tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146586482024-03-08T02:24:18.361+00:00JamfacedFat Dad.Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.comBlogger335125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-83611182855637505732015-06-18T13:23:00.000+01:002015-06-18T19:45:17.438+01:00I couldn't eat a whole one.I think most people know that having children changes your life. I think most people get that you lose sleep, hair, your social life and gain mass. What comes as a shock, well, it did to me, is how the really fundamental things change. Really basic things, things that you would have thought had been cemented into place by years of habit are changed forever. The way you dress, the way you take a shit, the way you drink a cup of tea, the ways in which you cook and eat.<br />
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At first, in the breast milk, formula and sleep deprivation days, food reverts to it's most primal. It's fuel, to be rammed into your bleary face as quickly as possible before collapsing to get your next twenty minutes sleep. Anything that fits into a half made fist and eaten is fair game. Mince pies, scotch eggs or three day onion bhaji, it's all the same really, portable food that can be returned to at some future point after you've washed the baby piss out of your hair and semi digested milk off your shoes. It's a disaster zone, so the only way you'll get a decent meal is through the kindness of friends, family or complete strangers. Friends who bring cooked food for the freezer are like descending angels of mercy, even if the cooking was previously held to be suspect. You'll eat quinoa. You'll eat "my special lentil bake". You'll eat anything cooked by a human over fire. The kids themselves are milk-addled squirming leech things, who'll latch onto anything that vaguely looks like a breast, so food for them isn't something you have to think about until six months down the line, when it seems like there is a light at the end of the tunnel. </div>
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You're wrong. You might be getting more sleep, you might even get out of the house but you are never going back to the way your did things before. Mealtimes become a mind game, a conflict with subtle shifts in the balance of power and a degree of strategy you'd never have thought possible given that you are trying to get a small child to eat a piece of steamed broccoli. </div>
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Like all true master strategists they lull you into a false sense of security in those first few weening months. All these new flavours, Daddy! What a wonder! You look on proud and smug as your kid eats green beans, butternut squash and quinoa (how times change) and you tell the few friends you have left what an extra ordinary palate your child has. She LOVES olives and garlic. You are a sitting duck. She has you right where she wants you.</div>
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Six months later she'll only eat penne arranged into a Fibonacci spiral and you are subsisting on her increasingly bizarre left overs. Pesto and blueberry sandwich? Just smother it in Siracha, it's a done deal. You'll tell other parents about the healthy and nutritious food you cook for your children from fresh every day and deep down know that they had Babybell and Nutella sandwiches for lunch. In front of the TV. </div>
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It's the relentless meal prep. Even if you are organised and have things stashed away in the freezer, it's the cajoling, the thrown food, giving up and handing over the Petit Filous and the clean up. The constant clean up. Which I have stopped doing. The little fuckers eat more off the floor after lunch than they did when it was in a bowl in front of them, so I let them do their Roomba thing for half an hour after every meal.</div>
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When it comes to feeding yourself, it's as if your own palate has devolved. Your eating leftover fish fingers and half chewed bagels. Yes, you will eat partially masticated food that your own child has spat out. Simply because it is on front of you and the thought of leaving your chair to make something for yourself is way beyond the level of energy you are reserving for bedtime. </div>
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Occasionally, I'll look at the wall of cookbooks and feel compelled to cook something different. I don't. I don't know that names of any restaurants anymore unless I can get an oversized buggy in the the front door, they can provide multiple highchairs at the drop of a hat and don't mind a porcine level of mess afterwards. Those carefree bar hopping, first to a new restaurant days are long gone and I've got a cup of tea and a bowl of cold baked beans to see me through till dinner time.</div>
Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-55260679185042841842012-05-27T11:38:00.000+01:002015-05-11T15:10:37.588+01:00Killing time at Shucked, Newstead<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cold Drip Coffee @ Shucked</td></tr>
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It's the wallpaper. Geometric and floral patterns in olive greens, browns and tans. Jumpers, too. A couple of chunky patterned knits amongst the serving staff. Yes, the wallpaper and jumpers make me feel like I'm on the set of The Killing. Actually, more like I'm in the sort of room we'd normally find Detective Wallander sprawled on the floor, with a shrill phone rousing our hero from drunken slumber. There's a Scandinavian crime thriller vibe going on here at Shucked, the glacial pace and melancholy of those TV shows reflected by the cold coffee drip and forlorn looking ornaments on the large shared refectory table that dominates the space. </div>
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Happily, that's where most of the similarity ends at this actually quite cheerful coffee shop / cafe. The location, amongst the industrial units and building sites of soon to be trendy apartments might be reminiscent of a crime scene, but it's a cracking little spot for brunch of a weekend and I imagine crammed by local business for lunch during the week.</div>
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A deceptively simple menu and a coffee list that shows they care (including a house blend called Shuck'n'Awe) coupled with relaxed trendy youngsters manning the coffee machines and serving makes for a rather good destination for a Saturday morning stroll. Order green eggs and ham.</div>
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Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-30159634957780828642012-05-22T14:00:00.000+01:002012-05-23T04:42:25.635+01:00Blood, Sweat and Sharing Plates<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At first sight it looks like something has gone terribly wrong. Hundreds of mud caked, exhausted and fraught looking people hurling themselves over an enormous curving wall. Some at the top heroically help others over, still more slide limply to the bottom after yet another failed attempt. What terrible event could have caused this to happen? A breakdown in the social order? Earthquakes? The Sun stopping to shine? The Earth's core ceasing to rotate? The promise of an orange headband, half a banana and a can of meat stew?</div>
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The Melbourne Tough Mudder, the very first event of it's kind in Australia looks to all intents like a school cross country run designed by a cabal of the most twisted P.E. teachers in the world (I'm looking at you Mr Cleverly). What it actually is, is a globe spanning series of mud runs/obstacle courses designed by British Special Forces and backed up by some rather good marketing. Thousands of people are participating today, mostly teams of steely, determined looking lycra-clad hard bodies with a smattering of Roman Centurions and fair few who look like they've accidentally wandered onto the course and would rather be at home with a cup of tea and a Hobnob.</div>
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Given that I was in Melbourne on the promise of a slew of decent restaurants and the chance to wear a nice wooly coat, something I haven't been able to do in Brisbane for the past two years, I was a bit bemused by the turn of events that led to me standing on the Moto GP track on Phillip Island a full two hours from the nearest of the promised eateries. The meat stew didn't look like it was going to cut it either. </div>
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There are cities that you automatically feel at home in and others that feel wrong, like wearing a shoe on the wrong foot. Whilst I've been away from London I find myself missing misty rain, steel grey skies and the collision between slightly shabby grandeur and the increasingly Gibson-esque modern towers of the City . The light, space and heat of Brisbane are a world away. Melbourne feel's like a chunk of home. Just the right mix of odd weather, studied grubbiness and arrogance which marks it out against it's easier, sunnier, showier second cousin up in Queensland (and it's estranged rather stately matron aunt in NSW with whom only the tercest of Christmas cards are exchanged). </div>
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Australian cities are mongrels to a degree. Clever, resilient children of British and American cities. Seeded in the mould of London and Manchester, grown with a eye on US cities and now increasingly absorbing DNA from Singapore and Beijing. Canberra feels like twenty blocks of suburban Washington D.C. has been stolen by town planning aliens and dumped in the outback. Brisbane like a razor edged miniature Chicago laser etched onto banks of the Brisbane river and Melbourne like the progeny of a one night stand between London and Seattle.</div>
