Tuesday, 26 May 2015

Tom went skiing and got published too!

Photo courtesy of Ryan Davison Crisp

You might recall from a pancake related post last year that I spent a couple of days cat-skiing in the Canadian backcountry. Well after a bit of graft I managed to get a write-up of that trip in the UK's number one ski magazine - Fall Line.

As you might be able to tell from the photo above, I had a great time, so would recommend you click on the link here to read all about it.

p.s. I just got back from a very enjoyable week in New York. Inevitably, this involved a lot of eating and drinking, which I will try to write up on the blog at some point. As a taster, here's a shot of some potatoes at fashionable East Village eatery, Contra.




Thursday, 14 May 2015

Restaurant review: Galvin Bistrot de Luxe

Salmon tartare with potato gazpacho

New Year, new job, and it looks like I have finally joined the international jet set. I write this sitting in hotel room in Frankfurt, having flown in yesterday to do a 20 minute presentation, before I fly out again in a couple of hours. Mind you, I haven’t actually left the hotel yet, so can’t tell you anything about Germany’s financial powerhouse, beyond the number of tall and slightly ugly buildings.

That’s a long-winded way of saying that I've spent quite a lot of time on a plane so far this year.  Today’s flight will be my 13th (yikes) since January, and with a trip to Prague this weekend and another to New York on Monday, I will be on 16 before the week is out.

With all this time in airports and planes to kill, I have become a serial downloader from the BBC Iplayer. Why do anything useful with your free time when you can stare blankly at a screen? Imagine my delight, therefore, when I was browsing the other day and found all seven episodes of Floyd on France waiting for me.

Jesus Christ, just watching the effervescent Floyd puts pretty much every other gimpy, celebrity chef who appears on the box these days in the shade. That famous scene where the bow-tied Floyd gets a verbal shellacking from a stern Basquaise madame for his substandard piperade (“les poivrons sont cru! Il n y a pas de sel, pas de poivre…”) is worth the licence fee alone!

Great television it might be, but Floyd’s food now looks terribly old-fashioned next to our modern tastes. All escalope de veau a la sauce moutarde and lapin aux pruneaux, it doesn't sit well with the current foodie zeitgeist of Southern BBQ meets Taiwanese street food (yes I have been to Bao by the way) via a portion of kimchi and a kale and sweet potato falafel.

Hang that though, because actually I don’t give a toss, and love classic French food. Given me a carré d’agneau avec pommes dauphinoise any day over a steamed pork bun. (Well, maybe not every day, or it’s farewell to my 32in waistline, but definitely any day).

There are plenty of places in London to find great examples of this type of food (alas my fave the Green and French Horn just closed) and Galvin Bistrot de Luxe is surely one of them. Run by the talented Galvin brothers, it is a platonic ideal of a classic French bistro on a particularly boring stretch of Baker Street (FYI, I’m now writing on the plane).

VD and I have history here, as it was one of the first places I brought her on a fancy date when we started going out. As a student at the time, she couldn’t quite believe her luck at meeting a suave, sophisticated, wealthy man about town who bought her dinner in such places (could it explain why I got lucky that evening?).

Of course, times have changed: once you start living with your other half and, like I do, get morning bollockings for eating porridge too loudly and having Radio 4 on in three different rooms, you feel less inclined to splash out on fancy dinners. Nevertheless, an early evening offer of three courses plus aperitif for £23.50 forced me to dust off my credit card and see if my prejudices regarding set deals on restaurant booking websites held true.

Having been to Galvin before, I didn’t recall there being many bad tables in the house  - perhaps around the corner next to the bogs isn’t ideal - and despite our lowly prix fixe status, ours wasn't there. So that was the first prejudice dealt with straight off.

Number two on the list is a short, boring menu with little to choose from; just the crap the kitchen can’t get rid of otherwise. Short it was, with three options per course to choose from, but boring it wasn't: salmon tartare with potato gazpacho, gilthead bream a la plancha, shoulder of veal with prunes and pearl barley, and pear clafoutis all sound tempting enough, don’t they?

Thirdly, and lastly, we come to the service. Aside from a certain briskness and an instruction to order our dessert at the same time as the starter and main, it couldn't really be faulted. The apertifs, a kir royal made with a Saumur brut, took a while to turn up, while the starters arrived remarkably quickly, but you can’t have it both ways.

