It’s a modern space, set on the corner of a wide street. The outside is slate grey, the inside Scandi restrained – all pale wood and white walls.

Most of the main room is dominated by the roaster; a proud beast near the entrance gently filtering out scents of dark toast and bitter caramel.

While there are some scant stools outside on the foot path and a few scattered chairs inside, this is not a place designed for customers to nurse a coffee while redrafting a novel. It’s also not a natural home for brunch, or large group gatherings.

What it is is a spectacular place to come and get a caffeine fix.

Last Sunday morning found us there as soon as the doors swung open at 11 am. Two female baristas were preparing the store. There’s muted power ballads humming in the background and the blends of the day were written up in pen on brown paper behind the bar. Tim buys his coffee according to harvest season- so what’s on offer changes frequently.

Out of the milk based coffees the cappucino proved the highlight; espresso with notes of caramel and hazelnut, swirled artfully with organic Norwegian milk. To me it had the downy texture of a burying down into a winter duvet.

The featured single origin blend from Brazil was a revelation- it’s startlingly bright with a berry zing to it- it’s unlike any other espresso I’ve tasted in recent months. It’s a great jumping off point for those wanting a  swift demonstration of the light roast style of Norwegian coffee lauded and reported by the NY Times back in 2011.

Here at Tim Wendelboe there’s also a tasting room on site and ground beans and coffee paraphernalia to purchase. This is one of the few occasions we’ve kicked ourselves for leaving our beloved ECM Giotto in the custody of  caring hands back in Sydney. I can think of many mornings in London that would be improved by crafting one of those espressos from a bag of freshly ground beans.

This is a smart spot in a great city. If you make it to Oslo and are a fan of places like Coffee Collective in Copenhagen and Prufrock in London, make sure a visit is part of your itinerary.

Nb, Tim Wendelboe also sells coffee to around 50 cafes and restaurants around Norway and a few cafes around the world. Stockists here.

Tim Wendelboe

Grunersgate 1, on the corner of Fossveien at Grünerløkka in Oslo.
http://timwendelboe.no/
Weekdays: 08:30 – 18:00
Saturday: 11:00 – 17:00
Sunday: 11:00 – 17:00

It’s a curious meddling which persisted as both an inspiration point and a hand me down when florist Constance Spry and chef Rosemary Hume re branded it as Coronation Chicken and served it to the foreign guests at HRH Elizabeth II’s Coronation on June 2, 1953.

In the years that have passed it has served as a happy friend to many a rice salad, finger sandwich, cold pastry cup, or filling for cucumber crowns – perfect as canapes (recipe here).  Then 10 years ago another celebratory cold chicken dish was designed in honour of HRH’s Golden Jubilee.  It turned down the volume on the curry, abandoned the pureed apricots and left us with a pale combination of  fowl, ginger, lime, creme fraiche and yogurt.  This version didn’t quite grip the public’s imagination in the same manner as the original.

Yet surely it’s time for people to take a moment to think about what the object of celebration might enjoy. This is one version of Diamond Jubilee Chicken that answers that brief.

Her Majesty reportedly starts each day with toast and marmalade -  Coopers of Oxford holds the Royal Warrant for providing the topping to her toast. She’s also said to enjoy a gin and Dubbonet at the end of a long day.

This version clutches those flavours close. First the chicken’s décolletage is spread with marmalade. Orange and lemon are also present and accounted for in the poaching liquid- the rest of which is flavoured with the botanicals of gin, and just enough water to bath the legs of the bird.

The dressing is a slurry of yogurt, marmalade thinned in gin and as much hot English mustard as you can bare.

The chicken should be poached as gently as possible. No hasty productions necessary when you’re taking a long weekend to celebrate 60 years of civic duty. Beyond that the longer and slower the poach, the silkier the meat will be. After it’s cooled the flesh should take on a gentle lilt of citrus and juniper. The sauce should be sprightly and light, with a little twang of citrus and mustard heat.

This chicken is festive when served in a garland of salad; particularly if it includes mint, cucumber, watercress and almonds. It’s also perfect if you fancy shredding the meat and using the dressing to bind it together into sandwich fillings with cucumber and watercress.

This Jubilee weekend make it and go and watch the boat flotilla down the Thames. Take it for a picnic in the lush green parks of London. Or stay at home, carve the bird and then raise a glass to sixty years of service.

Long live the Queen.

Diamond Jubilee Chicken

Serves 2 -4 with salad. Serves 4-8 in sandwiches.

Equipment

1 heavy bottom casserole pan/Le Creuset that will snugly fit a chicken. 1 vegetable peeler.

Shopping/foraging

1.2 kg happy free range chicken
1 orange
3/4 cup gin
2 1/2 cups water (or enough to cover the legs of the chicken in the pot)
1/2 lemon
2 black peppercorns
2 garlic cloves
1.5 tablespoons of marmalade

Watercress, mint leaves, cucumber, sugar snap beans and flaked almond salad to serve

Dressing
1/2 cup of natural yogurt or creme fraiche
1.5 teaspoons hot English mustard
1.5 teaspoons of marmalade
1 tablespoon of gin

Here’s how we roll

1) Untruss the chicken and trim the legs into neat drumsticks so it will snugly fit in a Le Creuset or similar braising pot.

2) Press heavily on the back of the chicken to break the spine. It will make a very satisfying noise. This will allow the chicken to sit flatter in the pot.

3) Lift the skin of the chicken gently away from the breast. Place half of the marmalade under the skin over the breast. Smear the rest over the skin on the breast.

4) Add the gin to the bottom of the pot, alone with the lemon cut in half, half an orange, two garlic cloves in their skin crushed with a knife and two pepper corns.Add the chicken (breast side up) and enough water to cover the lower part of the legs. Leave the breasts poking out, as if it was lolling in a chest deep bath. Taste the poaching liquid if you’ve had to add a bit more water. You want it to have a subtle note of gin. If it’s more a distant whisper, add a little more.

