Good Enough To Eat

Making breakfast an art form. Huge queues at the weekend for brunch, book a weekday off and go for the apple pancakes.

Two Of My Favourite Cinemas In The World

When you go for a piss at the Brooklyn Heights, you pass the projectionist. And the usher at Ziegfeld’s welcomes you like a VIP. Spectacular. For the record, my top 5 also includes the Bath Picturehouse, which I fear no longer exists, ‘Wembley’ in Kandy, Sri Lanka and Zeffirelli’s in Ambleside.

The Rocking Horse Cafe

With a pint of frozen mango margarita in your hand it doesn’t matter what the food tastes like. Until you taste the food. Then, it matters. In a good way.

7A

A personal favourite brunch spot in the Lower East Side. Confusingly, the picture's taken from the restaurnat rather than of the restaurant. It's not even a very good picture.

Vini E Olii

A Brooklyn gem. Unrecognisable as a restaurant from the outside – they’ve kept the ’50s drugstore façade - the inside ‘prescribes’ perfectly cooked Italian seasonal cuisine with surprisingly good house Chianti and Orvieto to wash it down for not very much money.

Bloom's Deli

My First Motzah Ball Soup. Some Jewish food I simply don’t understand. A great place with fantastic service.

The Last King Of Scotland

The Last King Of Scotland paints a vivid picture of Uganda under the rule of Idi Amin, through the eyes of a young Scottish doctor, fresh-faced and over-sexed, on a post-graduation journey of self-discovery.

James MacAvoy plays Nicholas Garragan, who arrives in the country unaware of Amin's recent rise to power. He rather conveniently bumps into the up and coming dictator and there begins an unlikely friendship, based largely on the fact that they both hate the English.

Forest Whitaker throws himself body and soul into the role of the larger than life despot - the film lives or dies on his performance, and it is remarkable. For a Western audience at least, he becomes Idi Amin and captures the humour and the horror of the infamous eccentric, believably yo-yoing between quirky comedy and horrific brutality.

If the film has any flaws, they're down to Garragan. Not in McAvoy's admirable performance but in the character itself, an awkward composite created to make the story neater and easier to tell, but uncomfortable in its fiction, and the historically questionable effect it has on wider events.

Also, as we discover, along with Garragan, the true nature of Amin's agenda, our sympathy seems to be provoked when he threatens the Scot, rather than by the massacre of his own countrymen. Lest we forget - the true crimes here were committed against hundreds of thousands of Africans, not one puny Scottish bloke that didn't even exist.

But all in all it's an explosive, colourful and gripping account of Uganda's dark past, directed and performed with serious flair.

The Pursuit of Happyness and Rocky Balboa

Will Smith plays the unluckiest man in the world in The Pursuit of Happyness.

But we soon find out he's amazing at solving Rubix cubes which is their way of telling us he's clever. So we're supposed to feel even more sorry for him, but you can’t help just thinking he’s carelessly wasted 30 years of his life.

He sells what look like sewing machines to hospitals and they're hard to sell because they're rubbish and expensive. Worse, we're forced to sit through scene after scene of Will running after somebody who's managed to nick one off him, with a voiceover saying something like "I call this part of my life 'running'".

The film doesn't know what its targets are and it fails to hit all of them. It fails at being a geriatric Good Will Hunting because the director and script aren't good enough. It fails at being a moving father-son bonding movie because it's unbearably sentimental. It's like they took all the forgivably bad bits from decent films -you know, the bit where the father holds the sleeping kid against his chest and stares into middle distance as the camera focuses on his single tear and the strings crescendo - taken ALL those bits and put them in one overlong boring film. Any genuine emotion is whitewashed by a saccharine musical score which drenches every scene with warm violins, occasionally punctuated by a Stevie Wonder song, cos hey, this is the 80s.

Will Smith does show signs of great promise as an actor, frustratingly so because he's stuck in this awful film. You get the feeling he's better than this, but desperately needs to break out and work with more exciting material and talent. He was on the right lines working with Michael Mann on Ali, showing glimmers of real potential but this is a major leap back and I just hope he gets it more right next time.

Make no mistake, this is a bad film. But worse, it's not even enjoyable trash - it's painful trash. It makes you work, it's frustrating, and frankly, there's far too much pursuit and not nearly enough happiness.


Rocky Balboa achieves a far better balance. The first hour of the film Sly said he'd never make is much as you'd expect. It's indulgent, constantly referencing the previous films and frankly it's pretty watchable.

