[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.

Read more!

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.

Read more!

[Lounge - Cigar Lounge] Short Take - No Fire without Smoke: Garden Room at The Lanesborough, Knightsbridge

A change of plans. A change of circumstances. A change of minds..

All and one of the same had led to my first, quite anticipated visit to the Garden Room at The Lanesborough, all perhaps to the changing of pace, but certainly not changing the extortionate cost of the evening. Suffice it to say, there would be no change left by the end of the evening. 

In my quest to scout out potential lounging areas, areas where time could be whiled away in serenity, and to further build on my utter freshness to the world of cigars, I have particularly been seeking out cigar lounges. I came across the Garden Room on a Bar Review website, showing an expansive space, with regal furniture and seemingly overgrown garden, all contained within the warm glowing enclave of a refined room. To say that I was sold was needlessly stating the most obvious of facts - my wallet had gone awol at the thought. When it came time to actually visit the establishment for the first time however, the notion of peace and enjoyable serenity was cruelly vanquished. It was a Tuesday evening, relatively early, and the garden room was packed to the brim. The lights were bright, and the clientelle was predominantly young, money-laden and fashionable. Damn whippersnappers, they'd certainly cramp on my octogenarian wishes for peace. I was not confident. Not that a quick perusal of the menu helped matters.

Fast forward to this Friday evening, where former plans to enjoy an evening out at a bar were thwarted by secretive marital discussions and and reservations amongst the assembled company and baggage, and rather than sully the serenity of my now established refuge, I suggested a swift skip to the nearby Lanesborough to try something new. After having just eaten at CUT, we'd be coy to say we couldn't afford it, what with our ridiculous dinner cost. My bank account yelped. 

On arrival I was pleasantly surprised; what was formerly filled with bustling, young, socialites, was now sparsely littered with a few older individuals. Still probably money-laden. I have a knack for stating the obvious, I was eminently the only one making grandiose connection between the area, pricing and image of the area and the sort of people it invariably attracts. The lighting was also subdued, and calm, low-key. After a quick advising from the Italian waiting staff member and some good suggestions, the cigar and drink were chosen, and we resumed back at our seats. 

Montecristo Edmundo

Cigar arrived, lit, and sampled. Rather light in body but also exquisitely smooth and a lovely drag. Conversation ran slow, and slightly constrained, and I continued with my cigar, which with every draw drew further admiration. Usually preferring character, body and impact to perhaps the subtler nuance, perhaps generally as I am rather unobservant, I was astonished by the mellifluous calm of this cigar. Each draw was delicate, a smooth, slight cocoa and coffee smoky [REALLY?!] infusion, which strangely remained subdued. The time whiled away, and stubbornly the cigar refused to get "hot", peppery or spicy, as many do. This despite my incessant smoking - I grow impatient of the time sans cigar - the cigar defiantly remained silken.

Flor de Caña 18yo Rum

This is not to discount the liquid partner to the cigar as well. Another rum this time, it was a delightful example, flamboyant in its aroma, a promising partner to the cigar smoking sweet nothings. Lovely, fruity, it generated a harmony with the cigar, its smoothness providing a backdrop for a creamy amalgamation. Despite reaching to the point of being difficult to be held by my stubby fingers, the cigar maintained its serene path. This may reserve should be just as stubborn and let the cigar burn my fingers, but the rather disarming cocktail sampled earlier in the evening along with the rum, and my persistent replacing of oxygen with delectable fumes of cocoa in my bloodstream had conspired to leave me rather debilitated. The time had whiled away, and the closing stages of the evening were approaching.

Whilst not a completely laid back experience, not by any fault of the location, but rather of the aforementioned company, I was left enlightened. Excellent service by a "paesan", a stunning combination of a silken smoke and a characterful partner in drink, and a subdued and refined ambience. Maybe in my disgust of the youth of today, a haze had clouded what I seen? Ageing is vicious. Though, the question will always remain of if this experience can be repeated quite so dependably, seeing as this being the evening of the end of a week, was rather against the grain. Garnering a minor stroke at the bill, we paid, and bid adieu to a pleasurable experience. The relative calm of the Garden Room rather drastically being replaced by an Operatic Singer in disguise as a taxi driver.

