm, the service attentive, intelligent and unfussy, and I’d say we got value for money by the bucketload. I have a copy of the menu if anyone would like highlights posting. Coming next, CRAFT

I've had practice in this field before - there was once an occasion where I carried a whole leg (bone-in) of cured ham across Florence as if I was cradling a sleeping child. A mere Virginia ham should cause me a good deal less backache. I shall try all the delis and supermarkets I come across, and I will be venturing into Georgetown, because I simply have to see the 'Exorcist' steps.

Excellent stuff. Thanks chaps.

Well, I'm sure if we wanted to pull pigs here in the UK, we could. There's a vogue for using 'old-breed' pigs like Tamworths and Gloucesters, and an incresing emphasis on getting pork back to being properly fatty and densely-textured. Once I've sampled the real thing on my trip i might just try 'pulling my own' back home. Washing my hands afterwards, of course. And thanks for the pictures, Mark. I'm now not at all interested in the cornfed duckling that's roasting for my supper. I want a sandwich.

I just got my copy today via elBulli's website - took less than a week. Very impressed - especially with the CD-Rom, which is truly astounding. I like the little vanity feature of being able to wipe the 'blackboard' clean and write in chalk all over it. Although the truly brilliant feature is the fact that almost every recipe Adria and his team have created since 1998 is available to study and print off. No secrecy here, just a willingness to share and educate. How refreshing. It would be disappointing if they hadn't come up with as impressive a book as they have, but it's a breathtaking work nonetheless. I don't think I'd ever describe a cookbook as a 'page-turner', but this is awfully close.

Because I've never tried it before. Simple.

Evening all, I'm just putting the finishing touches to a trip to DC and New York, and the one thing I mean to do in Washington is pick up a genuine country ham to take home. It's probably not allowed, but I'm willing to risk it. So, whose hams should I look out for, and where should I go to pick one up? Note that it must be somewhere fairly central in Washington, as I'm only in town for two days, and I have to do the tourist stuff like wave at the White House and throw myself down the Exorcist steps in Georgetown a la Father Karras. Also, can anyone expand on the notion of the 'pulled pig sandwich'? I've heard talk....