The Chequers: Back to the past

A beautiful village pub. Perfect for a night's stay.

Do you remember the days when pubs were called "inns" and you could leave your horse in the stables? Do you remember how every "inn" used to have a spitting can at the bar and a drunk local with his head in a trough? Of course you don't, that's mix Lord of the Rings and Back to the Future III.

And even though that sounds like heaven, there aren't many cliched inns in this world any more. In fact, until two weeks ago I wasn't even sure there were any. Then, I tried to cycle to Brighton.

We left it a bit late. In fact, by 3.30pm we were still within the M25, stood at an ESSO garage eating flapjacks and nursing cramp. But we couldn't turn back. Not before we'd left the city we started in. So we saddled up and rode off into the already slightly setting sun. By 7.30pm the cramp was almost unbearable. We were still 17 miles from Brighton, the temperature had dropped and the rain had begun to fall.

Then, out of the gloom appeared this warm orange glow. Rising like Hotel California out of the Surrey countryside came the Chequers. From the open door poured gentle acoustic jazz and the sound of warm, friendly folk chatting, and the clink jugs on worn wooden tables. You could practically see the stable, hear the horses' hooves and the drunk man gurgling from the trough.

From the moment we stepped into the Chequers the cold, rain and tiredness seem to drip of us. There was a warm fire, a grand piano, sofas and books and old clocks. There were locals and couples, parties and quiet drinks. I walked up to the bar and uttered a line I had always wanted to say:

"Good evening barkeep, I was wondering whether you had a room spare for the night? It's awful cold outside and the horses need feeding"

Or rather:

"Alright mate, have you got any rooms spare. Also, where can we lock our bikes?"

His reply was affirmative, although the sheen was slightly tarnished by the fact that my housemate and I would have to share a double bed. Suddenly it all got a bit more Brokeback Mountain than Back the to Future but given how stiff I was (leave it) we had little choice.

After a quick shower we headed back downstairs and chose a table by the fire. Our matronly waitress brought us a hearty ale each, disappointingly in standard pint glasses. But that was where the disappointments ended. The Chequers, by all accounts, is a brilliant place and a beacon of hope for foodies. The starters were nothing to write home about - a decent Stilton and broccoli soup and scallops, but my friend had an excellent rib-eye steak with hand-cut (by which they mean knife-cut, unless Bruce Lee faked his death and now works in a Surrey pub) chips. But it was my main, billed as "posh ham and eggs" that was truly amazing. Expecting some nice cured ham in a honey and mustard glaze, what I actually got was a glorious, enormous slow-roasted leg of pork with a perfectly sweet sauce and a poached egg on the side. I would have the preferred the yolk more runny, but I was so engrossed by prodding the pork and watching the moist meat almost drip off the bone, that I hardly gave it a second's thought.

I was truly, utterly and brilliantly stuffed and, after the exertions of the day, very drunk on the rioja we'd bought. But, just as I was considering bed, I spotted the homemade sticky toffee pudding. Now, I have a real hate of anything claiming to be homemade. For a start, it's rarely homemade. It's made in the restaurant isn't it? Sure, it;s shorthand for "not pre-packaged", but often it says something about a restaurant that it has to make that distinction clear. But I am never a man to turn down a sticky toffee pudding in a pub. And I was right to risk a stomach rupture. It did all the things a good sticky toffee pudding should - burn your mouth, stick to your teeth and touch your soul. And with that I headed upstairs.

Sated I fell into bed with Alien playing on our room's flatscreen TV. Strange dreams plagued me that night: of legs of pork bursting out of my stomach while John Hurt cycled round and round drinking rioja from a jug. I have lost count of the number of times that I have googled "country pub London". They never come close to my idyll. The Spaniard's Inn comes close, so does the White Horse. But they are nothing to the Chequers, to the real thing, which joyfully hit every cliche at each time of asking (except the horses). This pub is worth the quick train, especially on the way to Brighton. 

Middle England was fun. I hope to join it one day.

http://www.the-chequers.com/

Made in Camden: Made in Heaven

Brilliant. Brilliant. Brilliant.

Playing at the Roundhouse at the moment is the brilliant "Oh Fuck Moment".

I had my own moment downstairs in the venue's café, Made in Camden. It may sound like a desperate channel 5 ploy to cash in on the pretense and stupidity of Made in Chelsea, but there are no cameras and certainly no egos. The food, presented as a global take on tapas, is often experimental, but never in a smoke-and-mirrors Heston way.