Read more!

[Restaurant - Modern Eclectic] The Morning After; CUT of 45 Park Lane

Location - Park Lane, London [UK]

Dreaded routines. Despite having endured an evening of celebrations, and thus its resultant excesses, as well as being away from home at a hotel for the slumber, I actually had slight concerns of how to plan my meals following the evening in question. Unwilling to subside from my daily structure, despite having consumed a UNICEF Supplies Container the evening before, and in lieu of breakfast at the hotel being paid for, I figured I may as well include some indulgence in this routine. Hush you, whimpering wallet. In what I saw as an opportunity too good to miss out, regardless of having to pay for accommodations - which is exceedingly blasphemous - I realised that I would not have to wait on the ending of slumber of a hibernating couple/individual, and I would also not need to consider the suggestions of others for that all important meal of the day. Yaerr.

Following the evening, I already had several choices lined up, but for this occasion I had a clear objective. All I knew is that I wanted, desired, no, DEMANDED American-style pancakes. Or perhaps waffles. OR pancakes. Maybe be boring and healthy? Actually, back to square one. I had no idea what I wanted. As per usual then. Where to start from. Retribution on being denied CUT? Perhaps flaunt at some affluent choices. Maybe something out of the ordinary? Such as Indian or South East Asian options. The choices, were plenty. In the end however, I had settled for CUT - unscrupulous plan changes had denied me a full 25 days or so of the CUT experience, and..well. I'm not fooling anyone with any notions of a "healthy" breakfast option. Quite obviously that pattern would not last the entire duration of the day.

Arriving and clearing my booking for one, in a decidedly sparse looking grand hall, I started on what would be a rather extravagant breakfast.


~ Breakfast ~
- Starter: Steel Cut Irish Oatmeal, Banana, Raspberries with Tipsy Sultanas, Candied Walnuts, Muscovado Sugar and Whipped Butter 






Despite having one clear objective for breakfast - that of getting a first time tasting of American-style Pancakes [IHOP notwithstanding] - provided with the option of a "Starter" breakfast item, I figured I may as well obliged. Never having had a bowl of porridge, yet absolutely in love with oats [and forever romanticised by the story of the Three Bears and the gold-haired porridge thief], I had decided on the rather exceedingly worded bowl of porridge. Which arrived in a rather exceedingly huge bowl. I forget CUT is an American franchise. Elegantly assembled, as the setting would suggest, and provided with four bowls of Tipsy Sultanas, Candied Walnuts, Muscovado Sugar, and what I initially thought to be Clotted Cream, I started on the porridge. Which was intensely creamy, to the point of decadence. In a bowl of porridge. The temperature was such that the sweetness was "just right", supplementing the rich creamy mash. It was, amazing. So much so I did not care for any of the fripperies dotted around, but I digressed.

The raspberries, quite rightly seeing as it was the end of September, were bland, but their tartness did cut through the creamy omnipresence of the porridge, though that would be taking back. The bananas almost melted into the porridge, melding their richness of texture into that of the porridge. Moving onto the supplied bowls, I tried a little of each to gauge their point and addition to the concoction. The candied walnuts, were lovely, but I limited myself to just a couple or so - got to watch those calories you know [fingers type one thing, mouth eats another story] - suffused with almost a popcorn-like aroma. The sultanas added a slight tartness, followed by a sweet toffee flavour to the porridge, which combined rather well with the creamy oats. The sugar was avoided, as it was not needed, and then onto the butter. Or clotted cream as I had believed. It added an unbelievable richness, with a subtle hint of cream, that slightly subdued the sweetness of the porridge, but amped up the indulgence factor several notches. Only when I realised that clotted cream does not clarify into a yellow pool of liquid did I realise it was infact, butter. Not even when I was eating it straight.

