HUNTER-GATHERING: wild & fresh food

Inverawe: Smoking, West Coast style.

It wasn’t until the age of 12 that I first set foot across the border into Scotland. It was only a matter of time, as a young lad obsessed with fishing and longing to see a salmon for real, I couldn’t believe my luck when I found myself balls deep in the swift, peaty waters of the River Carron surrounded by the vast heather draped highlands. I even managed to tuck into my first Salmon- a fine 6 pounder fresh from the sea. Somehow, after a battle of biblical proportions, I managed to get the fish in with my 8ft split cane trout rod…I was also the only person to catch that week! On the same trip I went deer stalking for the first time, which is where the antlers that adorn the front of the treehouse came from…so this time I was keen to bring something that would add more than just aesthetic value to my treehouse.

Eager for a bit of company after my first 2 months living amongst the leaves, I took a brief trip to the west coast of Scotland for a “couples” holiday-myself and my lady, Emma & Justin and Jimbo & Clare. Not too far from Oban is the Inverawe Smokery, owned by Robert & Rosie Campbell-Preston, Emma (their daughter) invited us up for a short break…like most things I find myself thrown in to these days, I had an underlying motive: what could I learn from the finest smoker’s in the Country?

I had tasted the delights of the Inverawe range when I lived up in town, I always eagerly awaited the starter at Emma’s dinner parties, which I knew would be smoked duck, eel, trout, mussel or my favourite- the roast smoked Salmon. This holiday was also a chance to do a little low maintenance gorging- I have been eating well over the last couple of months, but to be able to heat water at the flick of a switch, twist a handle for a shower and turn on the gas rings for a fry up would be delightful…oh the joys of modern technology!

After hopping on the 7.20 from Euston to Glasgow, followed by a 2 hour car journey, I found myself back in my element: balls deep in the River Awe flicking a fly across the ripples.

On the first morning I was up at 6.30am, eager to get in amongst some fish. I had the choice of sea trout on the river, or 4 lochs chock to the brim with big trout…decisions, decisions! I pulled out a few trout from two of the lochs and then hauled out a sea trout from the river. By 10.30am I wandered back up to the house with a big smile that grew even bigger when I was greeted by a full English.

I won’t go through all the ins and outs of “6 go mad in Scotland”, tales of air-humping Jack Russell’s, going to jail, Green Jean, culinary finesse of haggis, clapshot and whisky and the notorious “mussel bandits” are all too much to go into… so on with the smoking!

A familiar smell hit me as soon as I arrived, so much so that I actually sniffed myself; as a result of my tree-dwelling experience I have become permanently infused with Wood smoke pour homme. It was of course the waft of smouldering oak drifting across from the smokery.

Robert Campbell-Preston is the Hugh Hefner of smoking  (without the jacket and leggy blonde tarts), the man is clearly a master of his art, and Rosie is the genius behind what to do with the product as can be seen in her Inverawe cookbook. Robert explained to me the time and experimentation that goes into each new product; the majority of his cold-smoked items spend around 72 hours in the chamber. Hot-smoked products also benefit from a night of cold smoking before being finished. It was very clear that this is one slick operation that pays attention to detail, tradition and above all: taste.

On our second night, after a shirt-splittingly good meal, Robert took Justin (his prospective son in law) and myself down into the heart of the operation. At around 10pm we entered the smokery, donned a lab coat, hair net and a shiny pair of white wellies before going through a good sanitising. Through the processing kitchen we entered the smoky underworld of the Inverawe smoking chambers. The smoke gave the corridor of chambers an unnatural haze and despite the amount of fish I knew was behind each numbered door, the fishy smell was nowhere to be found.

Justin and I tried not to get in the way as Robert checked the temperature of each chamber and went about the health and safety garb associated with the traceability of each batch. Finally he opened up a chamber to remove some Salmon steaks due to be “roast smoked” the following morning. Not even a trip to my local monger could have prepared me for all those glorious fat, pink fillets of salmon fresh out of the smoker…the sight of it made my mouth water, as if on cue Robert removed a hunk of Salmon flesh and we sampled some of the freshest smoked salmon I have ever had the pleasure of tasting.

As we left to go and check on the smouldering urns out the front, Robert showed us the Walk-in fridge. Most of the products are destined for packaging to be distributed to the likes of Harrods, Selfridges, and Waitrose etc. Certain batches are on order for such culinary institutions as Bentley’s Oyster bar in London (and weirdly enough, my favourite Restaurant). In the fridge was a crate holding a batch of enormous Eels, It was clear from the look on Roberts face, as he wielded a smoked beast, that he was quite pleased with them.