5) Bring the stock to a light shimmering simmer, then turn the heat down to low, clamp the lid on and leave to braise for 40-50 minutes until the breast is opaque and the legs pull aside from the spine.

6) Leave the chicken to cool in the liquid, with the lid on. If you plan on serving the next day, you can keep the chicken in the broth in the fridge- the flavour will keep steeping into it.

7) Before serving drain the chicken, and peel the skin from the chicken.  Carve the meat into slices for salad, or shred it for sandwich fillings.

8 ) To make the dressing whisk together the marmalade and gin until it’s a loose slurry. Combine with the yogurt or creme fraiche and the hot English mustard. Add as much mustard as you dare (though keep tasting all the time).

 Serving options

Salad

Serve the chicken pieces with the dressing on the side and a salad of watercress, ribbons of cucumber made with a vegetable peeler, mint, baby spinach and watercress leaves and some flaked almonds. Season the chicken well with both salt and pepper before drizzling over the dressing.

Sandwiches

Combine the shredded chicken with salt and pepper, enough dressing to bind it and make sandwiches on brown or white bread with thin slices of cucumber and some watercress.

Other Jubilee Chicken interpretations:

Nigella Lawson’s Chicken, mango and chilli salad

Jamie Oliver’s Jubilee Chicken

Diana Henry’s Jubilee Chicken

Any others….?

The Delaunay in Aldwych is the newest sibling to that elegant London stalwart; The Wolsley.

The space is divided into three. There’s the dining room; large and open, cosseted by white tablecloths and dark wooden accents. In here people are luxuriating over long lunches of schnitzels and goujons of plaice. It’s the sort of room where you want to book  in advance to make sure there’s a table secured for when your elderly Aunt catches a train down into London. Outside there’s The Counter- it’s the kind of place where you can shuffle into for the sort of  food you wish a Jewish mother would hand deliver to you when you’re poorly; from chicken soup with dumplings, through to salt beef pretzels.

Then there’s the salon. If you arrive for an early lunch, there’s usually room for walk ins in the salon. It’s half a bar, half a tea room, looking onto the main dining room. The centre piece is the cake stand. Around that are  banquettes flanking the windows and cosy moss green topped marble tables that are perfectly sized for two. Note; sensible people will sit opposite each other. Visiting Europeans with differing interpretations of personal space will squeeze next to each other, facing the centre of the room and offering you an elbow with every bite of their tarte flambée.

The first time I visited was a brunch/lunch when The Hungry One was out of town. I went with a film-director friend. As soon as I opened the menu, I kicked myself. It’s as if its contents was plucked from the food-fantasy section of The Hungry One’s Teutonic leaning noggin. Schnitzel. Choucroute. Wieners. Austrian Lagers. And tortes.

I knew then that there was a good chance I’d have to return. It’s one thing to spend your Sunday having a long lunch with another man. It’s another to go somewhere you know your spouse will adore. That’s a kind of cruelty I’m not comfortable with swallowing.

While there are highlights and shadowy spots on the menu, what is a constant is the level of adornment and fuss that comes with each dish. If you want to eat somewhere and feel special- this is a good place to do it.

The mood is set by the doorman in a hat. It continues to the cloak room, umbrella stand and the way that the day’s newspapers are carefully splayed for single diners to surreptitiously pick up on their way to a table.

In the salon the tables are set with silver pepper mills and shiny shakers of salt. Butter comes with flat caps of paper and bread baskets are delivered promptly after arrival. Wine is drunk from short open mouthed glasses and bottles are decanted into carafes tableside.

Platters of oysters are served elevated over ice, with lemon cheeks dressed in elasticised cheesecloth hats to catch any pips. It’s a nice touch, but one that may recall the sight of shower caps.

In spite of their generous presentation, if you’re after fresh shucked oysters- go to Wright Brothers. Here their juices were a little insipid.

For those who can keep a straight face while saying the word out loud, there’s a special section on the menu for wieners, with six types of sausage listed. They’re available as hot dogs, or plated with potato salad and onions. A bratwurst, served American style (£6.50) arrives on an impressively charred and butter glossed bun and a paper canister of shoestring fries. There’s French’s mustard brought to the table- but the end result remains dry. Perhaps we’ve been spoiled by the three sauces we came to love in Icelandic pylsurs.

What The Delaunay excels at are larger, German leaning bistro dishes. If you’re craving salted meat products, it’s hard to go past the choucroute (£16). This Alsatian speciality of warm sauerkraut, topped with a minimum of three meat products comes out to play with artfully turned potatoes and your choice of mustards.

It’s big enough for two to share. It’s comforting and rich, with just the right amount of acidic cut through from the cabbage. It’s what I’d order every time I’d go- if it wasn’t for the schnitzel.

A good schnitzel is hard to find. For The Hungry One, the brief is simple. Size has a lot to do with it. A light and puffy crust also comes into the equation. And while he prefers a pork or a chicken- The Delaunay’s veal schnitzel was enough to tempt him over to the light side.

It’s as wide as a fireman’s helmet, with the flaky crust ballooning in sections, like poorly applied covering on text books. Yet it’s in these bubbles that the magic happens. It takes real skill and just the right amount of oil to ensure a puffy schnitzel- and when found, it’s a hard thing to walk away from.

Next time we return I may be tempted by one of the comfort food classics of the day (£18.50); from Chicken Kiev (Saturday), Daube of Beef (Tuesday). For those dining earlier there’s also the curiosity of British brunch specialities like kedgeree and an Omelette Arnold Bennett.

But for The Hungry One, the real reason we’ll be returning is the black forest cake. His love for the melding of chocolate, cherries and cream can is enduring and well documented.

