5 Things

5 Happy Moments from this week:

1. Sunshine

2. Scrabble

3. The most delicious glass of red

4. Banana bread

5. Margaritas

I hope you've all been able to enjoy the sun more than I have! 

X

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Trullo

B and I had a few things to celebrate so a dinner à deux was in order. I wanted pasta. So we went to Trullo.

We first ate at Trullo almost two years ago (I thought it was last year but stand corrected). Since that first visit we have talked about going back (for a year longer than I thought - our conversations clearly don't change much), and have sent many friends and family members. Everyone has left with glowing reports. And so finally we returned. After so many months of talk and fond memories, thankfully there was no disappointment. We left with happier memories.

A G&T laced with fresh sage, and bread dipped in vibrant olive oil to get us going. A view into the kitchen made for a happy me all evening, and left B with a strained neck from looking behind him to see what I found so endlessly fascinating.

B chose the wine and immediately forgot what he'd ordered so I'm afraid I can't document that for you. But it was yummy and fresh and light and so pretty. 

I'm a sucker for mozzarella and so had torn up pieces of the beautiful stuff draped over rather pale but surprisingly tasty for the time of year flower shape tomatoes. I know these have a proper name, but I prefer flower tomatoes. Delicate and delicious. B went straight in for the pasta. No hanging around with this one, straight to the point. Sausage ragú with pappardelle. I don't think I need to tell you that this was amazing. But I do need to tell you that they had zested in a little bit of orange, which was initially surprising yet soon refreshing and light. Sausage and orange - who'd've thunk it? Genius.

Tagliatelle with mussels and chilli for me. A cleverly selfish order as B claims to have a shellfish allergy. Well done me. A plate of heaven all to myself. I was a super happy bunny and would have happily left there and then. But B had still to finish his lamb shoulder with braised fennel aioli. He is forcing me now to write that the aioli really 'cut through' the fennel and meat. Pretentious blogger term in this blog post now achieved. Thanks B. Perhaps not the best looking dish, but there were only approving noises coming from the other side of the table.

And we still ordered more. We had both decided far earlier evening that we had to have the almond and nespoli tart. So we did and it was heaven. And then I really was too full and too happy and had to go to bed.

We're already talking about going back. Watch this space for another two years to fly by before we return.

Highlight: Pasta

Lowlight: There is no lowlight

Trullo, 300-302 St Paul's Road, London, N1 2LH

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Franco Manca

We were the last ones to be squeezed into a table, right at the back, right next to the action, before the queue started. It was 7pm on a Tuesday night in April. If there is a queue outside already it has to be a good sign. Especially when there are multiples of this restaurant spread across London. This was a queue of East End folk only.

The next good sign is that all the staff are Italian. It was like we'd walked into a holiday.

And the other good sign was Tony Turnbull's quote on the back of the menu. If Tony Turnbull votes these pizzas the best in the country, we must be on to something.

I can smugly say that we were. Franco Manca's sourdough pizza bases gives them that edge over the others. The doughiness is there. Not in a stodgy, heavy way, but in a fluffy, malty, matured way, that cannot be found in the pack of instant yeast of the supermarket shelf. I dream of the day when the supermarket buyers replace the little sachets with little jars of sourdough starter.

A glass of thankfully not-too-organic wine for me, a beer for B, a few leaves and alfafa sprouts to get towards the 7 a day, and then on to the real deal. B went all simple on me and his eye averted the spicy meats and settled, strangely, on a classic tomato, basil, mozzerella. I guess if you're going to do that anywhere, this is probably the place. You'd probably be happy if they just bought you the crust, so maybe as little accessorising on top as you can bare is the answer. I, on the other hand, plumped for tomato, garlic, oregano, capers, olives, anchovies and mozzerella. Heaven. And B doesn't like many of those things. Which meant I got it all to myself. My little food baby accompanied me all the way home.

I'd also just like to add that this place is ridiculously good value. £6 for a pizza? I'll be going back. Straight back.

Highlight: Sourdough
Lowlight: The walk from my flat is a little too far. If they'd like to open up actually on my street that would make me very happy.

Franco Manca, 52 Broadway Market, London, E8 4QJ

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Can Maño

It's approaching Saturday lunch time. I had a night with no sleep, which was followed by a much happier breakfast in bed with the sun streaming through the windows. I forced myself out for a long run, looking forward to the sun shining on my face. This was not to be. As soon as I arrived at the park the heavens opened and the wind tried to blow me many, many miles away. I have returned home, bedraggled and exhausted, dreaming of the blue skies and sun we saw only a fortnight ago in Barcelona. It seems like it was months ago. And all of a sudden I have a craving for another Saturday lunch at Can Maño.

