Priorities

Compromise. It sucks. 

Or does it?

It is always the same story - you travel, and if you're a guy, chances are you do the packing around a few moments before the taxi is due. Not particularly efficient, not especially wise but, it's right. A legacy if you will. This time was no different, and I had happened on a rather precarious situation. My bag and suitcase were full. And. I had some items that would not fit.

I had too many cigars. 

So, I took an executive decision. Instead of finishing the packing. I would have take the torturous decision of instead, smoking the surplus cigar. Someone hold me. 

I decided to go for the El Rey del Mundo Exclusivo Reino Unido Choix de L'Epoque, hopefully I would finish it in less than the time it took to write that. As I lit up the cigar, naturally, I thought, it would need a companion, and despite being at home, and alone, and thus drawing up the loner connotations that don't actually need saying, I drew myself a little tipple. What, the cigar demands it. So a couple of fingers of Lagavulin 16 year old joined up with the cigar upstairs. Lit, puff, and ignore the impending taxi arrival and exploded suitcases. 

As I puffed away, the cigar proved especially surprising - score - seeing as it was a freebie from the Cigar "Training" session from a month ago. It was mellow, but rather chocolaty, a bit of gritty coffee thrown in for kicks. Oddly, some wheat made itself known on the end of a puff. I was smoking a mochaccino toast.. 

It was also an easy dragging thing. So I made quick work to try and finish the first third before combining the Lagavulin, or so says a staff member at Sautter. What does she know, she's only apparently the third generation of Cigar industry members from Cuba..

Regardless, I restrained, momentarily, and tried out the whisky - as tenuous as the "need" of the cigar to require the whisky, if anything, the whisky would help later on if there were any odious whining children in my vicinity on the journey. Excuse established. Oh my, this has a pretty aroma. Beating me upside the head with some flowery orange, and even a bit of honey and malt as it diffused. No thought for even dillydallying, and I sipped away at a particularly sweet whisky, almost similar to a bourbon, with what I believed to be some notes of corn. Just a tiny bit of smokiness crept in at the end as well. Yes, even on my own, at home, waiting for a taxi, I was concentrating hard on cigar and whisky. 

Puffing away, losing more impetus to fight the lack of urgency, time ticking down, listening to some soothing/thrashing guitar ballades from Buckethead and the cigar not quite burning up as quickly as I thought, I quickly did not do much about it. The cigar was getting nuttier, the whisky was supplementing it well, rounding out the sweetness of the both and concentrating the mochaccino. At least I found a healthy caffeine substitute. Adding some water to the whisky did little to replenish its rapidly depleting levels, though it did smooth it, and somehow amplified the smokiness. The cigar smoke oddly had the same effect. 

The cigar at this point was taking double duty as leisure object and finger warmer, as it more and more resembled a cocktail sausage rather than a cigar, the whisky long gone, the suitcases still not finalised, and the taxi due to arrive in mere moments. Despite being at this point both a pain and pleasure, the cigar remained pleasant and mellow, taking on a more wholegrain nature, almost toasted. Maybe I was toasted? And with some toasty corn right towards the end, I finally put it down. And with minutes to go yet, I haphazardly threw everything together, packed the now sorted travel humidor in my bag, and hoped for the best at Check-in. To home, Jeeves!

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[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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[Restaurant - West African/Caribbean] This is Ehfrika!; African Kitchen Gallery of Euston

Location - Euston, London [UK]

I had never particularly felt myself as an easily influenced person - sure, amongst certain groups I may take on certain traits, and some decisions may be made indirectly through the actions or words of others, but otherwise, I think I follow my own route. As always however, actions speak louder than words. And ever since that faithful end of August day at the Notting Hill Carnival, I seem to be inadvertently/rather consciously/blatantly seeking out Caribbean and African foods. I can deny it all I want, but fact is, I have now formed a repertoire of Roti, and sampled a spectrum of Chin-chin, Moin-moin, Puff-puff and other amusing double-barrelled food items. I blame it on my Mauritian blood. 