The Delaunay’s rendition is a sweet song on a plate. It’s tall and proud and sits like a crown, the circumference flecked with dark chocolate shavings and the top gilded by morello cherries and clouds of cream. The inside is two layers of booze licked chocolate sponge. There on a plate is his Peter Pan Happy Place, brought to life.

For those who haven’t just consumed their weekly quota of cream in a cake, to close a meal there are Viennese coffees, but the noisettes also prove a sound option. Silver platters herald the arrival of twee cups of espresso and milk, half way between a piccolo latte and a macchiato. Along side are slivers of foil wrapped chocolate and small glasses of water for chasers.

It’s a very thoughtful coffee, in a very charming space.

The Delaunay is the sort of place to go when you want a touch of civility in your day (and don’t mind paying a bit of money for it). It’s where I’ll now go when I want a long breakfast of tea, viennoiseries and the chance to read every section of The Guardian in gilded surrounds. And I’m fairly certain it’s where I’ll begin the search for The Hungry One when those days strike when he’s in dire need of proper schnitzel, a Stiegel lager and a slice of black forest cake. For this and for many things,  I’m grateful. It’ll be much easier to find him in Aldwych than Europe.

The Delaunay
(020) 7499 8558
Holborn
55 Aldwych Map.9690eac
London, UK WC2B 4
thedelaunay.com

It’s also an answer to both questions and crisis, from ‘what will we eat for dinner?’, through to ‘do you think I trade this spluttering body in for the 2013 model?’

It’s hard to pinpoint anything more comforting than the smell of roasting tomatoes and mozzarella sneaking out from behind an oven door. To me there are also few things more pleasing than the meditation of shifting pillows of gnocchi, tomatoes and baby-sized meatballs from plate, to fork, to teeth, until you come up empty.

There’s a joy that tags along both in making and eating this. It even hangs about while you’re doing the washing up.

This is a meal that can be turned around quickly, with good quality pork sausages skinned and portioned standing in for the meatballs, store bought gnocchi, some cherry tomatoes and a jar of pasta sauce. Or it’s one that you can take your time with- making your own gnocchi (perhaps out of white beans), fixing meatballs and pottering about with roasted cherry tomatoes.

This is the sort of supper that makes me want to batten down the hatches, open a bottle of good red wine and press play on music with lyrics I’ve committed to memory.  At the moment that’s Mike Rosenberg aka Passenger.  That’s a man who does lyrics well.

Yet when I’m feeling particularly nostalgic and cheesy, the only soundtrack that will suffice is from  ‘The Big Chill’. It’s ‘A whiter shade of pale’  while I’m breaking apart orbs of mozzarella, all the way through to ‘Aint too proud to beg‘ while soaking the shadows of baked tomatoes out of corningware.

In essence, this is the kind of dish that makes you feel fine about dancing in your kitchen all on your own-  but it’s even better when it’s made with love, for friends.

Baked gnocchi with meatballs, tomato and mozzarella

Serves 2 hungry ones, but doubles and triples easily for a crowd.

Equipment

1 snug fitting oven proof dish- mine is corningware, the size of an A4 piece of paper.

Shopping/foraging

200 grams of cherry tomatoes
1 tbsp olive oil
Pinch of salt
200 grams of minced beef or pork
1 teaspoon of dried oregano
2 tbsp tomato paste
Pinch of sugar
450 grams of gnocchi (either store bought potato gnocchi – you don’t need to boil it, or the white bean gnocchi from  here)
300 grams of buffalo mozzarella, drained and roughly torn
Fresh basil or oregano leaves to garnish

Here’s how we roll

1) Preheat oven to 150C/300F. Take a medium sized lasagne or baking dish. Add 300 grams of cherry tomatoes and drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with salt. Bake for 20 minutes, until the tomatoes have softened and wrinkled.

2) While the tomatoes are roasting make the meatballs. Combine the 300 grams of quality ground beef with a teaspoon of dried oregano, a pinch of salt, a good grinding of black pepper and a tablespoon of very cold water. Combine and make meatballs the same size as the cherry tomatoes. Add the meatballs in with the tomatoes and roast for another 20 minutes.

3) When the tomatoes are roasted, bloated and softened from the oven  puncture half with a fork. Add two tablespoons of tomato paste and a pinch of sugar to the dish. Nestle the gnocchi in amongst the meatballs and the tomatoes. You want to make sure that there is enough liquidity  from the busted tomatoes to come at least half way up the sides of the gnocchi. If not, add another tablespoon of tomato paste muddled with a little water.

4) Top with two balls of torn mozzarella (300g in total) and bake for 30 minutes- until the cheese has melted and browned and the gnocchi are cooked through.

5)  Serve with some torn green herbs scattered over the top (fresh oregano or basil are lovely). Eat from a bowl, on the couch, with a green salad on the side and a large glass of red wine.

When I need a food hug, I turn to gnocchi. These pillow-shaped doughy bundles have shepherded me through many a trial.

Part of their comforting appeal is that in order to work well, gnocchi must be made by gentle hands. Bully them in the kneading or rolling and they’ll be as tough as a runaway teen. But carefully encourage as much air as possible into  boiled or roasted potatoes-and keep the flour to a minimum and you’ll  be rewarded with soft, buoyant nuggets of starch.

Now here’s the problem. While I love potato gnocchi; particularly the faint sweetness that comes from Maris Piper potatoes- it doesn’t love me so much. White carbohydrates don’t always agree with my body. It’s a pain, but one I’ve come to accept.

It’s why I’ve been getting pretty evangelical about pulses lately. I’ve been replacing potato with white beans on shepherd’s pies, as a base for stews and roasts. So then I started musing- can I make gnocchi from pulses?

The answer, is yes. And beyond that, it’s the quickest and easiest gnocchi I’ve ever made.