From the outside it doesn't look nondescript, it looks unappealing, it looks like the kind of place were you peer in to the fogged up windows and see the plastic tables crammed together, the crumbling ceiling and floor, the chairs which have been there for longer than I've been alive (and not in a good way). The kind of place where you stick your nose in before turning to the person standing next to you and telepathically agree to keep walking. However, this is Barcelona, this is Spain. And if there is one thing we learned on our short trip, it was that a sleek, chic restaurant does not mean good food. I think, in his role as economist, B has drawn a graph in his mind which shows this relation between décor and food, and according to that, this restaurant was going to be one of the best. It was.

In many of the reviews we had read it had said that this place did not welcome tourists; that the service was unpleasant and abrupt. Sounds perfect. We were shoved up against the wall, a menu thrown down, and drinks plonked next to us. A beer for B. A bottle of wine for me. I asked for a glass and was a little taken aback when he bought me a bottle. I looked around. Everyone else had a bottle. It's a dangerous system: he gives you a bottle, you drink what you want, and he estimates how much that is. The whole bottle is only €4.50 so it's never your wallet that will suffer. Just you. 

Locals filled the rest of the tables, which were adorned with water glasses (no sign of wine glasses here - far too much of a faff), and plates and plates of fish and sea food. So we followed suit, trying our best to imitate their orders, trusting that the regulars knew best. 

Fried aubergine and peppers appeared first. Any nutritional value removed in the cooking process. They tasted so good that I soon got over my neurotic watch on vitamin intake. A plate of six sardines, perfectly aligned, staring up at us, immaculately shining, beautifully simple, drizzled with a parsley butter sauce. Alongside them, a mackerel, cut open brutally, yet perfectly down the middle, baring its heart to us, covered in the same speckled green sauce. There was little conversation as we ate, working our way round the bony fish, eating every scrap of flesh, desperate to not miss a single mouthful. Eventually we were left with just a pile of bones, very full stomachs, and a smug feeling that we had discovered a miracle. And a slightly sad awareness that we wouldn't be eating as well as this for a very long time.

Highlight: the freshest of fresh fish. Oh, and the added bonus that the bill only came to €17.

Lowlight: the décor. The décor is not the reason you visit this place.

Can Maño: Calle de Baluard, 12, 08003, Barcelona (Barceloneta)

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El Kiosko Universal

It was a Thursday afternoon. It was my birthday. 23rd. And I'd just received a job offer. And we'd just arrived in Barcelona. I'll tell you more about the rest of that some other time. But for now, I want to talk about that lunch.

About 2.30 on a mid-January weekday afternoon, El Kiosko Universal, tucked away in the corner of the sense-exploding space that is El Boqueria, is full. Well, not quite full. Being just the two of us they managed to squeeze us in at the bar. Top seats. Worth being just a two for. From there people point at the seafood they want, placed inside the counter, an aching glass pane away, and they cook it for you. And they cook it perfectly.

With a glass of wine and a beer in hand, we scanned the blackboards before settling for what we already knew we wanted: a large plate of our favourite Pimientos de Padrón, calamarcitos (squid) for me, and dorada (bream) for B. The pimientos went into the deep fat fryer (along with the chips) and came out blistered and burning. With a (generous) portion of sea salt scattered over the top, plus a little bit more for good measure, they were little nuggets of Spanish, green perfection.

Squid was then plonked in front of me in an appropriately abrupt Spanish fashion. With perfectly soggy chips underneath. Everything covered in parsley and oil. B's dorada was served identically. The whole fish had been cut down the middle, split perfectly in two. Just caught, just cooked, and served just like that. With seafood this good you can ask for nothing more. So we didn't. We drank and ate and smiled and admired. And I think it was the best birthday lunch I've ever had. I intend to return, again and again.

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5 Things

We ran away from the cold on Thursday. It was my birthday, do I need more of an excuse than that? So, there's lots of big things that have made me happy cette semaine, but here are a few of the smaller ones:

1. Left over Green Kitchen Stories baked carrot cake oatmeal for breakfast on Monday
2. Strong coffee at Violet Cakes first thing on Tuesday morning
3. A massive breakthrough in yoga... I've moved on to headstands!
4. Being 'allowed' to open my birthday presents a day early because we went on holiday super early on my birthday morning
5. Lunch at el Kiosko Universal as soon as we arrived in Barcelona. Pimientos, squid, and a crisp glass of white. No complaining.

