A taste of Bristol

Wednesday night was date night. I love living in Bristol because when I say "shall we go out?" it takes so long to decide that, by the time we've shortlisted, the gravitational pull of Bedminster ASDA threatens to rear its ugly head. I think we can do better than that.

For the daytimes us Bristol folk are blessed with Pieminster pies - the ultimate comfort food but with the added bonus of feeding the river cottage generation: free range meat, local produce and founded in the fine city of Bristol. The best way to enjoy it? St Nick's Market: Chicken of Aragon on mash, minty mushy peas and red wine gravy. So beautiful a meal it'd make a mute of Bernard Matthews.

But, and not that I'd complain, Bristol's not all about the pies.

Last night I made yet another new discovery. A middleweight clifton-posh but perfectly tasty three course meal: replenished water, cosy atmosphere, attentive, friendly and relaxed staff - all for £13 a head. This winning venue was The Picture House on Whiteladies Road. The result was an unpretentious meal so satisfying, it made a Tuesday feel like a Friday. Try next door for a slightly more decadent find, The Cowshed, where a £10 set lunch of slightly smaller portions serves up one of the best rump steaks I've ever eaten.

Back into the centre of Bristol, the Raj has well and truly pushed aside my penchant for Chinese takeaway and replaced it with sit-down Indian fare - the gorgeously-garlicky Chicken Palak Sag and warm doughy Peshwari Naan to be precise. On film night with friends it fell to me to place "the biggest takeaway order they'd ever received" - the result was every bit as tasty and included service with a smile even on our massive 'going for an English' scale. 

Fresh in my mind these are the new finds but lest I forget some firm favourites: The Olive Shed - perfect for a bowl of green by the river in the sunshine, even better for a slap-up night out with sharer plates and a big fish platter; El Puerto - with as much Spanish spice in the service as the tapas; Obento - perfect sushi in or out and, if that's not enough, they've only got bloody karaoke upstairs!; and finally, for a bit of luxury...Hotel Du Vin - two words, lemon posset.

I feel 'a taste of Bristol: part two' coming on already. Bootiful. 
N x

Who wants to eat a millionaire's?

The phrase sweet tooth doesn't really wash with me. Perhaps I'm an anomaly but I'd stick my neck out to say I have a number of very sweet teeth. My long-term greatest vice in cake is the queen of tea room cakes, the three layered delight Twix wishes it was every day...the humble but brilliant caramel shortbread.

Caramel (or millionaire's) shortbread is the equivalent of a  steak sandwich for my dad: if it's on the menu, no daily special will compare.I have to have it. About five years ago, this choice became a challenge and now I'm living the Mystic Pizza equivalent of finding the perfect Margharita: the hunt for the best caramel shortbread.

My good friend Westie, amateur pastry chef extroadinnaire, delighted me with a tray of the good stuff for my 27th birthday earlier this year. It turns out I'm not the only one unable to resist its charms. Feeling guilty, rather than generous, I left the tray (and the beacon of light surrounding it) on the 'cake cupboards' in the office. An hour later, all that was left to see was the teflon coating. I grieved the loss for days - a feeling which should give Westie a marvellous feeling of smugness: the shortbread had made the grade and most certainly, my top 5...

The final countdown:

5. The aforementioned Westie's caramel delight: (ssshh...apparently it's the Nigella recipe)

4. The here's-one-i-made-earlier, heavy on the condensed milk Blue Peter recipe from 198_..something. (One day I'll locate and post the fountain pen scrawl in my mum's recipe scrapbook)

3. Jade tea rooms, Newtown Linford, Leicestershire. Feeling guilty? Chase the gorgeous deer in neighbouring Bradgate Park - if you're lucky, you might burn off a thirty-eighth of your slice.

2. Boston Tea Party, namely - Bath branch. As this is a chain, every time I buy a slice I'm filled with a feeling that I'll be disappointed; that the recipe will have changed and, of course, that there's no way I'll be able to finish it. I'm always wrong about both of these - it's a pure delight.

