Is Food the New Music?

HMV employees tweeting about their impending departure yesterday actually shut down Twitter, for about an hour, such was the outrage of the people of Twitter. It's a truly sad day for them, as finding a job is scary for anyone. And especially when you're in the music industry. But the funny thing is though, most of them probably don't even buy music. 

Truth is, we all know that the music industry is dying. People don't buy music. They might use Spotify, they might illegally download or they just might not be that bothered about music any more. HMV died not because of a bad business model or any greedy corporate nastiness. It died because kids don't buy music anymore.

Alex James crossed the line from
music to food. 

What they are spending money on though, is food. Talking to various people and most agree, those in their thirties & forties wouldn't have dreamed of going out to dinner in their teens or early twenties apart from a special occasion or date. But most would have budgeted for an album or two per week. Now twenty-somethings, (as the Daily Telegraph's 'gastronaut' article pointed out) me included are dining out 3-4 times a week without thinking about it. But buying music? I've not bought an album in six months. Even the word 'album' seems rather quaint now, like something my mum would say.

This age group used to spend all their money on music. Gig tickets, CDs, t-shirts, were what disposable income used to be splurged on. Now, the younger generation think nothing of spending £70 in one sitting, for a regular meal in a dingy basement and it's not even a special occasion. 

I went to a party the other week and ended up having a long conversation about not clubs, bands or festivals, but which restaurants we'd been to. It became like a competition of who was cooler. 'Haven't been to John Salt yet under the new chef? Christ.' 'Well, I got a table at Dabbous.' Not film, or music, or anything that young people used to talk about. 

Food is becoming the new music. You can no longer remember the names of all the members of The Strokes but you can name all of the head chefs of the Polpo group. 

Calling oneself a foodie now seems to be the norm, almost as normal as saying that you like music. Before, you the foodie were the one all your friends went to for restaurant recommendations, the coolest and newest places. Now, you get a text from your mate saying 'I've just heard about this place called Pitt Cue Co's [sic]. Let's go there!' People are no longer excited about being the first to own the new Foals album, they're too busy buying tickets to Tom Oldroyd's (Head Chef of the Polpo group) pop-up at The Thatched (which sold out in 9 minutes, give or take a few held tickets). 

It's sometimes difficult to tell what's a cool gig and what's a restaurant. The chefs have loyal groupies who follow them from pop-up to pop-up, the wait staff have tattoos, there are queues around the block to rival those of what you'd expect to get into a Muse gig and there are those who the newly enlightened can only wish to be - the bloggers (the new equivalent of NME writers). Dishes are hit singles, menus are albums.

And it's not just a niche group of hard-core foodies any more. Now you really just need to follow the right people on Twitter or read Time Out and you can know all of the new openings and gossip, without having a lot of background knowledge. And more and more celebrities are tweeting about, and being spotted at, the new cool places, making it even easier to discern which are the cooler places.

Where will this go? Will people jump ship? A photographer friend of mine at EMI has been talking about food 'being the new rock n roll' for ages now, he'd  get into restaurant work in a flash if he had the balls. 

The good news is, there is no real 'digital threat'. You can't download food or pirate it, so if anything, food culture benefits from rather than fears the internet.

I predict food festivals equaling music festivals in a few years, chef residencies being as in demand as DJs were in the 90s. Dishes will develop into cult 'done it/ not done it yet' statuses.

Where young people were staying out all night at gigs, they'll now spend them in a more civilised manner: sharing small plates and discussing the generation's burning question: burger or lobster?

Restaurant Monopoly

New edition of Monopoly: The Restaurant edition.
The rules are the same, with a few minor differences.

Click the board to enlarge.

Chance cards:
No queue at MEATLiquor. Move straight to go!
You're in Soho and everywhere is no reservations. You're starving and everywhere has a 3 hour wait. Go back 5 spaces.
You are recognised as a blogger and receive a free meal. Collect £70 for what you saved.

Community Chest cards:
You cancel a booking within 24 hours and lose your deposit - £50.
You are told to switch your camera flash off in a restaurant. SHAME. Pay the restaurant £10.
You have a public argument with a chef on Twitter. Put £30 in Free Parking.

Small-Plate Trickery: Ceviche & Spuntino

If you look at the etymology of "prestigious", it refers to the end of a magician's act. The moment of prestige is where the final trickery happens, an illusion. The audience leaves amazed, satisfied by their performance.

In more recent times, the word prestigious has come to mean something that is well-respected, exclusive, top of its game.