Happy Friday to you all.

x

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Bristol: Number 38, Bell's Diner, Boston Tea Party

It's taken me a while to sit down and write this post. It was meant to appear some time last week, when the memories where still fresh in my head. But the week passed, and I found other things to blog about. Procrastination re-entered my life as it hasn't done since finals. And I'm not sure why. I think it may be because I have so much to say. So much I want to tell you. And I don't trust myself to find the right words, to accurately convey my enthusiasm for this brief trip away. But now it's Sunday evening, we've had a perfect weekend, and B is roasting up a chicken for dinner. So, with my role in the meal done (apart from hopping up and down every now and then to take a photo), I have no more reason not to sit down and start recording 24 hours in Bristol.

This was B's Christmas present from me. Unable to think of a thing to buy him for Christmas, a night away was an easy decision. Thanks to the fabulous Mr and Mrs Smith website, inspiration was not hard to come buy, and booking was scarily easy. Before I had given it much thought, a Saturday night at the Number 38 hotel in Clifton, Bristol, was in the diary. That was it, Christmas sorted. Nothing more was done about it until the week before we went. A sudden realisation that Bristol is a bustling, busy, active city, whose restaurant scene is probably not that dissimilar to that of London i.e. a table may be difficult to come by. Especially on a Saturday night. Thank goodness it was early January. So an evening of reading reviews (and ignoring Trip Advisor's always useless comments), scouring websites, and plotting journeys on google maps later, Bell's Diner was booked. To B's delight, an early table was the only option. Great trust was put in Tim Hayward and his recent review for this. Turns out I will be trusting him again and again - Tim, thank you!

Being foreigners to this Southern city, we were heavily reliant on the recommendations of others for this. Not a situation we're normally in, or we like to be in. Mr and Mrs Smith did a fabulous job, as always, of sourcing a beautiful B & B. Situated in a large townhouse, with just ten rooms, looking out over Clifton Downs, this was simply, elegantly, chic-ly decorated. And the REN eye cream was an added bonus. An enormous bed, plenty of pillows, a beautiful desk in the bay window, and wonderful views, there wasn't much we could fault. Apart from the very slow breakfast service and not that amazing breakfast the next morning. But hey, we can't all be winners. And I am very pinnickity about my breakfast. Anyway, if you are going to Bristol for a romantic weekend à deux, the Number 38 comes highly recommended from me. If you don't want the toiletries in the room, I'll have them - drop me a line and I'll come collect them from you.

Getting out of London was as tricky as ever. I wasn't driving, but my directions weren't exactly top-notch. I'l say this wasn't helped by the random road closures and ridiculous one way systems, but B may like to disagree. After 100 and something miles on the M-something we arrived. Time for lunch. A trip to the Boston Tea Party it was. A burger for B and a bowl of Thai sweet potato soup for me. A fab burger (I may have sneaked a bite or two) with homemade slaw (because that's cool). Yum. And a proper portion of soup with several well-sized chunks of bread. All more than affordable and more than we needed: it was so great to be out of the London bubble of stupid prices for a poxy bowel of whizzed up leftovers and a stock cube. Homemade lemonade washed it all down perfectly. We couldn't resist it, served in glass jars with stripy straws.

Clifton is beautiful. Rows and rows of pastel Georgian townhouses, delicate verandas, crescents, square gardens, winding pavements, steep, steep uphills, and therefore steep, steep runs down, spectacular views over industrial lands, a magical suspension bridge... A bit like walking through a dream town, especially with all the Christmas trees laid out on the pavements outside every house ready for collection as they were that Saturday.

We ventured out of this haven for dinner. A half-hour wander in I'm not sure which direction and we were welcomed in to Bell's Diner. A very warm welcome. The people were lovely. I wanted them to be my friend. We knew it was going to be good straight away. This doesn't happen often. But I knew. Could just tell. Instinct, innit. (Sorry, I'm watching Jamie on telly as I type and it's rubbing off on me). We were led to a table in a corner, next to the record player (another point to them), and we soon settled down with a glass of Prosecco (on tap), for me, and a sloe g & t for B. A few croquettes and some lightly cured salmon to accompany, a jug of tap water and a basket of brilliant bread - smiles all round. And the smiles only increased throughout the evening. A menu of small plates to share, which is always my favourite: I can order more, and not run the risk of food envy or disappointment, as I get to try everything on the table. Not only could we mix and match plates, the drinks menu worked in unison with one third of a pint of beer available for £1.70, a taste of wine off a fabulous wine list (75ml), various cocktails, and, as I mentioned, Prosecco on tap.

