A Taste of Noma at Claridges

Three months off work on gardening leave comes to an end. My last day of being a man what lunches. And why not end it all off by spending £300+ in the space of about two-and-a-half hours. Insert high-class prostitute comparison here. I'll admit here to being not particularly too bothered with "fane daning". Starchy tablecloths. The table de-crumber applied always by the most unsmiling member of the waiting staff. Just the bloody table de-crumber full-stop. The feeling you're being watched; monitored, even. Monitored for bad knife skills. But it was my last "working" day of 3 months off so why not spunk it up the wall.

Ushered into the main room at Claridges it was immediately obvious that two things were present. Firstly, a really nice buzz, flecked with excitement. Secondly, fuckloads of CASH. Lakshmi Mittal was centre stage on a table of ten people with plenty of staff and - latterly - Rene Redzepi cooing at them. Half of my table were also cooing at Mittal from a distance. Money talks?

The food arrived and first up were some "snacks". A selection of foraged plants with edible soil were very...planty? The soil was gritty and honestly, not particularly nice to eat. Then came the ants. The ants! Live ants desperately trying to escape from creme fraiche on lettuce. I'd read about these on twitter and opinion was divided, including my 2nd least favourite word, meh. It sits behind nom, in case you're even remotely interested. The ants tasted of lemongrass. There we are. I'm not even going to put a photo up. You know the score. Ants.

Then the real dishes came out. A raspberry soupy thing in a teacup was pleasant. I that all I can muster on the subject? I guess so. It was very pretty, though:

Better was the caviar and clotted cream alongside it that was served with Claridges own scones. Savoury delight. Try not to use umamj here, Richard. I Next up was an oyster poached in buttermilk for a short while. I've tried oysters twice. Both times I daren't chew. Both times I just tasted the vinegar and shallots with which I washed them down. I'm not going to bollock on about loving oysters and then only ever swallow them without chewing, so I tried chewing. Nope, I still don't like oysters and their mineralness. Not even when Rene tries to tease me into liking them.

Things then took off. The best sourdough bread - heck the best bread I've probably ever had was served with very light almost cream-like butter and a punchy goat's butter. I'd jested to my host that I didn't like goats cheese before the meal and he took it literally; a pungent rapeseed oil was brought out for me. Bless. Beef tartare, which we ate with our hands and came with a wipe of tarragon was beautiful and perfectly seasoned and gave a first glimpse into why Rene bloky is popular.

A lump - yes a lump - of celeriac was next, poached in goat's butter and served with a slick of truffle sauce and was nice for two mouthfuls. But after the 4th and all the way to the 8th it became overkill, but I'm not helped by thinking that truffle reminds of stale sweat. Still, things were end on a high. The 48-hour cooked neck of lamb served in hay and with a pea broth (that was suggested should be mixed with creme fraiche when we'd finished the excellent spring vegetables in it) was tremendous. 

Several of the table thought it was the best lamb they'd tasted. I wasn't arguing and it got me thinking about working out how to set my oven to 75c to invest in some serious slow-cooking at weekends. All weekend. I couldn't help thinking "expensive meal....cheap cut of meat", but maybe I'm just a tight-arse who wants value from his sizeable outlay. A cheery bunch of elderly gentlemen on the adjacent table were dismantling the lamb with their hands on the next table and knawing on the neck-bone. Maybe this sort of thing happens every day at high-end restaurants. Does it?

Not having a sweet-tooth, the dinner surprisingly peaked at dessert. Walnut ice-cream came topped with frozen dust-like cream and frozen berries. I'm assuming here that someone was having fun with some dry ice. It worked, oh how it worked. Nothing on the plate was too tart or too sweet, a glorious gentle dish. Apparently it comes from the menu in Denmark: no wonder they wanted to show it off.

Would I do it again? Probably. Was it mind-blowing? Nope. Were there some really memorable dishes? I reckon so. Did you not enjoy some aspects? Yep. Oddly enough, the one thing I'll take with me was the hum in the room and the cheery, chatty staff that Claridges offered up, both of which helped to dispel my disinterest of high-end eating out - at least for the afternoon.

When I walked out, a group of people were cooing over Rene Redzepi and asking him to sign all manner of things. I briskly walked over, offered him my hand and simply said "Thank you". He looked touched and held his heart. I suspect I'll be doing similar when I dare to look at my bank account. 

Scores on the doors, Miss Ford: somewhere between 6 and 7.