Not that there is any particular wrong with chasing these diverse cuisines, foods that until that August day had remained almost completely unknown to me [excluding the fateful evening at Mosob], however, having had Ghanian food but a couple of days prior, and Caribbean on the very same day, the above choice may seem trivial, particularly considering my incessant need to explore seemingly every single restaurant in the London area. Why the choice of African Kitchen Gallery in particular? Not too sure - I guess it was not too far from my usual parking area, and was also not in Ghettotown one of the better rated restaurants, not that I pay much attention to the ratings from Urbanspoon and London Eating. However, I had also little experience in West African food, beyond the aforementioned double-barrelled treats, and had wished to expand on this particular area before progressing onto others, ignoring the Spinach & Egusi I had eaten for lunch on the Saturday.

So, after culminating the days gorgings, and following yet another food trail - and its resultant excessive indulgence - I drove up. Aghast at just how close it really was, the Satnav indicating a mere few minutes to reach the destination. Obviously the satnav is always wrong, and would say the moon is within the next few hundred yards on the left, but it was pleasingly close. A slight disappointment struck me though on nearing the restaurant - the words "Caribbean" being displayed among the signage portraying an image of the rather unconvincing stalls and such from the Notting Hill Carnival, and other less than authentic outlets. SIGH. I was still digesting my Curry Goat from lunch. Nevertheless, I have come this far, and peering at the menu on the window, I saw a welcome group of dishes I could not pronounce, and felt encouraged. 

~ Starters ~
- Pickled Carrots


Provided on the table when I sat down, I was not really expecting much beyond, well. Pickled carrots. These however..were no exemption. They were however, rather quite nice. Obviously not from a tin, the pickling was very sharp, almost pungent, and very interesting, the carrots nicely crunchy and with just enough of their flavour carrying through. I cannot pin down just how the pickling was different, or what it was reminiscent of - much as always - but it was certainly enjoyable. The carrots disappeared almost as quickly as they appeared.

- Akara Balls


A mere glance at the menu was enough to convince my choice for a starter - not only were Akara fritters something I knew, if only via the pages of Wikipedia, but not only was it a ubiquitous West African food item, but also in the Caribbean AND Brazil. I would practically be having a UN food party by ordering this. Getting over this rather weak conviction, I was presented with five Akara fritters assembled around a green paste and a sprinkling of chopped coriander. As always, I started with the separate components - starting with the paste, I was instantly mesmerised. What an interesting mix; a sharp almost citrus-like highlighting note to a slight herb infused..melange. It was similar to a lemon pickled courgette paste or something along those lines. It was absolutely delicious. Enquiring only added to the mystique. If I heard right, it is composed of avocado, pear [PEAR?!] and olive oil. That is it. I'm sure there must have been more, maybe some garlic, its impossible such generally quiet spoken ingredients would shout so loud.

Not forgetting that there were also the fritters to contend with, I then turned my attention to them. Very dense, proving actually a modicum of effort to cut through, they were humble, subtle, and generally..normal. Being a black bean fritter, they were appropriately slightly grainy/starchy in texture, slightly earthy in taste. They did however, come alive with the pear and avocado paste, or rather, the paste continued being awesome, with the fritter helping to take a slight edge off of the paste. A pleasant way to start the meal, and that paste rather defined much about the preparation of food, and how simplicity can sometimes make more than the sum of its parts. Again, avocado, and PEAR!


~ Main Course ~
- Ewa Jombolo


It is a bit concerning when sampling a new restaurant and its offered cuisine for the first time, and you struggle to choose a main course as you had already tried one of its few original dishes in the past. Or in my case, but a few days before. At least it made the infernal act of choosing simpler - I went with the aforementioned, comprising of steamed tilapia in a tomato and bean based stew with ground prawns. What was interesting is that Tilapia was always around in Saudi Arabia, particularly with the Filipino community, but it is a fish I have never tried, particularly as they were rather small, and apparently bony. What arrived certainly was not small, the cross-section seeming like that of a plane fuselage, almost in size. The restaurateur was right in forewarning that rice may not be needed as the portions are gargantuan.