Goldilocks was right for stealing that porridge. This bowl, was the stuff of dreams. If I dreamed oats, I would dream of this bowl. I only finished half though, lest I forget a stack of pancakes were still forthcoming. The hardship..




- Main Course: Buttermilk Pancakes, Whipped Maple Butter, Seasonal Berries



Still mesmerised by the life affirming porridge [hey, I was eating butter as it were cream, it made me that loopy], I was eagerly anticipating the pancakes. Though not too much. This is just breakfast after all. When it arrived, I was again almost overwhelmed, looking at the diminutive tower of pancakes. Though it was deceiving - despite its stature, there were only three pancakes in the stack. Rather different to the paper thin crepes I have been eating thus far then. They were also peculiarly coloured, perhaps made of buckwheat to be so dark in colour? I did not mind, and immediately tucked in, removing what I now knew was butter from the top of the stack to sample the pancake on its own. Despite its thickness, and its crispy, heart-stoppingly decadent appearance, my arteries worst nightmares did not come to be. The pancakes were very light, and especially fluffy, providing a delicate bite. Even with a dab of the butter added with a drop of maple syrup, the pancakes remained delicate in nature, though obviously with an added creamy richness and toffee-like sweetness from the syrup.

The fruit provided were bland, again, I did not expect miracles considering the season was long gone - even though somehow oats had been turned into some form of distilled epic - but again, their acidity tarted up and cut through the richness of the butter and syrup. It was truly exquisite, a notion backed up by a look at the notes I was jotting down as I wolfed down each bite. They were decidedly not manly. I was obviously in love. Despite this though, I was defeated by the volume, leaving half behind. Or rather, I decided to leave half behind, to convince myself I should be defeated at some point..