So, with none of my usual gripes to ruin a good evening, I was left to enjoy the food. I had little doubt it was going to be excellent and wasn't disappointed. VD’s starter of salmon and potato gazpacho trumped my well-made chicken and ham hock terrine, and was genuinely top class. The salmon came hidden under a frothing, foamy pillow of the gazpacho that managed to be both rich and refreshing, without a hint of starchiness.

I got my own back, however, with the terrifically tender veal shoulder and pearl barley. This was a cut above VD’s alliterative bream with beetroot and broccoli, which was worthy but a trifle dull. Mind you, I am sucker for anything that comes with a prune; you could serve me bath sponge aux pruneaux and I’d probably wolf it down without complaint.

For dessert, the pear clafoutis – though less clafoutis and more pear frangipane tart without the pastry – was a triumph. The addition of almond to the batter was inspired, giving it a new and tastier dimension. My strawberry trifle with praline was good, although it didn't leave a huge impression on me, judging by the fact I can’t really remember what it looked like a few days later.

What else to say then? Not much, aside from the fact that the set menu plus aperitif is a genuine bargain. Especially as it is available in the evening until 7pm, which is just about an acceptable time to sit down to dinner.

Finally, I should point out that I was offered said meal by the guys at bookatable.com, and yes, they have paid for it, but don’t be fooled into thinking this is a fluffy PR-driven, hagiography. I've already told various chums to book in a trip on the strength of this visit, and in any case, it takes more than one free feed to buy my good opinion!


Galvin Bistrot de Luxe
66 Baker Street
London W1U 7DJ 

+44 (0) 20 7935 4007 

Click on the links to find the deal I was on from bookatable at Galvin Bistrot de Luxe


Sunday, 8 March 2015

A ski weekend in Interlaken



Back at the start of February I spent a very enjoyable weekend skiing in the Swiss Alps, managing to bag a stay at a rather swanky hotel while I was there. As usual I put virtual pen to paper and you can read all about it on The Arbuturian.

On a similar note I have a 700 word piece going in to the next edition of Fall Line magazine about some cat-skiing I did last March in Canada. You can grab a copy of Fall Line at most decent newsagents, which I would encourage you to do when it comes out on March 16th!

Oh, and I had a very nice lunch at a restaurant called Andrew Edmunds in Soho on Friday. Recommended.

I was excited to be there...


Monday, 8 December 2014

Wintering in Sicily

Not a bad shot with a phone camera eh! That's the temple of Concordia in the background fyi...

I have just started a new job and before that first day in the office I managed to squeeze a week of winter sun, winter storms and fantastic food in Sicily.

You can read all about my trip in the The Arbuturian, but when I get the time I plan to write something for here focused on the amazing food I had there. Of which there was plenty! Pasta con le sarde, penne a la Norma, cannoli, granita and brioche for breakfast etc etc. A glutton's dream, especially if you have a fishy and/or a sweet tooth!

If I don't manage another post before Christmas, I wish you a very merry one. And remember if you need any festive inspiration there's always my Christmas guide to keep you calm when the heat is on.

p.s. its goosey, goosey gander at mine this year - already thinking of all those lovely spuds roasted in the fat...


The view from the terrace from the Hotel Villa Carlotta in Taormina


Thursday, 30 October 2014

3 star dining at Harrods



Harrods are running a five month long promotion called Stelle di Stelle at the moment. What does this mean I hear you say. Well the clue is in the name, because for the uneducated amongst you, stelle means star in Italian. As such, they have invited a bevy of multi-Michelin-starred Italian restaurants to each take a month long residency in their lower-ground floor restaurant.

Harrods isn't really my cup of tea, but I was invited to go along and try the food from the three star restaurant Da Vittorio, which is located in an idyllic hilltop villa in Brusaporto, just outside Milan. And not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, off I trotted to see the lay of the land.

You can read my thoughts on the meal here on Foodepedia. But as an added bonus, I also got the opportunity to ask Enrico Cerea from Da Vittorio a few questions, which he answered in the video posted below.





Friday, 10 October 2014

Golf, whisky, the Highlands and a thumping hangover




There are certain perks to this writing lark and one of them is being invited on press trips. I have done a couple, but the one I went on a couple of weeks ago on behalf of the guys at The Arbuturian really was the money-shot.

Invited by the guys from Johnnie Walker Blue Label, I enjoyed a flying visit to the Ryder Cup at Gleneagles, which was preceded by an evening at a modernist lodge in the remote Scottish highlands owned by a Swedish billionaire. Oh, and all transport in Scotland was by private helicopter ("roads, where we're going, we don't need roads")

Because Johnnie Walker were sponsoring the trip, the evening at the lodge was whisky themed, with a tasting session, cocktails and themed dinner to keep the assembled hacks and slebs (Anna Friel and Rupert Penry-Jones were along for the ride) entertained.