Most would argue the new breed of small-plate restaurants in Soho are the antithesis of 'prestigious', democratising eating out and rejecting the stiff formalities of
fine-dining.

I've been to a couple of places recently which have made me question this slightly.

The main problem with small plate restaurants is that often I don't know how full I feel or how much I'll pay until the end of the meal. 

Deep-fried olives & deep-fried aubergine
with fennel yoghurt

They're not somewhere you can casually go for a couple of dishes and get away with change for twenty quid in your pocket. Well, maybe if you literally had two dishes and nothing else. But that's not what I want to do. I don't want to go for dinner somewhere and leave hungry, and I'm not insanely extravagant but I don't like having to hold back on ordering - I see something I like, it'd be nice to say, yeah, I'll take that, and not have to do a mental calculation to see if I'll have to eat beans for the rest of the week.

If I go to a restaurant that does a set amount of courses, it's much easier to keep track of where you're up to. The starter and main course may be a bit more expensive than a 'small plate' restaurant but it is a fixed rate - you wouldn't constantly add to it, and the service is dictated to you by the wait staff, and they know much better than you what is going on.

More importantly, you don't have to play 'chef'. What goes with what? If you order the wrong combination of dishes, you could potentially end up feeling overly full and with dishes left over, or you could go the other way and end up feeling very hungry - you may think you ordered a prawn dish with say four-five prawns but what you in fact ordered was one prawn. Which conveniently, the menu doesn't state. Which means you just paid six quid for one prawn. And you didn't ask so you can't complain. Shit.

Maybe small plate restaurants should have guides to exactly how small their plates are. But of course, that wouldn't be in their best interests. It's in their best interests to recommend two or three more plates than you need and it's not their problem if you don't finish it because YOU ordered them and besides, they were just a guideline.

But despite that, I keep going to these small-plated establishments, because I get bored easily and I like trying lots of different things and I like sharing food, because it's nice to experience a flavour with someone else. Recently I have visited Spuntino and Ceviche and had a great time.

Pulled pork slider

Spuntino is so… Soho - it's New York-inspired, exposed lightbulbs and brickwork and it serves 'comfort food', possibly at a huge mark-up (which is another thing that doesn't really occur to me normally - what are you really getting for your money?), but I do like it. I visited the other day for lunch.

Figs on French toast

I arrived early and attempted conversation - 'So, are you busy on a Monday?' The hip, good-looking waiter shrugged and looked around the empty restaurant, and laughed. I didn't attempt again, for fear of other stupid things that would leave my mouth. I was offered tap water straight away, which I love in a restaurant (I HATE being made to feel small because I haven't ordered expensive mineral water). We dithered over what to order (you know what else small plate restaurants aren't great for? If your friend decides they're 'not really that hungry' and aren't hugely keen on a large part of the menu) but made a decent selection - the wonderful stuffed olives, the aubergine chips dipped in fennel yoghurt (even though they insist they're eggplant) which are canon examples of 'comfort food' last year, but I'm loath to admit that I can't get enough of them. Also the token healthy 'beetroot and creamy cheese salad' which was well, a beetroot and feta salad, really. And of course the 'it' girl of 2012, the slider. Pulled pork, no less - which was delicious but I'm not sure I understand the rule of sliders - this appeared to be some pulled pork between some bread. But what do I know, eh? And to finish, I struggled with figs on French toast - rich and sweet, but too rich and sweet for me to finish on my own (another peril of dining with the unwilling).

Whilst I was paying (for a lunch with a companion who that day, had the appetite of a sparrow, was about £50), I noticed that they were selling Spuntino t-shirts for twenty quid, just a few quid less than the retail price of Russell Norman's book, Polpo…. Bargain! But not being the target audience for that, it's perhaps unfair of me to comment on their price.

Pisco sour

By contrast, Ceviche was quite a different small-plate experience. We weren't dining at the bar, but in a mostly empty restaurant, at lunchtime. Well, it was about 2pm. Oddly, they put us in a table in the middle of the restaurant, in just the place that if I moved my elbows an inch, I'd jab the waiters and have to apologise profusely, even though we were in exceptionally close proximity.

I'd been loath to come there because I'd heard it was quite expensive but I was feeling rash. And looking at the menu, it didn't seem that bad. Wow! Everything is six pounds! Look at that thing! It's five pounds! And so on. It's easy to get lulled into a false sense of security with these things because everything seems to cost so little. But factor in a picso sour (£6-£8), a coffee, dessert, and all the other little things, and it's not so cheap. But it feels strangely liberating not to think about the bill at the end. It means that you don't have to worry that you won't feel hungry or go over your budget but it also means you could end up spending a lot of money. And it isn't an option usually, as well, I'm not made of money.