You can tell the chefs were once students of Yotam Ottelenghi. The list of ingredients is dizzying, the fusion of cuisines baffling and the range on offer intimidating. But it's all layered expertly. The complex-sounding and delicate-looking dishes are so punchy, so satisfying, so perfect, that they left me speechless. I was a baby eating solids for the first time; I was kid eating chocolate money; I was reliving the first Double Decker I ever ate. Some dishes were so moorish that I might as well have been eating Walkers Thai Sweet Chilli Sensations.  If you ever have ambitions to be obese, this is surely the way to do it. Made in Camden's food is simply addictive.

My friends and I couldn't communicate. Like cavemen and women we moaned and grunted at each other, reached out to grab fistfuls of food, unable to articulate thanks or graces. I floundered and stuttered, pointlessly trying to explain to my all-to-aware guests just how good the food was. And so the random swearing started. I think it was the endive and sweet potato crumble with slow-roasted tomato salsa that did it. It started with satisfying crunch, then a wash of creamy sweet potato, then a slap of salty endive and was finished by the mouthwatering zing of the salsa. 

Or maybe it was the calamari, deep fried in what looked like diamonds, dunked in chilli aioli then smothered with pumpkin jam. It was alternately sweet, then spicy, then salty; soft, then springy, then crunchy. I mopped up the aioli with the squid like it was just bread and soup. 

Of course, it could also have been the crispy, oily hake tempura, served with a sweet and sour Kaffir lime sauce and grilled broccoli. I know it's tapas and the portions are meant to be small, but goddamnit I wanted more Hake.

That's not to say the portions are stingy - the only dishes on the menu not meant to be shared (apart from the soup surely, because that's just silly) are the desserts. And those portions are by no means mean. My chocolate mousse was like a decadent sweet brick on the plate, and came with a coffee and mascarpone tart. I felt somewhat cheated by the term tart, as really it was a scoop of coffee flavoured cheese in slightly stale pastry, but oh my days the mousse was effing fantastic.

In fact, my dinner at Made in Camden was a litany of expletives. I was like an excitable (slightly bearded) child with tourettes. Sadly it wasn't all for the right reasons. Given how empty the restaurant was, the service was pathetic. Unless they were hiding a rowdy and demanding party in the back room, three cocktails should not take 20 minutes to make – and if they are missing an ingredient for one, they should tell the diner immediately, not after delivering the first two. Given how few orders must have been put through the till, they shouldn't have added a glass of wine and half a wheat beer to our tab. More importantly, when we questioned this, they should have been a little more trusting of a party that has just spent £120 on dinner.

But nothing could spoil the work of the chefs. To turn three educated people into dribbling wrecks, without plying them with alcohol, is no mean feat, and I for one was speechless at how wonderful the food was. When you have tasted good food, you realise it is more addictive than the additives that are meant to hook us. It's proof that psychological addiction is stronger than chemical.

www.madeincamden.com

   

Pitt Cue Co: Queue won't believe your eyes

The best barbecue restaurant in London. If you can wait.

"That was mighty meaty. How're the passages? Mine were hectic this morning."

So went a text from my dining companion at Pitt Cue the following day. Note how, despite enduring a difficult morning, there is not a hint of criticism in his tone. No implication of regret. It was all worth it.

And worth it is probably the best way to describe Pitt Cue. There are barriers a-plenty to you getting a meal there, and we came up against all of them when we bit the bullet and decided, once again, to queue for our dinner, like communists in war time.

We arrived at 6.11 on a sunny Thursday evening, expecting that not many people would want to chow down on pork in a meat dungeon on such a beautiful day. So we joined the HOUR LONG QUEUE and set about getting to know our neighbours, which was a good plan, as they came in handy a little later.

I will never understand the need to make people queue for food. Booking doesn't deprive anyone. It just means the organised people get the best dinners, which is a form of natural selection. Letting anyone turn up and wait for a table is ruining the theory of evolution. If this trend for queues continues, we might all end up with tiny upper bodies, massive legs, and an unhealthy patience for queues. Society would fall apart, even if the Post Office has a resurgence.

We'd been working up a sweat in the queue for about 15 minutes when we clocked that our fellow prospective diners were drinking beers from the pub opposite, a system that we thought was probably championed by both establishments. Sadly we were mistaken. Not only did the depressed bouncer, who looked a lot like Neil Warnock, take exception to us taking glasses off the premises, but he decided to accuse me of starting the trend. The whole queue moaned and stared as they were ushered into the pub by Neil. For what it's worth, I apologise to you all.

Luckily, the couple in front of us who we had got chatting to had paper cups, so we transferred our drinks and looked sheepish as the rest of our future co-diners scowled at us.

45 minutes in and the novelty of the beer, and the beer itself, had run out. We had been second in the queue for most of that time and made no progress, however chirpy and friendly our tireless future waiter was being (and she was VERY chirpy). Finally though, just as the sun threatened to dip below the buildings of Carnaby Street, we entered the restaurant.

