Food and Drink in London

Blaggers' Banquet: charity begins at Hawksmoor

Last Sunday's Blaggers' Banquet was nothing short of a triumph, and a credit to Sig and Niamh for their all their hard work in taking a group of bloggers with little in common except a certain keenness for food and drink, and turning them into what passed for a halfway respectable restaurant crew. Particular respect to Niamh, who was have a pretty awful time of it in her private life but kept this all to herself and put on the bravest of faces throughout a very busy day and a hectic service.

My day started, as most of the crew's seemed to have done, with a hangover: we were all, it seemed, determined to recreate the authentic restaurant worker experience. But after a restorative fry-up and I took myself to Shoreditch to find assorted other bloggers milling around the first of what would be dozens of boxes of blagged goods. I had come rather late to the blagging effort but at the eleventh hour I had persuaded Sillfield Farm to part with a brace of plump chickens and a pound or so of sausages. When the scale of other people's blagging became clear (20kg of meat from Donald Russell anyone?) this meagre offering was starting to look a bit derisory, and I decided I'd better throw myself into the fray and make myself as useful as possible to make up for my laughable effort.

I was nominally there to reprise the many hours of my youth spent behind bars but there were at least two others already sorting through the crazy amount of blagged booze, so when a call went up from the kitchen for extra volunteers I stepped forward. There followed a brilliant few hours in Hawksmoor's tiny kitchen, peeling carrots and potatoes, prepping leeks, braving and shaving fingertips on the mandolin and working through two of the three stages of the triple-cooked chips that would eventually grace plates in the evening. Oh, and making parsnip crisps. Who knew chopping veg and deep-frying could be so rewarding?

As dusk fell it dawned on us that punters would be arriving soon, so a now-full complement of bloggers swung into action clearing away the remaining boxes, transferring copious amounts of treats to the goodie bags our lucky customers would be taking home, polishing wine glasses and laying tables. I met the rest of the bar team and we worked out what drinks we'd be serving. The full list would include champagne, quince champagne cocktails, Sipsmith gin and vodka martinis and obscene amounts of wine and beer. It was about this time that one of our number invented what quickly became known as the Blagger-tini, a surprisingly palatable affair based on vodka, balsamic Galliano and Chegworth Valley apple and raspberry juice, garnished (if you were lucky) with lemon and basil. So much more than the sum of its parts...

After that there was very little time to think... 50-odd paying customers duly arrived - possibly just outnumbering the bloggers - and were treated first to champers, canapes and cocktails and then to a hearty feast that included, among other things, monkfish tartare, Mexican beef stew, Lancashire hotpot, buffalo steaks, boob-shaped jellies, chocolate fondants and stupendous quantities of cheese. From my vantage point at the bar, in between mixing crazy numbers of martinis, it was clear that both the kitchen brigade and the front of house crew were doing a sterling job. Given that very few of them had professional experience this was some achievement and a testament both to the orgnisation and skill of the team leaders and the enthusiasm and commitment of everyone involved.

After a prize draw and an entertaining auction during which Fire & Knives editor Tim Hayward efficiently turned further blagged goods into a load more money for Action Against Hunger the guests and their goodie bags began to leave. The bloggers all mucked in in an effort to return the restaurant to something close to respectability, and I managed to make myself my first (official) martini of the evening with the last measures of gin... only for one over-efficient bar worker (I'm talking about you, Hayward) to tidy it up.

As for that brace of chickens, it turns out they were vital for both an incredible stock and some delicate canapes made from the skin. The fate of the sausages is less certain but I like to think they fed the early shift at Hawksmoor in the morning.

It was a hell of night and a great effort from everyone involved. And fortunately (for you) there's still time to get involved. Blagged items and promises are still coming and new items are going up for auction every day. So get yourself to eBay now for some imaginative - and worthy - Christmas shopping.

Check out other accounts and pictures (the ones here are courtesy of Mark) at the official Blaggers' Banquet blog.

Blaggers' Banquet

Wherever Pierre Koffman goes, it seems, London's food bloggers will follow. Not content with flocking in great numbers to Selfridges during his three-week stint in a marquee on the roof, we are also set to emulate his new-found taste for running temporary restaurants (if not, perhaps, his skill in the kitchen). For your chance to put a few faces to a few names, to marvel at their barefaced blagging skills and to witness their comeuppance as they attempt to work at what they're so happy to criticise in their spare time, you need to get yourself to Hawksmoor for dinner next Sunday.

Hawksmoor, the Shoreditch steak joint pretty much universally praised among food bloggers (and therefore perhaps the only viable option for such largesse) has agreed to turn over its premises to a brigade of one-hit-wonder restaurateurs made up of those self same bloggers. The inaugural Blaggers' Banquet, organised by Niamh from Eat Like a Girl, will be a five-course dinner, complete with matching drinks, devised, cooked, served and (if we're still standing) tidied away by food and drink bloggers.