~ Drinks ~
- Strawberry & Watermelon Juice



Wishing to abstain from any sources of caffeine or overly sugared drinks, for fear of getting in the way of my healthy perpetual gorging, I opted for the following juice, basing on the fact that strawberries and watermelon have low amounts of sugar and Glycaemic Loading. Yes. These are considerations I keep in mind. Despite this slight loss in control of the last few months. Pleased to see it was a fresh juice when it arrived, based on the fact that I kept having to stir the juice to recombine the solids and the liquid part, it was  a subtle yet satisfying juice. A very slightly sweet juice, with only light hints of the already delicate fruits being used evident, and very refreshing, not cloying at all. Rather pleasant in all.

~~~~

If I was feeling slightly weathered after the previous evening's drinking, and three hours of sleep, I was most certainly awake now. This despite my refusal of any caffeinated drink, seemingly to the waiter's utter dismay. This was truly a breakfast worthy of a King. Since I am not worthy, it was also the breakfast worthy of a bum. A rather picky bum. That phrase does not work well..Ahem. Despite the assumed preconceptions of restaurants located in this part of town, and whilst yes, the price was perhaps a bit elevated as a result, I can wholeheartedly say, it was worth it. I do not like to let glamour and other meaningless factors affect my judgement, especially not when it comes to food. Forget the connotations with Wolfgang Puck - I only know him by name, and his appearance in the Simpsons (Therefore he is god). However, for a breakfast as simple as porridge and pancakes, it was so much more. The importance of breakfast to some can seem unimportant, as a bit of a chore. I on the other hand, value this importance, to the point I turned up at CUT by 7:30. I was dutifully rewarded with what transcended as a mere meal. The porridge and pancakes, were objects of desire. I consumed this desire, and now it consumes me. So to speak.

Obviously still a very new establishment, the waiters were a bit fresh - seemingly fearing the end of the world for my not wanting a coffee, tea or a newspaper, being left with a blank expression on their face and not much to say. Not that I particularly cared, but they seemed a bit awkward. This did not spoil the breakfast however, and empowered by the early morning decadence, I felt so invigorated as to walk back to the hotel at Bayswater. Or rather, I felt the need to walk off, the empowering early morning decadence.

Read more!

"You will Experience a Pleasure Coma for the Duration of this Call"

Twitter. To a pessimist, anti-social traditionalist like myself, is just another of the infernal devices taking over the minds of people worldwide, destroying the concept of natural and formal society, turning everyone into a "look at me" socialite with their newfound ability to have their opinions plastered on the internet. Much like a blog. I have also just joined Twitter. It has already motivated me, physically, to attend an event. Hypocrisy? Maybe. I chose to see it as keeping "current". Yes, I am ashamed..

In hindsight, it had to happen, as the world, seemingly like the lemmings it contains as a population, has embraced this "thing" and run away with it, to the point that corporations, governments and figureheads rely on it as a central communication resource. If it has one solace, its that it is pared back and straightforward of mission, and you won't find yourself being "Poked" like on a similar odious medium. No sooner that I joined Twitter, a move I only performed in order to remain updated with the sporadic happenings of the British Sake Association - through the gritted teeth of my conscience - and its influence has already lifted me off my desk chair and to Central London. That is an inhuman amount of motivating force. Having joined as a "follower", I quickly found several users of interest, including a Japanese/Korean Online Community that advertises events and the like, some of which I had attended, and thus something that would take my interest. With everyone seemingly forming a molecular bond with their phones, updates are frequent, with event postings coming up with regularity. This is dangerous. All the previous events I had attended required research or hearsay. This is making it far too easy to indulge.

My delightfully absent willpower was thus stoked by the "Twit" of a "Taste of Korea" exhibition at Harrods. Seeing as my repertoire of Korean cuisine experiences were based in a dank Hotel Restaurant in Jeddah, where I usually had the Shredded Chilli Beef [I know..], I thought it was an excellent opportunity to partake in. Especially as I could "fall" upon Laduree later on..Oh heavens, I am capitalising on gluttony. I promptly arrived, and through the maze of bumbling tourists and designer distractions, I searched high and low for demonstration, or any evidence of such. Not actually knowing where it was supposed to be. Neither did the staff it would seem. Eventually I was led into a possible direction, were an aroma suddenly became apparent, querying an idle member of staff who rather sarcastically asked if I couldn't smell it - I could, but my sense of smell is not GPS-guided - I was eventually led to the demonstration. Ah.

