The Man Behind The Curtain, Leeds

I don't think I've ever waited 10 months for a restaurant reservation, but 10 months I waited, which is about standard for The Man Behind The Curtain, in Leeds. I have absolutely no idea why it's called that, and I really expected to be sitting at a darkened spotlit bar, velvet curtain flung back dramatically while each dish is served with a flourish, face forever hidden. My expectations were poorly researched (if at all).

No, The Man Behind The Curtain is a large, white space on the top of a department store, splattered with paintings much like the dish plated in the opening photo. Staff don leather aprons with either muted or fluorescent straps, possibly to denote seniority? It reminded me of Street XO Madrid, similarly located, and similarly what would become an attack on the senses. 

We were seated, one of only three parties in the room. Sunlight shone directly into my eyes, and the staff hurried to close the floor-to-ceiling black curtains, clearly used to it. Strains of Placebo played, and we opted for the full tasting menu, a secret to us and one that would remain to be so for the duration of the meal, save our server's explanations as the plates come down. Bathrooms are alarmingly furnished with egg yolk-yellow toilet roll, so notable my friend brought some (clean I hope) to the table for us to all goggle over.

We started with an oyster served with strawberry kimchi. So delighted was I with the spicy strawberry pickle, I barely registered what was a plump and juicy mollusc, briny of the sea. 

Raw langoustines, served tartare style, arrived within a tree soon after. We all cooed over the pretty presentation, though the slippery, sweet seafood was unfortunately tainted by the blood-like tang of metal, the base of the spoon itself worn until tarnished. My companions were not as unlucky as I was, and loved theirs far more. 

We were served in a flurry, perhaps to keep within the 2hr 15 min timing stated on the menu. A tiny little bao, fluffy and garish red, nestled veal sweetbreads in XO sauce, pickled shiitake mushrooms and kimchi mayo. The mint and basil mentioned were absent to my palate. A cute mouthful, and one I could have repeated several times over. 

Wagyu beef tartare arrived in a cosmic bowl, slightly suspended with gordal olives and some sort of creamy sauce. I really wish I'd asked for a printed menu, or had one proffered. The fatty beef with the rich metallic flavours melted on the tongue, and while I found the transparent potato starch sheets balancing on top impressive in looks, it brought nothing to my party. My appetite was appropriately whetted, and I impatiently awaited the next course. 

The chef, Michael O'Hare, clearly has a colour scheme going on; it's not often you see this much red amongst savoury courses, and this was the most surprising. Within the shards of Sriracha crackers (which didn't contain even a hint of the now-ubiquitous condiment) was a spider crab, wonton skin and lardo 'lasagne' - layers of rich crab flavour, crisp crunch and rich pork fat. Underneath the sheet of bilberry jam (what the hell is a bilberry?) was a tiny, fried quails egg which I didn't especially know what to do with. I sort of wish they'd wrapped the crab, wonton and pork fat combo in some silky pasta and bathed it in a cream sauce. I started to long for comfort and warmth.

'Fish & Chips', made famous by O'Hare's appearance on The Great British Menu, was probably one of my favourite courses. Buried under a pile of crisp potato, was a perfectly seemingly steamed piece of cod, swimming in squid ink. The entire thing was dusted with malt vinegar powder, and topped with sprayed, golden prawns. I love sour flavours, and I loved this. Each mouthful was intensely seaside, that distinct flavour of fried, the lip puckering balance. 

'Polpo' was what this one was called, after the crockery it was served in. Shared between two, three pieces of beef rib were braised until tender - too tender, really, to be picked up with chopsticks and dipped in one of the mustard, coriander or truffle sauces, especially when you're sharing. Still, I enjoyed the burger-like flavour of the mustard combination especially. 

The last of the main courses looked like a piece of modern art, or something someone might have dropped. Depends how you feel about art, I suppose. Iberico pork, cooked until blushing pink, with a boquerone anchovy, anchovy cream, slow cooked egg and charcoal shavings. There was a gooey, sticky, reduced meaty jus hiding in there too, which was sweet and delicious and definitely not enough of it. The anchovy was the imposter here, one that clanged my palate and jarred my flavours that I was enjoying so much - the smoky, the rich, the porky. 