Service was, well, nothing special. They were nice, and they brought our food, but that was about it. That's really where bar dining differs - they can't really ignore you! Although, in a good restaurant, if you need something, they should know, like a good parent to a small baby. Or at least, a cursory glance every few minutes.

Coley & potato cake, mixed ceviche &
scallop ceviche

The food was much more inspiring than the empty room - which was admittedly, our fault for dining at a relatively antisocial time.

To start, pisco sours. Then, delicate sliced-up scallop ceviche, mixed ceviche containing what looked like large white pieces of sweetcorn which didn't really taste of a lot, and olives which came 'quirkily' in an old-fashioned sardine tin (but nothing to spit them in, mind). There was cooly, avocado and ginger sandwiched between a potato cake, which was drizzled with what looked like marie rose sauce, topped with a single olive. It even tasted like the 70s. I loved it. We also went for a couple of skewers - the beef heart version which were surprisingly well… beef tasting. Then I remembered that heart is also a muscle - how different could they actually taste? This dish saw the reappearance of the weird white sweetcorn, this time lightly fried… tasting like half-popped, buttery popcorn. Well played, Ceviche. Then, the 'pulpo' skewers: octopus alternated with hunks of chorizo and served on a bed of  creamed quinoa - a whole tenner for two skewers. It wasn't the tastiest octopus I've ever had but it was pleasant. 

Was it worth ten pounds? I'm not sure. I skipped dessert, none of them appealing to me - well, you can't have everything. The bill came to about £75 for two of us, for lunch. I was full, having about 5 plates. If we'd have gone for 8 plates like the waiter had recommended, I'd have been stuffed - as a rule of thumb, always order one plate less per person than the waiter recommends - you can always order more but you can't send food back. 

I really liked Ceviche. But it is very expensive, in parts. Spuntino is, too, but it's easier to fill up at Spuntino, with the carby, comforting dishes as opposed to sparse plates of raw fish - but what did you expect? I imagine Ceviche's atmosphere is buzzy when busy, but Spuntino's layout is one that you feel like one of the lucky ones, with the few seats around the bar and limited seating at the back filling up quickly. Spuntino is no bookings, Ceviche takes bookings. They're both still en vogue right now, but for different reasons. If you're not on a budget and you don't have to worry about money in a major way, go. Just bear in mind one thing: You will feel as if you have been very cleverly tricked by a sleight of hand magician into parting with slightly more money than you had intended to. Not because you can't read prices or because you've been overcharged, but because they are very good at what they do. Well, like a great magician's act, you may have been fleeced, but you'll feel like you've been fleeced stylishly.

Ceviche
www.cevicheuk.com
17 Frith Street, Soho, London, W1D 4RG




Spuntino
www.spuntino.co.uk
61 Rupert Street, Soho, London, W1D 7PW

 

Who wants yesterday's papers? John Salt January 13 Review

As we review chefs these days, not restaurants, and this 'restaurant' being the notorious John Salt, I thought I'd actually get a write-up in of this place before leaving it to the heavyweights, who are so slow and fogeyish and Victorian in their olde-worlde printed press, they probably still file their copy by carrier pidgeon before waiting a few weeks in The Punch Tavern on Fleet Street for the print unions to decide whether to even bother arranging the hot metal letters and printing a story at all.. And by that time, whatever it was they were writing about was no longer news, but yawningly out-of-date comment that simply underlines their destiny to the vaults of antiquity.

I happen to be so hip, I get invited before the bloggers, so stick that in your DSLR (which I wish I had, cos my pics are crap). 

I'm so early they are still working things out. Hell, the food isn't even ready yet.

Anyway, there I was at the table, ready to sample what Mr Neil Rankin and his sous-chef pal Luke Finlay (you heard it here first) are doing at DJ Jon Carter's (catch the name drop) Upper Street Bub. Par. Bar/pub. What is it that makes a bar a bar, and a pub a pub again?

I won't hang about, as you all know what the place is all about, as it's been reviewed countless times already. Anyway here we go:

1. Potted Jowl with toast. Tasty, teeny bit under-seasoned but I loved it with the little red onions and chillies it came with.

Jowl

2. Burnt leeks, shiitake, Parmesan & truffle vinaigrette. I loved this, couldn't really taste the truffle though.

Leeks

3. Raw beef, pear, sesame, oyster. Best starter on the table I think, bit of a kick, really tasty.

Beef

4. Baked crab with bisque butter. It might be just me but I found it overly smokey and charred, and I have a personal aversion to baked shell smell. Others who don't care about this will not mind. Please supply some flesh picking implements though!