Starting with the soup base, and the notions brought into view by the homely setting [of a home, amusingly], and the starters, rang true once again. A well seasoned, savoury, and incendiary stew. Whilst it had set my face aflame, I was still pleased. It was rather reminiscent of an Italian Pepata or a similar tomato-based Seafood stew from the area, with plenty of rich tomato jostling with the fresh sprinkling of coriander. The beans added a new dimension though, seemingly anarchistic to the "Mediterranean" flavours of the stew, but they fit in well, slightly crunchy to the bite and just subduing the slight tartness of the tomato stew with its grainy, earthy texture. The fish itself was not bad - never realised the tilapia had quite so much fat, but it was a juicy slice of fish, nice thick chunks proving clean in taste. It was also bony. The pivotal moment however came when I asked for some spicy encouragement, whereby a paste was provided. This paste. Was. Amazing. And it also had some heat to back up its immense flavour. It worked perfectly with the stew, being based on scotch bonnets, it was wonderfully tangy, and amazingly, had a beautifully smoky aroma which just worked. Worked so well. And apparently, the paste was just a combination of smoked scotch bonnets. And olive oil.

That is it. I also ordered a jar of the paste.


~ Desserts ~
- Coconut & Carrot Balls



No sooner had I finished, or rather, finished the predescribed amount of the main course in order to not fill my stomach up to the brim with the inevitable dessert, I was served this tiny plate of coconut & carrot balls. I am not going to complain about complimentary treats [hush you snivelling waistline]. Trying first the  dense little shotput on its own, tasting quite predominantly of coconut, but fresh coconut rather than the tinned or preserved kind. That much was obvious really from the previous dishes received though. It was subtle but rather enticing, with a bit of starchy flour to it as well. Subsequently dipping the ball into the cocoa powder only made them more addictive, with the cocoa adding a gentle bitterness to the slight sweetness of the balls.

One by one I fired them and they were rather quickly gone. And dessert was ordered.


- Mango Flan


Not being blessed - thankfully - with a particularly broad choice, nor actually that hungry, not that it would stop me, I continued on and ordered the mango flan regardless, opting away from the "starchy evil" banana flan, and the typical coconut. Receiving the flan I was modestly elated - it was rather ugly and deformed but most certainly it was not one of the usual anodyne truncated cone desserts in their usual beige blahness, taking on a certain character. It looked delicious, and it was surrounded by a pool of syrup and an exaggerated sprinkling of cocoa powder. Proof is in the fludding pudding, so I obliged. And I was confused. It was pleasant, but the flavour was rather different - not overtly mango-like, or at least, not the typically accepted mango-flavouring notion of mango, and a bit of a banana note creeping in as well. It was also distinctly not overly eggy like some can be, and it was deliciously natural tasting, crumbling with every bite, and even its own weight as pictured.

Quite pleasant, but perhaps disappointing in that it did not pound my face with mango.

- Coconut & Mango Balls


Thinking I had finished with dessert, my conscience grateful I had finally subsiding the eating for the day, some more gratuitous coconut balls were thrust upon me, as they were a recent batch and yada yada and I did not stop myself. More of the same, as delicious as the last, with a slight sweet tang to the former's starchier sweetness. Two, and that was it. I had to stop eating lest Africa find where all their missing food was going.



~ Drinks ~
- Home-made Ginger Beer


Not particularly wanting ginger beer or any sweet drink, but forever reminiscent about the ambrosial variety I tried at the Chelsea Market a while back, I meekly obliged. Quite obviously the contents of the drink were made clear, looking like a glass full of ginger smoothie. Sipping away, and, wow. It was not a shy drink, generous, no, oceanic amounts of ginger, quite vigorously spiced. Whilst I mistook it for cardamom, I was then corrected that it was infact cloves. Plenty of cloves. It was interesting, quite refreshing, and an awesome palate cleanser. As it essentially eviscerated all other flavours, but did not remain lingering.