And like that, we were on to dessert. I was disappointed. It didn't feel like 8 courses, and I felt a little lacking. But no matter; dessert looked like it was sent from space. Lavender and chocolate ice cream came sheathed in white chocolate sprayed silver, a potato custard dotted with beetroot vinegared rice crispies. 

Not your typical colours of what one might find naturally, but the combination was pleasant. The potato in the custard contributed only towards texture, a silky smooth feeling in the mouth. 

Petit fours delighted and disgusted our group in equal measure. Cupcakes, edible entirely including its casing, hid a liquid passionfruit centre that exploded in the mouth, sending giggles all around the table. The wannabe Daim bar was dusted in cardamom and caraway, reminiscent of those handfuls of aromatics you grab on your way out of the local curry house to chew on to freshen the breath. 

Just like that, and £120 each later, we were done. There was nothing about the room or the staff (though pleasant) that made us want to spend any longer there, and we disbanded to a nearby pub. My overall and overwhelming experience was one of muted whimsy. The food felt discordant, not so much ecstatically pleasurable but wilfully provocative. I have no doubt that Michael O'Hare is a talented chef, and several courses excited me, but overall I was left with a sense of dissatisfaction. I wished for a hot dish, perhaps some bread and butter. I was there for an event, a procession of art, not to be fed. 

I ate a McDonald's on the train home. 

The Man Behind The Curtain

68-78 Vicar Lane,
Top floor Flannels
Leeds LS1 7JH

 For better pictures and quite a different opinion to mine, check out Chris' post here. 

St. John Bread & Wine, Spitalfields

I suffer from a condition that, I suspect, a lot of Londoners have - it's the kind of condition where we're always striving for that next buzz, the next discovery of something new, exciting, fresh, perhaps a hint of one-upmanship (admit it). In this town where restaurants seem to be opening every other minute, there's a relentless scrabble to get to it first, get to it quick, get it while it's hot. 

Last week I made plans to meet a friend for dinner, and I hurriedly rattled off my internal Rolodex of new places we should go and be adventurous at. Nope. I pulled out my iPhone list of places I want to try. On that wet, dark January night none of them appealed, and I floundered. A message came through. "Sudden feeling. St. John?" I leapt on my bike. 

I'm shaking that condition off now. I don't want to get there first. I don't want to be the first-week-nerves guinea pig, bombarding them with my expectation. I want them to settle into their stride and relax into it a bit. I want to be looked after by people who are relaxed, perhaps old hat at this. That's why I'd floundered. 

St. John Bread and Wine opened in 2003. 2003! I was mid-way through my A-Levels then. The room is warmer than the original Farringdon location, which I find austere to the point of frosty. The menu reads like a dream of things I just really want to eat, and when the waiter came to take our order, we spent 10 minutes doing an entire U-turn of it with him. 

Roast shallots with goats curd and mint (£8.40) came topped with a tangle of mustard-dressed rocket. The kitchen forgot about the mint entirely, though given we didn't notice until almost the last bite perhaps it wasn't necessary. The shallots were roasted to complete sweetness and collapse, with only a hint of shape left to them. The sharpness of the mustard dressing, the pepper of the rocket and the cream of the goats curd made us want more each mouthful, each bite. It's the fourth time my friend has had this, testament to how good it was. Obviously the bread is stellar, being St. John's bakery hub - right in front of me, I kept eyeing up loaves to take away, and doughnuts oozing with filling under a tented canopy.

Cold middlewhite pork with dressed leaves and radishes (£8.80) was exactly what it was. Why don't I ever have any leftover roasted meats to create this with? The salad itself had a tangle of bitter leaves, offset by another mustard-heavy dressing. Oh, if they could bottle that dressing I would buy it by the gallon. Nose-clearing, tangy joy. 

I was going to use this as the opening photo but apparently not everyone eats fish heads, and some are a bit squeamish about this sort of thing? As soon as we saw the hake head on the Specials board at £24.60 for two, my friend insisted it was the most 'me' menu item ever, and therefore it was destiny for us to order it. I think that's in reference to the Malaysian fish head curry that I insisted we include a photo for in my cookbook, which scared the hell out of everyone. Fergus Henderson, Chef Patron of St. John, once said "It's only polite really if you knock an animal on the head to eat it all: tripe, heart, feet, ears, head, tail. It's all good stuff." It's also a very Chinese philosophy, that, one I've been brought up with. 