It’s just two tins of white beans, drained and rinsed. They then get a short cut and are blitzed with a stick blender. That’s something you can’t do with potatoes, unless you want to use the resulting puree to hold up wallpaper.  If I’m craving really fluffy gnocchi I’ll work the puree through a strainer or a mouli. This helps get out all the lumps and incorporate as much air as possible. To the puree I add an egg yolk, some salt for flavour and as much flour as needed to create a dough (I’m yet to try with chickpea flour, but I think it would also work). That dough is then divided, rolled and cut in the same manner as potato gnocchi.

I bake the individual gnocchi for a little bit to help sure up the shape – otherwise they have the potential to dissipate when cooking. But that’s it.

They chase after that just-captured-cloud consistency you find in extraordinary gnocchi. The extra protein in the beans makes them a little sturdier – but the flavour is sound. Beyond that, when baked they have a very pleasing contrast of external crunch to inside squish.

I’ve used them to help bulk up a salad of black pudding with raspberries and radishes.

I’ve boiled them and served them with basil pesto and rocket.  But most of the time I bake them in my favourite Sunday night/cold weather/ grump  fixing dish- baked gnocchi with meatballs, tomato and mozzarella.

(Recipe for that one to come in the next few days).

Eaten on the couch, with a glass of red wine and a pair of thick socks on your feet; it’s a sure fire route to comfort (and nobody needs to know that you left the potatoes out in the cold).

Gnocchi made from white beans

Serves 2 hungry ones.

Shopping/foraging

2 x 400g tins of white beans, rinsed and drained (leaving 440 grams of white beans when rinsed)
100 grams plain, or 00 flour
Pinch of salt
1 egg yolk

Here’s how we roll

1)Preheat the oven to 150 C/300 F

2) Drain the two tins of white beans and rinse well. Puree using a stick blender until completely smooth.

3) For best results then pass the puree through a strainer or a mouli (you want to aerate the puree- this will help make light gnocchi)

4) In a large bowl add the egg yolk and a good pinch of salt to to the white bean puree. Then sift the flour in, bit by bit and use one hand to lightly and gently bring into a dough. Don’t work the dough too hard- it will become tough like pencil erasers.

5) Dust a clean bench with a little more flour. Divide the dough into four balls.

6) Using two flat hands in a motion as though you were pushing a piece of paper away from you and then pulling it back towards you roll the ball of dough into a long rope, as thick as a wine cork.

7) Place it to one side and do the same with the other three balls.

8 ) Line the dough ropes up next to each other and cut all four ropes it into gnocchi around 1.5 cm thick (lining the dough up next to each other will help create consistent sizes).

9) Place the gnocchi on a baking tray lined with baking paper.  Drizzle lightly with olive oil and bake for 20 minutes. This helps the gnocchi to set, so they won’t get too slimy when you bake them with sauce later on.

Nb, if you wish to boil the gnocchi, bring salted water to a rolling boil then cook the gnocchi in small batches until it floats to the top of the water. Top with nut brown butter, sage and parmesan, or coat in pesto. Or else drizzle with a little more olive oil and bake for another 10 minutes until crisp on the outside and still fluffy on the inside.

So if you’ve found your way over the the South Bank of the Thames (my local stomping ground), here’s a great day all mapped out for you. There’s coffee and breakfast, culture and lunch, drinks and dinner. There’s even an actual Google Map to let you see how close everything is. Sorted. All you have to do is get here.

(To see the earlier perfect day in London’s West End, click here)

It starts

Catch the tube, train or bus to London Bridge Station. Walk down to Borough Markets.

Coffee at Monmouth

Start the day with a good cup of coffee. Monmouth is one of the standard bearers of decent espresso in London. It overlooks the historic Borough Markets. On a Saturday morning, it will be bedlam. You’ll wait around 25 minutes for a coffee. If you’re really keen on seeing the markets in full swing but not being pushed from pillar to post, come on a Friday (the markets run Thursday, Friday and Saturday). Monmouth is open Monday-Saturday. Sundays around here can be a little sad.

You need to line up to order your coffee. Nb, there is no tea here. There is no hot chocolate. There is no skim or soy milk. There’s just milk from happy Jersey cows and coffee that should be made with great care. If it’s not, ask them to make you another one. If you fancy a carbohydrate based breakfast get stuck into the all you can eat baguettes, butter and jam on the communal table, or grab a pastry.

Read more about the experience of Monmouth here

Monmouth Coffee Company Borough
2 Park Street
The Borough
London SE1 9AB
Open Monday to Saturday 7.30am to 6pm

Breakfast at Brindisa (Friday and Saturday)

If you’re visiting on a Friday or Saturday and need something a little sturdier than bread to start your day, you might want to walk down the street to Brindisa. One of London’s most bustly tapas restaurants does a good side line in breakfasts. Ham, eggs and potatoes comes in a gloriously Spanish accented plate. Ham reveals itself as wafts of jamon. The potatoes are cheeky chips (surely this is holiday food at its best). And the eggs are lightly fried and the centres run like scared rabbits. I highly recommend wrapping a chip in a piece of ham and then plundering the yolk. There’s freshly squeezed orange juices and indulgently thick Spanish style hot chocolate. There’s room to spread out a   newspaper (or a map). And if you’re lucky, there should be plenty of sunshine slanting through the large windows fronting the market.

Tapas Brindisa
18-20 Southwark St
Camberwell, London SE1 1TJ
020 7357 8880

Morning activity

If the markets are on, then spend some time exploring. Try and restrain yourself from buying a truly dangerous toasted cheese sandwich.

If everything around you is ghostly shut, walk out towards the river and turn east. Walk along the Thames towards Tower Bridge and the Design Museum. Besides being lovely, the Design Museum also has a terrific gift shop.