Or at least the bar part, where you have to wait for another forty-five minutes. Luckily at this point you can start drinking their fun-looking cocktails and small but perfectly formed beer list (which includes London's own, glorious Kernel pale ale). You also get a tab in the form of a toy cow. I thought ours was called Steven. Sadly the system is less imaginative (see right).

One hour fifteen into queuing we were offered a seat in the upstairs bar. Our waitress assured us that, while it meant sitting in high chairs, with our feet dangling like bemused toddlers, we would jump the queue and avoid having to enter the sweat dungeon formed below by the sweltering heat. We took that option, and revelled in our position, overlooking those we had been queuing with just hours ago.

Sadly we were also in direct sun, protected only by some flimsy net curtains. It was only a matter of time before one of us passed out. To be fair, once we had ordered, the food came incredibly quickly. I guess because they can only seat 34 people at a time. I ordered the dish they are known for - pork ribs - while my friend went for the more adventurous deep-fried pig's head terrine burger, otherwise known as diabetes in bread. We were told the chefs were extremely excited about the latter dish. When there are only five dishes on offer I'd expect the chefs to be excited about every one. They need to justify their place on the menu.

The ribs did. I've tasted more succulent meat (and not had to queue for it) but the marinade was fantastic - smoky, tangy and dynamite with my BBQ beans. The terrine burger however, in a sweet Chinese-like sauce, had a limp texture and distinct Bird's Eye Sweet & Sour chicken sauce feel to it - all sugary and processed. The kind of late night ready-meal you buy from a suicidal moonlighter in an Esso Garage. My companion's chipotle slaw, however, was something else. Creamy but light, spicy but subtle and satisfyingly crunchy.

The flaws in the meal only made Pitt Cue feel more like a local secret - a fact these almost-pop-up restaurants all over London must feed off. That's no bad thing, the small, homegrown feel of these places makes me fall for all of them. You really get the sense of a business brought together by friends, family and couples. You feel that rewarding sense of small-time ambition; of one person's dream to open a restaurant coming true when they find one dish they can do better than anywhere else. The passion and excitement about the food is somehow clear in the ingredients, flavours, presentation, atmosphere and, most obviously, in the people themselves.

Pitt Cue isn't so much a meat lover's paradise. The portions aren't huge, even if they are presented on beautiful Shawshank Redemption-style iron trays, and the food isn't as decadent or indulgent as expected. It's more of a meat-geek convention. You could get great ribs for less money without queueing in several places in London. But you wouldn't get the beer list, the stunning sides, the invention, the crude texts the next day, or the wonderful sense that this queueing malarky is so. often. worth. it.

http://www.pittcue.co.uk/
1 Newburgh Street
Soho
W1F 7RB

   

Food Revolution Day: lettuce look back

So Food Rev Day was a resounding success. It may have started at midnight with a terrible kebab, but from then on it was fresh cooking and word-spread all day. Oh and lettuce chopping. So much lettuce. Hopefully you all took part in some way, even unwittingly.

I spent the morning at Malou Herkes' bake sale at Hackney Homemade in Hackney, selling beautiful cakes to lucky passers by. I then helped the delightful Danny, Jamie's communities editor, with his pub lunch supper club which, despite the arrival of three surprise veggies went exceptionally well. Ed, who runs the blog Rocket&Squash cooked up some amazing dishes, including a delicious roast pork and peach with some of the best crackling I have ever had the pleasure of breaking my teeth on. His lamb tartare was also something else. It came from a Jamie book - I'll find out which one asap.

I then spent the evening in the office. Chopping lettuce. Then making a curry. Then booing Chelsea while chopping lettuce. Anyway, a picture speaks a thousand words, so I need to learn draw. In the meantime, here are the pictures!

Food Revolution Day: TIME TO SAVE THE WORLD

Did you know that diet-related diseases kill more people than smoking, alcohol abuse and drugs combined? Did you know that 43 million kids around the world are obese? Did you know that some states in America class pizza as a vegetable?

Awareness of just how bad some foods can be for us is well behind the curve. We ban smoking adds, make drugs illegal and offer help to alcoholics. We teach children not to smoke in school, warn them against drugs and very rarely give them beer as a reward for good marks.

And yet when it comes to food, we do nothing. We don't even teach them how to cook any more. How is it 1 in 10 kids regularly smoke by the age of 15, but have never cooked a meal from scratch?