This was served with leeks slathered in aioli. The head was roasted, and included some neck for extra meatiness, the pearly white meat pulling away from the skin and bones easily. I really love hake; substantial yet light and with just the most delicate texture. We dug around that head, pulling out the best nuggets just behind and under the eyes, stopping short at the eyeballs themselves. The leek-y aioli accompaniment was good, though the aioli a little on the timid side for me. I felt a little hard done by in the lack of potato filler. No fish n' chips? 

Still, it made room for dessert, which my unconscionable friend ordered three of while I popped to the ladies. Hokey pokey ice cream, all three enormous scoops of it, the chocolate terrine with brandied prunes, and of course one cannot pass up on the madeleines, pictured top. Never pass on the madeleines, for they are the best £4.50 (per half dozen) you'll spend. Our table was awash with puddings, and envious eyes darted over at us. There we were, on January 6th, decadence personified. I regret nothing, not that light, moussey chocolate with the fudgy prunes and tangy creme fraiche, no. Not the cold crunch of the honeycomb swirled within the ice cream that we could barely finish, save dipping our already honey-sweet cakes into. Even less so when I had a slightly stale madeleine to accompany my cup of tea the following morning. 

With service and a bottle of house white, labelled by St. John simply as 'Blanc', our bill reached us at just clear of £90. We spent 3 hours there, whiling the evening away, happy as clams. 

St. John Bread & Wine

94-96 Commercial Street
London
E1 6LZ

Sicilian Sausage, Spinach & Cashew Cream Bucatini

Hello, hi! It's been a while, hasn't it? I can't say why it's been this long - life got in the way, maybe? Except even when I was working full time and writing a cookbook and testing recipes in my 'spare time' I still managed to write blog posts, so that's not it. 

I just neglected this poor little blog. Instagram is huge now, and thousands and thousands of pictures make for good scrolling. I scroll and scroll and scroll and 'like' them and see what restaurants are cooking up what and I suddenly put my phone down and I realise that I don't know anything about them really. Sure, it looks nice but what's the story? How does it taste? What's in it? I've received press releases introducing their new 'Instagrammable' dishes (kill them with fire), heard fellow diners snapping away enthusiastically for their followers even though they didn't enjoy it much, seen plenty of pictures of comped meals with hearty compliments and no indication of said comping. I'm guilty of this too, but I'm fixing it. In short, too much eye candy and not enough opinion. I like words; I've always liked words. If you say a colour to me I don't picture the colour, I picture the word written down. That is how much I like words. (Though if you like pictures my Instagram account is @hollow_legs...)

Anyway, my attention span was shot and my eyes boggled from staring at a mass of scrolling image and I realised I haven't read anything vaguely long-form in a million years. I also assumed that everyone was the same as me - food blogs are so 2009! - and then I remembered that I once made a promise to myself that I would keep writing this blog as long as I enjoy it, and entirely without regard for reader numbers. I also got an email from a Peter Roddy (hello!) who asked me when I was posting again in the subject, and the body contained just a picture of some prawns and a few tomatoes, 'an October harvest in Alaska'. If that doesn't get you going again I don't know what will. Thanks Peter for the motivation!

So it's January and we're all punishing ourselves for the wonderful time we had in December, where we danced around in fountains of mulled wine and went to parties that ended far too late for any of us to be useful at work the next day, while slightly reeking of stale regret. I'm embracing January's frugality and restriction and I'll show you how - by cooking pasta with a sausage and cream sauce. 

What? Isn't that what detox means? Truth be told, I've been meaning to do this recipe for a while. I find that creamy pasta sauces can be overly rich, too heavy, just all a bit too much. Too thick and it gets claggy, too thin and you have a very sad pasta soup. I went to a vegan restaurant a while ago and had the 'macaroni cheese' and a lightbulb went off. They made it with cashew nuts, blitzed for long enough to make a creamy sauce and even though theirs was a little granular, you got the consistency without the overwhelming richness. They also use something called 'nutritional yeast' but since I'm not an actual vegan and I'm free to get nutrition however I please and I'd rather not use something that sounds like a pharmacy product I've left it out.  