Anyway, I have said enough and you can read all about the trip and my whisky induced hangover on The Arbuturian.


Tuesday, 16 September 2014

Ode to an apple




Quite a while ago now I composed an essay on apples for a writing competition. In retrospect it is perhaps not surprising that I didn't win. Nevertheless, it is English apple season and as you will read below, I love English apples. It therefore seems a good time to share it with the world...


There has to be something special about a fruit that caused the descent of man; launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium; enabled the discovery of gravity; and has given its name to devices that allow pornography to be accessed on the move. So what is so special about the apple?

It does not appear to be the most exotic of fruits, nor is it the most sensual; some might also say it is not tastiest either. But it was not the mango, the fig, the orange or even the banana that was present at these momentous moments; it was the humble apple.

The apple’s unassuming status is a shining example of that famous maxim: familiarity breeds contempt. Because if you knew how far the apple has come and the lengths to which our classical ancestors went to in order to cultivate what we now know as this domestic fruit, you would not be so dismissive.

The apple’s origins are to be found in the wilds of the Caucasus; specifically, it is the wild fruit malus pumila var mitris that is the ancestor of today’s Egremont Russets and Cox’s Orange Pippins. Small, sour and consisting mostly of inedible core, it was not the most promising of subjects for conversion. However, one of our kin must have seen something of note: perhaps it was a shepherd tending to his flock in the foothills of the Talysh Mountains (modern day Iran and Azerbaijan) who noticed one of his sheep eating these small round fruits and wondered if they would make a good addition to his meagre daily rations?

He tried one or two and found them unpalatable, but a third, plumper, with less core and more flesh than the rest, provided a small but tasty snack. And the rest is down to a couple of thousand years of careful grafting and selective breeding. Whether or not it was my fictional shepherd who was the first man to identify the malus as the grandfather of the Granny Smith, it is the Romans to whom we should really be grateful. It is they who perfected the technique of grafting cuttings from one tree onto another, without which it would have been impossible to transform those small, bullet-like orbs into the luscious and delicately scented fruits we know today.

Alan Davidson’s The Oxford Companion to Food tells us that the first description of this process appears in Cato the Elder’s De Agricultura. So when this ambitious man of provincial farming stock wasn’t making thundering speeches in the Senate and demanding the complete destruction of Rome’s mortal enemy, Carthage – Carthago delenda est – he was writing on the far more mundane subject of fruit farming. Indeed, the Romans considered the apple a luxury; to be aspired to over most other fruits; so it would be of no surprise that Cato gave instructions on the correct grafting of one type of apple tree to another- just as today’s books on horticulture advise on the best way to cultivate borlotti beans and tend crowns of asparagus.

The decline and fall of the Roman Empire did not just set back the twin causes of Western art and architecture by a thousand years- it also, in Davidson’s words, meant that apple cultivation “lapsed into disarray”. While some remnants of the Roman’s knowledge of grafting and apple nurturing remained intact, it was not until the Renaissance that Europe rediscovered these skills. Indeed, it is probable that it was the apple’s rise in popularity during this period which led to its appearance at key moments in history, such as the Judgement of Paris and man’s fall from the Garden of Eden.

Conventional wisdom states that the fruit given by Eris to Paris was a golden apple from the Tree of Life in the Garden of Hesperides; however, in the original ancient Greek, the word used for this is melon, which is a generic term for fruit rather than an apple. It is a similar story with regards to the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. The Bible doesn't actually say this was an apple, but from the Renaissance onwards, depictions of Eve show her being tempted by one; just as Renaissance paintings of the Judgement of Paris show him holding an apple. So was it the apple's very ubiquity which meant that later versions of these familiar stories showed it in place of another less familiar fruit?

The apple’s prevalence is further emphasised through the names given to the newly found fruits and vegetables that made their way to Europe after the discovery of the New World. In place of something more imaginative, the French named potatoes “earth apples” or pommes de terre, while the Italians call their tomatoes “golden apples” or pomodoro. In some other European languages, German and Finnish among others, it is the etymology of the orange rather than the tomato that can be traced back to the phrase “golden apple”. 

In contrast to these mythological appearances, contemporary sources do state that Newton was partly inspired by the idea of the falling apple to think about the reason why objects always fall to the centre of the earth. In that respect therefore we can afford the apple its place at the centre of scientific history. Newton’s alma mater, Trinity College, Cambridge, even have an apple tree in their grounds which is reputed to be a descendent of the tree in question.