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Given I had 48 hours to sample Melbourne I needed guidance. To my mind the barista has replaced the barman in the helpful advice and sympathetic ear whilst drying a glass department. In this case I had a two lists of restaurants from two different baristas. One from Jamie of Jamie's Espresso in Brisbane written on a brown paper bag (fitting if you pop along and meet the lovely man) and another from a bloke manning a stunning Slayer espresso machine at the super hero sounding League of Honest Coffee on Little Lonsdale Street in Melbourne. The lists nearly matched. This formed the basis of a gruelling schedule of eating over the next 48 hours. </div>
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Every meal we had in the city over the course of the weekend featured a sharing plate of some description. I find this difficult on the whole having been raised in a household where dinner time was a combat sport. Where "You cut, I choose" could descend into a knife fight. At The Aylesbury in the Melbourne CBD this found it's truest expression from amongst the places we sampled. A modern Spanish eatery, that goes well beyond Spain in it's thinking, that was so good we ended up going two nights in a row. A tranche of blow torched mackerel, softly fondant with a drizzle of pea gazpacho the colour of a beetle's wing. Pig off cuts of brawn and crispy ears and some bone suckingly tender lamb ribs.</div>
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From tapas to dim sum at Hu Tong Dumpling Bar opposite the darkly gleaming glamour of Melbourne institution The Flower Drum, a restaurant straight out of Blade Runner. "No, Two, Two, Four". Sharing a plate of Szechuan wontons dripping with chilli oil and an unctuous melange of scallops and egg plant. From the dark wood bar at The Aylesbury to the clinical gleam of Cumulus Inc. Being a massive fan of St John I'm not above eating at a restaurant that feels like they were hosing down the last of the carcasses an hour before the sitting but at this bar I was jammed in between ladies lunching and a middle aged man with a very large watch eating nothing but protein, so it felt a bit like being in a veal pen. A starter of pimientos de Padron looked like medical specimens but were tasty enough. The real treat was a grilled pork chop the size of my head with a stunning mix of white beans with mustard and tarragon as was the acidic bite of an apple sorbet that came with my dessert.</div>
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It wasn't all sharing plates and elbow to elbow dining. In the midst of Greek town I tried Stalactites, a place that seemed to elicit much debate about the quality of souvlaki available there vs a couple of dozen other locations in one of those typical local arguments. Like getting three Londoners to agree on the best curry house. I have to say it was pretty good, the meat coming off an impressive looking grill and fresh tasting. I ventured it would have been amazing if it had been three in the morning and I was hammered to general approval.</div>
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On the flight back to Brisbane I spy a few orange head bands and keep sake t-shirts from Tough Mudder. Given my own marathon food binge I think I'd better sign up for the Brisbane run in 2013. Here's hoping they've improved the meat stew.</div>
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<br /></div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-62554216255666342772012-01-10T12:05:00.001+00:002012-01-10T12:05:40.695+00:00Lunch for the wife<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/35479170@N07/6625973081/" title="Aussie Xmas by Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="Aussie Xmas" height="500" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7168/6625973081_4227efd38b.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-30073446910492773082011-09-28T16:54:00.001+01:002011-09-28T17:00:39.501+01:00Palazzo Versace, Surfer's Paradise<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Walking into the foyer the first thing to hit you is the smell. Mugged by the combination of rosemary and floor cleaner they seem to be pumping into the place, you don't have much of chance to take in the surroundings . "It's our signature fragrance", the concierge helpfully informs me, as I splutter onto the immaculate marble floor. That the Palazzo Versace has a signature fragrance is no real surprise, that it smells like what you'd imagine the Sloth scene in Seven smells like is something of a shocker. You soon realise that the whole enterprise, like the smell, is somewhat shocking.<br />
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The foyer itself is the fever dream of a menopausal Italian suburban housewife. A vast chandelier looms like the mother ship in Close Encounters, the floor is a shining expanse dotted here and there with the sort of furniture you would expect to find in Silvio Berlusconi's sex dungeon. Walking through the hallways the walls are dripping with cheap looking reproductions of Versace fashion photos, all seemingly from the the early '90's and mostly involving super models and Jon Bon Jovi modelling soft furnishings. You soon realise they've only licensed a handful so the images are repeated again and again. As constantly assaulted as you are with the apparent trappings of luxury, you feel a bit guilty noticing the cost cutting. <br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/35479170@N07/6191950549/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Palazzo Versace by Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="Palazzo Versace" height="334" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6028/6191950549_a203d20aac.jpg" width="500" /></a>The room is certainly palatial. A sort of grown up version of one of those rooms they fill with balls for kids to vanish into. Instead of balls, it's cushions. There a mind boggling array of them covering the bed and chairs. There are twin double beds, which at first I mistake as a homage to the sort of misplaced Catholic prudishness you can find in family run hotels in Italy but then realise they've basically screwed up the reservation. This is not to say I'm not having a good time. I'm loving it, it's crass and silly and bombastic which is what you actually want from a place called the Palazzo Versace. This is not the sort of place to be subdued, quietly classy or softly and subtly luxurious. This place is on brand.<br />
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The Gold Coast is not the first place you would expect to find this hotel. The high rises of Surfers Paradise at first glance are more Malaga than Milan. Yet The Palazzo sits snuggly butted up against a shopping mall sporting luxury brands and an 80 berth marina for yachts of all sizes and is full of Chinese tour parties either checking in or checking out the signature fragrance.<br />
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Sometime later we've sneaked our way onto the beach through the bedlam that is the Sheraton Mirage foyer across the road from the hotel. Both hotels are a little ways up the beach from Surfer's Paradise and it's surprisingly empty. In the middle distance are the gleaming, futuristic towers of Surfers. On a hazy day, like today, they seem to float above the sand like a city from a William Gibson novel, a near future metropolis of neon, designer drugs and violence. By happenstance this turns out to be an accurate description of the town, minus any glamourous aspects that being in a novel might bring. I had my wallet stolen from the car up the road from the hotel and whilst the theft of my wallet might not seem to presage a crime wave, the 57 armed robberies in the last six months probably do.<br />
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Which brings me to the buffet. I'm not a fan of the buffet. There's probably another post in that statement. This buffet was akin to something at a Russian mafia wedding. A host of mismatched cuisines and a colosal display of seafood, so big as to shame the guys from Biggest Catch. I'm sure Sea Shepard should probably be informed. It was big, it was impressive and it was a bit mushy by all accounts. </div>
Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-43330044057699448412010-10-21T15:39:00.009+01:002010-10-21T15:47:02.042+01:00Osprey Reef<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grey Reef Sharks</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The</span> boat has been pitching all night, my berth at the front of the twin hulled dive boat Spoilsport rising and slamming back down as it crests a wave with a thunderous boom against each hull. One second I'm pressed into my bunk, a second later a microsecond of freefall and then the room shakes with the noise of the impact. I'm not sleeping well. My bunk mate is snoring gently. We'd been told the crossing would be a rough one or that we'd not even make it and have to turn back. At this point it's three in the morning and we are still steaming onwards towards one of the furthest outlier reefs of the Coral Sea, out past the calm and protection of the Great Barrier Reef.<br />
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</div>Osprey Reef is a submerged coral atoll some 25km long and around 100km off the coast of Queensland, just south of the 14th parallel and is only visited by dive boats, the Australian Navy and the odd meteorologist and so, it is probably one of the best spots in Eastern Australia to see sharks. A whole bunch of sharks. In it's 30m deep water lagoon dive boats, for better or worse, have been feeding sharks for years and so they congregate here in the relative shallows when they hear engines on the surface. White Tipped Reef Sharks, Grey Reef Sharks, Black Tips, Silver Tips, Hammerheads and Silkies swarm through the water waiting to get fed.<br />
