The Ivy: an experiment in recession psychology

In these dark financial times there's a whiff of revolution in the air. Not a beard wearing, cigar smoking, army surplus whiff of revolution. A more considered, more hand wringing sort of feeling. A new conservatism? A new puritanism? Nothing that severe. More a sense of propriety. Yes, that's it, a sense of things being a touch more, proper. People thinking about having not such a flashy car, people considering how they consume, trying to offload some of that vulgar bling baggage we've been carting about for the last few years. Feeling good about recycling, about composting, about cycling to work, about getting rid of piles of crap on ebay.

By way of testing this theory we went to the Ivy for brunch on Sunday. That home of vulgar celebrity with paparrazo haunted entrance and Micheal Winner's baritone forever reverberating around the place like some dark ancient Lovecraftian Old One. 

Nope, no sense of it here. No sense of a new anything. The menu which has been described to me as comforting British cuisine with French brasserie classics is actually boring, unimaginative and the cooking barely competent. I mean it's not bad, it's credible, at least, just really, really dull. Canteen does this way better, with a much nicer vibe and at a quarter of the price, with a St John inspired austerity.

The staff at the Ivy are pretty much what you'd expect. Nice. Slightly disinterested. Again, bit dull. The clientele? Slightly desperate, neck craning buffoons? Russian oligarchs and their obese children stuffing lobster and french fries into disinterested maws, eyes searching for the vaguest glint of celebrity to justify, well, justify everything? Maybe. Normal people eating overpriced mediocre food? Probably. 

We were very excited to see Jonathan Rhys Myers, the "sexy" Henry VIII from the TV show The Tudors looking very dapper in a creme coloured suit. That seemed to make the whole place relax a bit when he turned up and the apple crumble and custard dessert was something I enjoyed a lot more, so thanks Hugo Boss advert man. You saved my brunch/lunch fusion if not my faith in a new world order.

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Normal service will resume when we complete our inventory of lemon soaked paper napkins.

Something's happening....

A new brew? Some old? Some new? Something else? ...

Nintendo Food Thingy

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/2157587/Nintendo's-talking-cookery-guide-could-threaten-traditional-recipe-books.html

Any link between my loves of food and games consoles is one worth re-iterating here. No, Nintendo do not pay me anything to promote thier food related games (er, though if you're looking for anyone Mr Miyamoto...) I just love a bit of convergence. So here you have it Nintendo's talking Cooking Guide: Can't decide what to eat? Basically, a talking cookbook. You shout at it to tell you the next bit of the recipe. Brilliant. The recipe's do a look a bit shit at the moment, but I'm holding out for the Mario and Yoshi do Ferran Adria sequel. On Karts.

Taste of London

I’m feeling slightly aggrieved at this weekend’s Taste of London. Whilst I think the idea is a good one; many of the city’s best restaurants pitching up in Regents Parks and serving up 3 dishes which us poor huddled masses can then buy for a few quid, it does feel like a victim of its own success. For one thing it was really, really, really expensive, I mean eye wateringly wallet shatteringly expensive. OK, I might be overstating the expense but I did feel seriously ripped off by the end of the day. 25 quid to get in and then you had to buy paper tokens, “charmingly" named crowns to exchange for food at 50p a shot. The average dish was about 8 crowns. OK, only 4 quid, but given I paid to get in, the entire event was sponsored by British Airways and the place was littered with exhibitors touting muesli and fruit juice (who’d I’d assumed paid to be there) I did get the distinct sense I was getting mugged.

There’s a middle class Glastonbury feel to the proceedings, an actually very pleasant mix of ages; a sort of country fair crossed with a music festival sort of vibe, which once you get over the shock of the place being absolutely rammed was actually pretty chilled out. Having said that I did almost get into a fight queuing up at L’Atelier de Joel Rubuchon.

Despite the fact that they were serving hamburgers (admittedly beef and foie gras burgers with caramelised bell peppers) they hadn’t quite grasped the logistics of fast food production. They had some very smart waiters basically having to throw burgers at rabid self confessed foodies and then had to halt production every hour or so to smooth their perfectly coiffed hair and fry up some more. So, whilst waiting patiently in line for my burgers, I ended up in an altercation with a very nice Frenchman. To give him his due I was the one who told him to fuck off first. Luckily, we ended up the best of mates, extolling the virtues of the various Rubuchon outposts we had both tried and sharing a slightly gangster handshake as he pottered off with his langoustine fritters with basil pistou (typically obtuse Frenchman!).