So the apple of myth, whether Greek, Biblical or even Norse, is a bringer of discord, but what of the more prosaic English apple: the one that we know and love - the one that inspired Newton? Anyone who has had the fortune to wander through the apple orchards of Kent on a crisp September’s day would say that there can scarcely be a more harmonious scene: the ground carpeted by windfalls; the air full of the scent of sweet and ripening fruits. Infinitely superior to its continental cousins and eaten with relish by rough handed farmers and effete city-dwellers alike, it is perfect on its own, stewed with custard, in a pie, with roast pork, or with a piece of sharp cheddar as an autumnal ploughman’s lunch.

It is this apple which I treasure, not the golden apple, bringer of eternal life and/or damnation. For there can be no more perfect fruit that a Cox's Orange Pippin, freshly scrumped and scoffed in five minutes flat before the remnants are discarded in a convenient hedge, to be fought over by the attendant field mice. In our mild climate, this is an apple that has to work just a little bit harder to ripen than its Spanish and French cousins, and, like everything in life, hard work yields results: a tastier apple, a healthier bank balance or even a healthier body.

The real emergence of the English apple that we are familiar with came in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries during the agricultural revolution, when more advanced techniques for grafting and cross-breeding were developed, to the extent that there are now estimated to be between 1,900 and 2,200 varieties of apple native to these shores. However, given the number of varieties actually available to the average consumer, one would be forgiven for thinking that figure was in the tens rather than the thousands.

The apple has only just been overtaken by ‘berries’ as the UK’s most popular fruit, but only around 35% of the apples we eat in this country are actually grown here, the rest are imported from France, Italy, Spain and New Zealand, and the UK is one of the largest importers of apples in the world. Even at the height of the English apple season, when we should all be eating home grown Ribston Pippins, Worcester Pearmains, Egremont Russets and Laxton  Superbs, it is still possible to go to a supermarket and, I regret, some greengrocers, and find the shelves full of tasteless foreign imposters. Often found lurking in a corner is a sorry pile of imported Golden Delicious, an apple which should be banned from sale under the Trades Description Act for being neither golden nor delicious. Instead it is a woolly textured, bland and boring disappointment.

Of course, the fact  is that supermarkets, like most other facets of modern society, demand a glossy uniformity as their norm. With the right variety and modern production methods, the consumer might never have to know that their apple was actually grown outside; just left to nature's whim and prone to attack by rampaging wasp, canker and Jack Frost. This year’s poor summer has resulted in a crop of smaller and uglier apples than usual, which has prompted the English apples growers’ association to launch a campaign to encourage us to choose our fruit based on taste rather than appearance.

Just a brief digression here while I illustrate this point with an anecdote: on one of these perfect autumnal days in the Kentish countryside, I had spent an extremely enjoyable afternoon wandering through the orchards, in pursuit of scrumped apples for a blackberry and apple crumble – surely the greatest pudding known to man. It was late afternoon and we found ourselves walking between a hedge and a low wooden fence. The fence served a dual purpose: to protect a large house and vineyard from us; and us from an angry dog. Just the other side of the fence, restraining his angry dog, stood an old man in a battered t-shirt and straw hat.

It being the time of year when the growers of grapes look to the skies and start to get twitchy, I asked him if he had commenced his harvest. “Not yet” he replied, “I’m going to give ‘em a few more weeks, otherwise my sparkling wine won’t be worth bottling”. Our conversation meandered along various paths, ending up on the topic of apples, and more specifically his neighbour’s orchards, from whence we’d come. The neighbour had had a contract to sell his apples to a supermarket, but when the man in the white suit came down from town to see the crop, he decided that, on reflection, the apples didn’t meet his requirements in terms of size and appearance. The contract was cancelled and apples sold for juicing at a quarter of the price. That, however, wasn’t the worst of it: the neighbour didn’t even bother to pick a whole orchard full of Russets, as with no market for them it wasn’t worth his while to pay people to do it. This, we both agreed, was a disgrace - something must be done!

As our mutual indignation faded away, he rounded off by giving me two conflicting pieces of advice: the first, to save half of everything I earn; and secondly, to “stop messing around” and marry my girlfriend. I protested that while both were technically possible, I would only ever be able to save half my income as a bachelor. As a married man, surely this could only ever be a fruitless task!