5. Skirt steak. Good, very rare, but if you eat steak that isn't rare you're a wet blanket anyway.

6. Green chilli poussin. Very tasty indeed, pre-cooked and then deep fried, it tasted to me like a Pizza Express American Hot. I mean REALLY like that. And that's not a bad thing, I absolutely love PE American Hots. Who doesn't?

7. Frites (love the use of French here) with pulled pork, kimchi and cheese or beef dripping. We had both kinds, all very good. I'm not expert on fries, someone at the table said they were like BK fries. Again, not a bad thing.

So that's it. Lots of other bloggers with far better food insight than me (and better cameras) will no doubt tell you much more long winded and elaborate stories, but hell, I'm attempting to get you the info in time for you to actually go and try for yourself, as it'll probably close by tomorrow lunchtime.

N.B. Editors of national newspapers, maybe consult me before sending out the old geriatrics next time, eh?

P.S. Hot off the press, this lot will in a few month's time taking over the kitchens at The Owl & The Pussycat in Redchurch street.

NOTE: I paid for my meal. I got 50% f&f discount.

 

London Food Trend Predictions of 2013

Well, what a year 2012 was. Foodies are now hip, restaurants are the new clubs. Chefs are the new DJs. Well don't get left behind FFS. Learn what's going to be lean & mean in '13.

From ilovednewyork.com

1. Tatoodies

Tattooed foodies. You're not a true tatoodie-dudey-foodster-hipster unless you have your favourite chef's tats recreated faithfully.  Make sure you roll up your sleeves to show off your 'Ben's jigsaw puzzle' at the chef's table. Bonus points for adding a depiction of their signature dish.

2. Popsicles

Ice pops really, but better use the American word cos it's cooler. Think Katy Perry/Miley Cirus California meets 70s retro Britain. Served in plastic Mr Freeze packets. To be eaten wearing yellow towelling shorts whilst on roller skates. Up-to-date flavours though, possible Whisky Sour & Negroni versions (Pisco is soo 2012).

3. Stinky rotten tinned fish

Think you're daring eating ants? Scandinavia hasn't unleashed its best kept secret yet. Thought pickled herrings were just for your old Swedish grandpa to eat to remind him of the good old times? Think again. 

4. Copycats

New restaurants will copy more successful ones. WHO KNEW?!

5. Flavour behaviour

Smoking, pickling, curing… Anything we can do to make it taste unlike what it already was.

6. Nano-foraging

It's long been the MAD rumour that the real flavour in foraged ingredients is in the tiny little elements. Leaf stem hairs, follicles, veins. The possibilities are endless. Apparently golf courses have had to erect fences to keep roving chefs from picking the highly prized sweet and fine 'putting green grass'.

I've heard from a very reliable source there is at least one Danish chef with plans to open a UK based temple to tweezer collecting. Possible name: 'The Moss Cottage'?

7. Cress

The ironic retro mini-garnish that's long overdue a revival. Along with it, egg mayonnaise will see a massive surge in popularity. See also, the humble prawn cocktail and chicken kiev.

8.Vegetables

2013's more groundbreaking trend. Of course! The reaction to the meat obsession. As we all know, London chefs have yet to learn how to cook vegetables. Simple instruction manuals are being devised by farmers about what to do with these these oddities of nature. 

9. Popcorn

I envisage entire restaurants based around popcorn. Huge places, dark, with various dining rooms, possibly showing movies. Serving slush puppies, natch. 

10. Marbles

Miniature sliders, smaller and more collectable than the current ones (and who would be seen dead ordering them now?). Much more elaborate ingredient variations, vivid colours. The name comes from both the shape and the trading of different rare offerings. Savoury macaroons, or if you will - 'filtharoons'. New York's been on these for months now.

Rapha: The Cafe for the 2012 Mid-Life Crisis

Once upon a time, men having a mid-life crisis would buy penis extensions - sports cars and motorbikes, firing up the A1 wearing a leather jacket, listening to 'Born to be Wild' and cursing the fact they didn't get to shag more girls in their twenties.

Now however, things are different. What with it being the 21st century and all, with middle aged men routinely doing such things as changing nappies, cooking at home and using moisturiser, they buy bicycles.

Not just any bicycles though, bikes made of such things as carbon fibre that cost more than their child's university fees. These are the new (lightweight) penis extensions of 2012. Stiffness is paramount apparently, as is lots of gears for smooth transmission of power (good in an older man), and hardness (even better) in the tyres. 