Lunch option 1 – local and restrained at Elliot’s

The mandate of the smartly casual  Elliot’s is to showcase the best products of the Borough Markets.  The interior is filled with light, blonde wood and exposed brick. There’s the smell of the bread baked downstairs wafting around. The wine list is drawn from small vineyards with an emphasis on the natural and organic. The menu is short and changes each day depending on what is best and in season.  If it’s on there, the burger with kindling-crisp fries is a sound option. Or else go for some sharing plates and pass around buttermilk fried chicken pieces, sweet potato gnocchi with almonds and hedgehog mushrooms(£10), mussels with fennel and nduja, or get busy with a bowl of fried maris piper potatoes with aioli (£3.5).

Elliot’s is just down the street from Monmouth. On Sunday’s there’s a set lunch. On Saturday’s it’s also open for brunch.

Elliot’s Borough Market
12 Stoney Street
London, SE19AD
Tel: 0207 407 7436
http://elliotscafe.tumblr.com/

Lunch option 2 – seafood at Wright Brothers

What Wright Brothers specialises in is oysters. The oysters of the day are written up on blackboards . It’s a geography lesson writ in chalk. The ones that sing out are Maldon rocks, Dorset rocks and Speciale de Claire from across the pond.  The best way to approach it is to talk to the informed floorstaff, quiz them on what is shining and order a mixed dozen to share.  You’ll  then get four of three different varieties so you can plot a path through their briney depths. These are quality bivalves and you’ll pay appropriately  for them, at  around  £30 for a dozen.  Add a slice or two of their malted soda bread, spread thickly with butter and it’s heaven.

A pint of prawns (£17.50) (or a half pint) is a beer glass stuffed full of cold cooked crustaceans, heads, tails and all. They’re jammed in like a bloated Christmas stocking. There’s a tub of egg heavy mayonnaise for dipping and a finger bowl to bathe your nails in when all your hard work is done. There’s a good wine list, the ales are interesting and if the weather is poor it’s hard to go past either their fish, or beef and oyster pie. This is a fun, boisterous place. You’ll sit up on high stools and get your hands dirty. If this is your kind of thing, you’ll have a great time (but watch out, the bill can easily add up).

Wright Brothers Oyster and Porter House
11 Stoney St Map
Camberwell, UK SE1 9AD
(020) 7403 9554
Tube: London Bridge
www.wrightbros.eu.com

Afternoon activity

Walk west up the Thames, past Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre to the Tate Modern. Lose yourself for a couple of hours in one of the world’s great art galleries. Nb, if you plan on seeing the Damien Hirst exhibition this summer, be sure to book ahead. The crowds interested in seeing a shark in a five per cent formaldehyde solution and wandering through a room bustling with butterflies should not to be underestimated.

Drinks at José

Walk east and away from the water towards the neighbouring suburb of Bermondsey. Bermondsey High Street has had something of a resurgence in the last year -and a lot of it has to do with Spanish chef José Pizarro. If you can fit in through the door of this postage stamp sized place,  José is the perfect place to pull up a perch, hang your handbag on one of the thoughtfully placed hooks and spend some time sipping sherry, pink wine or Cava and picking at platters of jamon. You could easily stay for dinner, making your way through platters of tomato bread, seafood from the la plancha grill and croquetas like these (£6).

The tricky thing about Jose, is getting a seat. It doesn’t take bookings and is popular (for a reason). If you’re after a more traditional dining experience to follow your drink- head on up the street to Pizarro.

José 
104 Bermondsey Street, London
London, SE1 3UB

Dinner at Pizarro

The big brother of  Jose, Pizarro is a proper sized restaurant, within sprinting distance of the original tapas and sherry bar. The room is flanked by the long marble bar and large windows, flooding in light. The rest is brick and wood and an open kitchen where you can watch the chefs at work.  It’s both rustic and refined.

The menu is tight and changes daily- sometimes multiple times within a meal. Its offerings dwelling in two price brackets. The first is around £6 for tapas plates. The larger plates are around $11 -13. You could easily share a few dishes to start and then have one main course each.  If you love pork, then there’s lots to covet in this place. Iberico pig cheek, slow braised with sweet potato and almonds has a lip stick sheen to the sauce and the meat threads apart when hassled by a fork.

Yet there’s also solid options for vegetarians, with one of the stellar dishes on our last visit being a salad of roasted vegetables with goat’s curd and walnuts.

Desserts are also worth a look in. When it’s full, the noise can ricochet, but it’s great Spanish, cooked by a man who knows what he’s doing. At the end of it all order a glass of Pedro Ximenex sherry and a dark chocolate pudding. It’s a solid way to close what should have been a pretty perfect day in London’s South Bank.

Pizarro
194 Bermondsey Street, London, SE1 3TQ
Tel : 020 7378 9455
Open everyday.

http://www.josepizarro.com/restaurants/pizarro/

Map

View Good Day in South Bank in a larger map

On Saturday night that changed. One of my oldest friends has just finished the final sound mix on his debut feature- a project he wrote, directed, edited and produced himself.

Champagne was needed, most definitely. It also called for a spread. Nothing elaborate, just a small collection of  pieces that a crew of us could pick at while toasting his success. We were after things that could muck in together and didn’t require a lot of supervision.

The jumping off point were the fresh radishes crowding the frames of the market that morning. To start with I  contemplated purchasing them as a novelty centrepiece (is it just me, or do radishes, cabbages, artichokes and frisee sometimes look much prettier than bouquets that are for sale?).

And then my thoughts jumped the channel.

Note; this is not a recipe. It’s just a collection of companionable items, splayed on a platter. It’s a French answer to the problem of antipasto; and the  definition of elegant sufficiency. All you need is fresh baguette, organic butter, salt and slivered radishes. It’s deceptively simple, but shockingly effective. The radishes are full of crunch and bitter bite. Before they get too strident the butter steps in to swaddle and calm them. Meanwhile the salt shines a small light on these often unsung heroes of the kitchen.