So we tasted our way round the drinks and the food menu. Goat's curd and pumpkin (we forgot to photograph this one - too greedy), chicken oyster pinchos, lamb with apricots, baby gem lettuce with pancetta, marinated peppers, chargrilled prawns... I think that was all. I may have forgotten something but I was slightly overwhelmed. The chewiest, most delicious meringue with new season's forced rhubarb pomegranate and pistachio to finish. And of course I had space, because I have a separate sweet stomach from savoury. It's a fact. It was heaven. Everything was perfect.

All I can say is GO. Please go. If you're in or anywhere near Bristol, or in need of a break from London and find yourself drawn to Bristol, go.

Sunday morning saw a cold run around the downs, a slow breakfast with many a cup of tea, long cups of coffee over in Stokes Croft (mostly shut on Sundays - don't copy our mistake), walks through the University campus, asking why they rejected us (it would have been so much fun), more tea and this time some cake too, music and films purchased in Rise, and then a long drive home. Back to reality, and, sadly, away from Bell's.

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A Christmas Sing with Bing

We decided to host a Christmas party some time in October. Visions of elaborate nibbles, bite-size tarts, mini food, champagne flowing in beautiful flutes, mulled wine steaming on the hob, candles flittering and people wandering and mingling, with some civilised Christmas tunes jingling in the background.

It seems I had forgotten about the size of our kitchen, the lack of equipment, the price of food and drink, that petite-ness of our flat (we definitely beat most bloggers who claim to live in a 'teeny tiny' flat hands-down), that we don't have enough glasses for more than six people, and that we have jobs and therefore can't spend weeks at home preparing baby pastry cases, poaching quails eggs, icing cupcakes and foraging for pine cones to decorate our pocket home.

So it became a, deep breath and 'let's make the most of what we have' situation. And that includes time. Tuesday night was pastry, Thursday night brownies, Friday saw me struggling home (unfortunately with a slightly broken shoulder, so this probably wasn't the most sensible thing to be doing of an evening) with a crate of satsumas bought for a bargain £8.50 from our wonderful Turkish shop on Bethnal Green road. After being rationed at home last weekend because the satsumas (with leaves on) had cost so much in Waitrose, I was felt more than a little smug. A small breather before I started on mince pies and cupcakes (and a battle with cream cheese frosting. We tried by hand for an hour. I almost went round to a friends house to use his KitchenAid but decided to let go of the perfectionist in me, and with a broken whisk, admit defeat. My generous gift from Santa this year cannot come soon enough.) Saturday morning was cheese and paprika biscuits, more mince pies, dips, crudités, pigs in blankets, devils on horseback and mulled wine. A lot of mulled wine.

T and A came early, eager not to miss a minute of the football, and the only way to do that was to be here from 12.45. Brothers T and A soon followed and it gradually picked up from there. A long afternoon and evening of friends, Christmas cards, bottles of plonk, far too much food, Christmas jumpers, a little too much mulled wine, hugs, smiles, 'A Christmas Sing with Bing' musical accompaniment, and so much festive cheer.

Flattering compliments from everyone about the food made, admiration of our little East-end flat, and generous donations of wine and spices put smiles on our faces, and has made us certain - this is definitely something we will repeat. And next year I'll try to cook slightly less. The amount of cake that's left means I may not be able to fit through the door to get to work tomorrow morning.

Food details:

Satsumas from Bethnal Green road

All meat from the butchers on Bethnal Green road 

Cheese, paprika and almond biscuits from Dan Lepard's Short and Sweet

Mince pies made using Lily Vanilli's sweet shortcrust recipe and Dan Lepard's dark and rich mincemeat. Bake for 25 minutes.

Brownies from my barely adapted recipe of that from London Bakes

Pumpkin cupcakes from Smitten Kitchen (and only attempt the frosting if you have an electric whisk)

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The City of Spires

A weekend in the city my little brother calls home for half the year. A parallel to the life I led for three years in the lighter blue city. Walks from one side to the other (us staying at the north and he living in the South); glimpses of majestic colleges; crushing colourful leaves on Christ Church meadows; early morning runs round the University Park; crisp, bright light in the botanical gardens; warming coffee at Quarterhorse and 2 North Parade, accompanied with the odd pastry here and there; catching up with family and friends over a wintery, warming meal at Turl Street Kitchen; late nights clutching a glass of mulled wine at The Bear; long dinner and a few bubbles at T's house; a small glimpse of the eclectic items at Pitt Rivers; healthy salads at Will's Deli; tea in A's college room; dreams of future studying for B; wandering in and out of shops and cafés for me; imagining maybe running a little bakery here one day. I never thought London life would become a bubble. But when you step outside and look around, it becomes clear that there is life elsewhere that had been forgotten. The thought floated across my mind  that maybe this less polluted, slightly calmer mode de vie may be what we're searching for.

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