This came out far, far better than I ever dreamed it would for a cream subsitute. It was so delicious, and I doubt I'll ever go back to the dairy sauce again. Big talk there. 

Leave out the sausage meat and the shavings of parmesan that I just couldn't resist to make it fully vegan. You need a really strong food processor or a nutribullet, otherwise you'll need to soak the cashew nuts for 3 hours in water, then drain before use. 

Sicilian Sausage, Spinach & Cashew Cream Bucatini

Serves 1

90gr bucatini, dry weight
130gr Sicilian sausage flavoured with fennel (or just 1/2 tsp fennel seeds if meat-less), released from the skin and broken up
2 large handfuls of baby spinach, washed
1 small onion, diced
4 cloves of garlic, minced
A hefty pinch of salt
A big ol' grind of pepper
220ml vegetable stock cold
220ml water
60gr raw cashew nuts
1 tsp cooking oil
1 tbsp minced flatleaf parsley
Half a lemon, zested and juiced
Parmesan (optional)

In a small saucepan, add the onion and the water and bring to a simmer. Simmer for 6 minutes, then add the garlic and simmer again. There should be a little liquid left here, and you need to simmer it until it evaporates but doesn't catch, so keep watching it. Maybe 10 minutes in total.

Add the cashews to your blender / nutribullet / food processor and then add the onions and garlic mixture. Add the salt, pepper and the cold vegetable stock. Add the lemon juice and process until very very smooth. It should be the consistency of ...paint? Pancake batter?

Cook the bucatini in a saucepan of boiling water that has been salted with at least 1 tbsp salt. Meanwhile, in a frying pan, add the cooking oil and the sausage meat. Fry until browned, and leave on a low heat. When the bucatini is the hard side of al dente, reserve 1 mug of the cooking liquid and drain. Add a couple tbsp of the pasta water to the sausage meat and scrape anything off the bottom of the pan, then add the pasta and the cashew cream and bring to a low-medium heat. Add a slosh of the pasta water and using tongs, start tossing. Add the spinach and keep tossing for about 3 minutes, adding more pasta water if it gets too thick or claggy. It shouldn't need any more time than that but check to see if the pasta is to your liking.

Take off the heat and stir in the parsley and lemon zest, giving it another toss for luck before plating up and potentially adding parmesan, though I don't think it really needs it. Can't hurt though.

Kiln, Soho

Kiln has just opened on Brewer Street, Soho, and it promises 'side of the road' style Thai food. There's no hint of eating at the side of a the road here, though; no tiny plastic stools or lizards running up your legs (another story...), but a shiny metal bar dominates the restaurant, extending down the side of the kitchen, where you can watch the chefs cooking in clay pots.

Kiln was opened by Ben Chapman, who is also behind Smoking Goat - a den of darkened spice, cocktails and smoke, where you go and gorge on fish sauce wings, and leave stinking wonderfully of garlic. Kiln is a rather more grown-up affair, the food meandering through Thailand, dipping its toe in Laos, Burma and sometimes Yunnan.

I went along for the preview (where all these pictures were taken), and it was so good I found myself back there less than two weeks later. I'm not the only person to think so; at 7pm on a Friday night, I was told there would be a two hour wait. I put my name down and headed for Bar Americain, under Brasserie Zedel, and merely an hour and 10 later that blessed text message came through. That is how to do Soho on a Friday night. 

Anyway, of the snacks, the lamb and cumin skewers are poshed up versions of my Silk Road stalwart. Juicy chunky pieces of meat and fat are dusted with cumin and chilli, compact and charred from the fierce grill. Fermented sausage comes with sliced shallot and a spritz of lime juice, and holy god those chillis pack a punch. Grilled chicken was sweet and smoky and tender, but for the simplicity of it lost out somewhat in the excitement of the sausage. 

Dry mackerel curry was the dish that made me suck air through my teeth. When you see the dish you think those peppers are... peppers... And a couple of them are mild and sweet, so it tricks you into thinking they all are, and then suddenly your eyes are watering, and you're having to slurp back really delicious orange wine to fan the flames of chilli fire. That was that mackerel dish.