Ragu alla Ricardo

When I first got into cooking, I recall one of my Meteorology lecturers, the wonderfully avuncular Ross Reynolds giving me a photocopy of a recipe for a ragu - i.e. spag bol sauce, let's face it. This recipe called for all sorts of ingredients which as a fresh-faced 21 year old was going to be a challenge. I recall fucking it up completely but the seed was sown for what is about 15 years of tinkering with recipes. I've finally settled on "my version" that's been guided by various Telly Chefs and friends. It's not authentic, unique, real, seasonal, locally-sourced, passionate or other words thrown around about food, but my version. Maybe you can give it a try and see what you think. I have a horrible feeling I may have written about this before, but what the hell.

1) Chop up 1 1/2 onions, 2 sticks of celery and 2 carrots into very small bits. Fry these in olive oil with two star anise (thank you Heston) for about 45 minutes very slowly.

2) In a separate pan (fry pan usually good for this), fry off 500g of minced beef (the better quality, the better, I'd guess) and let it sit there to get a nice crust before turning over (thank you, Giorgio). Drop this into the cooking vegetables and do exactly the same with 500g of pork mince. As with all these things, a bit of fat in the meat never goes amiss. Pour pork mince into the veg and deglaze pan with red wine.

3) Turn the veg/meat mixture up to high and empty in a generously large wine glass of red wine (something gutsy) and burn all the alcohol off until it doesn't smell "tart" any more.

4) Add 3 cans of chopped tomatoes, I usually pick Cirio which I can get in my local Sainsbury's as they're supposed to be good quality (and seem to be coming down in price - as well as suddenly getting advertised on mainstream telly) as well as a good 2-3 second squirt of tomato ketchup.

5) Let it blubber away for about 3-4 hours with the lid off on a lowish heat. Stir occasionally to make it feel wanted. As it starts to lose liquid, top it up with milk. Serves maybe 6-8 people with British "too much ragu" sized portions or probably 60-80 italian understated ragu portions. Here it is blobbing away early in its 4-hour marathon:



I actually only settled on this recipe about 2 months ago and have cooked it twice now and it seems pretty nice. I used to add pancetta as well and that might reappear in time. Who knows. The star anise came in a year ago and the "topping up with milk" was the most recent addition. The ketchup was there from the start, heathen that I am.

I love you, Anchor and Hope

It seems as though the way of attracting attention to you new venture is to make it a pop-up. Do it for 2 days, 2 weeks, 2 months and leave the audience wanting more. Ephemerality rules. Blogs and restaurant reviews tend to focus on the new and cutting edge. Got there first, done that, when's the next opening.

I sometimes wonder whether it would be nice for someone in their newspaper column to spend a year revisiting the stayers, the survivors that have been here for yonks and whose reputation has passed down through word of mouth: off the top of my head Blueprint Cafe (although now lacking its guiding light), St. John and here - the Anchor and Hope.

Anyhow, about since 6 months since my last visit I was back there for the Sunday lunch. £30, no choice, the pub opened out and all tables full. And you can book. I thought my last meal at Manchurian Legends could be up there with the best this year - so could this one. 2012. Two meals, two big hits.

Arriving early we got a great table in the corner and as there were five of us, everything came served on an enormous plate for us to dig into. We kicked off with a few nibbles on bread - oxtail and tongue and beetroot and horseradish that set the palate up. First up was a large plate of watercress, tangy stichelton blue chees, pecans and pear. I am in my infancy of blue cheese love, but this all works. I've seen it on the menu before - and can see why it's still there, everything playing off each other.

The main should really have come with a fanfare. A huge, triumphant plate of porchetta sat atop fennel and roasted potatoes with a magnificent gravy swimming beneath it all. The stuffing of the porchetta was deeply, deeply savoury and the only thing I could have criticised was the cracking that failed on one quarter of my slab of pork. The pork itself retained plenty of moisture. The unanimous decision was one of "Good Lord". Take a look at it in all its grainy iPhone photo glory:



Dessert doesn't usually interest me but it was good to see tarte tatin coming out - caramelised to within an inch of its life with a deep brown colour, sweetness with the slight sour hit of the mascarpone that came with it.



We were all full. And happy. Maybe it's best that the Anchor and Hope doesn't get re-reviewed for those unaware of it because quite frankly a) it doesn't need to be as it's always full and, selfishly, b) I want to be able to get a table. A glorious 9.