So you see, no blemish is to be allowed to see the light of day, just as it is with the models gracing the front cover of Vogue. A russet here, a wrinkle there, it doesn't matter which because it is assumed that we are no longer able to cope with these imperfections. Society has developed to the point where substance plays second fiddle to appearance, whether that is in the food we eat or the people we admire. When you can watch TV programmes on your Apple iPhone and tweet pictures of a perfectly symmetrical apple to your thousands of virtual friends, who wants to put up with a fruit that doesn’t conform to the set standard? Eating that blemished, imperfect fruit might even trouble to remind us that instead of 21st century super-consumers, we were once shepherds in the Talysh Mountains, wondering whether those small brown fruits were edible or not.

Tuesday, 1 July 2014

Rosé d'Anjou and an eel under a rock


Photo courtesy of Paul Winch-Furness


I believe it was the Bard who said: “a rosé by any other name would taste just as sweet...”

Ok, well maybe that’s a slight misquote, nevertheless, there is one overlooked link between the works of Shakespeare and those pink wines of summer. Not a case of what is it, but where is it? Because Anjou in the luminous Loire Valley is both home to one of Shakespeare’s most notorious characters and one of France’s best known rosés.

I can’t guarantee that it was with a glass of Rosé d’Anjou that the formidable Margaret d’Anjou, wife of Henry VI and main protagonist in three of Shakespeare’s history plays, toasted the death of her nemesis the Duke of York. But if it had been, I am sure she will not have been disappointed.

The wine in question was once the toast of the Loire and according to my sources made up 55% of local production at the end of the 1980s. However, the style of sweeter wine they were making at the time found itself, alongside shoulder pads and nouvelle cuisine, going out of fashion in the 1990s.

Evidently, the people of Anjou are making an attempt to win back their reputation for good quality rosé. Because, at a little symposium organised by Douglas Blyde on the roof of a London pub a few weeks ago, the modern Rosé d’Anjou I tasted bore no resemblance to that stuff of our collective 80s nightmare.

All of the six wines served were dry or slightly off-dry; the ideal drop to enjoy in the garden on a sunny Saturday evening. And while these are definitely wines to savour while they are in the first flush of youth, they also make a good option to accompany some of the classic dishes of the Loire – freshwater fish from the river, rillettes and rillons, and fruit de mer from the coast around Nantes.

This got me thinking: what would be the perfect dish to honour the wines of Anjou, the terroir of the Loire and Margaret d’Anjou herself? It was then that I had my eureka moment, as a French phrase popped into my head – il y a anguille sous roche. Loosely translated as “there’s an eel under the rock”, it is the French version of “cripes, there’s something fishy going on”.

Not only is this quite an apt phrase with crafty old Margaret in mind, eels are also a classic part of the cuisine of Loire, so make a natural bedfellow for the rosé wines of Anjou. Usually stewed in red wine, my own recipe (which is also a tribute to James Hamilton-Paterson’s classic book Cooking with Fernet Branca) turns them into tasty little hors d’oeuvres, with the eels hiding themselves from the diner under a savoury little rock bun (hence the name!). They would be perfect to have on the terrace before dinner: glass of vino in one hand, anguille sous roche in the other.

Anguille sous Roche

1 eel from the Loire, skinned and cut into 5cm chunks
1 bottle Rosé D’Anjou
1 bouquet-garni (thyme, bay, parsley stalks tied up into a little parcel)
1 onion, sliced
1 carrot, sliced
5 peppercorns
225g self-raising flour
110g butter
1 egg, lightly whisked
1 crottin de Chavignol (the Loire’s famous goats cheese)
Salt and pepper
A splash of milk, plus more to glaze

This recipe really falls into two distinct sections, which can be spaced apart by up to a day if you like. The first job is to poach the eel in a court bouillon, which is as easy as kiss my hand. Simply combine the wine, bouquet-garni, onion, carrot and peppercorns in a large pot and bring to a gentle simmer. Turn down the heat, add the pieces of eel, cover and leave to cook gently for ten to fifteen minutes, or until the eel is cooked through. Take the pot off the heat and leave the eel to cool in the liquid, before removing and flaking gently.

When you are ready to proceed with the second half of the recipe, rub the butter into the flour until it resembles breadcrumbs. Add the flaked eel, before crumbling in the cheese and season with a small amount of salt and plenty of pepper. Then, make a well in the centre of the dry ingredients and add the egg and that splash of milk. Stir gently to combine the ingredients into a workable dough, adding more milk if it is too dry. Then divide into little bitesize morsels – using two teaspoons is a good method – and place onto a baking tray. Brush with a little milk to glaze and then bake in the oven at 180 Celsius for 15 minutes, or until golden brown and cooked through.