As the name of the evening suggests, all the food and drink served will have been sourced through that relatively recent addition to the food bloggers' armoury: blagging. Producers, farmers, importers and wholesalers up and down the country have been cajoled into supporting the venture, the proceeds of which will go to Action Against Hunger. Those items not destined for consumption (look out for some rare signed cookbooks and some highly desirable kitchen equipment) will be put up for auction both on the night and online over the following weeks for the benefit of those who can't make it.

To book your slot at what promises to be an interesting evening, not least for the spectacle of yours truly trying to remember how to drive a Gaggia, go to eBay and get bidding. A limited number of tickets are being sold in pairs (plus one five-top) for £75 a head, after which the final five pairs will go to highest bidder. Good luck, and maybe see you on Sunday.

Pierre Koffman at Selfridges - a rare treat

So having been slightly snotty about the Selfridges pop-up restaurant at the end of my Rules review, of course I did actually go in the end. And it was pretty good, a fitting 40th birthday present for my friend Mark, who must be beginning to think I have a one-track, three-star mind when it comes to organising celebrations to mark significant life events. Fortunately for my wallet I don't think he's got any more on the horizon.

I won't keep you long with this write-up, partly because there's only so much you can/should say about a restaurant whose very existence is so ephemeral but mostly because I have a backlog of other places I need to write about and frankly, if you haven't been already the chances are you ain't going to by the end of the week. Although stay tuned if you are keen, I may be able to help.

Anyway, for anyone who's been living in splendid isolation for the last couple of months, a temporary restaurant in a marquee on the roof of Selfridges marked the return to London of chef legend Pierre Koffman, the first winner of three Michelin stars in a UK restaurant. He retired in the early 90s, closing Tante Claire and maintaining his mystique by staying largely out of the way, aside from occasional spots as a special guest to be cooked for on MasterChef. Meanwhile Gordon Ramsay, now with his own three stars on Royal Hospital Road has spent those years collecting improbable numbers of further baubles apparently without ever being off the box. Have a guess who's more popular among the foodie fraternity...

If you'd been at Selfridge's two weeks ago you wouldn't have needed to. It was like a who's who of food bloggers up there, with a couple of bona fide journalists thrown in for good measure. Pierre's wife Claire could scarcely believe how many big cameras get taken out to dinner these days. Mind you when she was last front-of-house mobile phones were the improbably bulky preserve of Noel Edmonds (who did he find to talk to?) and the coolest camera going may have looked like this, so perhaps things have moved on a bit...

Anyway, we had excellent quality food, including a fancy take on a prawn cocktail (with lobsters, natch), the famous pig's trotter stuffed with sweetbreads (mainly made famous by Marco Pierre White, but that's not bad as far as tributes go) and a fantastically deep hare creation, which seemed to be a clear winner. I claim the prize for dessert, though, with a sublime pistachio soufflé.

Service was very good, contrary to the experience of several others who went that week. I suspect this had less to do with having a Guardian journalist on our table and more to do with the fact that it had only been open a couple of days. Given that some restaurants spend months or even years perfecting their service it's hardly surprising that one only open for a 21 days in total can have its inconsistencies. And, yes, we did get petit fours (another source of confusion and contention among jealous rivals that week).

Overall, it was a lot of fun. A slightly surreal taste of what three-star restaurant dining might have been like 20-odd years ago but not of three-star dining today, if only because of the random service and the fact that you're dining in a tent. But certainly a fun night out, especially with the addition of a few cocktails at Claridge's afterwards.

At £75 for three courses it's a fair whack, but the fact that it's Koffman at the helm means this is a very rare opportunity and, in my book at least, it definitely also qualified as a treat.

If you want to sample this for yourself I have a lunch for two booked on Friday (30 Oct) and I'm not going to be able to make it. Leave a comment with an email address (I won't publish it) and I'll let you have the details.

The Sportsman – Local hero

 
It isn't the fact that they churn their own butter and cure their own ham that makes The Sportsman such a treat. They do, as it happens, and they do so very well, the butter balancing natural milky lusciousness with the tangy pinch of salt from the local marshes, and the ham dense and - there's no other word for it - rustic. But, while welcome and pretty rare, such self sufficiencies can't be the reason this Seasalter pub is such a foodie Mecca.

It's also not down to the rest of the sourcing policy, which sees most of the ingredients passing through Stephen Harris's kitchen coming from the pub's own veg patch, one or two local farms and the surrounding sea. Laudable, once again, for sure, but hardly unusual: no dining establishment worth its locally-sourced organic salt composes its menu without some sort of back story these days. That alone wouldn't make it worth the trip (quite a trip, in my case).