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Swimming with sharks is something special. Anyone who dives falls in love with them. The special delicately poised moment when you see your first shark underwater, usually a lone white tipped reef shark less than a meter long is to start a life long connection to the one of the most maligned animals on earth and unfortunately some of the most endangered.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rHV66EhV92nj1C5hLbct49rNUybJvFGuKskkTzIxfaCWLifpmKdyqgERi031TU-BkPqHowiSHQFEiH6u2gQRBTeDZBZvQ8CeD-X3e41UAQEC5sHaN4nEQA3NZqQMmCwM0qLciw/s400/shark1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grey Reef with feed bin visible. The bin contains tuna heads</td></tr>
</tbody></table>This feed is something new to me. I've only ever seen sharks in the water that were there of their own volition. I've seen Oceanic White Tips tracking dive boats in the Red Sea, circling them at night for scraps but never intentionally jumped in after the fish heads. Not that it's particularly courageous. Overweight gentlemen covered in neoprene breathing masses of bubbles into the water are not high on the average sharks repertoire of prey items. They will basically be ignoring me. Ignoring me in ways I've never imagined, sharks acute electro-sense zeroing in on the magnetic fields surrounding my body , down to my very heartbeat and marking me for shark social death.<br />
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Mike from New York is in full swing over breakfast. "Oh My God. I was thrown out of my bunk, onto the floor, can you fucking believe that, I'm getting off this ship, checking into a hotel. This shit is crazy." Mike's not been on a live-aboard before only having dived in more benign waters in the Bahamas, "...out of my bunk, onto the floor, I didn't sleep, not one minute", he explains. A couple from Austin, Texas, he taciturn and dry and she a Southern Belle though and through, watch Mike's kvetching with no small measure of amusement. That's the beauty of a dive boat, the sudden intimacy it thrusts upon you and a group of strangers. Diving is not very glamorous. It's heavy lifting, smelly neoprene and surfacing covered in snot. That and more often than not your relying on each other to cover your back if something goes wrong. And, at my end of the market, it means sharing very small cabins with someone you don't know. It's a delicate balance that can be tipped very badly if even one person doesn't mix well with the others. Twelve or fifteen people in close proximity basically trapped with each other for a week or ten days can be like being in the Big Brother house apart from the fact that no one's watching.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sharks frenzy once the lid of the bin is released</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The first animals to appear are a gang of white tip reef sharks, they hustle and bustle over the reef like boisterous teenagers. The first "proper" sharks, Grey Reefs, look more purposeful, more of a threat, more like the caricature of a shark, their lines thicker and more powerful than the serpentine white tips. Soon the water above me is a swirl of fins, black tipped, silver tipped and the huge bulk of a potato cod, bigger than a great many of the sharks. They group together and break, cruise for a while and then turn. Occasionally some imperceptible rule of the game is broken and you see pectoral fins dip in aggression and a brief chase ensues. A metal trash can is hauled down onto a rock outcrop by one of the dive leaders wearing chainmail gloves in case of misplaced attention. The sharks begin swirling in great arcs, the scent of tuna heads inside the can focusing their attention. The heads are attached to a chain with a buoy on top and once the lid is released the chain unfurls and the animals begin to frenzy, pulling at the heads with trashing twists of their bodies. One becomes entangled in the chain briefly but refuses to let go of the bait and eventually spins itself free tearing a chunk of meat with it. The display lasts less than a minute and the heads are all torn free, the sharks and accompanying remoras and pilot fish mopping up the scraps and then as if by some agreed upon signal they slowly disperse cruising in ever greater circles until they vanish into the blue leaving a few glittering scales and a scatter of teeth on the rocky reef outcrop.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJxAm7vAUwjnXMoMHNf7iCCxg08nkoC4BaVsRIsZL4G1L21q-pEUxy3M2O5DUbz-kRyPxHsdHNSVw645PItpmj89UqMxaU0DNYDggBJheq9tWxBdMcW9NB-d7GjQyxbsWspl8EOA/s1600/shar2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div></div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-25060007194894777552010-10-20T17:28:00.005+01:002010-10-21T15:18:08.111+01:00Here be Dragons...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-v_GN6RaTwCoILyxMukhDUfp_hhN3rhPcgyRhuWDwS_jCqEGTBecdEH1U9zZhhHM6Noi6zfiLBdCSkSnjcx0zRmAfzxQy4ruLHzqIzVaPEwWhe3Jhm-jd3NycveMUOaM9gWZKiQ/s1600/Komodo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqJgpS-bm42l0sfsXK-LtU4yCAhUPK_k-NZkf2bZzAbBVjc5wutXKGuY2r1Z8xVMkd5Yw4AkhLn8hmr4_sTJ6YwMDXqASE5PHUcsgzjaqDvdOzU26yI-dip6J_Kd8waT0jK2k0g/s1600/Komodo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Komodo National Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: x-large;">The</span> zodiac slows to a stop and we jump out, grabbing the sides we start hauling the inflatable up onto the beach. In the shade of a makeshift gazebo three men watch as we heave the boat up through the gentle surf and the skipper secures the anchor into the sand. He raises a hand, waddles up and sits with them. Another zodiac pulls up along side and assorted cabin boys, deck hands and a couple of kids from the galley jump out, football boots tied together by the laces swinging from their necks. A football is punted onto the beach and an enthusiastic and surprisingly skilful game of four a side breaks out. The skipped looks on ruefully. A torn Achilles tendon from another game on the beach a few months ago had ended his playing career. He smiles as I pass him and the welcoming committee. "No dragons here", he says playfully, "you'll not have to run" and gestures to my knee and the livid scar from surgery a few months prior, "..hopefully". "I'll out run you", I say, and he laughs translating for the three men of the welcoming committee, who smirk. One of the men, describing himself as the harbour master and sporting a rather natty uniform poses for a photo and another who must be in his 70's shimmies up a tree to pick fruit for the boat. We leave them to lengthy negotiations for the fruit and a prodigious, if mysterious, bag of green leaves and walk the kilometre or so up hill to the water filled volcanic caldera that crowns Satonda, tiny offerings of bleached coral and stones hanging from trees by twine marking the way. Wishes and prayers to the spirits of the still waters that fill the volcano.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXcEVgNowgnMMtLnX4jRdFXAXl4oBuE8RRwQiqjQaQ80zR-6K9M42L_1rzNvVzi0ZmdnPPpI56ykjDvGKv5RV2jjMTaTYyTQjoSIVPjCq6k66XeuLMBw5xA-SPQr97i-ozHfytTg/s1600/Komodo2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tambora wreathed in clouds</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXcEVgNowgnMMtLnX4jRdFXAXl4oBuE8RRwQiqjQaQ80zR-6K9M42L_1rzNvVzi0ZmdnPPpI56ykjDvGKv5RV2jjMTaTYyTQjoSIVPjCq6k66XeuLMBw5xA-SPQr97i-ozHfytTg/s1600/Komodo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In 1816 the skies went dark across the world. The Year Without A Summer saw global temperatures plummet with crop failures and famine following. There were food riots across Europe and New York's Upper Bay froze over. Mary Shelley was so bored by the torrential rain and chill of that non-existent summer that she wrote Frankenstein and Joseph Smith so hungry that he moved to Palmyra, New York and ended up founding the Church of Jesus Christ and the Latter Day Saints. The cause of this mayhem was Mount Tambora, a neighbour to Satonda in the volcanic chain, scene of the largest volcanic eruption in modern times, an explosion with the force of an 800 megatonne nuclear blast. The violence of that day is wreathed in cloud and jungle vegetation today, with calm seas and twisting clouds over the summit but you can feel the threat in the mountain. Like nowhere else I've been these volcanic islands feel like they are out of time. A glance into the sky and pterodactyls might fly past, squinting into the tree line along the beach you might meet the eye of a raptor or T-Rex himself. There are still dinosaurs here and not just in the imagination.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGf_KMubbhkk9ZZZbUpDXBQxylBXkbrU6IBQWCaJuXERL7a9ddq1bDvwKrxQHykw7gcIMMwef7pgQ8v0-2yJtPR2_hNJdvrDFf3wvzMoPnTndEC4IMIi7vXxLZKTTC23omNZ4c_g/s400/Dragon.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Komodo Dragon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The visitor centre on the island of Komodo is a solid wooden structure with a raised verandah where you can order a thick powdery Balinese coffee and hang out with the national park rangers. The rest of the dive boat have gone up the trail with a guide, a young guy armed with a forked stick for fending off any inquisitive dragons. I'd been warned that the trail was hard going in the heat and that I was better off staying with the crew given my knee was still healing. In a whispered aside I was told that I probably stood a better chance of spotting a dragon that way anyway as the resident population were quite used to humans and often lumbered past the coffee stand. Drinking the bitter dusty coffee and sharing a smoke with the skipper and one of the dive guides, an irascible Brummie by the name of John, we didn't have to wait too long for a two metre female to stroll past the verandah.<br />