Outside, we attended to the urns that held the wood for smoking. I always thought that only sawdust was used for smoking. Here at inverawe they use logs, which are placed on top of a chamber of gently smouldering sawdust. Robert explained that they used beech and oak as their primary fuel source and that he has become quite the hero amongst local sawmills:

“Most of the saw mills only use the main trunk, so their left with all these bloody limbs, so I take a couple of truckloads of the limbs off their hands”.

Robert got a little agitated by a particularly stubborn urn that refused to get into position and reverted to a mock-Scottish accent punctuated with much profanity and colourful language…to which Justin and I fell about laughing. As we left Robert to do his final checks he turned and said:

“Better have a good scrub down boys, or you won’t be getting any tonight!”

Fortunately, Clare has become fairly accustomed to the smell of wood smoke, As for Justin, he would just smell like his better half’s father…what a legend!

As we were not too far from Loch Fyne, we decided to go and scope out the competition. Really, it was just so we could get our teeth into some seafood. Loch Fyne oysters have got quite a reputation and very good they were too. As for their smoked products, no bias necessary, Inverawe have certainly got it in the bag. I sat and had ½ a dozen oysters, the girls had a seafood broth and Jimbo happily sucked out the brains of his langoustine.

 

I did say I wouldn’t go into details, but, one morning Emma encouraged us to go down to Loch Etive to gather some mussels, something I was particularly keen to do, which would be followed by us boys having a manly “Mussel-off” for lunch…I think the tides must have been wrong and the rain too much. All that remains to be said is that we were well and truly screwed by the mussel bandits- “big time”.

As I prepare to head back to the solitude of the trees and leaves, I take with me the things I have learnt over the last week, things I didn’t know such as brining the fish prior to smoking them, smoking is something that takes a lifetime to perfect in much the same way as casting the perfect fly when balls deep in those Scottish rivers. As I pack up my rucksack and stick in my new copy of “home-curing and smoking” by Keith Erlandson, the possibilities seem endless. Having not seen the Treehouse for a good week, I have begun to miss it, Surfing will have to be postponed this year, I have had my educational “break” this summer, it appears I have an awful lot of work to be getting on with.

 

Squirrel fishing: a new sport for London?

It can be said that winter in the city is more enjoyable than in the country, really? Perhaps museums see a few new faces, pubs and coffee shops are busier than usual, but for London’s few open spaces- the parks- business is slow. Granted it is more acceptable to wander around the countryside with a shotgun than it is on Hampstead Heath, out in the sticks the opportunity to get some fresh air generally holds more appeal.

Although there are many things you can get away with in the countryside, some activities that sound like a jaunty country pursuit that your average flat-capped, grass-chewing farmer might do on their day off, just cannot be done anywhere else but the city. I am of course referring to the pastime favoured by many an urban junkie; squirrel fishing.

At first it sounds like a rather dark activity that would have the RSPCA knocking on your door, brandishing baseball bats in the hope of giving you a good kicking. But in reality it is no worse than playing with a kitten and a ball of string. No hooks are involved and it turns the rather mundane activity of feeding squirrels into the best fun you’ve had with your clothes on. Few people live to tell the tale of doing face-to-face battle with a wild creature (depending on its size of course), although I am not sure that park squirrels are the most ‘wild’ of animals, but they are certainly the wildest animals around here.

The disturbing truth is, I have been living here for 4 years and this was my first experience of squirrel fishing…shocking. This was something I could never do in Sussex, getting close enough to even pop of a few rounds at a country dwelling squirrel is hard enough let alone trying to fish for one of the furry little critters.

Those of you who do wish to point a finger and say “that’s so cruel,” or “I can’t believe you did that, it’s so wrong”, please, hear me out. We are in the depths of a cold winter, rather than Battersea park’s squirrel population having to burrow through the beds in order to find a tasty morsel, they get an easy meal (and a somewhat bewildering experience) from the avid squirrel fisher and his/her bag of monkey nuts. You walk away with the feeling of having a good tug from a squirrel and some cheap entertainment and squirrel goes away with a full tummy thinking thats the hardest it has ever had to work for a handful of nuts. Everyone’s a winner!