To ride on these bikes, they need special 'kit' of course, made of very expensive merino wool (presumably the bits leftover from what China doesn't want) and 'technical fibres' (?) which carefully blend dour hi-tech seriousness with romantic retro nostalgia. It's the ageing intellectual hipster version of wearing a 1966 England shirt. Think grainy black and white pictures of grizzling old farts riding their bicycles up mountains. Fifty something AA Gill weekend wear.  

Now, in order to buy this they need a brand. No good popping down to Sports Direct and buying some chavvy Adidas kit. No no no, these guys are more used to shopping in Paul Smith. What they need is a brand finely tuned to their refined tastes, something that hides their insecurities and presents them as the taste conscious sexy active man they spent years trying to convince their wives they were before she gave up being sexy herself and started wearing flat shoes. 

Thankfully they have a brand. This brand is Rapha.

Rapha this year opened a little shop in Brewer Street, stocking all the gear a neo-metrosexual, badger-greying, sensitive new old-man bicycling boy could want. Scented bum cream, man-bags, little hats that look like their old public school caps, the lot. And as is the fashion nowadays, they have put in a little cafe. I mean, who can go more than two minutes these days without needing to stop for an artisan coffee?

So, on reading a few blogs and tweets (such as Faerietale Foodie's post and The Perfect Trough's post), and being not far from the apex of SWOHO ('South-west Soho' - yes, I've heard it referred to as that) Quadrant 3, where of course I do all my shopping in Wholefoods with the sprightly Californians buying colon-cleaning kits,  I decided to pop in and see what it was all about.

Well, the staff are very friendly, the owners seem to have read the current 'how to open an urban artisan cafe' (don't worry, my post is coming) checklist, plenty of wacky, carefree girls and gentle beardy menfolk who are keen to help. I asked what was good and had a beef brioche bun thing, which sounded great but turned out to be a brioche (what else?) bun alright, with a tiny smear of some kind of beef stew inside it. It was suggested to be served with ketchup, (which I think may have been Wilkin & Sons, which everyone knows tastes like Heinz that's been left out all night). I was glad of the posh ketchup, as once I'd finished the measly smear of beef gravy I needed something to moisten the bread. A cup of tea helped (I nearly nicked the cool cup and saucer, and at £2.50 I wouldn't have felt guilty). I probably ordered the wrong thing and everyone will tell me I should have had the nice looking focaccia type sandwiches or the 'dunking biscuit' instead, but I was going on recommendation by the staff! 

They are obviously very serious about coffee (as everyone seems to be these days, Australian accent or not) and offer only espresso which for the 'special' at £3 for a single shot is quite a lot in my opinion. I mean, it's only a few coffee beans, isn't it? How expensive are they? And studying the menu, a double is £3.50 (not £6? I don't get that, are we saying it costs £3 to construct it?) and milk is a further 50p, making a cup of coffee potentially £4.

Anyway it's so bourgeois to be moaning about the price. Pah! You can't put a price on quality, integrity, design, location etc right? And no-one who comes into Rapha gives a shit about prices, especially when you've just spent £200 on some paunch-reducing lycra cycling shorts and titanium hair-loss cream.

Food tastiness & value for money 4/10

Coffee seriousness 9/10
Staff quirkiness 8/10
AA Gill's Christmas stocking suitability 9/10

www.rapha.cc
85 Brewer Street, London W1F 9ZN020 7494 9831

The Horror of Being the Only Foodie at Christmas

I received an invitation for a pop-up dinner on 25 December in my home town. It's lucky because I was going home anyway.

The setting is witty take on the 1970's home counties suburban dining room. It's Abigail's Party meets Terry & June. I flick a wry smile at my fellow diner, who looks a bit like my great aunt.

A 1960s Heals sideboard produces matched sets of woven reed table mats and individual coasters.

After declaring 'it's SO nice to get out of London', I realise that when I boast about getting a table at John Salt within a week of it opening, nobody knows or cares what I'm talking about (you understand what I'm dealing with now). So I quickly throw in some celebrities' names to impress.

I'm offered an aperitif by the sommelier, who strangely, appears to be my own father. The Osborne Sherry is brought out, or even worse, Bristol Cream. Sorry, where's the Amontillado? That barrel-aged vintage sherry I had at Pizzaro with mountains of Iberico ham last week? And more importantly, where are the Negronis?!