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It's a very singular moment, your first encounter with a Komodo dragon. Some small part of your brain, a tiny shard of genetic memory screams, "Dinosaur!" and there's a nagging feeling you should climb the nearest tree. The largest of the monitor lizards, the dragon has been unchanged for 4 million years. Not quite a dinosaur but it looks old, looks, like the landscape, like it's materialised from another age and that the gulf of time that separates it from you is vast, cold and alien. An off duty guide grabs his forked stick and gestures for me to follow him. He places a hand gently on my shoulder as we approach, indicating we've got close enough. It's mating season and so everyone is a bit frisky and given the startling turn of speed that the animal can turn on when called for, discretion is the greater part of valour in this instance. Up close the animal is untroubled by our appearance, flicking it's vast forked tongue backwards and forwards, teasing an appraisal of us out of the air. Later on the island of Rinca we learn that the animals there are no so tame and are told the story of a sunbathing German tourist dragged away for lunch, a tale so layered with the patina of retelling that I'm pretty sure it's not true. Why are they always German in these sorts of stories? And naked?<br />
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Back on Komodo, true to form the rest of the passengers on the boat turned up drenched in sweat not having seen a single dragon. I cheerfully point out one for them that's just appeared by the gift shop. I was not popular. <br />
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</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-91292643168985050392010-07-26T04:15:00.003+01:002010-10-20T09:35:05.110+01:00Masterchef. Two Ways.<div style="text-align: justify;">Masterchef used to be a sort of twee little show where housewives and gay men competed to create overly frilly dinner party fare whilst Lloyd Grossman unctuously slid around the set with a slightly bemused looking professional chef in tow. The re imagining of the show has turned it into a professional sport. A sort of UFC with chef's whites. Nowhere on the planet could such a proposition have reached more fertile ground than here in Australia. I can't really stress how big the show is here, it's the X-Factor with mis-en-place, a TV event so important they moved the only live prime ministerial debate of the upcoming election so it wouldn't clash with the final. In fact, I have the suspicion that they really ought to have made the debate a mystery box challenge to guarantee the viewing figures. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="241" src="http://images.watoday.com.au/2009/05/18/529422/preston-420-420x0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lumbering form of Matt Preston</td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="http://images.watoday.com.au/2009/05/18/529422/preston-420-420x0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Masterchef in the UK is pure silliness but compelling viewing. The contestants are hungry, yes, but there's is a sort of knowing nod to the pantomime nature of Wallace and Torode. They are like two spoon sucking cockney villains who can barely hold a knife and fork and you'd half expect them to launch into a "this souffle's not cooked, you muppet!" or a "You mug! you don't put cream in moules marinieres, I should give you a slap, you numpty" before bundling the losing contestants into the back of a transit van. In Australia, they've upped the ante. Firstly, the final was based on points, including a quiz where the contestants had to name the cheese or exotic fruit. I quite liked this development, as it let us play along at home and added the excitement of contestants needing to make up points in the "identify the sauce round". Secondly, they have three judges. Two in the Wallace and Torode mould. The cheeky, ever so slightly wacky restaurateur and fashionably bald George Calombaris and the rather camp, cherubic Gary Mehigan. They gurn and shake their heads and try and imbue the opening of a pressure cooker with as much drama as the moon landings. However, the ace in the hole is the lumbering form of Matt Preston. This wet rubbery lipped Miss Piggy in a cravat is a joy to watch. Dainty in a way that only an immaculately dressed man of considerable size can be, he's the Simon Cowell of the show, with exacting standards and questionable table manners. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another interesting change is that Masterchef is on a commercial network here in Australia. This means that every advertiser under the sun is allowed in on the act. A supermarket sponsors the pantry proclaiming "if you want to cook like a Masterchef cooks, shop where a Masterchef shops"displaying the sort of logic that a febrile seven year old would use to get his parents to buy him Batman pyjamas. Given that this is event TV of the highest order it's inevitably a feeding frenzy, overshadowing the World Cup and forcing the coverage of the Tour de France to include recipes. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So what does it say about Australians and food? Not a great deal, I think. As in the UK, this is cookery competition and popularity contest folded together, it's about winners and losers and there's nothing more Australian than that.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-25028090034966844972010-07-20T07:39:00.000+01:002010-07-20T07:39:45.676+01:00Different Continent, Different CityJamfaced has moved. In my never ending pursuit of the longest possible pause between posts I've decided that this time, time and distance play a part. Goodbye London. Hello.....Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-16228666165595668992010-03-16T14:26:00.004+00:002010-09-08T05:42:52.037+01:00PETA in Borough Market<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4437605829/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="_1000867 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="_1000867" height="266" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4056/4437605829_9e422a892e.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Picking up a flat white from Monmouth Coffee this morning I was greeted by a gaggle of photographers and this rather cougar-ish lady covered in lettuce. Not something you see everyday. I was even more amused by the guy from Brindisa who gatecrashed the photo op whilst holding up a rather impressive leg of cured ham to much whooping and hollering from the baristas in Monmouth. Bizzare food moment of the month.</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-52081067525148185802010-03-12T08:23:00.005+00:002010-09-08T05:43:39.012+01:00Bocca di Lupo, Archer Street<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4421520343/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Bocca di Lupo by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="Bocca di Lupo" height="289" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2773/4421520343_0d22a1c557.jpg" width="400" /></a>One of my favourite places to eat in the world is the front bar at Cal Peps in Barcelona. Twelve or so bar stools along the brown marbled topped bar and an endless parade of the best food in the city. My last trip ended with two stunning meals in the restaurant and it's served as a benchmark for similar set-ups every since. I love its democratic sensibility, you arrive, you queue up enjoying a fino or two and when a seat comes up you eat. Given Barcelona's place in the history of Spain it feels somehow very correct that you can eat some of the best food in the city simply by turning up and waiting your turn. Barrafina on Frith Street, which is a near carbon copy of Pep's is equally egalitarian but we Londoners aren't nearly as patient and you can feel the hot needles boring into your back from people waiting to take your place and whilst the food is entirely competent, I always begrudge the cost and the clientele can grate at such close quarters.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Sitting at the bar in Bocca di Lupo I found myself cursing quietly. See, I’d planned this post rather meticulously. Restaurants where you eat at the bar are better when they are democratic and freed from the tyranny of the booking sheet. Eating at the bar alongside your fellow diners felt proper if you had waited your turn, queued with the self same fellow diners, rich man, poor man, beggar man and thief. Unfortunately, I was wrong. I fell in love somewhat with Bocca di Lupo and I’d booked my table a week ahead of time. Hence the cursing. Maybe I should go wait in the line at Polpo in Soho for an hour to rescue the post, I thought.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>I didn’t as my Negroni arrived. Its bitter medicinal sweetness working alongside probably the best olives I’ve eaten in London. For those that don’t know Bocca di Lupo does regional Italian in small tasting plates or massive tasting plates (also known as main courses) depending on your mood. In the spirit of democracy that this meal started with we opted to try something from every section of the generous menu.<br />
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Lamb prosciutto, sliced wafer thin on the Cadillac of slicers pictured above, with pecorino sardo and a few raw broad beans set the pace with a simple elegance and home spun feel as we picked the beans from the pod ourselves. Roman fritti pitched up next, two perfect olives stuffed with minced pork and veal and two deep fried bocconcini, tender, moist and messy. Things eased off the throttle a little with a frittata of spaghetti & parmesan which was too heavy a load alongside the simplicity of the other dishes. <br />