This was not a ginger beer in the classic sense - granted, it was slightly fizzy, but this was essentially a fizzy ginger and cloves juice, very different, not subtle, and all the more intriguing for it.

~~~~

Contented, satisfied, and pleasantly surprised. Three descriptives I did not think I would be using at the conclusion of this meal, being somewhat less than impressed by the seemingly typical combination of African "and" Caribbean cuisines in restaurants of this ilk, fearing that somehow, it would be another Notting Hill Carnival. I already walked half of London for timid renditions of the respective cuisines back then, and I was not ready to experience the same, venturing out of my London Comfort zone. I need not have worried though, for the moment stepping in, my prejudices were redirected. Hoping for homely, honest food, somehow became a requisite notion. As this was essentially somebody's home. And the food certainly provided on that front - forcibly lowering my eyebrow at the sight of all the microwaves, it was clear that the meals were prepared by hand, freshly. Albeit not at that very moment. Flavours were pronounced, spices were proud, the food was not shy. 

Neither was the owner, who progressively engaged in more and more conversation. I could not complain as it earned me some free coconut balls midway, and he was rather engaging, despite my usual allergies to human contact. I still do not understand the story however; being originally from Sudan, and part Spanish, and his family being UK-based for the last 150 years, just how, or more importantly, why spurn a West African and Caribbean Restaurant. Also, where does the gallery come into it?! It does not make sense! And most importantly, it simply did not matter.

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[Restaurant - Filipino] Cravings, Nothing Else but Cravings; Josephine's of Fitzrovia

Location - Fitzrovia, London [UK]

It is peculiar what you are aware of and what you crave, only when that object is no longer part of your surroundings. It is also peculiar to note just why you crave it when you had never sampled it beforehand. Am I pregnant and suddenly becoming awash with diverse cravings? I don't know. What I do know is that lately I have been consumed by an innate desire to feast on the cuisine of the Philippines. This despite having lived the majority of my life within a measurable Filipino influence in the family. And never having any particular engaging with their food. I don't know either.

Throughout my years in Saudi Arabia, the Filipino influence was prevalent, with numerous maids aiding in my upbringing, and a rather prominent Filipino community being based in the country. I would pass eateries frequently, I would be in contact with them often, but never had I had any desire to explore further at the time. Though, it must be said, I probably had little idea of how it differed to other South East Asian cuisines and cultures at the time, I had no idea just how much of a minor obsession it would become. Following on my recent, well, let's just say "mission" for now, to explore the world's cuisines eventually, research had brought me onto the Philippines. A country, whose cuisine seemed to bring in influences from all over, then completely made distinct by varying distinguishing preparations and ingredients. The more I read, the more I became enamoured with the underlying basis of combining sweet with sour, savoury with bitter, all at once. I only ever became hungrier. Why had I not felt this way before, when all of this surrounded me?!

I soon hatched plans, to rectify this situation for whenever my eventual return to Saudi Arabia would be. I am however, grossly impatient, and would need retribution sooner. My first sampling actually came at the Notting Hill Carnival, where I let out a yelp of glee coming across a Filipino stall amongst the hoards of Caribbean fare. Granted, I only bought a Turon and a Hopia, it was a minor victory. A couple of months later saw a further diabetic treat sample in the form of Majablanca from Shepherd's Bush Market, but these were all little treats, not really forming any solid basis of the cuisine of the Philippines, as indulgently delicious as they were. I needed a meal. And rather surprisingly, there were several restaurants available, and not all located in some desolate Ethnic Community hotspot in East-side Ghettotown. Selecting a suitable date, I decided to sample the more renowned of the Filipino restaurants first, one that had apparently been visited by some unheard of celebrities - questionable bragging rights, celebrities have no taste - and was in the nicer part of London. Josephine's would thus be the first to answer the questions of my obsession. 

~ Starters ~
- Tinola Soup with Vegetables


Perusing through the menu, not much was found to be overly unique in the appetizers section, seemingly falling into the usual South East Asian loop of spring rolls, fried seafood and the like. Not that I really should have even thought of ordering starters considering the abhorrent gorging I had engaged in earlier in the day, but perhaps the replacing of oxygen in my blood with cigar smoke prior to dinner had affected my judgement. I also figured I may as well have a token portion of vegetables, in a vain hope of repelling some of the evils. As the Laing as not available in a "Starters" portion, I opted for the Tinola, a ginger-based soup.