Rocky's a washed-up has-been with a restaurant named after his dead wife whose loss he still hasn't come to terms with. But he's still Rocky and there's something inside him, something in the basement as he puts it, that he needs to get rid of. Rocky in his old age is even more mumbling bumbling than before and Stallone delivers his eccentric humour with perfect comic timing. Wandering around dejected in his hat and eyebrows, it's like watching Chaplin after one too many protein shakes.

Then comes the pay-off, when Rocky lets that beast out of his basement and hits the ring. Every effort's been made to make a ridiculous match fairly believable and the result is a tub-thumping, heart-pounding, foot-stomping corker of a fight that'd boil the blood of the most hardened cynic.

And in the end, there's closure - for Stallone, for Rocky and for his fans, real and fictional. Yes it's indulgent, much of it's been done better before, but was it worth it? I think so.

Homeward Bound

Southsea Sunsets

These were the last pictures taken on my phone before it was cruelly ripped from me by the cream of Cricklewood's criminal community. Anyway, Christmas at home:

Classic Films, Part I : The Ipcress File, Dirty Harry

I’m currently working through a list of films I really ‘should’ have seen. The kind of films that when people ask me if I’ve seen them I say things like "Well I’ve seen bits of it" or "Yeah, but ages ago" or my favourite "Yeah, but I was incredibly tired and, if I'm honest, really quite drunk". Well, now’s the time for actual honesty, for coming clean. To all the people I’ve said those things to, I lied. I haven’t seen those films, I was just too embarrassed to say so. I feel better already.

It also gives me a list of amazing films to watch, which frankly is an added bonus. I say I’m ‘working’ through the list, as if it were a chore, but there does indeed seem to be a reason why people are always banging on about these.

I started with The Ipcress File (1965), Michael Caine playing an anti-Bond in the adaptation of a Len Deighton spy thriller. An odd choice, you might think (I’ve never had to lie, and indeed wouldn’t lie about not having seen it) but I felt like a bit of old-school British espionage with umbrellas, meetings in parks and Albanian master criminals.

Caine plays Harry Palmer, a Cockney ‘insubordinate with criminal tendencies’ recruited by the British Secret Service, but more concerned with his pay packet than Her Majesty. He’s taken off bog-standard surveillance to find the abductor of a renowned British scientist. In fact, it seems a lot of renowned scientists are suddenly retiring or going out of action in a mysterious British ‘brain drain’. And sure enough, when this scientist is retrieved in exchange for quite a few shillings and farthings and guineas (that’s a lot in today’s money), the man is now rubbish at science. He can barely fire up the overhead projector. So the Secret Service are pretty narked that they’ve been sold defective goods, quite apart from the fact that somebody clearly seems to be taking the piss with our best science graduates (which we all know are a rare enough breed as it is). Caine takes the case and soon becomes personally involved, web of intrigue, murder, treason, mind-altering machines etc. etc.

Yes, the plot is slightly absurd, but the film is wonderfully enjoyable. It looks fantastic, with so much interest and excitement in every shot. Bizarre camera angles and crash zooms appear out of nowhere, and the perfectly pitched score by John Barry (our answer to Lalo Schifrin) tweaks the tension and complements the visuals and dialogue.

Caine is never better as the hard-edged spy with his own rulebook and a complete disregard for authority. He loves ‘birds’ too, there’s plenty of Alfie here, but he really comes across as a very British Dirty Harry (1971), which, wouldn’t you know, is the film I watched next.



I fell for it hook, line and sinker. It’s a beautifully made film, brilliantly acted and hugely watchable. It’s not a million miles from Ipcress, only this is America baby, and don’t you forget it. So we’re talking Lalo Schifrin at the musical helm, underpinning the whole shebang with peerless skill, whipping up tension, surprise and intrigue like Delia whipping up a nice omelette.

But first, the story. There’s a serial killer on the loose in San Francisco. A really nasty piece of work with a lust for killing and a penchant for icing kids, ‘n****rs’ and priests. He laughs too, and it’s an all-round winning psycho turn from Andy Robinson, chosen by director Don Siegel because he had the ‘face of a choirboy’.

The officer they put on his case is the man they call Dirty Harry. It is, of course, Clint Eastwood as the seething, hard-boiled, take-no-shit (but wouldn’t mind a pay rise) cop Harry Callahan. He cares little for the law of the land, and a lot for the law he’s come up with himself. He’s a vigilante cop of the old school, and you screaming paedo racist psychos better watch out.