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A second wave of dishes included clams with cannellini beans, tomato & basil which was spicy and warming and, as far as I was concerned the star of the show, a pot-roasted escarole endive stuffed with pine nuts, raisins & anchovy which was achingly tender; the bitterness of the endive pitch perfect against the salty sweetness of the stuffing. A big friendly childish chocolate filled donut brought the proceedings to a sugary high and all that was left was to pay the ferociously reasonable bill and fall off the bar stools into the warm clutch of the elitist, bourgeois, leather clad interior of the waiting taxi. <br />
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</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-69128149348191460552010-03-10T21:41:00.002+00:002010-09-08T05:44:09.421+01:00The Ginger Fox, Albourne, East Sussex<div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"> </div>The Gingerman group of restaurants in and around Brighton are fast becoming the go to guys for gastro pub dining in East Sussex. With three sites; Gingerman, The Ginger Fox and The Ginger Pig and a fourth on the way in Kemp Town, nominally called The Ginger Dog, owners Ben and Pamela Mckellar are creating something of an empire on the south coast. I ate at the now defunct Gingerman at Drakes a couple of years ago and so when dinner was touted at The Ginger Fox in Albourne some 30 miles from Brighton, I jumped over a lazy cow. Or something to that effect.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4423472912/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="DSC_0496 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC_0496" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4045/4423472912_3f3370ccd9.jpg" /></a>We were dining at the restaurant almost two years to the day since it had opened. Plenty of time to bed in then, though despite this, its location bamboozled the taxi driver and we spent about 30 minutes racing down dark country lanes, past ominous isolated gleaming white buildings called things like Exosoft. “That’s where the Apocalypse begins”, intoned a fellow diner from the back of the cab as we sped past one particularly secure looking example. Luckily, all thoughts of a viral zombie outbreak were diminished upon arriving at the rather lovely thatched building that houses the pub and restaurant.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
The Ginger Fox has managed to retain a sense of itself as a country pub whilst shaking off the more fusty excesses of its ilk. It's a pretty space and the staff relaxed and welcoming. No Slaughtered Lamb glass eyed locals to scare off the city folks. Pity.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
A starter of mushrooms on toast with a poached ducks egg signalled confidence in the kitchen and was simplicity itself. A main of lemon sole with potato and Parma ham pancakes was a cosy, motherly hug of a dish. Like slipping into brushed cotton sheets with a hot water bottle. Mango and pineapple trifle finished everything up nicely, a happy homely treat with a jag of old fashioned exoticism. Not everything served up was quite as reassuring. A vegetarian platter looked decidedly confused, not surprising as the restaurant has something of a reputation for discerning carnivores. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
No alarms, no surprises. Just confident good British cooking served with a smile out in the country. Probably something of a rarity, now that I think about it.<br />
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N.B. I didn't take a camera to the restaurant so I used a picture taken in my garden last year. Of a fox. </div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-42503656992114646372010-03-08T08:15:00.004+00:002010-09-08T05:35:59.398+01:00Caravan, Exmouth Market<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4416060373/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="IMAG0006 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="IMAG0006" height="334" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4043/4416060373_73e2fb54fd.jpg" width="500" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Eating at Caravan was something very like living in a caravan, I imagine. Cold, crowded and dimly lit with constant noisy interruptions. Not that I’ve ever actually been inside a caravan, except for a very large RV in the US which doesn’t really count as it had a garage in it and I got lost looking for the toilets. <br />
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Caravan is something of an anomaly. On one hand there’s an impeccable pedigree with Miles Kirby, who was chef at The Providores & Tapa Room in Marylebone for the last six years, in charge. They roast their own coffee, they have some excellent baristas and from all accounts they serve an excellent brunch. On paper this should be a winner. In reality, in the hurly burly of a Saturday night it had trouble fighting it’s way out a paper bag. <br />
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The food is as you’d expect, an Antipodean jag of small sharing plates based around 5 or 6 for two people with clean simple modern flavours. Sort of. Salt beef fritters were warming but oddly flavourless. Wontons filled with cheese and peas, whilst harking to some classic comedy were not great. A mutton chop was lovely but microscopic; a mackerel dish almost saved the day, two simple little fillets that were stunning and the crowning glory, a great little dish of salt and pepper squid, reminding me of a similar dish at that Balmain in Sydney stalwart, Blue Ginger. Dessert was unassuming and the espresso great. <br />
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Being seated by the massive windows was a chilling experience, whilst I’m sure they’ll be lovely when it’s hot and they can throw them open, it was not pleasant with a chill wind blowing. Service was oddly over attentive, we got asked at last six or seven times if everything was fine, which whilst sweet at first got old and annoying fast. Oddly, three people from a large adjoining table decided they would stand next to our table and have a conversation. It was a perfectly civil conversation but they were standing with their backs to us and so their bottoms were at head height for about 20 minutes. It made it tricky to get the waiters attention. Particularly odd behavior as the bar was a couple of paces away and largely empty. <br />
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I can see that Caravan would be a hit with the Exmouth Market trendoid brigade and can imagine myself enjoying brunch with an impeccably made flat white in the sunshine of a summery Saturday. In the chill of winter it’s Antipodean charm doesn’t shine through.</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-66639808003189103842010-03-07T10:09:00.004+00:002010-09-08T05:36:20.331+01:00Exchange Coffee, Lewisham<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4416747810/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="_1000839 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="_1000839" height="334" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2679/4416747810_4dfd864646.jpg" width="500" /></a>I popped along to Exchange Coffee in Lewisham Market this Saturday to taste yet another award winning coffee. Neil Le Bihan took the London Barista Championship heats a few weeks ago and finished an admirable third in the UK finals. Kudos to him. Good to see places based in the badlands of SE London take on the more fashionable parts of London and come out on top.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-6580901068118219042010-03-02T19:29:00.004+00:002010-03-08T15:40:36.583+00:00The Table, Southwark Steet, SE1<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4312959771/" title="_1000576 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="_1000576" height="320" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4014/4312959771_0bf7ddc2ee.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">I appear to have had some sort of mental and visual impairment when it comes to The Table. It's been one of those lunchtime spots that I'd always meant to look out for and for a couple of years every time I looked at the Time Out cheap eats section I'd remind myself to go. When I finally mustered the energy I was astounded to find that it was where it was. I'd been staring at the place eating Tortilla burritos for months and never twigged. The burritos aren’t THAT good so I probably need an eye test. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
First off, a bit of a gripe about communal tables. It's all very 1998 and frankly, bloody annoying. One of a party of prattling drama therapists stole my flat white and someone was conducting an interview with an enormous laptop to my left. Listening to someone sell themselves is a bit like hearing them talk dirty, embarrassing and should never be done over a sausage casserole. It's odd, since in some places it seems to work rather well. Noodle bars and the like seem to be able to seat people happily in rows. Slurping noodles and accidently pinging dim sum into a strangers lap is a perfectly acceptable way to eat. At lunchtime over a sarnie and a coffee, it feels like an intrusion. Also, the staff got a bit confused as they thought as I was sitting NEXT to someone I must surely know them and indeed, pay for their coffee. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