Then they wheel out the Buck's Fizz. Made with Sainsbury's Cava and smooth orange juice, from a carton. Don't they know I only drink grower Champagne now?

I've been standing around for half an hour and there are some sad looking Crespo olives in a bowl. Is that it? I ask the waitress, sorry, my mum, where the canapes are. My mum looks confused and hastily puts some KP salted peanuts in the bowl - where is the chilli popcorn, the crostinis, the sushi?

We're called to the kitchen. By voice, how vulgar. Where's the bell to call us!? The table layout is a 5/10 at most. The wine glasses have stems, there is no cucumber in the table water, there is no smoked Maldon salt on a minature slate (luckily I brought my pocket sized Maldon, which you can get from the US here).

The table is a fully stretched out draw-leaf mahogany number, it's convivial dining. Very now. Places are laid, I notice Queens pattern cutlery and silver napkin rings. I squeal with delight at the nod to the past 'Just like Hoxton!' I imagine.

Confusingly, the chairs are a matched set of reproduction Sheraton revival . Another ironic red herring I presume..

A Spode Italian sauceboat sits on the table. I can only assume that it will contain some sort of jus.

My mum asks me to stir the gravy. I reckon that'll be huge in 2013, being allowed to help out in the kitchen. It's one step on from the chef's table. Hang on, gravy?! Where's the jus, reduction, glaze?

She brings out the steaming platter of sprouts. And god, they're actually steamed. Not even served with lardo or chorizo.

Speaking of ingredients, where are the truffles in this affair? Not even any truffle oil? Upon asking for truffles, my mother looks troubled and brings out the Lindt (they were supposed to be for after pudding, she stresses).

The cranberry sauce isn't even from Fortnum's - and served straight out of a (not Kilner) jar. On a saucer with a *shudder* doily underneath.

The sous, I mean my dad, after much nagging from the head chef, I mean my mum (no arguments in the open-plan kitchen, please), carves the turkey. On closer inspection, it's not free-range, organic or from my local butcher. They might have got it from a *whisper* supermarket.

The stuffing is pretty basic. The mouth-feel hasn't got anywhere near enough fracturability. I think it's bought. Fuck's sake.

Christmas pudding is ok. Unimaginative serving, and it doesn't appear to be deconstructed in any way. It's taken the pastry chef, I mean my dad, five minutes to light the bloody brandy it's drowned in at the table. You wouldn't get this at Bubbledogs.

Afterwards, I ask to see the list of seasonal teas. 'It's Tetley's or nothing, love', says the waitress. I mean, mum. I take hot water and lemon. Probably safer.

I wait at the piano expectantly. There's probably some kind of after-dinner entertainment.

To my surprise, the rest of the staff, I mean, family, retire to the living room to fall asleep in front of the TV.

I sigh, and listen to Nigel Slater's latest podcast, alone.

3/10

Dos and Don'ts of Ordering Wine

Working as a waitress and going to restaurants, I see both sides of the wine-ordering process. It's tough. Unless you actually know about wine, a list of names doesn't really mean a lot to you so it can be embarrassing. I get that feeling from a lot of people who come into the restaurant I work in. They don't really know a lot so they just sort of blag it, but they just end up looking like knobs. This is a list of things to do and what you definitely shouldn't do when ordering wine!

Image from jacksonvillewineguide.com

On initial viewing of the wine list, don't get your mate to hand the wine list to you and say 'Dave, you choose. You're the wine expert.'. Just because you watched Sideways, you are not a wine expert. Expect the waitress to roll her eyes. A lot.

Don't peruse the list for at least ten minutes, not even pausing to look at the food menu, and you don't need to assert your extensive knowledge of wine by asking the waiter overly niche questions about wine that he probably won't know. There's no need - it just embarrasses all parties and makes you look like a tit.

Don't just choose the second- or third-cheapest bottle of wine, because asking for the house wine is just too cheap. If you want to ask for the house wine, ask for the house wine. A good waiter won't sneer at your choices. 

Don't pretend your eyes aren't sliding to the right hand side of the wine list. It's obvious you're looking at the price and not the wine.

Do give the waiter/sommelier your budget when you ask them to recommend a wine to you.  They won't ask for it otherwise. 

Don't assume sophistication is synonymous with the longest name. And don't try and impress your mates by trying (and possibly failing) to pronounce it in an over-the-top European accent.

Don't pick a word halfway down the wine list and say that instead of what the wine is actually called. For instance, I'll go for the Laungedoc' or 'We'll try the French one, please'. The waitress will only have to say, 'Which French one, Sir?' through gritted teeth. Stop being filled with middle-class embarrassment and order the bloody Chardonnay if you want it. It's not 1999.