Then there’s the dialogue. Of course everyone remembers the "do you feel lucky, punk?" scene which, at the film’s climax, is an awesome moment, clinically delivered by the increasingly nihilistic Harry. But the rest of the film is superbly scripted, and often laugh-out-loud funny, as with my favourite exchange:

Harry Callahan: Well, when an adult male is chasing a female with intent to commit rape, I shoot the bastard. That's my policy.

The Mayor: Intent? How did you establish that?

Harry Callahan: When a naked man is chasing a woman through an alley with a butcher's knife and a hard-on, I figure he isn't out collecting for the Red Cross. [walks out of the room]

The Mayor: He's got a point.

After two of these films, I’m really getting a taste for this little trip down the celluloid hall of fame. Only about 150 to go…

Sloe Food

I finally found some sloes in October off a footpath somewhere in West Sussex. But if anybody knows a good sloe footpath in London, let me know. Anyway, here’s what I did with them.

Wash them then prick all over with a pin or a hawthorn if you’re feeling authentic. Put them in a biggish jar, add some brown sugar (about 2oz for a pint of sloes) then fill it up with gin, seal and shake – every day for as long as you can (3 months minimum).

When they're ready, get some muslin (John Lewis, if you’re asking), strain off the berries and bottle up the filtered juice. Leave for 6-12 months before drinking.



Now, squeeze the pips out of the gin-soaked berries, then melt some chocolate in a glass bowl over a pan of hot water. Add the de-pipped berries, stir into the melted chococlate then place lumps on a piece of greaseproof paper to cool. Dust with cocoa.

And there you have it. Some delayed gratification and instant pleasure in the form of sloe gin and juicy sloe chocolates.

Four days in Praha

Surprisingly successful swede soup

I had two swede in my veg box and I was trying to ignore them. Then everything around them disappeared and I was forced into a corner. Frankly I was at a loss. Swede to me does not hold very good memories. Bright orange cubes mixed with tinned carrot and sweetcorn in a kind of inedible vegetable medley to accompany a gristly cottage pie was about as good as it got. We’ve never had swede at home as far as I can remember so it’s always been connected with the unappetising smell of the school kitchen.

But I found an old turnip recipe that I thought sounded good and added a couple of things to come up with this. And it turned out to be a truly cathartic experience, an epiphany in the kitchen if you will.

So grab your swede (two small or one big to feed 5 or 6), wash peel and chop it into smallish chunks (NOT perfect cubes). Peel and chunky chop a couple of nice carrots too and put them aside with the swede.

Finely chop an onion or a couple of shallots and smash and slice two garlic cloves. Heat up some olive oil with a knob of butter and sweat off the onions over a lowish heat, adding the garlic after a couple of minutes. Then add your misshapen swede and raise the heat a bit. Brown for about 5 minutes. Meanwhile get some stock ready – chicken’s good but veg is better for vegetarians I believe. 2 pints of strong stuff. Add the stock and the carrots, then let it simmer away for around 15 minutes. Then – and here’s where the magic starts – add half a cup of rice – risotto rice is best so arborio or carnaroli or whatever you favour. Let that simmer for 15, add salt and pepper, then at the end grate in a load of parmesan before serving up with chunky white toast and more parmesan on top if you like that sort of thing.

Musée d’Orsay

I’ve been meaning to go for ages, I mercifully missed the crowds, and it didn’t disappoint.

A beautiful building with some stop-you-in-your-tracks stuff that wakes you up and slows you down.

Bouillon Chartier, 7 rue Faubourg Montmartre

Effortless fine dining in Paris is one of the Great French Myths. It’s up there with ubiquitous stripy jumpers, berets and the romantic notion that Provence is Paradise.

In truth, packed McDonalds and heaving Starbucks are easier to come by than truly decent places to eat in the capital.

But when it’s good, it’s bloody brilliant.

At Chartier, they don’t care if you’re a tourist, a local, eating alone or in a group of 10, rich or poor, friendly or terse, articulate or completely gibbering insane. I went on a recommendation, as I hope you will, and I was eating alone. Despite the many empty tables (it was getting on 3pm), they sat me opposite another guy also on his own. Not to everyone’s taste perhaps, not really to my taste, but here it just seemed like the right thing to do.

Now the place itself is marvellous. It opened as a workers’ canteen in 1896 and shows no sign of really changing. The entrance is just off the busy rue faubourg montmartre in a little courtyard. The food is brasserie basic and pretty unremarkable but a half-bottle of decent house red at 2 euros 60 actually made me laugh out loud.

It may have become a sort-of tourist trap but the waiters, most of whom must have been there since it opened, don’t seem to have noticed. It wouldn’t want to change for the world, and the day it’s a Starbucks is a black day for us all.