Receiving a sizeable bowl filled with plenty of cabbage, zucchini, runner beans and other assorted vegetables, I was issued a warning/disclaimer for the chilli [*scoffs*], and then I took a sip. Ginger was the basing, the predominant, and the general flavour of the soup. A light vegetable broth, defined by the fresh fragrance of ginger. Exclusively so. The vegetables were also similarly plain, being just the right side of being well cooked, offering some bite, but not being terribly flavoured. The chilli was pleasing in its intensity though, its nice heat and zing combining well with the freshness of the ginger. Whilst not overly interesting, the chilli at least woke me up out of my smoky haze, and the copious ginger was at least freshening. And I also had some token fibre in my stomach.


~ Main Course ~
- Adobong Baboy


Whilst I initially had notions of asking for advice on what to choose as a main starter, preferring to leave the arduous task of choice to others - for my inane inability to do so - I quickly settled on the Adobo dish. If ever there were a dish that would offer a basing for the general Filipino cuisine, in my limited knowledge, it would be Adobo. So sayeth Wikipedia. Skipping on the rice, as every little helps, a sizeable plate of some rather delicious pork chunks arrives, rather quite quickly after the soup. Supposedly marinated with vinegars, sugars, and all sorts of spicing, the adobo is supposed to offer a representative realm of typical Filipino cuisine, melding sweet, sour, savoury and bitter tastes.

So I was rather disappointed when I tasted the sauce to find, sweetness. More sweetness. Sweetness some more. Maybe a bit of earthiness. Then some sweetness. It was not overtly sweet, I did not drop any limbs, but it was rather predominantly sweet. It was also rather generic. More than anything, it was similar to a black bean sauce, offering the same sort of earthy sweet notes, with a hint of soy sauce. Some black pepper was evident as well, as well as the fresh note of the garnishing coriander, but there was no sourness, bitterness or other qualities at all. It tasted like it was not new to me at all. The pork chunks however were pleasant enough, being tender and juicy, falling apart rather easily. Not difficult to envision considering the enormous chunks of fat some came with. I was however, left unenlightened. Wishing to discover so mind-bendingly eclectic, I was left with deja-food.


~ Dessert ~
- Halo-halo


Leaving my predisposition towards pastries, creams, and all things bad, I opted for the Halo-halo in the end, for the end of this rather quick-fire meal. Seemingly a favourite in the Philippines, the crushed ice desserts seem to be quite ubiquitous in Asia, something that did not really appeal to me. As much as I try, eating water just does not excite me. Regardless, it's traditional, a country favourite and yada yada, maybe I'll learn something new. Receiving the eating implement though, I also learnt that I would not be receiving it in a bowl:



The spoon amused. Then mildly terrified. What sort of beast would require such a monster of an implement to consume?! I received my answer. Struggling to see over the top of it, I was preseneted with a towering sundae glass of multi-layered, colourful excess. It seemed to contain everything, from the preserved fruit, to a geneorus helping of crushed ice, swimming in coconut milk and finally topped by a scoop of purple [PURPLE?!] ice-cream, and a slice of flan. Perhaps a sprinkling of fairy dust and some forest creatures lay in there as well. I was told to mix it up. Which was far easier said than done, as the layer of crushed ice had seemed to have compacted into a solid mound under the mass of its own gravitational field. So I started with the purple ice-cream, which I presumed to be ube [sweet potato]. Rather ube it was as well, not terribly distinct but rather..earthy, almost starchy in its flavour, not quite of sweet potato, but different all the same. The flan was also enjoyable enough, not too eggy and a light caramel flavouring evident. Attacking the ice without making a mess was difficult. The solid clumps made any effort to penetrate them result in the dessert trying to escape the cup.

Eventually I broke through, the ice not being particularly memorable oddly enough, though the parts drenched in coconut milk were at least a bit more interesting. I eventually reached the preserved fruit, scooping them out precariously trying not to upset the balance of the towering dessert. They were different - not sure what I was expecting, but in texture and flavour they were very much like a very dense jelly. They added a sweetness rather obviously, but, I find it hard to define any actual flavour. More of a flavouring, tasting a bit too commercial grade perhaps. I forget completely what fruit they were. The slivers of buko were nice though, providing some sweet coconut aroma to meld with the coconut milk and generally add some interest to the ice. Annoyingly the ube ice-cream had melted and joined the slush, but there being so much slush meant it was lost in the sea. An imposing, intriguing, and intimidating dessert, all at once. It was quirky, but also rather sedate. It did get consumed to the last drop though.


~ Drinks ~
- Calamansi Juice


Romanced by a notion that I would somehow feel closer culturally to the gastronomic spectrum of the Philippines blindly following what the menu instructed, I opted for a Calamansi Juice as a drink. More sugary drinks. Yay. Whilst the Tapuy I had wanted in vain was not available, I figured being a citrus juice it would at least..well. I do not actually have an excuse for having ordered it. It was rather similar to a lime juice, but an earthier flavour, possibly from the palm sugar used. Somehow it was also not as acidic, and rather subdued. It was pleasant, but not particularly interesting. Though this would be perhaps a case of expecting far more from something than the sum of its parts, it is just a citrus juice in the end.