The tacklebox for squirrel fishing is a relatively small one. All that is required is a bag of monkey nuts and a ball of string. For true stealth it is better to use some sturdy fishing line to avoid instant detection by the quarry, but that is advanced squirrel fishing neo-geekery. Lets just stick to the basics. The reason for using monkey nuts is twofold; firstly, squirrels are big fans of them. Secondly, the shape of the nut, the dip in the middle, is perfect for tying a piece of string to.

Dried fruit is also a tried and tested bait and offers our furry little friend a variation in diet, but it also means having to thread the string through the fruit every time you need to rebait.

 

Despite the frigid temparature, the day seemed fine for a stroll in the park and my first experience of this wonderful sport.  Myself and two friends (who had been intent on a game of tennis, but curiosity got the better of them) went into the shop to equip ourselves with the necessary tackle used in this bizarre form of fishing.

As we walked through the winding paths of the park and put out some free offerings to see if we could tempt some squirrels close enough for a cast, we had a little casting practice, turns out the most effective method is to swing the nut windmill style as if it was some medieval bola and once you have the desired speed; release. Or you can just flick it, as cool as the first feels, it does have the potential to scare off any curious squirrels.

As we came upon our first squirrel, a fat, chunky rodent who had obviously been well fed so far this winter, I dipped my hand into my coat pocket to throw out a little ground bait. As soon as my fingers began to rustle the package the squirrel ran straight towards me…clever. I had to do little more than drop my baited string to the floor and he was all over it like a fat kid on a cup cake. I had to put in this little video of one of the first encounters:-

Download Video 

At first he simply picked it up the nut and examined it in his paws, I was half expecting him to shake it next to his ear to check there was something inside. Realising it was a good’un, he turned to try and make off with his find; things were about to get exciting! Feeling the string tighten, the squirrel began to wrestle for sole ownership of this tasty morsel. It was both hilarious and made me feel slightly remorseful about eating them in the past. According to squirrel fishing’s limited code of skill, the aim is to see how high you can lift the squirrel off the ground while it refuses to give up on the nut. I managed to just get his feet off the ground before he realised that something peculiar was going on and question why this particular monkey nut had the ability to lift him off the ground. He released his death-grip and retreated to take stock of the situation. He then moved in again and we battled for a good 30 seconds before he decided to give up and I gave him payment for his efforts, off he went, happy as larry, to a quiet spot to gnaw through his winnings (I realise I have just referred to this squirrel as male, he was…you cant miss a squirrel’s balls, their enormous).

 

As we fished on, and there were plenty of squirrels hovering around in the bushes which had heard the familiar rustling of plastic bags, we began to notice that no two squirrels were the same, they all had different tactics; some would roll around on the ground, others would fight wildly a couple of feet up a tree and some (who were obviously old hands at this game) would just chew straight through the string, stick up two fingers and smugly wander off.

 

Generally, the larger older squirrels had more balls than most and would boldly take a swipe at your nuts (they didn’t get that size for being shy), the smaller younger squirrels were a lot more cautious and at the first sign of resistance, high tailed it up the nearest tree. After a while they just get bored and cant be bothered with the effort, at which point it is seen as a sign of good sportsmanship to offer up some bait as a token gesture. This way you know your fishing hole won’t be dry next time you decide to cast your line.

By far the most enjoyable thing I have done in London (other than going to the natural history museum when I was a dinosaur obsessed five-year old), squirrel fishing is a sport which can not only feed some hard up animals and provide some serious entertainment, it gives you the chance to survey the enemy at close quarters and observe his tactics. Clever creatures they certainly are, the Gerald Durell within will bounce to the surface and provoke one of those awe-inspiring scenes so often narrated by David Attenborough.

So, next time you are in a London park, take along some string and a bag of nuts for a little harmless fun. A word of warning; I don’t know what the park keepers view is on squirrel fishing, but it’s probably not encouraged! I would also like to add that no squirrels were harmed in the production of this entry...

 

 

The Italian Job- getting down with the Venetians.

It can be said, that there are few places on this planet that harbour the ability to induce serious inspirational thought and feeling. I would rank Venice as one of the top three that certainly can. Simply wandering about the place makes you feel like you could paint the next masterpiece, write some verse that could score you the position of the next poet laureate or even produce some other form of artistic impression that will be etched into the tablets of historical genius. Perhaps this is it…or is this just a tale of a young Englishman enjoying good food, fantastic wine and the company of a particularly fine young lady in the heart of one of the world’s grandest architectural wonders?