I loved herbal pork soup the first time round. A light broth with Thai basil and fronds of dill, and pieces of pork so buttery and tender I thought it was mutton, originally. The dill makes it really fragrant and light. The second time round it lost its magic for me. The pork was a little on the dry side, as if they'd smoked it rather than cooked it in broth, and I don't remember much dill going on. My sadness was brushed to one side with the grilled pork neck with chilli sauce. At around 30% fat, it was charred to a sweet crisp exterior and butter within, and I was kind of hoping my date would be a fat avoider - you know the ones, the type that cut the fat off parma ham and you wonder why you're friends with them - but it wasn't to be. I had to share it. 

Langoustines. Sweet, sweet, langoustines, poached very briefly, and dressed with mint and shallots and lemongrass and very finely sliced chillis. These were a real highlight; the flesh is creamy and sweet, while all the aromatics are just there in the background, lightly perfuming each mouthful. I sucked the heads, ate the roe, cracked the claws and picked around in them before I remembered I was out in public. So, so good. 

The wild ginger and shortrib curry, pictured here from the preview, has actually gotten better. A darker, richer, coconutty sauce covers fork-tender meat. Luckily the brown rice they serve, still satisfyingly sticky, arrived just then for me to drench in that wonderful sauce. I woke up the next day resentful that I hadn't eaten more of it. 

Wild mushroom salad contained grilled, meaty mushrooms served at room temperature in a savoury broth, garnished with roasted ground rice. Squidgy, smoky perfection. Glass noodles baked in a claypot, so they're slightly crisp on the bottom, were flavoured with sliced Tamworth pork belly, and lots of rich, beautiful brown and white crabmeat. A sprightly green sauce came to drench the noodles with.

Kiln is exciting. It's a riot of herbs and fire, elegant seafood and rich meat dishes, interesting vegetables handled delicately. It's a flavour of the Far East, with herbs and vegetables grown in Cornwall, and using UK-bred produce. I can't wait to go back already, and my last visit was only 3 days ago. 

Kiln

58 Brewer St, 

London, Soho W1F 9TL

Muffuletta - the Ultimate Picnic Sandwich

Muffuletta. Hur hur. Muffuletta is a round loaf, the lid sliced off, innards removed and layered with ingredients. The whole thing is then squished overnight, so that it's nice and compact to slice into. It's the perfect picnic lunch, as it's easily transported, and leaved nothing behind. 

It's traditionally from Sicily apparently, though they also use sesame bread, and  other such things such as olive salad to season it. I used a combination of cured meats, cheese, herbs and grilled vegetables. The key, really, is to make sure everything is good and dry before you start layering up, otherwise you're going to get a really soggy bread. 

You need a round loaf, with crisp outsides and soft innards. Slice that lid off, and pull out the insides. You can reserve and blitz that for breadcrumbs. 

Smear the inside with pesto, and then layer with sliced cured meat. I used chorizo and salami, you could use ham, serrano ham, etc. 

Add some grilled red peppers; I used the jarred version you can buy in supermarkets. BLOT WITH KITCHEN PAPER FIRST. No sogginess. Add some basil, perhaps.

Carry on with grilled aubergines, sliced mozzarella, sliced salami, perhaps pickled mushrooms or artichokes, until you get to the top. All blotted first. Make sure you can get the lid on. 

Wrap it tightly in cling film, then in foil, and weigh it down with something heavy, placed on a plate to even out the weight. Leave somewhere cool (but not the fridge) overnight.

Slice to serve. This is quite a sandwich; it'll serve 6 easily as a snack / with other bits, but that really depends on the size of your bread. For ease, I sliced it up pre-park outing, wrapped them all in cling film, put it back together again, and re-wrapped in the foil. I didn't want to wander around Victoria Park with a bread knife. You might be a bigger risk taker than me, though. (DON'T). 

John The Unicorn, Peckham

It's a stupid name. Who is John? And why does he have a unicorn? It has a garish frontage, of large bold type with pink and teal signage, sticking out like a sore thumb on Peckham High Street. It's an Antic-owned pub, and by and large I've been a fan of them as they make a real effort to make each different from the other. This particular one is shabby chic inside, obviously decorated with unicorns, and it's absolutely cavernous. A huge downstairs bar / pub area and a garden is augmented with an upstairs restaurant. 