It's not even the quality of the cooking, that makes The Sportsman stand out, excellent though it is. The good folk at Michelin certainly think so, having awarded it a star in this year's guide. But again, that alone doesn't make The Sportsman stand out.

The fact is that the cooking and the attention to local and seasonal detail would be rightly praised anywhere. What makes The Sportsman such a special place is that it remains a pub. I can't believe there are many other Michelin-starred kitchens operating in such relaxed, convivial establishments; where one man and his dog are still welcome at the bar for a pint and a chat; where walkers stop off for refreshment and Walkers deliver crisps during service; where pubby sensibilities keep the wine mark-ups at criminally low levels and a multi-course tasting menu will set you back just £55. If there are other places like this on Michelin's map I need to find them.

Frankly, after the journey I had from South East London The Sportsman was going to have to deliver. We'd been advised to take a noon booking to get the most out of a leisurely lunch, which for me meant getting a train to Victoria at about 9am to join the rest of the party. Getting up itself was something of a challenge after one too many Corpse Revivers in Callooh Callay the night before, but I was nothing if not determined and hauled my slightly shaky soul to the platforim just in time. There then followed a catalogue of disasters too complex to go into right now involving ticket inspectors and train failures, low phone batteries and scary minicabs, after which I met my co-lunchers at Bromley South, £30 poorer but – bizarrely – on the right train. An hour and a half and another cab later we were deposited outside the Sportsman. I was in serious need of a bloody Mary.

And a fine BM it was too, not least because I got to administer the spices myself, a lengthy procedure that drew worried gasps from the bar-staff but which I knew was the only answer. Reader, I rallied then.

First up on our multi-course journey were new-season natives with crunchy disks of chorizo. These were a proper test of my recovery and one that I'm happy to say I took in my stride. Stephen was almost apologetic that these weren't as local as he'd have liked (I forget where they came from but it wasn't far) but he needn't have worried. Briny, creamy and silky, with welcome additional flavour and texture from the sausage. Lovely.

These were followed by a duo of additional treats: delicately thin pork scratchings that yielded beautifully in the mouth after an initial thrilling crunch and squares of pickled herring and gooseberry jelly on rye bread.

Next up, more oysters, this time delicately poached with gooseberry granita and Jersey cream. Wrong on so many different levels but a triumph in practice. One of my favourites.

An array of homemade bread appeared from nowhere, a thinly veiled excuse to sample that excellent butter. The bread was also great in its own right.

And then this beautiful slipsole in seaweed butter materialised in front of us. An absolute winner of a dish, stupidly simple but simply perfect, the flesh reluctantly yielding from the bones and melting in the mouth with more of that butter. Fabulous.

Crab risotto delivered on just about every level: intense bisquey flavour from the stock, perfect rice, exactly the right sized portions and a beautiful presentation that made excellent use of the white and dark meat. For many around the table – and it's hard to argue – this was the dish of the day.

Another contender followed, though, this time plump fillets from a turbot, landed the previous day, on a bed of wilted greens with an inky sauce based on (I think) smoked herring roe.

The rustic ham (I think this may have arrived before the turbot, but who's counting?). Not the most refined ham you'll ever taste but excellent use of the one bit of the pig – the legs – that Stephen was struggling to make best use of. Chewy, salty and very moreish.

As a little extra treat Stephen brought us out some breast of lamb Ste Menehould. This is something I've been meaning to make for myself so I know how much effort is involved. As Stephen himself predicted, it didn't meet with universal approval around the table but that was fine my me: I couldn't get enough of it!

The final savoury course was a duo of saltmarsh lamb: a cube of fabulously unctuous shoulder, with lovely papery skin, and a prettily pink chop. The runner beans they were resting on were sensational. Not something you often hear about the humble runner. Certainly not from me, anyway.

First up on the pudding trail was a blackberry sorbet lolly in a little cup of cake milk, which for the uninitiated is milk. Flavoured with cake. Good start.

The biggest of the desserts was also the least successful dish overall, both in its slightly overwrought construction and the in the texture of the main focus, a rather grainy apple parfait that had probably been over-chilled. Hints of salted caramel were good though.

Finally a glorious parade of goodies to finish: a rhubarb sorbet, a gooey chocolate and salted caramel mousse, a lemon and raspberry tart, a sugared plum and a cube of sponge cake doused in walnut liqueur. A lot of fun, and great way to finish.

After all that and a cheeky coffee we looked up to discover that a (very) good four and a half hours had passed. Fortunately that meant the tide had gone out and we could spend the next couple clambering over the dozens of groynes that keep the beach between Seasalter and Whitstable in check.