Leave to cool slightly before serving with a glass of, you guessed it, Rosé d’Anjou.


Who could resist the killer combination of eel and rock bun?


By the way if you want a couple of named examples of said wine, two I made a note of were the Champteloup Rosé d’Anjou 2013, which is available for £7.99 from Waitrose, and the La Grille Rosé d’Anjou Gwenael Guihard 2013, which is available for £8.49 from Majestic Wines. Forced to choose, I’d go for the latter...santé!


One of me just to prove I was there enjoying the wine! Also courtesy of Paul Winch-Furness


Sunday, 8 June 2014

Tom on tour - North Yorkshire Moors and the Raithwaite Estate

Whitby Abbey

A while back I whisked VD away for a weekend away in the North Yorkshire Moors. Staying at a 'grand country retreat' (their words, not mine) called the Raithwaite Estate, we had a fun couple of days eating fish and chips, enjoying walks on the beach and exploring the ruins of Whitby Abbey.

You can read all about it here on The Arbuturian...


Wednesday, 7 May 2014

The Ranelagh Kitchen Diaries. Part 7: Caravan



Part seven of the Ranelagh Kitchen Diaries takes us on a journey to distant King's Cross and a pre-train dinner at Caravan... 

You will probably know this already, but Caravan, ironically, given the naff connotations, is a bit of a hip hangout next to the new St Martin's College building on Granary Square. It is just a short hop from King's Cross St Pancras and, thus, was chosen as the venue for a pre-bank holiday getaway dinner. It's firmly part of the urban regeneration that has rediscovered this formerly forgotten part of town and put it back on the map of 'civilised' London.

Mind you, the way things are going there won't be anywhere left that's uncivilised soon. It'll just be the District Line on Saturdays when Chelsea are at home and Hoxton Square on Saturday nights when the bridge and tunnel crowd are in town and up for a good time. 

Anyway, Caravan is a bit hip, in a New York, meat-packing district, exposed brick, open kitchen kind of a way. And as you might expect, given the ambience and location (close to the Grauniad's offices) there were plenty of media douchebags on offer: the type of middle aged guys with shaved heads, beards, expensive denim turned up at the ankle and chunky boots who have jobs like Chief Innovation Officer and Head of Digital Content Strategy. 

The menu is split into various sections and has disparate culinary influences: some burrata here, a spot of babaganoush there, some seabass ceviche for exiled Peruvians, chopped chicken livers for the Ashkenazi amongst us and a plate of grits for the hillbillies.

From this global arsenal of fine food, we ordered corn bread; some mahon cheese with a Pedro Ximenez (PX to those of us in the know) reduction; an heirloom tomato and chick-pea salad; and pizza with nduja and scarmorza. The scarmoza might have been smoked, I can't remember though - if so it was Marlborough Lights and not Regal Super Kings.

The mahon cheese was pleasant, as well made cheese tends to be, but too expensive at £5.50 for a mouse-sized portion. The cornbread was good in a cakey, corny kind of a way and they'd even included some real kernels of corn just to show that it really was cornbread and not some yellow dyed imposter. £4.50 for two small pieces had me clutching at my wallet though.

As pretty as it was, the tomato salad failed to make an impact: eating under-ripe tomatoes with a mound of mealy chick-peas of the type that emerge from a can of brine does not a pleasant experience make.


The pizza was better and generously apportioned with scarlet puddles of molten nduja and plenty of the scarmorza. The base wasn't up to much and reminded me slightly of those biscuity, pre-made ones you get from the supermarket, but that didn't matter too much with the quality of the topping. 

The savouries polished off and plenty of time until our train, VD further indulged her monster appetite with an affogato, which was, to quote, "very enjoyable". Indeed, my macchiato confirmed that the best thing about Caravan, apart from the relatively reasonable £4.50 for a pint of Camden Pale Ale, is probably the coffee. 

I enjoyed it more than any cup of the black stuff I can remember for a good while. That includes the flat white I had the other day at Kaffeine when the fire alarm went off at work and I had 15 minutes to kill trying not to get caught up in conversation with the office bores. 

What's the moral of this story then? Pizza, beer and coffee! Don't bother with anything else unless cost is no barrier to enjoyment and then fill your boots. I dare say you'll find more to like than not.




Caravan, 1 Granary Square, London, N1C 4AA

020 7101 7661

Open Monday to Saturday for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sundays 10am - 4pm