1. Anne of Cleves tea rooms, Totnes. Yes, it's from my hometown, but don't let that mist your eyes. This wins hands down and is the yardstick by which all other millionaire's should be measured. 

Nx

I can't poach an egg

Not one to indulge in a big breakfast too often, this morning was an exception. Following a hard Friday at work I hit the red wine and on my wander home had an unusual forward thinking epiphany and bought the ingredients for a morning fry up.

In my vain attempt at legitimising my inevitable satfat intake I chose to grill the meat then piled on the mushrooms and tomatoes (two of my five-a-day by breakfast? McKeith would be proud). About to take the sensible option; whisking and scrambling the egg, I heard another Dr Gillian whisper in my ear. Foolishly, I listened and went for the grown-up option; the healthy option: the yummy mummy poached egg. Only, I can't poach an egg. Rookie mistake.

Realising my disadvantage I chose wisely (i thought) the River Cottage Family cookbook. A compilation of basics aimed at both children and their parents I imagined I couldn't go far wrong. Well Huge Furry - it did go wrong.

So what happened? I boiled the water 'til it was 'rolling' with bubbles, stirred it round and round with a wooden spoon, plopped a lovely free range egg in the centre, covered the pan with a nice tight lid and turned off the heat. 

No fluffy egg cloud for me. Instead, swirling in my pan was an ugly mess of white ectoplasm (or egg-toplasm) with a small orange furry blob lost in the middle.I can hear Sophie Dahl sniggering over her rooibos tea already...

I'm now left with two choices. A - Try, try again. Experiment with vinegar levels, freshness of eggs, vigorousness of swirl. Or, B- buy an egg poacher. They're quite nice things really, in all shapes and sizes - hearts, flowers, bunnies. But I wonder whether amazon sell one shaped like a dunce hat...

A final word. I'd like to apologise to the chicken whose egg I wasted. Please don't take it personally.

Nx

Cranks: the four leaf clover

Honestly? Well it was Masterchef of course. The finals. The tension. The puppy- eyed contestants.
 
Masterchef was an integral part of the wooing conversation with my now-boyfriend Richard as our relationship formed. I even made a 'masterchef comedown' mix cd to impress him. 14 months on, we huddled with buttefly-filled stomachs for Tim, Alex and Dhruv, and watched this year's series finale.

Alex, Masterchef's rabbit-in-the-headlights, technically brilliant freelance food writer, inspired me to do this blog. His idyllic home in rural cambridge, his suitably Sex and the City setup (mac, yoga stance, endless shelves of war-torn books) might not quite match the promise that my own surroundings do, but Alex and I have something in common: a passion for FOOD.

So, where to start. Childhood favourites? In a nutshell - Cranks.

I'm lucky enough to have spent the majority of my childhood in Totnes, just outside Dartington, home to the Cider Press centre and Cranks restaurant. Looking back, Cranks in the early 90's only worked in boho south devon. In my early teens I turned my nose up at cramped Greenlife health food store - it smelled. I even remember saying it smelled 'too organic'. Who knew 'the O word would become a mantra for post-delia tv cooks and rock and roll stars.

Back to Cranks. I'm still on the hunt for a clover-shaped cutter to truly recreate the cheese scones. A big O novice they were my favourite thing on the menu. And now? They still fill me with rich, dense joy.
I'm lucky to have landed in Bristol with Nicky, my teenage cycling buddy. We'd meet on Saturdays and get an unintended health kick with a 2 mile cycle from Totnes to Dartington. We'd take a walk in the gardens, sit on the bronze donkey then grab an ice cream from the Cider Press's wooden shack shops.

Nowadays, Nicky is the one I turn to when I have an ache for HP. Not the sauce, the pie. A cheesy potato slice of pure joy...

I realise I haven't mentioned meat yet. Cranks debuted another rareity when I was young - vegetarian food. And though I'm painfully, but definitely, a carnivore, Cranks taught me how to draw blood from all the other food groups.

We'll meat again....(promise). But now for something completely different...you'll never look Torode in the face again.

Nx