If anyone is daunted by the prospect of this testing trek after such a fine feast I can reassure you that there is another pub at the end of it where a fine pint of Harvey's will see you right. It's not as good as the pub at the start of the walk. mind. But then not many are.

The Sportsman, Faversham Road, Seasalter, Whitstable, Kent CT5 4BP 01227 273370

Julie and Julia – foodies on film

An early evening visit on Saturday to the very civilised Greenwich Picture House – "Will you be taking your drinks into the film with you...?" – on Saturday to see Julie and Julia, the biopic cum romcom about US cookery legend Julia Child and the homage New Yorker Julie Powell paid her in the shape of a year-long blog back in 2002/3. In the Julie/Julia Project Powell had the slightly bonkers plan to work and blog her way through all 536 recipes in Child's seminal Mastering the Art of French Cooking in just twelve months. As someone who recently went four or five months between blog posts, I have to admire her dedication.

A few weeks ago I read the book of the blog, and enjoyed it. Naturally, the thought of someone finding fame and fortune from a food blog appealed, but what interested me more was the nature of the project itself. Ploughing through a hefty collection of recipes and describing what worked and what didn't; which ingredients were hard to find and which common ones got put to use in new ways; which new techniques were to become part of the regular kitchen repertoire and which would be dropped as soon as the relevant chapter was completed (aspics, mainly)... there was something heroic in the enterprise and something engaging in her personality and style. I maybe found it a little repetitive in the descriptions of various white-out episodes, and I thought it a little disingenuous to gloss over the fact that at some point the project clearly morphed from blog to book-deal, but there was enough foodie detail to keep me interested. I was keen to see how it would translate to the big screen.

The opening credits neatly capture the fact that Julie and Julia is "based on two true stories" and this is the first major difference. While Powell's book featured a few snippets from letters Julia Child and her husband Paul wrote back to the States from various slightly shady diplomatic postings in Europe and Asia, the film devotes at least half its narrative to Julia's journey from frustrated expat wife to a household name (in the US at least). And it does so very successfully too: Meryl Streep is fantastic as Julia Child, and clearly had an absolute hoot playing her, capturing the extraordinary voice and mannerisms pretty much perfectly (I had to check this on YouTube, not having been exposed to any of the original television programmes before). And you can't blame Nora Ephron for making such an effort on the Julia half of the project: it is after all, a great story, what with its glamorous Parisian backdrops and the slightly quirky way the great book seems to have come into being.

The modern-day New York story had very little of the glamour, especially as it oscillated between a scruffy apartment in Queens and a Downtown Manhattan still metaphorically smouldering after September 11, but it had the potential to be just as successful as a story. Unfortunately, it felt a bit as though those making the film cared a lot more for Julia than they did for Julie, painting the blogger's tale with far less colour and characterisation. In the book, for instance, (and presumably the blog), Julie's husband Eric is ever-present in the background, and while we don't get a lot of him personally, we learn enough from the part he plays in any number of escapades to understand why she thinks him a saint (the patron saint of washing up and gimlet making, presumably). In the film, however, Eric is a dweeb who suddenly throws a wobbly when Julie lets her obsession get the better of her. And just as suddenly forgets all about it. A pity.

And there's not enough cooking in the film for my taste, either. There are some good bits about the amount of butter used in French cooking, some entertaining squeamishness at the thought of boiling live lobsters and the famous boeuf bourguignon episode that proves slow cooking and vodka aren't necessarily the wisest combination. But we got next to nothing of the aspic fun, for instance, and Julie apparently managed to debone an entire duck (perhaps the most daunting episode in the entire book) with a single incision. These were frustrating omissions for someone who was mainly there for the food.

Of course I understand that this is not a feature length Nigella food porn adventure, and there's only so much room for such details, especially when you've hit on the brilliant wheeze of telling such a great second story alongside (drawing parallels with house moves, jobs, publishing ventures, dinner parties and so son). But when you think of some of the stuff that was artificially and pointlessly added in to the New York narrative (an entire set of characters seems to have been invented purely to draw a spurious additional parallel with Sex and the City) it seems a shame not to make the foodie element work a bit harder.

But then maybe that's the problem. I'm considering this film from so many different viewpoints – foodie, blogger, blog-reader, book-fan, frustrated writer – that the good old-fashioned filmgoer in me is struggling to see the wood for the trees. I'll do my best... With my most convincing objective hat on, I can recommend this as a light and yet moderately fulfilling film with enough foodie stuff and historical fact to lift it beyond a blah romcom, a few laugh-out-loud moments (although not as many as the lady a few seats along from us seemed to think) and an electric performance from Meryl Streep and her inner Child. The latter alone is reason enough to go.

Afterwards is was back next door to the Rivington Greenwich for welsh rarebit, sardines, steak, chips and a couple of bottles of wine. Lovely.