That said, I rather like it. It's cheerful place, full of clean lines and simple food. The lunchtime wrapped sandwiches are a nice way to grab a quick bite and the mains are hearty and well made. Rotating specials and a regular pasta dish make for a satisfying lunchtime if you leave it a bit later and avoid the crowds. It's become my local late lunch spot of choice, though I will occasionally revert back to stuffing a shredded pork burrito into my face when duty calls. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-66100467056537602062010-03-01T15:08:00.002+00:002010-03-05T13:24:01.252+00:00What's a pizza mean?<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4394939613/" title="_1000828 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="_1000828" height="334" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2663/4394939613_2ab2bea3d9.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Pizza has been a dominant theme of late at Jamfaced HQ. A recent trip to Franco Manca in Brixton Market resulted in a frankly garbled post on how authentic the experience had been. Last week's trip to Pizza Metro Pizza on Battersea Rise revisited the notion of a perfectly authentic pizza experience in London. The meals have served as culinary bookends to a little personal journey of discovery regarding this most popular of global fast foods. That fact, that pizza is the planet's favourite junk food is at odds with most of its modern history and its story is a lovely illustration of the fact that we love a creation myth with our dinner.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Pick up a rock, better still, an amphora or handy urn and throw it in the general direction of the Mediterranean and chances are you'll bounce it off the head of a culture that ate something akin to pizza in its ancient history. From the Middle East to North Africa and Greece into the Roman Empire via the Etruscans and onto the Persians and Turks we've been happily topping fast cooked leavened bread with all manner of cheeses, herbs and meats for a couple of thousand years and calling it something a bit like pizza, pide, pitta, petta or pizzette. Do any sort of reading around the subject and pretty much everyone in Europe say they invented it. Even the Scots. However, it's safe to say that pizza in its modern form is from Naples and like so much in Italian life is a result of urban poverty, dodgy politics and the Italians unique capacity for divisiveness. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Italians are, as far as I can tell, the most fastidious eaters in the world. The slightest infraction of any one of a myriad of gastronomic rules results in a crinkled nose and palpable disgust. Of course, the irony is that no two Italians would ever agree on what those rules were. Italy is only a real place when viewed from afar. It took mass immigration to the US to truly define what Italy meant. Nobody back on the peninsula seems to have taken the Risorgimento and unification of the country as anything other than another way of gathering taxes until Italians in the US started telling them otherwise. It comes as no surprise then that for most of pizzas history in the overcrowded, cholera ridden Naples of its birth it was viewed with snobbish disgust as food only fit for the poorest of the poor, people too poor even to eat macaroni. Even the hoary old tale of how the Margherita pizza won its name in an aristocratic version of Masterchef has been spun. The actual letter from the palace on display at the Pizzeria Brandi detailing how the pizza was "found to be delicious" is from some powdered kitchen flunkey, not Queen Margherita and reeks of a sneering derision.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
How did it conquer the world? The story goes that homeward bound GI's having fought in Italy brought back a love of the pizza pie and sought out pizzerias amongst the large immigrant Italian communities. London's first restaurant with a pizza on the menu seems to have been Olivelli's on Store Street which opened in 1934. I'd be interested if anyone can confirm this web gleaned fact or offer an alternative. The sole pizza Margherita on the menu may well represent the first time a pizza was eaten in a fashionable London restaurant, though I don't imagine that people weren't selling it and eating it amongst the 10,000 Italians living and working in London at the time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Pizza is city food. It was codified in a city, transported toother cities where it spread and evolved and it's in cities that it has found its truest expression. Fast, portable food that can be shared. The Italian's, in their way, have codified it further, tried to capture what a pizza means through a protected designation and hoops to jump through for the sake of authenticity. Whilst it's good to know that they are looking to preserve something that was once so maligned, it's all a bit silly and the result often not what any sane person would think of as a pizza; sloppy, charred and thin. Tasty, but a struggle to eat quickly enough. I for one think pizza has found its spiritual home in the big cities of the East Coast, particularly in the five boroughs. I can't really think of anywhere else in the world that pizza makes so much sense.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Creation myths are important for religions, superheroes and dishes. Like all myths they tell us a great deal about how we would like to see the universe. The stories behind food often tell us more about our own aspirations and hopes than the truth of their origins. Pizza, the most urban of meals harks to something more bucolic; freshly baked bread, tomatoes off the vine and freshly made cheese, a channelling of a olive groves and lemon trees, of soft summer sun and sun flowers waving in the breeze.<br />
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</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-35845092580696524722010-03-01T11:25:00.001+00:002010-03-05T13:25:31.611+00:00Rose Gray: 1939 - 2010<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/telegraph/multimedia/archive/01587/roseGray460_1587807c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/telegraph/multimedia/archive/01587/roseGray460_1587807c.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I first ate in the River cafe in 1994 or so and was a irregular regular there for much of the nineties. The place made a big impression on me during those formative years and I was an enthusistic collector of the cookbooks. It was one of those restaurants that stays with you and in some small way one of the reasons why this blog came to be.</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-10186522181367782462010-02-26T14:45:00.002+00:002010-03-05T13:25:51.452+00:00Pizza Metro Pizza, Battersea Rise - Pizza Tuesday<div style="text-align: justify;">A few snaps from Tuesday's excellent pizza show down at <a href="http://www.pizzametropizza.co.uk/">Pizza Metro Pizza </a>on Battersea Rise. Pizza Metro Pizza is one of only seven pizzerias outside of Italy to be included in the Gambero Rosso guide to Italian food. Props to them for some stunning pizza and to <a href="http://youngandfoodish.com/">Daniel Young @ youngandfoodish</a> for organising the event. The favourite on the night was a pizza of home made pork sausage, parmesan, mozzarella, Neapolitan spicy greens and basil which isn't pictured as I was too busy eating it to remember.</div><br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4389046793/" title="pizza_oven by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="pizza_oven" height="334" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2781/4389046793_2bbea14635.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4389046791/" title="crew by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="crew" height="334" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4036/4389046791_64ae3e96d5.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4389046795/" title="QA by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="QA" height="338" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4034/4389046795_853b639190.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4389046797/" title="ricotta by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="ricotta" height="334" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4063/4389046797_da956ac6e3.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4389054495/" title="breasola by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="breasola" height="334" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2424/4389054495_f80778d5bb.jpg" width="500" /></a>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-7138948733786286992010-02-21T17:57:00.003+00:002010-03-05T13:26:08.564+00:00Cookbooks and Cocktails: A Sunday afternoons reading<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4375659099/" title="_1000797 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="_1000797" height="334" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2707/4375659099_5b16482397.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Looking back over past posts regarding cookbooks I've discovered that I tend to be in two very distinct frames of mind when writing. The first leans towards a drooling admiration with the pages of the book sodden with praise, the drift tending towards the notion that cookbooks are some of the most valuable texts we produce as a culture. The second veers sharply away from all this into screaming and violent hatred of anyone or anything involved in the creation of such vomitous bile, safe in the knowledge that when the revolution arrives those responsible with be the first put into the Wicker Man for burning. You'll notice that I get so angry my pop culture references get all muddled up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Walking into the cookery sections of bookshops can be something of a dangerous pastime for me. Happily, over the last couple of weeks I've managed something of a lucky run in the book buying stakes. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">First up, a collection of Kingsley Amis's booze journalism from the late 1970's and early '80's called <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Everyday-Drinking-Distilled-Kingsley-Amis/dp/1408803836/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1266774632&sr=1-1">Everyday Drinking: The Distilled Kingsley Amis</a>. Amis was a prodigious drinker, toper, drinkist and boozer. Reading this anthology of his drink newspaper column and booze based writing felt timely with present day wine columns being dropped left, right and centre by newspapers. It's safe to say Amis didn't actually write wine journalism, as he seems far more comfortable writing about, and drinking, spirits and beer. He does tackle wine with gusto and I'm pretty sure his knowledge was encyclopaedic for the time, it's that just that he seems far more enthusiastic about cocktails and spirits and makes a fundamental point about beer that should resonated deeply with anyone who enjoys British cooking. His point is a simple one, really. That traditional British cooking only really makes sense if you are drinking beer, or watered down Scotch, wine simply doesn't work with the cooking style and condiments of the British table as they were then. He's very much of his time and you find yourself conflicted by the wit and charm of the man when he's showing his age. The sheer amount people used to drink is actually shocking to the modern ear. Kingsley thinks nothing of recommending a mixture of Special Brew and Export in a silver pint pot as a jovial little tipple or recommending cocktails to see you through a difficult morning. The sections on hangovers are classics and you'll read no finer collection of Martini recipes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Secondly, a book that was an utter bitch to find and cost me no small fortune, but which is again timely and necessary. The London heats of the UK Barista Championships were taking place this weekend and local SE Londoner Neil Le Bihan, who I chatted to after his <a href="http://jamfaced.blogspot.com/2010/02/neil-le-bihan-2010-uk-latte-art.html">UK Latte art win a couple of weeks ago </a>took the spoils. Anyone wanting to follow in his footsteps will want a copy of The Professional Barista's Handbook by Scott Rao. It's technical, it's scientific, it's detailed and it'll either make you want to drop everything and buy a £10K espresso machine or simply throw the book over your shoulder and make some instant. The only place I could find this was at the excellent <a href="http://www.coffeehit.co.uk/UNQ_HomePage.aspx">Coffee Hit</a> website.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thirdly, two actual real life cookbooks. Both of these fall into the bracket of documentary cookbooks, in that, certainly from my perspective, you are unlikely ever to cook anything from them, but serve as a mine of cheerful quite useful information and are lovely items to hold and leaf through. There are indicative of that trend to merge travel writing and food writing, which can be something of a trick to pull off and I think that <a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1266771438025">Movida: Rustica by </a><span id="bxgy_y_title"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/MoVida-Rustica-Frank-Camorra/dp/1741964695/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1266774300&sr=8-1">Frank Camorra & Richard Cornish</a>, which covers Spanish regional cooking and <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Songs-Sapa-Luke-Nguyen/dp/1741964652/ref=pd_sim_b_2">The Songs of Sapa by Luke Nguyen</a>, covering Vietnam do so well. They are loving documents really, nicely written, evocative photography and beautifully designed books. I've not cooked anything from them, so can't vouch for the recipes (which you would imagine would be key to a review about a cook book, ho-hum). Have a pleasant fifteen minutes next time you are in Waterstones and leaf through them both. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-39405417653194236642010-02-16T17:33:00.002+00:002010-03-05T13:27:23.629+00:00Franco Manca: 101 Things to Eat in London (UYTOL)*<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4363012142/" title="Franco by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="Franco" height="334" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2797/4363012142_ae8ca1a803.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Can a pizza, made with flour sourced from Naples, olive oil from Salerno, cheese from Somerset and cooked in an Italian built pizza oven in Brixton be authentically Neapolitan? The question of authenticity is a mine field. It’s something we crave from our food and from our experiences. We brag about travel, about meals, about things we have seen. We seek to fulfil a need that we have experienced something fundamental. That only if something is replete with all the attendant markers of authenticity, only then is it actually real. Only through a peculiar combination of geography, time and who is physically present can an experience be credited as authentic and therefore given more meaning and weight. Is there a more authentic Neapolitan pizza than the one I ate for lunch at Franco Manca in Brixton Market? I would argue that there probably isn’t. Go to Naples and you won’t get any of them to agree on anything. The closer you get to something the fuzzier it becomes, the less cohesive as a thing. From the distance of a pizza oven in Brixton to Naples, this looks entirely like pizza from Naples. Sure, you might get individually better pizza but more authentic? Probably, but that's not the point. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Is it good? It would be almost heresy to say that it wasn’t. Niamh at <a href="http://eatlikeagirl.com/">Eat Like a Girl</a> and Patrick Carpenter at <a href="http://patrickcarpenter.blogspot.com/">Ostrea Edulis</a> have been two lone voices in the night, claiming cold and claggy pizza. Mine was good, pretty damn good. Classic toppings of capers, anchovies, tomatoes and mozzarella were beautiful on a pitch perfect tender yet crisp base. The staff were cool too, not the tyrants that some commenter’s had me fearing. Brixton market is freezing, however, so I remained wrapped up like Mum-Ra The Ever-living for the duration but I actually think that added something to the experience, authentic or otherwise. I’d be hard pressed not to eat in here every day if I was more local, I scarfed the entire pizza and didn’t feel like I’d eaten half a ton of aggregate like I do with most pizza. Something of a miracle. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">* until you tire of life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-64172484481854419652010-02-14T23:20:00.002+00:002010-02-18T11:38:23.531+00:00Valentine's Day is Over<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4357726544/" title="_1000777 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="_1000777" height="370" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4027/4357726544_dda0c92a80.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here you go. My one and only concession to Valentine's day. I arranged baked goods in a clumsy heart shape before presenting them to my wife with a dumb grin on my face. I thought about adding something luridly pink to it but there wasn't a Rampant Rabbit dildo to hand. I think it might have ruined the effect slightly. There's a deeper question here regarding the use of the same Pantone for sex toys and Valentine's day cards which I won't attempt to answer. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's quite easy to get all annoyed about Valentine's day and the way new couples clutter up the place with their smiling and trimmed pubic hair (gag stolen from <a href="http://www.theonion.com/">The Onion</a>) or rather the miserable, desperate couples trying to think of something to say about the various dildo pink items they have bought each other and the bottles of Katie Price/Antonio Banderas branded scent scattered on the table. At some point I would have probably written some drooling rant about it all. Now, I feel sorry for people having to go through the proscribed motions from red roses to making love all night long in an R&B sort of way. I mean, who needs that sort of pressure in their lives. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Valentine's Day used to be a pretty benign affair. Kids would make Mums a card with lots of cheerful pink squiggles all over it and Dad would remember to bring home some flowers or even book a babysitter and a table at the Carvery. Teens would send each other secretive missives, "I love you Dean, from your secret love, Bracy Trown" and there'd be an article in the Sun about some bloke who'd hired a sky writer to scrawl "Marry me, Julie" over a field near Worthing. That would be pretty much it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yesterday, I heard a DJ on the radio talking about "Valentine's Day shopping" and I've been assaulted for the last two weeks by advertising. This is no surprise, but, it made me realise just how much shit you'd have to deal with if you were, say, three or four months into a relationship and Valentine's day landed on your lap. You'd have to book a restaurant, knowing you were getting fucked way before you'd even started the date and worst of all you'd have to be ROMANTIC. Being romantic without sounding or acting like you are mentally ill is really hard. Writing romantic poetry is really hard, creating a romantic atmosphere is hard. Romance is tough. It was invented by medieval courtiers who had nothing better to do, they had the time and the money and access to lutes. Most poor saps don't stand a chance. You just end up looking like a retard going through the monkey motions. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, everyone reading who's "not doing Valentine's day this year" or thinks "it's all invented by the greeting card companies" spare a thought for the poor guys having to contend with the weight of expectation, the disappointments and the cold shoulders tonight. These are brave, brave men.