That's what Food Revolution Day wants to change. We need to get food education back in schools, families cooking healthy meals from scratch again, and governments supporting those with bad eating habits to change. How do we do that? We start at home - we do those things. We teach our sons, daughters, nephews, nieces, friends, family and sworn enemies to cook. Then we ask schools to do more - we write letters, we complain, we enthuse the kids, we sign up to initiatives such as the Kitchen Garden Project. Then we kick Gove out of office at the next possible opportunity and get and party and MP in who recognises not just the importance of school food, but the importance of recognising when your predecessor has done something good - such as introducing standards for school food (thank you Labour).

For more advice, go to Food Revolution Day's website and get involved in one of the events happening in 500 cities around the world. I'll be blogging and tweeting about it all weekend. So either block me or get involved.

Viet Grill: All thrills, few grills

Unpretentious, authentic and delicious

So the Viet Grill. Another terrible name for a restaurant. It reads like it should be a pun. But it's not. Whether they even have a grill I can't be completely sure, because I had a noodle dish, and my other companions had soup, so at the very least it's not the principle cooking method (I'll explain Bruce later (as if he needs an explanation).

Looking at the menu it's hard to tell where the grill might be used. It's a big-old selection they have here and it's full of very confusing descriptors too. I was particularly struck by the "Chou Chou Buddha Hand Melon, with crushed garlic & touch of rice wine". I don't care what it is or what it's served with, I want a Chou Chou Buddha Hand Melon.

In fact, the menu is so cryptic I'd probably have to eat my way through it to discover the grills. But given that the food is truly delicious and felt perfectly authentic, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Our seafood platter had some of the best fish rolls I've ever tasted, in particular the sushi-like prawn and lemongrass ones, which were addictive with the sweet chilli dipping sauce. My Cassava Vermicelli (prawns and crab stir-fried with knotweed) was wonderful. With every mouth was a different but complementary flavour, in particular the hit of raw chillies they threw in just before serving which gave what could have been a heavy dish a fresh, floral touch. It was like being kicked in the mouth by daffodils.

Given the abundance of Vietnamese cuisine on Kingsland Road I'm amazed this place hasn't ruined the competition. Perhaps it's the tacky sign outside that looks more like an American diner than anything. But this place has real soul and fantastic food. Authentic doesn't really cover it. Who knows what that means these days, because all dishes and cuisines have evolved so much. Authenticity is a feeling you get, where you can trace a dish's lineage. It's inherent in certain flavours, in dishes, in chefs. It's natural and loyal to its cuisine.

Authentic food doesn't need to be told what it is. You don't tell Bruce Willis he's authentic. He's just Bruce Willis.

How he came into this I have no idea, but I think the simile works. Just.

http://www.vietnamesekitchen.co.uk/vietgrill/

    

Chelsea Ram: goat to it

Out of the way, but worth the trip.

Happiness was a warm fire and a bottle of red. This was the starting point of my time at the lovely Chelsea Ram is Fulham. We came in from a dark and stormy May (!) night to find a wooden, warmly lit pub that could be straight out of the home counties.

On a dark and stormy May (!) evening, the Chelsea Ram makes a perfect refuge. Its roaring fire, selection of board games and friendly staff implies they expect you to stay for the long haul. And there's no reason that you shouldn't. It's a long way from the tube, and its country-pub feel makes it so welcoming that you never want to leave. As I dried my gilet (!) by the fire and warmed up with a bottle of Cotes de Rhone, I took in all the lovely touches the Chelsea ram has - board games; the pickled onion Monster Munch in their crisp selection; the papers; a door disguised as a book case (!). It all feels a little forced, but almost all the more charming for trying so hard. And surely all pubs start off clean, tidy, varnished and bright, become dingy, dirty and depraved, and then come back out the other side as shabby chic. Having just been bought off Young's by the original owners, the Chelsea Ram is back at the very start of its journey, but already a little eccentric.

A lot of effort has been put into the food too. It feels like a labour of love, and there are some additions to classic pub dishes that feel less like culinary expertise and more like the guilty pleasures of a rather foolish home cook. Would I ever stew half a kilo of wild mushrooms with garlic, drizzle it with pesto and put on some bread with a poached duck egg? Hell no. Would I enjoy it if it were put in front of me? Hell yes. The same went for the fresh cherry tomatoes in my hotpot, which were unexpected and initially shocking - but you came to love it by the end. I'd never do it at home, but I'd order it again in a restaurant.

There was nothing, nothing at all wrong with the Eton mess though, which after such a wintery meal was a gust of summery air far removed from the storm that raged outside.

It's a little out of the way but, if you find yourself in Fulham and really fancy some excellent pub grub, you'll be delighted with the Chelsea Ram - good food, good wine, good prices, friendly staff and, if it starts raining, Scrabble to pass the time. Who knew happiness was within two miles of Fulham Broadway?

http://www.geronimo-inns.co.uk/thechelsearam/