I had once again, in my boundless greed, severely overestimated the scale of this event - what I figured would possibly be a meal event, with a chef churning out full dishes for a generous exploration of the Korean Cuisine, turned out to be four offerings of canape'-sized thimbles from a counter in the middle of the Kitchen Ware department. This transgression, would not suffice for lunch. Regardless, they can subsist as canapes. 

Pajeon 

Domi-jim

Bulgogi

Galbijim

Kimchi

They were ok:

- The Pajeon was essentially just a thoroughly onion-rich pancake with a slight "seafood" taste at the tail, rather nondescript.
- The Domi-jim combined a rather unexciting mix of steamed fish with a mix of vegetables which did not really taste of much.
- The Bulgogi, the one of the only items I had had experience with previously, was slightly sweet, and enjoyable but certainly not mind blowing.
- The Galbijim was very similar to the Bulgogi
- The Kimchi was merely ok, not terribly pickled or interesting.


Distraught by this catatonic upheaval of a disappointment and on the verge of being disinterested into a coma, I ventured downstairs to drown my sorrows in what I would presume to be the divine Diabetic aids at Laduree'. It also has a restaurant. An ominously decadent prospect. Eventually stumbling upon the hidden trove I stood in line awaiting my turn at the pastries counter. The sight alone of the hoards of immaculately presented macaroons and other assorted pastries had my arms tingling with tentative Diabetic-motivated separation. This would require restraint. Though shedding an arm would negate the wait gain from a lack thereof. Win win. Then the counter assistant spoke to me, and I snapped out of my fantasy haze, faced with the impossible prospect of having to decide between the awesome and the more awesome. Having settled on the idea of purchasing a gift box of 8, to spread the guilt, I initially asked the assistant to choose. In the end I chose most of the eight, of varying degrees of decadence and mellifluous descriptives, and I moseyed out. It was decided that having lunch in such an environment, would only serve to further the temptation of these devilish mini-hamburgers on my lack of willpower. I had all but also forgotten about the Traiteurs Hall which had initially sparked my interest.
Clambering into a taxi and heading towards what I hoped would be lunch, I took the opportunity to take a picture of my beautiful passenger.

Bag of Destiny

An act, that revealed an ethereal glow, as if a higher power were motioning me towards this exquisite  rainbow of sin. The complete line-up lasted no more than five minutes, and one was devoured instantly.

Laduree Macaroons in Ethereal Glow

Oh. My. Buddha. Beyond the fact I was alone in the taxi, and that my mouth was currently being overwhelmed by a flash of intense pleasure, I was at a loss for words. Just what is this exquisitely complex and multi-faceted orgy of flavours going on in my mouth?! Why is every little bite drawing out such intricate details amongst this immoral richness. Argh. Refined and absolutely unsubtle in equality, how can it be?! The Rose Blossom macaroon I had just climaxed to, was an actual revelation. Never have I sensed such a dense creaminess, to the point that a slight greasiness could be detected, such a fresh, richness. A richness lightened with the delicate yet prominent floral note of the Rose. Each bite created a dance of this decadence uplifted by the perfume aroma, revealing in the final stages just the slightest bite of tiny fragments of almond. This is surely an exaggerated amount of decadence, it looks like toy food for Jeebus sake. Arriving at the lunch venue, I was cruelly denied my entrance to the Columbian Food Festival, having in my vagrant-mindedness not realised that I was indeed, a day early.


Returning towards Knightsbridge, I once again consoled myself in the back of the taxi, with the second of the quickly disappearing macaroons. This time it was turn of the Madagascar Chocolate variant to disappear. Not as intensely exotic as the one that had just transpired, but rather a smooth and gentle pleasure. A prolonged chocolate aroma persisted with each bite, seemingly refusing to leave the recesses of my taste buds. A slightly dark chocolate, just slightly beyond a milk chocolate in flavour, dominated the experience. I quickly taped the box back up. A quarter had gone, and lunch was still the priority.


Perhaps deciding on returning to Knightsbridge for lunch was not the most formidably astute of decisions, as whilst choices abound, variety does not, its proximity to my required bus stop perhaps swaying the decision. Now I have yet another reason to despise Public Transport, it affected my lunch decision, a heresy unbound.  I eventually settled for a rather complete meal at a Portuguese Restaurant, the meal including a rather deliciously rich dessert, full of condensed milk and other unmentionables. It would not halt my perpetual sweet tooth - how it has not dissolved into oblivious by now, I do not know. At once the salted caramel morsel succumbed, exploding in a deep onslaught of a sticky, thick caramel/toffee suffusion. The texture was intense, the caramel not hardened but certainly thick enough to chew. It was divine. The next one had no time to itself and it was just as quickly dispatched - getting rather confounded at this point for not paying attention to exactly what I had ordered, and the colours of the remaining not giving much evidence, I was hoping the next one would not be vanilla. Though, I equally did not wish to have the melon one, the choices mainly being the unexciting ones left for the "guilt sharing" gifts. It was vanilla. Quite literally. Stubbornly so. It was delicious though, it was delightfully spicy, and evidently from a freshly ground pod, the clarity of the vanilla notes hinting at such.