Although I have stumbled around various quarters of the world from Fiji to Botswana, I have not really flexed my desire to travel to closer European destinations. Italy was somewhere I had never been until the weekend, I believe I may have brushed across the border on a pair of skis when I was not quite as big as I am now, but I can barely remember it. And so it came to pass that Clare and I hopped onto a plane out of the dreaded Gatwick South terminal, with all it’s England shirts, velour tracksuits and other disappointing additions to British fashion, and after the stunning vistas of the Alps from 30,000 feet, arrived at Marco Polo airport at 9am on a Friday morning.

The first surprise was finding out we had to go on a 1hr 20minute white-knuckle boat ride to get to Venice. I mean, I know it’s a series of islands in a lagoon but I thought it was a bit closer…what a shag! I wonder how many poor bastards have to do that commute every day?

The buildings around Venice look like a they have had a makeover from a team of top Hollywood set designers, either that or when the tourists go to sleep the Venetians come out with hammer and chisel and begin tinkering away, exposing various patches of brickwork and splashing different coloured dye on certain buildings- it cannot be this authentic surely?

Before visiting Venice I had to do a little reading to find out what this place was all about. I had heard that a combination of rising sea levels, volume of tourists and weight of buildings is steadily compressing the mud flats on which Venice sits, meaning city is slowly sinking at a rate of 7cm/100 years, however some reports claim it has sunk 24cm in the last century! So I was glad to be visiting the place before it is swallowed up by the surrounding Lagoon, it already floods about 40 times a year, to the point where people have begun to wakeboard there (you must see this video for yourself!).

We arrived at our lodgings, an amazing little boutique hotel called Ca’ dei Dogi, dumped the bags and headed out into the town. It is clear as soon as you walk through St.Marks Square or across the Rialto Bridge, that the Venice of today is one big tourist trap. Men in white jackets and bow ties lurk outside restaurants desperately trying to usher you inside using a menu, avoid these places like the plague, they will serve overpriced pap that they will claim is authentic Italian cuisine. Not.

The gondola is the first thing that springs to mind when thinking about Venice, were we tempted as a loved up couple? No. The price wasn’t right, would you get a taxi to the end of your road for 25 quid? Probably not. Gondolas aside, I have to say I was quite surprised (and felt extremely safe) to see Buzz Lightyear had also chosen to take a mini break in Venice.

The great thing about Venice is that it constantly makes you feel you are in one enormous labyrinth. One minute you can be on a tightly packed street shoulder to shoulder, the next you can be in a deserted square or some dodgy looking back alley that looks home to jack the ripper. At any given moment you can find yourself at a dead end faced with a small canal. It is quite often that these small streets offer the best in food and drink: look for the locals outside.

 

I thoroughly enjoyed drifting through this giant maze in search of the bacoro’s (wine bars) were they would throw a glass of wine in your hand and point you to their menu of cicheti (small plates of antipasti). It was pleasant to find that if we tried our best broken Italian, the Venetians (despite blatantly knowing our grasp of the Italian Language was poor and that we were English) would speak back to us in their native tongue. Nothing annoys me more when you make an effort to speak in a foreign language and they reply to you in English.

 

The best of the bacari was without a doubt Enoiteca Mascareta run by the Mauro, a sort of youthful Italian version of Einstein with a bigger nose. The place was fairly small and had posters of depicting different Venetian themes, one wall was dedicated to row after row of all sorts of bottles. The bar stretched out into the room and the gentle comforting hum of Italian wafted around the room in much the same way as the smell from the kitchen did. This is what Italians do: they eat, they drink and they talk- a lot.

The barman was awesome, he would constantly bring over new bottles of vino rosso and pour us each a glass and one for himself, raise his glass to good health and neck it. By our second evening we had developed a good rappor and I noticed some Brits in the corner from our hotel looking a bit disappointed they were not on the same level of banter. How could I forget, on that same evening in walked a Northern couple, Obviously in Venice for the Romanticism of the place, they certainly didn’t look like culture vultures and there conversation confirmed it.

“It’s just a fookin’ wine bar, ah don’t want fookin’ wine!” said the male.

“Well ask for a beer then loov,” said the female.

“Ah want a fookin’ pint.” 

I would love to carry on the conversation, but other than coarse language and a total disdain of anything that wasn’t remotely like home, it didn’t get much more intelligent than that.