You don't need to squint at the tasting notes for a good minute whilst the waiter presents the bottle. When tasting, don't give it a good swill round, sniff and gargle with it, then consider it and wrinkle your nose. You look like a dick.

Instead, do just give it a sniff. You don't need to do all that stuff to tell if it's corked or oxidised. If you don't like the wine, that's your problem. You ordered it. Just make sure you know what you're doing in this instance - if you give it a cursory sniff and say it's ok when it's not, you're stuck drinking the whole bottle of wine. They gave you the opportunity to send it back and now it's yours.

Don't pass it to your mate for a second opinion. If you don't know what you're talking about, why the hell did you order and offer to taste the wine?

Don't address your friends when expressing how pleased you are that you lucked out and chose a nice wine. It's rude.When the waitress comes round to pouring yours, don't mutter 'keep going' if she stops short of what you wanted. It makes you look greedy and it makes her feel silly. Just drink some and top it up when she's not looking.

Do end all stories with '… and we were all very, very drunk', in the style of Rowley Birkin QC. Because it's funny.

J Sheekey Review

I was reading Restaurant Magazine the other day and came across an article on cookbooks. The publishers are churning them out in time for Christmas and quite frankly, I'm a teeny bit bored of them. How many times do I have to read 'My grandmother's secret recipe...'? I'm sure she's a wonderful cook but isn't everyone's grandmother?

What it does point out is you need a USP. Correct. They're all the same. The current fashion is simple subjects, redefined.  But how many more opinions on fish/meat/baking etc can there be?

Cookbooks these days fall into three camps:

• Romantic, rustic and full of background
• Egotistical chefs' masturbation manuals
• Design-led coffee table lifestyle ornaments.

Great of course that the Watersones book of 2012 was Polpo, but sad really that it won because of the spine design, praising its tactility and reliance to the threat of digital downloads. None of the judges actually mentioned the recipes inside.

I think what we need is something different, something that's not been done before. When was the last time you bought a cookbook and actually really used it?

The books listed in this article were Nathan Outlaw (another book about fish), The Square, Faviken (described as a coffee book table - says it all. It looks beautiful though), Space Trip and J Sheekey. J Sheekey won't win any awards for originality - it's a classic fish restaurant that's put out a cookbook about classic fish cooking. But it reminded me, and that's what a restaurant cookbook's partly about. That's why I decided to go there yesterday.

I had a great time and I think one of the reasons was is that it's been around for such a long time, no-one's trying to be cool or innovative. It's old-school, traditional and it's been there for yonks. And looking around, it's full of first dates and senior citizens. There was a ridiculously posh table nearby which we observed with glee as they got more sloshed.

Oysters

Things I liked:

• The oysters and their gorgeous, tangy shallot vinegar (£14.25 for 6). I could eat hundreds of them but I won't because then they wouldn't be special (and I'm not a millionaire). There was some nice rye bread served with it. I wasn't really sure when I was supposed to eat it so I used it as a kind of palate cleanser.
• Their shrimp and scallop burger. Ordered purely for how-does-that-work factor. It was delicious and it was a bit different. Couldn't finish it because it was quite rich. But I would eat that again.
• They overheard it was my friend's birthday and piped 'happy birthday' on her dessert plate. It was a nice touch.
• The Spotted Dick (snigger). It was great comfort food. I'm a big fan of steamed puddings. Can someone bring them back, please?
• When they said that they hoped to see me for my next birthday, I felt like they really meant it (it's nice to feel that they're not just going through the motions).
• Gravlax. It's cured salmon, but it was great nonetheless.

Scallop & Shrimp Burger

Things I didn't like:

• Initial shambles at reception. They've been doing this for years - haven't they got a better system?
• Squid was chewy and it didn't taste of much except the charred pepper (a pet hate of mine) so I had to slather on quite a lot of the sauce. I know squid is often chewy, but I expected better from a fish restaurant.
• The iced berries. I mean, it was nice, and the chocolate sauce was lovely, but it reminded me of the frozen mixed berries my mum used to get from Iceland to put into a crumble. Not a dessert.
• As the room filled up (and we drank more wine), the room got warmer, but initially, the room  was chilly.

J Sheekey

www.j-sheekey.co.uk

28-35 St Martin's Court  London WC2N 4AL

020 7240 2565

 

Top Ten Cult Movie Food Scenes

This may have been done before, I know, but I love films and wanted to make a connection between films and cooking without the obvious choices.