So, despite all this we did eat some pretty special food. I’m told the burgers were good (irony was I don’t eat foie gras anymore , nothing ethical, it just makes me ill) and the massive Chocolate Sensation (Creamy Araguani chocolate, bitter chocolate sorbet and Oreo cookie cruimbs) that the L’Atelier were knocking out were probably the best thing I ate all day. The guys at Nahm, David Thompson’s Thai place were making some pretty special treats, Pomelo dressed with caramel and roasted coconut served on betel leaves and probably the best green curry I’ve eaten. The Gavroche and Artubus were too rammed to consider going anywhere near despite the promise of a smoked chicken and foie gras terrine with lentils and truffle vinaigrette and braised pigs head respectively, fearing another fight I opted for the rather simple zucchini fritti at Theo Randall and the naverin of summer lamb and cous cous at Skylon both which had survived the vicissitudes of mass production to be pretty damn good.

Other bit and pieces worthy of note were the pork belly at the Le Café Anglais , though the lentils were a bit worse for wear by the time I got them. One disappointment were the Cripsy puffed poories and the Spring roll stuffed with masala omelette at Café Spice Namaste, which like a friend of mine said you’d think were really good if they came from your local Indian but not at a restaurant you’d gone out of your way to eat in. Before I knew it I’d blown my stash of crowns and we left, not before jeering at Jamie Cullum who was playing in one of British Airways executive tents and regretting having missed out on some of the good stuff at Rhodes Twenty Four, Launceston Place and Canteen.

All in all it was quite fun, my gripes aside, though I have to say if we hadn’t been to the Royal China Club before hand for some of the best dim sum you’ll get in this city – steamed pork buns to cry into, I’d have been heading to Burger King on Baker Street straight afterwards.

Save our Bacon

A subject dear to my heart. Pigs. Given the bad press they’ve been lumbered with by several of the world's major religions and virtually every European language I can think of, it’s heartening to know that at least one British supermarket is doing a little to give them a PR boost. Actually, not so much the pigs themselves, I don’t suppose they care very much about not getting into the papers, but a more endangered breed altogether, the British Pig Farmer. They are having a tough old time and I was invited to Roast in Borough Market for the launch of Save Our Bacon by the folk at Waitrose Food Illustrated to hear all about it. A press launch! The very idea that Jamfaced would be there seemed bizarre, but I guess I’ve been put on the mailing list by mistake. There was going to be free sausage, so who was I to refuse the invitation?

This is where I do my best Micheal Winner impersonation, just try to imagine the rest of the post as spoken by a man with a great deal of mash potato in his mouth.

I was actually invited by Tonia George, food editor at the magazine, who’ve I known for a very long time and knows of my penchant for bacon. This is name dropping of the most horrific nature and I apologize, I’ll use some swear words in a bit so keep reading. Guessing that she needed someone to act as a pork based waste disposal unit, I tripped along and the first thing I was greeted by was a hog on a spit. An auspicious start, for me anyway. The poor bugger tending the animal had been at it since two in the morning all so I and a horde of journalists could have crackling at 9 in the morning. Good man.

So, here’s the deal. Some 95% of British Pig Farmers are thinking of quitting the business. Despite the fact we are more conscious than ever before about where our food comes from and how it’s produced, according to the British Pig Executive; the average pork farmer loses 26 quid per animal. The supermarkets are screwing them all for cheaper meat, feed prices have soared due to the demand for grain and all in all, if we aren’t careful the British Pig Farmer will be no more and we’ll have to eat other pigs, that don’t speak English and don’t willingly go into proper sausages. It’s all pretty damning actually and I’d advise you all (even you yanks, do you even have pigs anymore? You’ve probably bred missile shaped pig bacon tubes or something, as I’ve never had good bacon nor sausages on either coast –yes, I expect howls of derision) to sign up.

I’m so proud. I copied some of that out of a press release. I didn’t know there was such a thing as the British Pig Executive. I love the fact there is, a fine porker in a pin stripe comes to mind. So, clutching my press pack I watched the proceedings, whilst stuffing my face with pork. This I believe is how the best journalism is conducted, so I felt quite the professional. I saw the Hairy Bikers giving endless interviews. I saw Krishnan Guru-Murthy eating sausages. Eric, who was giving a sausage making demonstration, had a stash of British Army Sausage seasoning, the recipe of which is covered by the Official Secrets Act. He’d seen it stuck to the wall in a kitchen in Aldershot and taken a sneaky photo. I took a photo of him and his seasoning. Feeling quite good about my scoop I headed off into Borough Market and bought some hot cross buns. Food journalism is a doddle!

Sign the Save Our Bacon petition at www.waitrose.com/saveourbacon