If you’re ever dithering for what to put out while serving drinks, in those awkward moments before everyone settles in and gets on with the business of making new friends, or mocking old ones, then this is a good one to shelter in your arsenal.

Both pre slicing the bread and using a mandolin on the radishes will make it easier for guests to navigate. But as with any simple collection of flavours it comes with a caveat. Great things don’t come cheap (something anyone who’s ever made a film knows all too well).

Don’t even think about putting this out if you’re using supermarket baguette. If your butter is ezi-spread from a plastic container – walk away now. And if your salt appears as miserable little pricks that huddle in a porcelain jar along with stale grains of rice – you’re dreaming if you think this will taste good.

So buy some good stuff. Break open the bubbly. Call up some friends. Make some new ones.  And invite some of these other fellows along to join the party.

Other stars that appeared on our table:

Coffee aioli with artichoke leaves and asparagus spears

Recipe here

Polenta triangles with roast tomato relish

Recipe here

Quail eggs with paprika salt

Recipe here

Rye bread with smoked salmon and creme fraiche

Nduja (spreadable Calabrian spiced pork paste) with baguette spears

Caerphilly cheese with pear slivers

On a properly organised cheese platter- see how here

Spiced olives

For dessert we had small bowls of indecently rich clotted cream topped with brown sugar, which over the course of a film melts and melds into a cap of oozy caramel. There were fresh berries and squares of very dark and dangerous brownies.  It was grand.

Radishes, salt, butter, bread

Serves 8-10

Equipment

1 platter. 1 bread knife. 1 mandolin (or confidence to cut radishes into slivers)

Shopping/foraging

1 baguette, cut into 1 cm thick slices
70 grams of good quality, cold butter
8-10 radishes, cut into slivers on a mandolin
2 tablespoons of sea salt flakes

Here’s how we roll

1. Rinse the radishes well to get rid of any errant dirt. Slice them into thin crimson rimmed moons- you want them thin enough to be able to see the label on the champagne bottle through them.

2. Lay out the baguette slices on a platter with the cold butter, salt flakes and radish discs. Encourage people to make their own. If anyone’s floundering, bread; good chunk of butter, radish then salt is a good order.

This is the final in a series of travel essential posts. First was the 15 things that allow me to travel for weekends with a shoulder bag only. Then there were the bits of tech that The Hungry One can’t live without.

This one comes courtesy one of my oldest and dearest friends. She’s been out in the world for a year now- an hiatus of long service leave before she starts a very serious spot of study.  Over the last 11 months she’s travelled through Asia and Central America, the US, met up with us in London and Istanbul, made her way through the Middle East and is now spending some time in India.

She travels with one back pack and a significant spirit of adventure.

These are some of her essentials.

1) Vibram shoes

She swears by these five toed, rubber soled shoes – and not just for barefoot running training or aquatic based activities (whether swimming near reefs in the Caribbean, or diving in Jordan). She loves them because when paired with some non stick rubber mitts they let her do yoga, anywhere.

They mean instant grip on the ground and are a darn sight slimmer than toting around a yoga mat. Despite their unique aesthetic appeal, I completely understand why you’d want to take them with you. Finding a form of exercise that suits you while travelling for a long stretch can be a big thing. If you’re not a runner and you’re not always near a swimming pool yoga is a sound solution. It lets you work up a bit of a sweat in a small space. And if you’ve spent a lot of time on overnight trains, planes and buses, it’s a handy way to ease out the cricks.

http://lilaiden.tk/

2) Large rectangular organic cotton scarf

Not just a square of fabric. A Macgyver solution in warp and weft. It’s a head covering for mosques in Turkey. A sarong for the beach in Oman. A strapless dress for dancing in Cuba. A blanket for long bus trips in China.  Hers has a light stretch is a subtle black and white stripe. It’s worth spending money on a good fabric for it- a good organic cotton will pick up fewer smells from the road.

3) Mesh plane/toiletries bag

The trick is finding something the same dimensions as the plastic liquids bags to take on planes, but sturdier. Something that doesn’t have the top pop open and close like a recalcitrant button after a big meal. And if it’s mesh, it can go through airport scanners easily.

She swears by this one that she picked up from the label ‘Skunkfunk’.  You can get similar ones from Muji.

Muji mesh bag

4) Fes Spray

Tucked inside the mesh bag for planes you’ll find two products. The first is Fes nasal spray. Heston Blumenthal may have maintained in his airplane food investigation that a ‘nasal douche’ is essential to be able to taste things better in altitude. For an adventurous traveller this eucalyptus scented saline spray also helps stop you getting sick. A roaring cold trailing along with you in the depths of Peru is not everyone’s definition of fun.

http://www.fess.com.au/

5) All Good Goop

The second product she’s evangelical about is ‘All Good Goop’; it’s a small pot of organic salve. It’s magical balm that you can smear on your lips, on cuts or dry skin. It’s like a a really big drink and an aromatherapy bath for your body, all in a little pot.

All Good Goop

6) A cup

Turns out travelling with a cup is a useful for many reasons- chief among them that it allows you to make your own free tea in Chinese train stations.

7) Toilet paper

Best to carry your own. The Scouts and Girl Guides were right; always best to be prepared. I’m not sure I need to say any more on this topic.

8 ) Head torch

If you’re staying places without ready or constant electricity, it will come in handy. Rifling through a backpack in the middle of the night, in the middle of the Egyptian desert is a lot easier if you don’t have to use one of your hands to hold the torch. It’s also a lot easier to find your way to the bathroom if you can use two hands to balance.