A classic Venetian cicheti is sardines marinated in white wine vinegar and onion, but I was fairly unimpressed, it looked and tasted a bit like school food. With the Adriatic surrounding it, it is no surprise that fish is big in Venice. Cuttlefish, Prawns, Octopus, squid and anchovies are all very popular and are on virtually every menu in the city. With all this fish flying about it would have been a cardinal sin not to try and find the source: The Pescharia.

On Saturday morning we wandered through the Rialto Market, which had some of the most cheerful looking vegetables I have ever seen. Bold vibrant colours were everywhere you looked, the tomatoes looked as if they had been air brushed and there were more greens than you could poke a stick at. All the food was reasonable priced by the looks of things; big trays of water held freshly prepared artichoke hearts and fur-clad ‘mamas’ dictated their shopping list to the animated store holders. I knew the fish market was close- I could smell it.

The Pescharia easily puts Billingsgate to shame. Not because of the volume of ocean produce on offer, but because of the feel of the place- the hand gestures, the Neo-gothic fish hall and the fishy displays. The day was quite chilly and I was impressed by the burley Venetian Fishmongers ability to fillet fish with their bare hands in such cold conditions whilst still maintaining a cheerful attitude to their work. As Clare so eloquently put it “I would hate to be married to one of them…they must always smell of fish”, well it is a good thing she isn’t.

A long weekend is all you really need to see Venice. As much as I enjoy soaking up culture, wine and food, I think any longer and I would have started to get a little bored. I thoroughly enjoyed the trip- it is always great to visit somewhere new, but I do wonder how Venice copes with such a vast amount of tourists every year that only contribute to sinking their glorious city, it turns out that it is a bit of a catch-22, because I doubt Venice could survive without the tourists.

To give you one bit of advice from this recently de-flowered Italian traveller- go there before it sinks!

Sussex, cider and a couple of fish.

I only think it fair to pay homage to three of my favourite things all in one post. These three subjects have all had their fair share of the limelight and frequently pop up in my writing. The following pictures were taken over one incredible weekend down south, from the Old smugglers village of Alfriston (fishing & cider) near the coast, up to Winnie the Pooh’s home; Ashdown Forest (shooting and mushrooms). I like to think that these photos epitomise why I love the countryside. Autumn is in full swing, the pike are back in season and the time has begun for getting cosy in crooked country pubs in front of big log fires, drinking pints of fine ale and sharing some top notch banter with friends.

This particular weekend began in the same way most Sussex breaks do, with a spot of fishing. As the winter draws in the pike start to become more active in their violent ambushes on unsuspecting baitfish, so it is the best time of year to chuck your line in the water in the hope of hauling in one of these evil looking beasts.

I had gone down to see my friend Charlie. Charlie used to live down in Alfriston, as his parents owned one of the pubs in the village, University holidays were conducted in glorious states of lawlessness, both in the village and out of it. This was when we found our favourite pike venue a few miles from the village, which sadly has declined in productivity since those hedonistic days, but can still offer up some good fish.

The train ride down from London was fantastic, not just because I was about to go up against the most dangerous of all freshwater fish (at least, if you are another freshwater fish), but because I had a whole 3 days out of town. The day didn’t look at all pleasant. Dreary and grey with a dose of drizzle thrown in for good measure; your typical British weather if you like. It was meant to brighten up in the afternoon, but at 9am, looking out of the train window, it didn’t look hopeful.

Luckily, it pays to have a contingency plan up your trouser leg for just this kind of unforeseen circumstance. On the way to the Fishing spot I suggested that we pull into Middle Farm (mentioned in the Atomic cider post a couple of months ago. www.middlefarm.com) and pop in we did.

To the Cider aficionado, this place is stepping through the pearly gates...

As well as being a working farm, the cider barn is quite something to behold as you can see. Gallons upon gallons of the stuff line the walls, floor to ceiling. The best part is that you can happily wander around trying as many different Cider and Perry’s as you like, armed with a small, plastic tasting cup the world is your oyster. As you can see, when in the country, it is important to wear a Barbour jacket at all times.

We set about looking for the perfect Cider in earnest (myself more so, as I wasn’t driving), with all these different brews to get through, its damn thirsty work, which is just as well. 30 minutes later I was groggily filling up my 2-pint plastic carton with ‘Red Rooster’ a local brew with a head-splitting 8.4% alc. content. I couldn’t resist purchasing a pint of Lindisfarne Northumbrian Mead (14.5%). No wonder Vikings and the like went berserk back in the day, they were tanked up on this stuff!