~~~~

After the five or so minutes it took for the dinner to start, and then conclude, I was left in a bit of a quandary. Whilst the meal was very much satisfying, it was more so through its safe, rather generic flavouring and ample portions than through any originality, enlightening diversity or eclectic tastes. The service was quick, almost too quick, which perhaps defined the type of food that would be served, the whole three courses being served almost straight after the prior was finished. Whilst I can only speculate, I can only imagine that dishes being made from scratch may take a bit longer than that to create. I was also not sure it was the most authentic of experiences, a point that rings true for many establishments, though once again, I base this without knowing any better. Nevertheless, I was not particularly intrigued by much of the food, the soup being rather basic in its composition, and the main course being rather generic, tasting much like a typical sticky sauce based dish at any number of Asian restaurants. Maybe Wikipedia misled me, but in this meal, I did not feel like anything new was being experienced, like a truly representative culinary image was being sampled.

Granted, the Halo-halo was entertaining, but again, it was simplistic in its nature, more intriguing for its gargantuan size and resultant self-contained gravitational field. However, I was not left completely disappointed. Service was friendly, they actively engaged, though being one of the only patrons there, they probably could. In the end, I came away unenlightened. Be it for the area, the need to play it safe with food in order to attract more of the mainstream, but I did not feel I received a representative meal here of the Philippines - what I had seemed very "tempered" and generic, compared to the extreme notions of sweet/sour/savoury I had read about. Suffice it to say, my obsession has not been answered. For better, or for worse. I will certainly enjoy trying to find out more about what the Philippines has to offer though. Balut and all. 

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Plus ça Change..

Several rituals have become the bedstead of life, be it personal obsessive idiosyncrasies throughout the day, or shared general progressions for a typical evening out. They can occasionally draw ruing for their predictability, or comfort through their familiarity. Following a meal in Jeddah, typically the evening is capped with a saunter over to a shisha cafe' to help "digestion". As evidenced by the plethora of outings to cigar lounges of late, it would seem they have become the new shisha. Albeit on a far more wallet debilitating scale.

As such, being Huzaifah's last evening in London since a while, and for a while, he was rather intent on following up dinner with another cigar experience. Where at?

Rather obviously. He seems to be quite taken with the place - this is the third time in two weeks we will have come here - I don't blame him. This will be my sixth or so appearance in as many weeks. Not that it has to be said, but I have already stated the rightness of the serenity, the calm, the excellency of service and advice. All I need is to be paid to experience this delight and it would be perfect, but that would be greedy. Awesome, but greedy. Yet again, I let the choice befall on the Barman, this time suggesting to me a Bourbon to go with my cigar, a Bourbon which I had actually got my first sampling of the week prior at the Harrod's tasting.

Montecristo No. 4

Makers Mark Bourbon on Ice

The terrace was empty - after ousting a couple, how dare they impinge - which boded well. Seated and served of our tipple, ambience calm, temperature almost perfect, just approaching a bit chilly, though I revelled in the new purchase of my fabulous sweater, keeping me warmth, if only on the upper half of my body. The cigar was pleasant, light and with a reasonable drag for its size, and the usual tones of slight chocolate and coffee seemingly the only ones I can sense in a cigar. The Bourbon on first thoughts, was disappointing, mainly as it seemed to contain the iceberg that sank the Titanic. However, despite being slightly watered down by this glacial body, it soothed with its mild sweetness, and slight almond notes (?). It also helped that it paired particularly well with the cigar, the sweetness coming alive and supplementing the cigars' lightness of body. 