Despite its flaws (John. The. Unicorn.) the food is really very good. Head Chef Ben Mulock spent several years at The Opera Tavern, so naturally the food has a vaguely Spanish slant. Grilled cubes of light bread, served with a yeasted butter were smoky and airy, the butter giving off that mouth-wateringly savoury flavour that I love Marmite for. Chicken heart skewers were pink and juicy, on a bed of smooth white bean pureé, and ridiculously good value for £4.25.

Nuggets of beef brisket were crispy and atomically hot within, topped with a pickled red onion. The menu changes every so often, and while these aren't available anymore, I imagine their replacement, smoked haddock arancini, are just as good. 

Cured trout with samphire was slightly less successful; it tasted like the fish was ever-so-slightly over-cured, so the texture was hardened. The samphire gave a good seafood flavour, but overall it needed more citrus. We bored of this quickly, though it was pretty.

We were back on track with burrata served with char-grilled tenderstem broccoli, pesto and chilli. I often think burrata is just fine drizzled with a fruity olive oil, but this was a worthwhile addition too. That creamy, dreamy cheese. 

My favourite dish of the evening was the wood-fired cauliflower with pomegranate dressing; I often have cauliflower roasted with houmous and I find the whole thing can get a bit claggy, but this bean pureé was a lot lighter, creamier and all the more balanced. The pomegranate added a sweet tartness, detracting from the fire and smoke flavour. I loved this. 

I didn't love the roasted pork shoulder, the only 'main' we ordered. Served with sliced granny smith apples and roasted, crisp new potatoes, it would have been great had it not been so salty. I couldn't take it, though I did ask for it to be packaged up for me to take home, as reheated with a bland carb (I had it with rice and chilli sauce) diluted the saltiness. All the components of a great dish were there, I just wondered if there was some sort of mistake with the seasoning. 

Desserts were decent; I enjoyed my pannacotta with wild strawberries, but its the cauliflower I'll be going back for. 

John The Unicorn
157 - 159 Rye Lane
Peckham 
SE15 4TL 

Full disclosure; we had our bill comped, but that was very much to our surprise and we didn't know this when we ordered. All opinions are obviously my own and unfettered. 

Banh Banh, Peckham Rye

When I was travelling around the South of Vietnam, I was besotted by the food there. Giant bowls of steaming hot broth came with tangles of noodles, and baskets of fresh glistening herbs to tear into, to season each mouthful. Each street corner was cluttered with ladies hunched over charcoal barbecues, wafting smoke lazily as skewers of meat sizzled away. Every scent was mouth-watering, and I found it almost impossible to go by several hours without a snack. 

Banh Banh has opened recently in Peckham Rye. Great! Near my house. Owned by Peckham-born Vietnamese siblings, the restaurant inside is light and airy, a small number of wooden tables, nearly all booked. The menu is short, concise and keenly priced, ranging across the ubiquitous summer rolls, through to noodle salads and pho. 

Banh khot pancakes (£9) pictured above are their speciality; small, crisp savoury pancakes, their predominant flavour is coconut. A large prawn nestles in the middle, and the idea is to wrap the pancake in lettuce and herbs, dip in a nuoc cham-based dipping sauce, and eat. It's a messy business, and unfortunately I didn't really get on with them. They were just incredibly bland.

Flock and Herd fish sauce wings (£6) were impressive for the meat's good provenance, but were not even comparable to ones better, such as Salvation in Noodles' version, or those of Smoking Goat. They were apologetic in flavour, lacking in a crisp exterior. We lost interest quickly. 

It was a very warm evening, so instead of the pho, we opted for the cold bun noodle salad (£9). This came with barbecued pork patties, a spring roll, julienned lettuce and cucumber, all to be mixed in with fried shallots, noodles and a fish sauce dressing. Once again, I found the flavours to be muted; it was all very mild and felt a bit generic. 

Better was the papaya salad, which had proper acidity and zing. The black sesame cracker was a nice touch, to pile the salad on to.  

Likewise too, the beef in betel leaves drew no complaints with us, and we happily munched away on these, drenching the vermicelli noodles underneath with more nuoc cham sauce. 

All in all, it was all a bit meh for me. I had expected fun and exciting things from a place that billed itself as 'Vietnamese street food', but actually everything felt a little tame. I really wanted to like Banh Banh, but there was just no magic. 

Banh Banh
46 Peckham Rye
London SE15 4JR