This now left the choice at Orange Blossom, Lemon & Thyme, Melon and another I forget. I was hoping I would have selected the Lemon & Thyme, as I already had my savouring of Middle Eastern influence with the epic Rose macaroon that destroyed my macaroon innocence with its sinful levels of pleasure, but it was not to be, I picked the Orange Blossom. I think. It was intensely creamy, very much like the Rose one, bringing a slight greasiness to the lips and tip of the tongue, but I could not quite discern the flavour. It was subtle, and not quite orange blossom-y, but certainly not Melon, Lemon & Thyme or the other one. Which may have been raspberry. Regardless. It rocked. And I now imposed a sanction on the remaining three macaroons; they will no longer assault my weak will and overstimulated taste buds. No more. With that embargo stipulated, I ventured back towards my transportation, though certainly at this pace it will not be too long till the point when my means of movement will be dictated by how far I can roll, or the effect of gravity.


Where to now? To On Cafe. To purchase some more macaroons. Start this vicious circle again. All in the sake of comparison naturally. This is the issue with coincidences. They are easily exploited. Though, stick On Cafe in Iceland, or Brixton, and I'd still find reason to indulge.

On Cafe. Not actually a Cafe.

Arriving at the scene however, and peering in through the opened door, I feared my expectations - I should really learn to dial down this hopeless optimism - would be shattered yet again. The "Cafe'" was not a retail outlet, not by any stretch of the imagination, a small kitchen fronting a rather large storage area in the back. The smell of freshly baked brownies however was filling the air, and stirring my overinflated digestive system. It obviously upholds the bliss through ignorance ethos. Querying with the first person encountered, I asked, with perhaps a slight desperation in my voice, if any of the wares were available to purchase. Allowed.


WOOT.


Shutting away the voices in my head that were exclaiming "BUY IT ALL, NAO!", I observed, chose, and made my selections. Despite the fact I was not even interested in the brownies, I also expressed intent on purchasing some of those as well. The effect of just cooked baked items have that sort of power. Though at this point it would be remiss to say that any semblance of their existence is enough motivation for purchase to me. Further comfort was had in the pleasingly "home-cooked" ambience of the kitchen - the trays were decidedly homely, and not industrial "just add water and MSG" monsters of volume. I'm sure if I were a bit earlier I would have seen the bowls and kitchen spoons of a hyper productive mother figure in the sink as well. Again, that aroma further motioned this belief. Amidst the overtly-kind [and perhaps foolish] offer to allow me to buy now and purchase later, I declined and went in search for more monies to pay for new frontiers of my greed. Such an offer would open floodgates. Though in retrospect, those gates would close rather shortly once I inevitably cease to Catastrophic Diabetes.


I returned, I paid, I departed, amongst shared thanks and in recognition of their newest fan. A little tidbit, they obviously are confident enough to shortly  starting up a retail outlet in Harrods, contesting with the almighty Laduree. That will become interesting.

On Cafe Macaroons & Brownies

I exercised restraint somewhat, and allowed for the previous geographic mass of food to have some hope of initiating digestion before commencing on the Oriental treats. Once at home, a picture was taken before the On Cafe buddies would irrevocably be parted ways, and I picked off my kill, the most intriguing of flavours present. Not entirely sure what I was expecting in terms of flavour from the Jasmine and Charcoal - yes, rly - macaroon, though perhaps some expectation of barbecue infusions moronically persisted. What it was however, was delightfully soft, especially so compared to the Laduree pockets of joy, that provided a subtle crunch. They were not either as intensely creamy, being perhaps sweeter. A jasmine flavour was not really apparent either, but instead, a rather intriguing texture was evident, right at the finish of the macaroon - a slight chalkiness of the charcoal on the teeth, interesting. Pleasing, and at once not quite as serious in its mission to reduce you to a quivering mess of over-stimulation, the macaroon was light hearted and subtle in its pleasuring in comparison to the Laduree. 


And now I'm in a coma thankyouplease. 


The morning after would also bring about the breakfast composed of one of the brownie squares, sesame and ginger. It was exceedingly light, delightfully fragrant, and overwrought with guilty pleasure. I may just have to blame Twitter for this transgression. A useful blame-bearer.