9) Dry bag

A dry bag allows you to not only protect your pack when the weather turns inclement, but allows you to separate out wet things within the backpack (swimming costume, towel etc). This one has also been employed to protect a great camera from waterspray on dive boats and to carry gear while sea kayaking on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey.

Mac Pac Dry Bag

10) Cocoon Cable Organiser

Sleek and nifty, this CD case sized flexible grid of elastic straps gives all those stray bits and pieces a home. No more having your headphones clinging to your charger like a nervous child or losing your camera battery at the bottom of your bag.

Cocoon Cable Organiser

11) Credit card sized bottle opener

The brilliant thing about this is how it fits in your wallet like a credit card. This one came from the Little Creatures Brewery in West Australia; essentially a piece of home that’s with you all the time. Added bonuses; if you’re travelling on your own, being able to share a six pack of beers is one easy way to make some new friends.

 12) Silk inner sleeping sheet

Snug and small- and clean. When you’re not 100% confident on the cleanliness of the bedding that you’re dossing down on, carrying your own light weight sleeping sack is one way to rest easy.  She heartily endorses the ‘Sea to Summit 100% silk one’.  It’s machine washable, only weighs 140 g and comes in its own sack.

Silk inner sleeping sheet

13) A leatherman

She might not agree with the explicitly gendered naming convention- but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t tote around a very nifty ‘all in one’ device. Beyond a knife, her leatherman includes the plum essential of a corkscrew. Just don’t put it in your carry on when travelling on flights. You won’t be able to keep it for long.

14) A sense of adventure.

If this kind of stuff isn’t your cup of tea, you’d be best booking a hotel and going and spending your days having long lunches. When we travel together, we meet somewhere in the middle.

After a London winter, this is the brief. Cyprus beckons; the birthplace of Aphrodite, far enough south for warmth and with a promised 320 days of sunshine per year, moussaka, mezze, aniseed spirits in small clear glasses. Turquoise water and – for the Australians among us, this bit is important – sand.

Capo Bay is a smartly modern resort complex on Fig Tree Bay in Protaras. It’s an hour’s drive in the dark over a dual carriageway heading east from Lanarca Airport and 10km away from the pit of partying known as Ayia Napa. I’d like to say we found the resort easily without GPS (word for the wise, TomTom doesn’t have Cyprus maps yet, and there’s no network to connect the Google crutch to). For those in the same situation as us at 11.30pm on a Friday, just craving a kebab, beer and a sleep in a clean bed, you want to turn left when you see McDonalds. You can access the hotel from there.

Fig Tree Bay is rumoured to be one of the prettiest on the coast. It’s an enthusiastic smile of sand, flanked on one side by a walking and cycling path and dotted with white and deep blue sun lounges. The water is clear, disturbed only by moorings of small boats and a scrubby island 80 metres or so off shore.

As long as you’re facing the coast, all is well. This resort is largely civilised. Breakfast buffets are included and hold everything a British holidaymaker could crave (though more than one selection of tea might not go astray). There are eggs and sausages, toast, pancakes, muesli and waffles. There’s even sparkling wine for celebratory fizz. There are a few local touches; thick natural yogurt, hazelnuts and slices of haloumi, as squeaky as a kitchen sponge between your teeth.

There’s free wifi in the cream and marble open plan lobby. Downstairs there’s a slim gym with some free weights and cardio machines. There’s an indoor pool adjoining it for grownups to swim in (and rotund gentlemen to sit idly in and ogle ladies working out). There are tennis courts which are floodlit at night. There’s a spa that offers enthusiastic Swedish massages and even discounted indigenous Australian themed facials (among others using Payot products).

The civility stretches onwards to the beach. There are no stealthy early morning battles for prime sun lounge positions here. On day one, with the help of a towel attendant, you choose your location from what’s available – perhaps overlooking the island on the gentle grass, or adjacent to one of the two swimming pools. Your room number and departure date is inscribed on a white board on the umbrella and in an official book. It’s yours until you leave.

There are three restaurants on site; the buffet and two more overlooking the beach. Mama’s Bay is a sound casual option for lunch, with generous portions of lightly battered squid and fat stuffed pides with chips and tzatziki. Next to that is the more upmarket ‘Koi’, a dark wood and white pavilion overlooking ponds with their large grey, white and burnt orange fish, who swim in lackadaisical circles and silently open and close their mouths like bullied husbands.

On the balcony of Koi you’ll find plushy white bean bags and large day beds draped in wafting white cotton. Eating from the Japanese themed menu can prove challenging, but it is hard to think of a nicer place to sit in the sun and sip a coffee frappe or glass of local rose, as dusty pink as an umbeoshi plum.

During the day when the sky is clear Fig Tree Bay is a sound place to be. In April the water is cold and salty enough to make shaved legs pucker and sting. Just down the beach path there are plenty of watersports available, from jet skis, parasailing, banana boat rides, to floating plastic platforms with a slippery dip attached which you can tootle around the bay until you inevitably get stuck on an outcrop and someone has to come and rescue you. The soundest activity may be swimming out to the island and scrambling over rocks, to stand proudly and wave back to the hotel.

Yet doing that breaks the number one rule; face the water. And here is why. Protaras may be firmly in the Greek side of Cyprus (don’t go about ordering ‘Turkish’ coffee. It doesn’t go down well) – yet this is designed precisely for Brits seeking a place in the sun. The main strip of restaurants behind the hotel is littered with pubs offering 2 euro ‘sex on the beach’ cocktails and pints and ‘pukka pies and pasties’. They’re named witty things like Fools and Horses and Love Boat. The laminated menus of the local ‘tavernas’ are written in English and have 37 dishes, working their way from tzatziki and hummous, through to spaghetti, pizza, toasted ham and cheese sarnies and steak Diane. If you’re keen on local food, a seafood or meat mezze for two people will provide some – and then some. It ascribes to the theory that more is often more. On one instance we counted 21 dishes across the table, from dips and pita to village salads, grilled squid, chips and a whole sea bream baked with rosemary in its belly. The better food within walking distance was often in the more modern looking restaurants, where you’ll find a soundtrack of local muzak, perhaps a muted television, English children skylarking on adjacent play equipment and teenagers bashing air hockey pucks at each other from the games parlour across the street.