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-587898170631386752010-02-13T13:07:00.001+00:002010-02-13T15:26:56.905+00:00Augmented Kitchen<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4352897677/" title="augmented reality by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="augmented reality" height="285" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2793/4352897677_1601f83525.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This video of a future augmented reality kitchen caught my imagination this afternoon. Watch Keiichi Matsuda's video <a href="http://vimeo.com/8569187">here</a>. Made me excited and sad at the same time, particularly the plea for a RL meet-up.</div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-12360072678504830282010-02-12T15:42:00.004+00:002010-02-18T11:38:42.090+00:00Byron @ The Intrepid Fox, Soho<div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4353618726/" title="_1000755 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="_1000755" height="334" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4001/4353618726_5399ddb90a.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://bellaphon.blogspot.com/2010/02/byron-soho.html">Everyone</a> else has been already and there has been much tweeting from all quarters about the burgers and shakes, so Byron had some living up to do. I was sort of down on the place before I stepped through the door, to be honest. I remember the Intrepid Fox as the most METAL of pubs and in my long-haired stinky youth downed many a pint of snakebite and black before staggering to the Marque club and throwing up prodigiously. It was full of fat, mental goth chicks and bearded men wearing tour t-shirts from the early '70s. It was, for a time, a magical place, unlike any pub I knew (the only other such establishment I knew was a pub in Morden that threw a night called Metal Hammer every Friday or Saturday).<br />
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Subsequently, walking past the place and seeing that the same fat goth chicks and bearded men were still drinking in there made me feel that a piece of my childhood still lived on, that if I walked in there I'd see a younger version of myself in a Marillion t-shirt snogging a goth chick with too much eye make up and an ill fitting Kensignton Market bodice. Thank the lord hip hop happened. <br />
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Alas, time marches on and it's a slick, modern, visible air conditioning duct sort of place now, with lovingly distressed exposed brick work and a chandelier made out of angle poise lamps. A projector loops a constant assault of images of people eating burgers that made my wife feel a bit ill. It's a nice enough space, suited to the sort of flying visit that a burger demands. I ordered the off menu, super, not very secret Big D. Wife ordered a cheeseburger and then got annoyed at me for not telling her about the super secret burger. Both burgers were bang on, as near damn perfect as a burger could be. Meat packed tenderly together and perfectly cooked. On the downside fries were lacklustre and industrial and the mac 'n' cheese a dry, dusty offering akin to something a flatmate might have cooked whilst at university and then left under the sofa for a week. Other upsides were the oreo shake, which was a thing of magesty and the onion rings which were chunky and sweetly tender.<br />
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At nearly forty quid for two it might make some baulk at a burger joint, but they would be wrong. To hold that near mythical beast, a perfect burger, in your hands is cheap at twice the price even if I didn't see snakebite on the menu. </div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-57682691567829323412010-02-10T21:09:00.001+00:002010-02-12T10:57:59.853+00:00Ghost town: A weekend in Berlin<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4345750455/" title="IMG_1760 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_1760" height="375" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4038/4345750455_a86bb527dd.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's five o'clock in the morning and somewhere in East Berlin we stumble out into the snow. Behind us the looming mass of the club we've just left, a subsonic thud and steam from vents signalling the pounding music and mass of bodies somewhere below. Eye's adjusting to the twilight we are instantly transported back 30 years. The East Berlin of imagination, the East Berlin that those of us of a certain age remember as a place permanently shrouded in snow, the stillness of suspicion, starkly dead eyed apartment buildings, dead drops and micro films. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Berlin has its ghosts, the visible scars aside, that you only catch in moments like this, when the past peeks through the bright lights and neon of the city and catches you unawares. They are only ghosts, echoes of the past, of course, perceptible to the sleep deprived and inebriated. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Berlin is that rare thing, a city so cool that it doesn't need to act all cool and grown up to prove it. Berliners are very cool, way cooler than Londoners to be honest. They are wry, charming, funny and self confident but not brash, arch or arrogant. There's an energy, a sense of playfulness to the city, a real sense that any thing is possible. As party towns go it takes some beating and it has more genuinely beautiful women per square mile than any other city I've been to.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The beer would take a whole month of posts to catalogue, so suffice to say I was repeatedly astonished, delighted and depressed by the beer I drank over a weekend of high jinks. The food equally was accomplished and self confident. This is a city that wears all its influences on its sleeve. The US influence is ever present, of course, so much so I ate one of the best burgers ever in a multi-lingual burger joint called The Bird on Am Falkplatz. A sausage stand in the optimistically named Lustgarten provided currywurst, bratwurst and gluhwien to battle hangovers and the sub zero temperatures. A turkish kebab shop on <span jsdisplay="m.b_s!=4" jstcache="53" jsvalues="$title:i.title;$laddr:m.laddr;$addrurl:i.addressUrl;lkgal:m.ss.lkg.addresslines;$features:features;$lkgal:m.ss.lkg.addresslines"><span dir="ltr" jsdisplay="$title||!$laddr||!$addrurl" jstcache="80" jsvalues="innerHTML:$addrline;dir:bidiDir($addrline,true)">Oranienstraße provided an astonishing late night schwarma and the single hottest chilli sauce ever to burn a worse for wear Londoner. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span jsdisplay="m.b_s!=4" jstcache="53" jsvalues="$title:i.title;$laddr:m.laddr;$addrurl:i.addressUrl;lkgal:m.ss.lkg.addresslines;$features:features;$lkgal:m.ss.lkg.addresslines"><span dir="ltr" jsdisplay="$title||!$laddr||!$addrurl" jstcache="80" jsvalues="innerHTML:$addrline;dir:bidiDir($addrline,true)">They just need to do something about all that techno.</span></span></div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14658648.post-53744037951448290872010-02-09T22:41:00.003+00:002010-02-18T11:39:08.872+00:00Neil Le Bihan, 2010 UK Latte Art Champion<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4343946939/" title="Neil2 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="Neil2" height="334" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4035/4343946939_ac45fe6d17.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It sounds like something out of a sports movie. Our plucky hero, dazed and confused from a catastrophic head cold with points deducted by evil judges in collusion with his arch enemy, all hell bent on denying him his prize, goes to pour his final latte. He knows he's only got one chance to pour the unpourable. The Flying Tulip. In slow motion, he starts to pour. All we can hear is his heartbeat and the ticking of the clock as it heads towards zero. A pause. He's done it, he's poured the latte they said could not be poured!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was nothing like that, of course. Pity. Neil did pour a hanging tulip but I don't think there were any evil judges involved and I don't think it's considered unpourable, just very good. Not sure on arch enemies. Oh, he did have a cold, though. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Neil won the latte art prize as well as the award for best individual pour on the day at the <b>SCAE UK Latte Art Championship </b>and I congratulated him on his double whammy at Browns of Brockley, where he works during the week. On Saturdays, he and fellow podium finisher, third placed barista Lynsey Harley run Exchange Coffee at Lewisham Market, bringing superb coffee to South East London (more on that in a week or so).</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41153498@N03/4344681654/" title="_1000735 by MG @ Jamfaced, on Flickr"><img alt="_1000735" height="334" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4033/4344681654_ca11f8aae7.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After two visits, Browns has become something of a favourite for a number of reasons. Obviously the coffee's is pretty good as they are a skilled bunch of baristas and they use Square Mile Roasters beans. There's a changing stock of deli type goods on offer, but mostly I like the place because it's possibly the friendliest place I've walked into in a good long while. Punters interact with staff and with each other in a way that you don't seem to get at any of the Central London coffee haunts. A long central table means that it's easy to while away an hour chin wagging. A lovely spot for breakfast, too. </div>Monkey Glandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03062906660436109229noreply@blogger.com4