Tuesday 29 November 2011

[Restaurant - Organic Cafe] Spoilt by (Not Having a) Choice; The Sharp Thorne of Sharpthorne, East Grinstead

Location - Sharpethorne, West Sussex [UK]

Sharp thinking, quick wits, lightning reflexes. None of these coincided with my decision for a meal at the Sharp Thorne of Sharpthorne, West Blunt Bush Sussex. Rather this came about from yet another failed market visit, resulting in a trip all the way to Brighton, and with lunch nowhere to be found. Fortunately, detouring towards the Plaw Hatch Dairy for some grocery shopping, and another denied chance of lunch there, I was pointed sharply towards a lunch option. 

Appropriately ravenous, I turned up outside this diminutive cafe, located in a small town that had appeared but five minutes down the road from the Plaw Hatch Dairy, seemingly the first sign of civilisation amongst the empty forest roads and farms passed by up until now. Easy to miss, its understated aesthetics did not ease me, but I was far too reluctant to trace up the several Farm restaurants and cafe's I had passed on the way to Plaw Hatch, so I digressed, stepping in, making sure not to cut myself [Hah!].


I was greeted by, no-one. A simple layout was laid out in front of me however, an ample space brightened by ample windows, plenty of lightening, and lots of white paint. If that sounds like a description of a hospital, fortunately that was not the effect. What struck most however was the open plan kitchen counter, which lent the space a rather homely feel. Or a cookery school. The sofas in the back room did not quell this notion either, and as such I subconsciously demanded the requisite honest home-cooked meal these displays promised. Choosing between all three or so available dishes, I was ready. Ignoring the cakes. For now. 

For starter, mains, sides, only available sustenance, et al, I went for the Leek and Goat's Cheese Quiche with three salad sides, seeing as it sounded ever so slightly more fulfilling, yet no less nefariously boring than the other options available. This is me, being picky, despite taking the option of driving two minutes down the road from the middle of nowhere. What eventually was placed before me was gargantuan. 


Talk about farm-to-table eating, it seemed like a chunk of farm acreage had found itself on my plate. A sizeable slice of the quiche was surrounded by an overgrown jumble of lettuce, some pickled carrot and beetroot coleslaw, and some cucumber with yoghurt. Naturally, I started with the fibre to "smooth" the way out for the rich looking paving stone of a quiche. No need to describe leaves of lettuce, other than they were abundant, crunchy and fresh. The mesmerising moment came with a forkful of the carrot and beetroot salad. It was, immense. Putting aside the innate awesomeness of beetroot and carrots as they are, this combination was really quite lovely, despite the seasons not being at the prime. Or at least I do not think they are. Sweet, earthy, yet not weighed down and overly starchy, helped in part by the delicate and slightly spiced pickling that did not melt my mouth. The cucumber was much less life re-affirming, at least in the context of vegetables, but was still deliciously creamy, punctuated by the clean and boring cucumber. 

Holding off the "pies" for as long as I could, without any more healthy vegetables left on the plate, I duly proceeded towards the guilty pleasure of cheese, and pie. In slab form. Fork through the dense filling, and breaking through the appropriately thick pastry, I mulled over the pleasantly subtle flavours. Slightly buttery, tinged with a fresh, slightly green onion bite from the leek, amongst a fluffy, slightly eggy filling, before breaking through the dense, buttery pastry. What surprised however, was the goat's cheese, or the rather the lack of a face imploding tang - the only evidence of the cheese was a slight "fresh cream" nuance, perhaps a minutely salty tang amongst the other gentle flavours. Regardless, it was still well played, with fresh, subtle flavours, hearty constitution, and gargantuan proportions, though I was hoping to be floored. Not that any crumbs were left. And despite which, I still persisted with the notion of requiring dessert, in an apparent mission to cause a stomach eruption the scale of which would include countless victims. Before that however, I would require a coffee. Or in this case, Caro. A Chicory, acorn, rye, dolphin tear and fairy dust based coffee replacement. Yeah, really. 


No, I was not being a hippy, ignoring for now the unpasteurised bottles of milk in the car, and my travelling to a Farmer's Market on the same day. And dining at an organic cafe.

Cough.

Anyway. It arrived. It at least looked like coffee.

I approached it..


Smelled like coffee.. 

Took a sip. 

By Joe [hah!] it even almost tasted like coffee! Well, once I got through the heaping frothed milk. These hippies seem to have broken some ground here. Granted, the intensity was lacking, the toasty grainyness of the drink starting to build an impression of coffee, only to stop dead in its tracks and not really go anywhere, it however, was semi-convincing. Awash with a need to hug a tree, I quickly rushed to make amends and consume big, sugary calories. Preferably something with meat or that needed to be killed to redress this emasculated balance. Though I figured a slice of Spanish Almond Cake should do. 


And it more than just "did". Crumbly yet moist, buttery and not overly sweet, the gentlest of nutty notes was apparent in the slice, and it was generally just wholesomely satisfying. Not much of an almond prevalence, which I guess is refreshing and perhaps indicative of actual almonds being used - I cannot stand the rather obvious, almost chemical "almond extract" laced desserts that try to recreate the almond insinuated in their names. And not breaking their short tradition of providing ridiculously oversized portions, I left a minute slither of the cake over, more for conscience sake than anything.

So I emerged, with nary a cut, plenty satisfied, even surprised - the proprietor seemed to be Italian despite being based in the middle of nowhere, not that it netted me any discounts - and even feeling a bit of a tree-hugger. It was disgusting. Not burdened by the enigmas of choice and complications, the cafe was simple and pared back in its presentation, and its food. Fresh, bright and simplistic. Food, and cafe! On top of that, being organic, I also kept the ire of Greenpeace at bay, and brought joy to a family of woodland critters and whatnot. Could not ask for more. Now to return home, drink my unpasteurised kefir and hug a tree.