Though if you’re going to turn your back on the sea for one more thing, it’s this – do not miss the yogurt and fruits of the forest sorbet at the Napolea ice cream parlour, directly opposite the entrance to Capo Bay. Yes, the other combinations from the French ice cream maker of Snickers and Oreo are stickily rich McFlurries. But the yogurt and fruits of the forest is a clean living sweet song in a cup- and easily ranks as one of the best things I’ve eaten this year (for the plum price of 1.30 per scoop).

As for the rooms at the Capo Bay, they’re large and modern with flat screen televisions, beige striped carpets and king sized beds large enough to easily sleep two who have just gorged on their second mezze of the day. While rooms are advertised as containing either Jacuzzi showers or baths, it’s only in the duplex suits that you’ll find jetted tubs. The rest of the rooms have snazzy over-bath shower arrangements with water that shoots from more holes in the wall than they possibly should.

Capo Bay is the kind of place where you go in search of sunshine. You snooze by the bay and sip cocktails at 2pm. It’s where people read novels they’re ashamed to tell their book group about and scorch their skin shellfish pink. It’s also not real. So if you come across one of the 36 days a year when the weather turns grim, take it as a sign. It’s time to move on.

Capo Bay
Protaras 2, Paralimni 5311, Cyprus.

http://www.capobay.com/

First published on www.arbuturian.com

To make an omelette is a life skill. Elizabeth David may have her detractors, but she was right about its steadying properties.

I’ve been making a lot of omelettes lately. I’ve been teaching a goat cheese and basil version to my neighbour in the spirit of Jamie Oliver’s food revolution day (approaching fast on May 19). Make a neighbour a meal and you’ve fed them for a night. Teach them how quick it is to produce an omelette and you’ve potentially fed them for weeks.

Then on Sunday one of my oldest friends arrived in London. As he walked into our flat out of the dark and dreary night he wore that peakish look that belongs to someone who’s spent 9 hours battling public transport systems across two continents. I’d eaten dinner four hours earlier and was relaxing on the couch with a fat book and a glass of wine. In the fridge I had eggs, herbs and cheese. On the bench sat a ripe tomato. Next to it was the rough heel of a baguette.

‘Would you like an omelette and a glass of wine?’ I asked.

The look I got back said it all.

Making an omelette is a way of feeling at home, no matter where in the world you are.

(There’s a reason the queues for them are so long in alien hotel buffets.)

On days when I get lost inside myself, not sure if Sydney or London is my nest; missing people and knowing more than ever what it is I’m skipping out on by being over here,  I’ll make myself an omelette for lunch.

I take time out from my desk. I break my eggs with confidence. I take a fork and beat them up, instead of myself. I shake the pan and try to shift in the eggs that sense of being loose and adrift in an overwhelming space.

I can now make an omelette in four minutes. After I’ve encouraged it onto my plate I’ll sit with my back to the window and flip through one of the books I’ve accumulated while we’ve been here. Wise words from the food writers I admire; whether  A.J Liebling, Amanda Hesser, Calvin Trillin or Nicki Segnit have got me through some lonely lunch times, while close friends and family sleep on the other side of the world.

Sound words are steadying. So are these simple omelettes. And on very dire days, it’s nice to know there’s always the crutch of a sneaky half glass of wine.

Zucchini, spinach and lardon omelette (with a glass of wine)

Serves 1

This is basic template for an omelette. You could substitute the zucchini for mushrooms and the spinach for basil. You could skip out on the bacon, or substitute it for chorizo. I do think some cheese is non negotiable. My favourite is goat’s curd, or Boursin- I love the way its gentle structure oozes and relaxes into the lightly cooked eggs.

Shopping/foraging

3 eggs
1 tablespoon of butter
1 tablespoon of lardons/sliced streaky bacon
1/2 zuchinni, shaved into ribbons with a vegetable peeler
1 handful of baby spinach (or basil leaves)

Here’s how we roll

1) Beat the eggs well with a fork or a whisk. Try and get some levity in there. You can add a small splosh of milk if you like.

2. Take a medium fry pan (non stick will help) and put it on a medium heat. Place the lardons/bacon strips in there and cook them for 5 minutes until the fat renders and streaks around the pan.

3. Add the baby spinach leaves and zucchini/courgette ribbons to the pan and stir on the heat to wilt and soften with the bacon (if you’re using basil instead, then leave it out for the moment).

4. When the spinach leaves have shrunk and the courgette has wilted empty the pan and place the filling in a bowl to one side.

5. Place the pan back on the medium heat and add the lump of butter.  Allow it to melt, brown slightly and swirl to coat all of the surface of the pan (the butter will help the eggs emulsify together- it will also help you flip it without tears).

6. Pour the eggs into the pan and shake them around to swirl and coat. Keep shaking on and off the heat to encourage a bit of rippling and texture. Slowly drag the firm edges of the omelette into the centre at 12 o’clock and tilt the pan to allow the liquid egg to spill into the empty space. Do the same at 3 o’clock.

7. While the centre is still a little runny add the cooked vegetables, bacon and the goat’s cheese. Season with black pepper and a good pinch of salt.

8. Tilt the pan to a 45 degree angle (like the tilting Titanic) to help the omelette slide down to the lip of the pan . This will then help you to fold the bottom up to meet the top with a spatula, sandwiching the centre.

9. Gently slide the folded and filled omelette onto a plate. Serve with some leaves, a good book,  a glass of wine and a sense of quiet satisfaction.