The evening ensued, with some mint tea and espresso coming our way, primarily as I would still have a lot of travelling for the night, taking on chauffeur duties for Huzaifah, both of which were as well, rather boringly, pleasant. Especially of note were the "petite fours" served, a chocolate/almond brownie square and the shortbread biscuit, which were delicately sweet, and in the case of the brownie, deliciously nutty, and somehow worked with the mint tea as well as the clean and elegant espresso. As such, putting a pleasant cap on the evening, an enjoyable and serene smoke amidst contemplation and good company, following our thrifty dinner of Kings, much as with every outing in Jeddah. The more things change..

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[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.

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[Restaurant - Russian] Honest to Goodness, and Kvass!; Samovar Cafe of Bayswater

Location - Queensway, London [UK]

Why end a good thing? Despite the exorbitance of the preceding days, the slight exuberant alcohol consumption of the evening before, and the absolutely decadent breakfast in the morning, I figured there was still scope for a little exploration for lunch. After all, I had regained some sanity with a healthy helping of saurkraut and octopus salad for my mid-morning snack, so, permission granted. 

As luck would have it, strolling around the hotel area in the morning to locate a cash point for breakfast, I came across a sign pertaining to a restaurant that I had recently been made aware of reading an article on The Guardian's food section. Being of a type of cuisine that I had almost no experience of, thus required to try, and of being so opportunely local, I immediately started hatching plans of fitting in lunch. The only issue being that it was currently 7:30AM, and lunch was but a while away. That and I also had a friend to have to consider for. Hmph. Fortunately though, with his predictable hibernation-esque sleeping pattern, and finding some time to burn away in the meantime, it was established to entertain a Russian lunch.

Arriving at the shop, we were indicated that the cafe' was actually down a gallery in an indoor market, which  soon brought about the annoying predilection for prejudice - this place was a ghetto. Undeterred, and offering vain notions that we would not get shot, I persisted, and once seated, a quick glance at the menu was all that was needed to immediately feel comforted. Despite the best efforts of the torturous devices masquerading as table chairs.

~ Starters ~

- Shuba

Not quite sure what I was ordering, though knowing it consisted of herring was rather hoping it was the pickled herring I wanted to try, I was presented with this rather fabulously coloured dish. On seeing it, I did recognise the dish, and promptly commenced with the beetroot drenched fish. First bite revealed quite a heavy, creamy base with just a light sweetness of the beetroot permeating through, with its slight acidity picking its way through. Digging deeper revealed yet another level of vegetables, with some hearty carbohydrates from the shredded potato mixing with some slight vinegary notes of some pickled vegetables, not that I could distinguish them within this slab. After a few bites I finally came to the herring, which made itself rather known with its strong aroma, which was very well balanced out by the heaviness of the cream enriched potatoes, and the pickled vegetables serving to perk up this rather heavy of dishes. 

Heavy, but delightful. Despite the omnipresence of the cream/mayonnaise, it did not phase or render the dish overly rich in the slightest, especially with the presence of the herring. The gentle sweetness of the beetroot as well complimented the abundance of vegetables, serving to make the dish rather moreish. 

~ Main Course ~

- Fried Grundinka Pork with Kasha

Choices for the main course were rather limited unfortunately, and the Fried Pork dish was the only one that had a Russian titling in its name, and despite being asked if I were sure I wanted this dish, being told that it was "fat", I persisted. And it had to come with kasha, to further delve into this most Russian sounding of dishes. And then a plate came with fried pork belly, some microwaved baked beans, a heaping of the kasha and some pickled cabbage. Glamour had left the building. Not that I was concerned, as it certainly looked honest. Working myself around, I started with the cabbage, which was much like saurkraut both in appearance, and in taste, though a bit milder. A bit of the kasha revealed a mild tasting yet substantial grain, with no real pertinent flavour, not that I was expecting much. The Grudinka next, which was essentially, belly pork. Being just pan-fried, it tasted as it looked, a bit like gammon, which can never be a negative, ever. The beans do not require their separate tasting. 