Churchill Chutney

This was a bit of a George’s Marvellous Medicine. In fact, if I wasn’t so damn humble, I’d call it Nathaniel’s Marvellous Chutney. So treat it like that, and if you notice something on the shelf that you think might be nice, whack it in. Just don’t go too mental, and keep the base the same.

The apples are picked from a Cambridge orchard across the road from my girlfriend’s house, but if you haven’t got the time to drive out there, bramleys or other crisp varieties will do just fine.

Roughly chop four or five onions then peel and chop your apples – about 10 for 4 or 5 jam jars’ worth. Put them in a big pan with a knob of butter, half a pint of vinegar, two cups of brown sugar, a couple of glugs of pineapple juice and cider (I used Scrumpy Jack from the offy at the end of the road, but if you have something posher, hark at you) and a pack of stoned, roughly chopped dates – maybe a few raisins. Spicewise, some cinnamon, ground coriander and allspice, but again you might want to perfect your own blend.

Keep it simmering for 2 to three hours, stirring to stop it sticking to the bottom of the pan. It’ll turn dark as it makes the house smell beautiful, and you know it’s ready when you run a spoon across the bottom of the pan and the liquid doesn’t immediately fill the tracks.

Fill up some sterilised jam jars and mature ‘til Christmas.

An autumn risotto

Hallowe’en food. For when the air turns colder and you’re kicking along crisp brown leaves with every step.

The key ingredient for this is some kind of gourd. I used an onion squash because that’s what came in my veg box but anything’ll do – butternut, pumpkin, whatever takes your fancy. Peel it and scoop the seeds out. Slice it inch-thick, then whack in the oven on 150 degrees with some olive oil, salt and pepper, and some sage if you’ve got some.

The risotto: Dice up an onion, a head of celery and smash and chop a clove of garlic. Add them to some heated olive oil in a frying pan and cook over a low heat for about 6 or 7 minutes. Then turn up the heat slightly and add your rice – I use Arborio but feel free to experiment with other risotto rices – about two cups for two people. Move the rice around in the pan until all the grains have gone glassy – they'll look a bit like albino pomegranate seeds. Then splash in a good glug of super dry vermouth – Martini, Noilly Prat or own brand whatever. The pan will sizzle and steam, and the smell at this point is why you’re making the risotto. When it’s settled it should simmer very gently. Stir occasionally until the liquid’s mostly gone then start adding stock – about a pint for two people, but stirred in in cupfuls and allowed to soak and simmer like the vermouth did. From when the rice goes in to when you take it off the heat it’ll take about 18 minutes for the rice to cook perfectly – good to remember if you’re not sure. A couple of minutes from the end, take the squash from the oven and chuck some bits in with the risotto. Grate in plenty of parmesan (cheddar works fine if that's all you have) and maybe a knob of butter if you're feeling particularly decadent.

Splurge onto plates and top with more chunks of roasted squash. Serve with a hunk of bread to wipe your plate at the end.

Gallipoli, 102 Upper Street.

Now you can say what you like about Upper Street. Nouveau Gastro BoBo semi-skimmed chic it may be in parts, but there remain some very genuine spots, and this beautiful Turkish restaurant is one of them.

The service was friendly and my they work hard. The vegetarian meze that kicked off the meal were phenomenal. There were spicy tomato salsas laced with fresh coriander and walnuts, marinated aubergine and potato, fresh hot falafels, crisp pastry parcels bursting with feta and plenty of Turkish bread to dunk in the array of yoghurts topped with broad beans and good olive oil, homemade houmous, tzatziki and more.

After such a spread, I often find the main course quite bland, but perhaps that’s the idea. The thing is, the small bowls liberally dotted around the table (we were a big group) work so well as finger-dipping, reaching-over, pass-me-the-one-with-the-walnuts, social food, that when the mains come – juicy, well-cooked meat served with rice, salad, or maybe more yoghurt and tomato sauce – they’re bound to be a bit of an anticlimax. There were a lot of unfinished chunks of meat on people’s plates at the end - more a compliment to the starters than an insult to the mains.

Dessert was interesting, a bittersweet crème caramel wobbling between two apricots stuffed with cream and almonds, topped with pistachios. The centrepiece was forgettable but the apricots were fantastic. Just about room for a weak latte – didn’t try the Turkish coffee but I had a taste of the apple tea which tasted like hot sweetened apple juice but again, perhaps that's the point.

Now the bill. We had wine, and a set menu of three courses, with coffees. Including service, it came to less than 20 quid a head. Nothing pretentious about that. A genuine gem.

Down South (sloes at last)