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Infront (of) Closed Doors. Again.

One of many, many at the hands of one. Failures that is. Today's being another, unless I choose to declare the noted usage of petrol as a success. I do not. 

So it goes, be it through lack of research, or lack of research, or furthermore through a lack of research, after trundling along a rather effortless journey to Brighton to engorge in the Brighton Farm Market, I was met with a rather all too familiar sight.



Perhaps it was another sign of my particular brand of burgeoning greed needing tempering, or perhaps how when a subject turns to food, all thought goes to the stomach. And as it does not contain a brain, I am not privy to the smartest of moves. Or, maybe, I am not at fault, for not only did the website state the "openness" of those doors between Tuesday to Sunday. But so did the doors themselves! And despite wearing glasses, I was not blind, and those rather shanty, scruffy doors, were not for opening. It would seem that the locals were not sure either, essentially all those asked contradicting one another. Or just not knowing of its existence. It would seem to be a strange location for a market, as it seemed to me to be a shop front, with side-streets only revealing rows of houses, and no clearings. Hmph.




Ever the optimist capitalist. Bored and slightly irked, I ventured down what seemed to be a reasonably kitschy looking alley lined with shops and cafes, hoping for some magical, hidden treasure of a place to rectify this tragedy and tempt me in to lunch. This did not occur, and a quick text to 118118 queried for the location of one of my reasons of coming down to this desolate "market" in the first place. With the address of the Plaw Hatch Dairy noted, I figured I may as well carry some sort of memento of this failed farmer's market scout/successful petrol wastage. There was nothing of note, though a pattern emerged. A pattern backed up by the general "kitschy" nature of the sparse surrounding people. A rather student type of vibe, with words like "healthy" and "dairy-free" thrown around everywhere. Sort of like a Camden-on-Sea. Without the skank [ignoring the main road]. It was however, rather silent, and devoid of any energy, to my pleasure. I decided upon a juice for now, choosing the more colourful of two juice cafe's. Ignoring whether the name of the cafe was "Germanesque" or a reminder of the thoughts stolen out of my head, I walked into the empty building.



The least fruity of juices was ordered once I located the patron snacking behind the counter, as I pondered for lunch options. I was not going to stay here, being the only certainty, and I would pass the aforementioned Dairy, though I was not sure if they had an onsite cafe' or restaurant. There was always home to add insult to injury.


Sipping through my appropriately green juice - it was called Greens something or other - at least that was pleasant. I think it contained apple, celery, cucumber, ginger and lime, though the predominance was of the sweetness of the apple and the tartness of the lime. Perhaps the vegetables in the drink contributed to the slightly savoury taste. Nevertheless, it was pleasant enough, and I heard it being ground into the cup mere seconds before. Quietly slurping the last remains, I fell out of the door and into the menu of a Dimsum cafe' located right in front. Well, I may as go away with a snack, Brighton is hardly near anywhere and at the very least it would serve as a modicum of worth of the journey [/delusional mutterings].



Not thoroughly encouraged, though perhaps slightly eased through the trouble of using the name of a Nepalese dumpling as its namesake, I walked into the diminutive cafe, to be confronted by astroturf. Everywhere. Hippy-safe. Put forth my order for the Peach Mini-buns, accepted the advised 10 minute wait, and commenced. When I saw the freezer being opened, and a pack being pulled out, from which 3 mini-buns were extracted, I also began ruing. Oh joy. Quickly exiting when the buns were "made", I carried on towards the car, hopefully towards real lunch and out of this growing pang of hateful disappointment that was brewing. I carefully opened the box of buns, fearing for my cynical tendencies to find scope of indulgence. It was rewarded.



Whilst the colour pink is indeed most fabulous, I do not quite share the same fascination when my food is coloured like a Barbie doll house. Nor looks to be made of the same material. This box contained what seemed to be toy food - infact, the "display" versions at the restaurant seemed more realistic, and they were squish toys. Or very, very old buns. I think it goes without saying what they tasted like. Not of peach firstly, and not particularly of toys either. They were sweet and doughy in a mild doughnut sort of way, but that's as much praise as I am about to give to the efforts of plucking some buns out of a package and dropping them into a steamer for ten minutes. I had to get away, and once again confirming that the locals had little to no idea about the Farm Market, despite being located in this case, on their same street, I departed, towards one of my original draws to the market.

Why had I chosen to come to Brighton this day? Well, I was going to come on the Monday, but the website instructed it would be closed then. HAR de freakin' Har. Egregious hypocrisy aside, I also wanted to scout another market, out of the slight pretentious contexts and occasionally empty promises of the London variants. Whilst not many of the advertised stalls seemed to be wildly different, there was a sense of honesty,  being a truer representation of artisanal fair, being a coastal town surrounded by farm areas. If with such surroundings their efforts still seemed cookiecutter-esque, they obviously, are. Well. Just terrible. But I would not find out. As apparently they are closed from Tuesday-Friday. But open from Tuesday-Sunday. It was not all a loss however, as I did saunter by the Plaw Hatch Dairy, bought my round of Raw Milk, Kefir, Live Yoghurts, and some pears too, for not too fierce an outlay. I also happened to spill half the Kefir inside the as the foil caps astoundingly failed to contain the contents of the bottles whilst rolling about on the floor. The aroma currently filling the interior is refreshing. I'm sure in a few days I will be able to accurately refer to the smell as being akin to a Mohammed Ali K/O.

Take two? I'll see how delirious the smell of Kefir makes me.
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