In separation, everything was distinctly honest, not that the cafe's aesthetics would lend to think otherwise. Combining the components just introduced comforting elements to one another. The cabbage would add a welcome acidity to cut through the greasiness of the pork, whilst the kasha would serve to add a hearty substance to each bite. The beans were also pleasant, adding their element of breakfast for lunch when combined with the pork in particular. Not a spectacularly different sort of dish, but pleasing in its simplicity nevertheless.  

~ Dessert ~

- Syrniki

 

Its cheese, and its a dessert. Two v's for victory. A dish I have been meaning to try for as long as I yearned for Russian food, which is not terribly long. And a perfect basing as a Russian friend has exclaimed that I must try his Grandmothers' versions, all the more reason to try some more. Though presented with just three roundels of cheese may seem disappointing, at this point I had welcomed the slightly diminutive portion, not that blocks of fried cheese are generally served at many restaurants. Composed of fried quark cheese, covered in smetana [sour cream] and I think a plum compote, I started firstly with a piece of just the cheese. It has dense in texture yet lightly flavoured, slightly greasy from the frying obviously, with a light milky essence. A bit staid on its own but pleasant enough, so now with some of the smetana, which rather predictably added its sharp tang and softened the greasiness of the cheese. Again however, the flavours were mellow. Which would change entirely with the addition of the compote. 

The slight sweetness of the fruit combined perfectly. Its sweetness perked up the relative heaviness of the cream and cheese, its own sharpness balancing well with that of the smetana. The compote was devastatingly effective, transforming the separate components into a delicious combination of sweet, sharpness, a slight sourness and plenty of milky, creamy decadence. Devoured so quickly I only managed to remember to take a picture when indicated by my friend. Now. I need to try the Russians' Grandmothers' syrniki, for research sake obviously. 

~ Drinks ~

- Kvass!

Actually, it was more of a lower key Kvass, without an exclamation mark, my hopes and dreams instantly destroyed when the soft drinks bottle was presented, dashing my hopes of a mug of liquid rye bread, complete with crust. Regardless, it was kvass, and at last I would get a sampling of a drink that has been a torment of obsession for as long as syrniki have been. And, remembering it was a soft drink, it was ok. Not particularly distinctive, though there was a curious highlight which my friend remarked seemed like root beer, which I would be inclined to agree with. A slight "spice" really. Otherwise it was thoroughly neutered, sugared, and absolutely bad for being a soft drink and all its inherent healthy nullity. Not that its sampling has given me much hope in trying to base a comparison with, though I will probably find it difficult to find many "authentic" variants within London. Bah.

~~~~

Emerging from the cafe with nary a gun-wound, and completely satisfied, I came away if slightly less than enlightened, at least quietly content. With the complete dearth of actual experience of the foods, I can only surmise in my ignorance just how close to authenticity I was getting. Suffice it to say, being in the location that it is, the prevalence, or rather, fact that all other diners were Russian [speaking at least], I would think it is rather a locale for the locals rather than some yappy eat-all like myself. As much as told from the surprise on the face of the waitress as I ordered all the traditional dishes I could, kind of endearing. The experience was very much one of honesty; whilst the food in its essence was basic, there was no superficiality or extraneous distractions from the dishes. It was honesty in simplicity, in appearance and flavour. Big flavours, hearty natures, it was all feel-good food. Possibly the last thing needed after my own personal excesses of late, but, I am not phased.

A sign of the honesty was also a cause of amusement, I had never seen bread offered at a restaurant, for 7p. Yes, Seven Pence. Maybe in Soviet Russia bread, is just bread, and not a gift sent from a divinity and priced as such. Mind you, by the time the bill arrived, the amounted cost of the rather delectable rye bread, had quadrupled. To 28p. How they very dared contradict their honesty in food was a transgression forgiven however. Whilst it would be hopeful at best to attempt to bring my Russian friend here, for fear of getting his Louis Vuitton shoes dirty - not that I can talk - I feel what experience we did get here was at least indicative of some staple Russian food. Not that I would know. Though I am more than intent on finding out through more experiences. Especially with real Kvass!

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[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.

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