There are of course the old classics that everyone will bring up. Big Night, Delicatessen, Chocolat etc, but they are more about food, and with the exception of Ratatouille, I think my list is hopefully more interesting because the films have different subjects. So here is my list of top ten Cult Movie Food Scenes.

10. Sexy Beast - Calamari

A tricky toss-up between this and the incredibly intense breakfast at the 'Grosvenor' with Ian McShane. Two sun-dried retired expat crooks and their wives meet in a southern Spain restaurant. The atmosphere is fraught. A mysterious phone call has been taken. Don Logan, the most feared, psychotic London villain they've ever met (played by Ben Kingsley) has summoned Gal (Ray Winstone) to do that one last job. And he's coming to ask him in person.

"I'm gonna 'ave the calamari" Says Gal. Nervous doesn't even come close (No YouTube embed available for this one).

                                                                                                                   

                                                        

9. Ratatouille - Goats' cheese & mushroom smoked on the chimney

OK, so this film is about cooking, but it's so stunningly well done I couldn't possibly leave it out. There are too many scenes to mention, but the best for me is the slow cooking of the goat's cheese with the mushroom, using the chimney for smokey heat. The way they visually describe the combinations of flavours using fireworks - Fabulous.

8. Blues Brothers - Dry White Toast, Four Fried Chickens & a Coke

Is there a cooler duo in the history of cinema? Er, no, basically. When Dan Ackroyd and John Belushi are on their 'Mission from God' their diner order of 'four fried chickens and a coke, and some dry white toast' is recognised instantly by long-lost band member Murphy. Queue Aretha Franklin's super on-screen performance of 'Respect'. Great stuff.

7. Twin Peaks - Coffee & Cherry Pie 
Technically a TV series, this ultra-weird David Lynch spooky dreamy whodunitt-athon featured Kyle Maclachan almost every single episode ordering coffee and cherry pie in the local diner as he picked his way throughout possibly the strangest and longest murder mystery ever to be put on film. 'Damn good coffee.'

6. Lady & the Tramp - Spaghetti 

The most romantic food scene ever made in my opinion. How can you GET more romantic than a back street behind a trattoria, with the owner making you a little table, gingham cloth, breadsticks, candlelight, eating spaghetti from the same plate, and finding yourselves eating the same piece, your faces slowly brought together? 10/10.

5. Ripley's Game - Truffle Pasta
More Ray Winstone, sorry. He's one of my favourite actors, maybe a little typecast, but which great actor isn't?

Here, he plays yet another thug, and in this scene he awaits a meeting in a Northern Italian restaurant, where a waiter shaves fresh truffle onto his pasta. The waiter stops, and Winstone continues to greedily and aggressively demand more and more, while we get more and more toe-curlingly uncomfortable. A great movie. Other great food scenes include the flicking of the egg yolk on John Malcovich's sofa.

4. Spinal Tap - Dressing Room
The legendary 1980s Heavy Metal spoof hilariously nails almost every cliché known to Rock, but the dressing room canapé scene delightfully mocks precious prima donnas brilliantly. The folding of the ham, the mini breads, the olives (some stuffed, some not), and the enthusiasm for tinned tuna - 'no bones!'. Brilliant stuff.

3. Goodfellas - Prison Scene
Was a difficult one, as Goodfellas also features such other classics as the dinner at Joe Pesci's Mother's house, and also the great paranoid 'stirring the sauce' Ray Liotta scene. But for me it is when all the mob are in prison, and their passion for cooking, technique and ingredients is hilariously brought to the fore. I particularly enjoy the slicing of the garlic with a razor blade.

2. Pulp Fiction - Big Kahuna Burger
Again, quite easily could have gone for John Travolta and the Five Dollar Shake, or the 'Royale with Cheese' car conversation, but this does it for me.

'Hamburgers! The cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast' - Samuel L Jackson quite possibly unwittingly sowed the seed for the current new-found fascination with burgers back in 1994 when he demanded some of his victim's 'Big Kahuna Burger' breakfast. I'd like to know if anyone can claim to eating a burger in the last 15 years without at least once saying 'Um-hmmm! This IS a tasty burger!'

1. Withnail & I - Sunday Lunch
The roast chicken on a brick (eat your heart out Hix and the rest of the current chef ponces) the day before should really steal this, but for pure joy, the simple pleasure of sunday roast with the hilarious, gradually increasing sexual innuendo of Uncle Monty, and the likewise increasing fear of Paul McGann as they prepare and eat lunch, this scene has to be No. 1.