As we stepped out of the barn into the cold light of day, sunlight burst through the grey skies, had we been in there that long? Outside a young maiden was in the midst of crates of apples, feverishly putting them through a sort of mincer/masher (the apples, not the crates). The pulp was then plonked in a press and the juice was unceremoniously squeezed out of what was a perfectly tasty looking bunch of apples, oh the sacrifices that are gone through for the delights of cider!

 

With the weather clear, fishing was to commence. There we sat, dead baits in the water, pasties and cider for lunch. I was the first to score with a pike and Charlie soon followed with an equally impressive fish. The rest of the day passed fairly uneventfully, although we saw some big fish moving none of them took the bait. I think just being there was good enough.

The next day, I put away the rod and line and out came the gun. Fur and feather were the order of the day and a friend’s farm the venue for an afternoon of hunting and gathering. This time of year the mushrooms are just clinging on to the edge of autumn before the first frosts wade in and put an end to free fungal feasts.

Armed with the trusty 12-bore and a load of cartridges, I set off on my jaunt. Three hours later, 2 squirrels, a wood pigeon, a pheasant and a bagful of hedgehog mushrooms were stuffed in my satchel, which was fit to burst at the seams. All these wonderful ingredients were destined to end up in a game pie. Sadly this never happened, next time perhaps…

Despite the fact I haven’t done a single bit of cooking for this post, it is still important to put in a recipe and this is an absolute corker! With the festive season upon us (almost), I have procured a small gem from the Middle farm national collection of Cider and Perry. So, feet up in front of the fire and get a batch of this on.

Sussex Mulled Cider:

• 4 pints of still, dry farmhouse cider
• 3 apples- washed, cored and sliced
• 2 oranges, washed and sliced
• juice and zest of 1 unwaxed lemon
• 2tsp ground mixed spice
• 8 whole cloves
• 2 cinnamon quills snapped in half
• 6tbsp light brown soft sugar

Put all ingredients into a pan, cover and heat gently for a minimum of 1 hour. Do NOT boil.

Serve with a few slices of all the bits and enjoy. If you have any crab apple jelly, substitute a few tbsp of sugar for a few of jelly for a uniquely pleasant twist on this old classic.

As I approach the end of this post, I start to question the relevance of this lost ramble about a weekend in the country, why put it on? I think maybe the point is that these pictures sum up my relationship with the countryside. I suppose it provides an insight into my life and the way in which I view the world around me and above all, the things that I appreciate most be it a fence post or a rickety flint-stone barn. Each tells their own story and have long been part of something that comes together to form a most impressive landscape. So here's to you Sussex…

 Thanks for everything.

Above: South downs, as seen from Ashdown forest.

An Englishman in New York…

As I sit and write this, I can slowly feel the jet lag seeping in from the sides of the eyes…but, while the last week is still fresh in my mind, it has to be put on to paper, so to speak.

 

A couple of things have changed in the last week:

•              I had never been to New York.

  

•       I was under the impression most American’s were overweight, rude and fairly ignorant.

  

I can thankfully say that both these have been amended. My assumptions of the American people were grossly misunderstood. I am sure there are a few bad apples in the big apple, but on the whole they were an awesome bunch.

New ‘Yoykers’ are a different breed of city dwellers to Londoners, they are much more helpful for one: whilst Clare and I were deliberating over their rather complicated Subway system, believing we were on the correct train to 5^TH Avenue (we were actually almost in Harlem!), a local who had blatantly been dropping eaves, piped up and told us what we needed to do to get to our destination…thanks! This happened on more than one occasion, they are a friendly bunch and not afraid to chat to you regardless, a rarity in this country. New Yorkers aren’t fat either, I was expecting a nation of burger lovers would be rather on the obese side, I was a bit disappointed to see so many thin people wandering about. 

As with most of my travels, food always features at the top of the list. This is out of hunger and curiosity, what would America have to offer? The answer is a hell of a lot! Fast food stands litter the streets peddling everything from Falafels, kebabs, hot dawgs, sugar coated nuts and Pretzels the size of my head. You cant walk a block without seeing a Dunkin’ Donuts, McDonalds, Subway or Wendy’s. It is evident there is a lot of crap, unhealthy pap about to gorge on, despite this there are also some incredible diners, pizzerias and restaurants up for grabs.

For a country that is only really about 400 years old, they’re pretty well developed. NYC is a crazy place; my brother’s place is situated on the 31^st floor of a smart apartment block directly opposite the New York stock exchange, just off Wall Street. Nice. My neck is still sore from gawking upwards at the obscene height of the buildings. Manhattan is never going to run out of space…the yanks will just keep building upwards!

Anyway, on with the food aspect of this incredible city, New Yorkers really do have it all when it comes to their munch. Take away is a large part of the NYC diet; Italian, Chinese, Japanese and Thai are featured in a big way. I thought this was partly laziness as there’s none of the Sainsbury’s, Waitrose and Tesco knocking about that we have. Most apartments have small galley kitchens, fair enough; not much cooking goes on in the home. This could be partly to blame for as takeaway food is also relatively cheap. Again this was another misunderstanding on my behalf. They have loads of little deli’s and supermarkets. Whole Foods have got NYC by the scruff of the neck and aren’t afraid to beat the citizens out of some serious Dollar for a taste of their ethically produced food. Another competitor for Whole Foods is the luxurious sounding Dean & Deluca, which really does aim to not only provide you with well-sourced, great food, but also scrape your pockets bare at the same time.

From shops to markets: Union square market was like any other farmer’s market, but had the biggest variety of tomatoes of all colours and shapes. From little cherry tomatoes to bloody great Ox heart tomatoes the size of Mike Tyson’s Fist. The peppers too were enormous, is everything supersize in the states? Ears of corn in massive stacks, squashes and chilis of every kind…this was an impressive little market indeed. I even came across a cider stall and had a wee dram; it was evident the yanks haven’t quite mastered this brew and I’ve drunk all sorts of piss in the West Country. 

Granted a week is never going to be enough to sample all the good stuff, but it was long enough to enjoy some. I did have a sneaky peek at Anthony Bourdain’s place: Les Halles, but on browsing over the menu, decided it looked rubbish and my money was better off going to someone else. Your books are entertaining mate…but your restaurant ain’t. 

We had heard of a superb pizza place just over the Brooklyn Bridge called “Grimauldi’s”, after the 30-minute walk over I was starving. This place had a queue…shit! But it must be good, right? So we got a takeaway and sat in the park. It would be fair to say it was one of the best pizzas I have ever had, the dudes I saw making them in the kitchen looked very happy and I liked to think they had sprinkled some of this cheer on the 16 incher in front of me.

I did get the chance to do a little home cooking in my Bro’s flat, New York is famous for its Cheesecake, so where else to buy one in for pudding. I managed to get my hands on one from New Jersey. The thing I couldn’t get my head round was, it didn’t have a base, But it was sickeningly good! I felt I had to do something myself so I made a raspberry and Grand marnier coulis, the tartness cut the cheesecake better than a knife.

We enjoyed our brunches too, in some true American diners… Empire diner in Chelsea was great for burgers (I had three), as for good eggs Benedict I went to The Odeon in Tribeca, apparently this was were cool cats used to hangout back in the day smoking fags, wearing dark glasses, berets and drinking the Vino with people called Tony.  The best brunch I had was at a place that was also in Tribeca called Bubby’s, this place had it all, one dish that caught my eye was ‘Pulled Berkshire Farms Pork Butt’ as it was only 11am and my stomach wasn’t quite ready to be that inflated, I opted for something else. (by the way, the picture below shows a few members of the Band 'The Kooks'-great bunch of lads.)

Huevos Rancheros is a traditional Mexican breakfast that consists of refried beans, salsa, fried eggs, melted cheese and tortillas. Sometimes its made with mince, but this is the version I read about in Good Food magazine; hardly an authority on Mexican food. The Huevos Rancheros was enormous and amazing…I eventually managed to plough my way through with the help of coffee and pink lemonade, I felt as though I need not eat anything for the next couple of days. My girlfriend had other ideas, after Macy’s, Bloomingdales and looking for that all-important Marc Jacob’s bag, my appetite had begun to creep up on me again. I suppose this is where Dunkin’ Donuts comes in.

So what is the American dream? If its food, then I think I may have tasted a small portion of it. I would have liked to spend a bit more time in the supermarkets, I did stock up on some new hot sauces, wasabi & lime mustard (is it weird that it tastes good?) and some Kimchee (something I will be looking into in the next few weeks), oh yes…and some pig rub! I do like America.