foodeurope

Basking in glory with Bilbao's kings of cod

2008-09-26T17:25:00.007+02:00

"Al bacalao, le debo la vida, el poco dinero que tengo y la popularidad," Jenaro Pildain, 1931-2004.

“To salt cod I owe life, the little money I have, and popularity,” the words of Jenaro Pildain, legendary chef of Bilbao’s Guria restaurant, show just how close this once humble food is to the heart of Basque gastronomy.
Local lore has it that fishermen from the rocky Basque coast sailed to America long before Columbus but kept the discovery of the new world to themselves to prevent rivals getting their hands on the cod stocks off what would become Newfoundland.
So Guria’s (

www.restauranteguria.com) reputation as having the best bacalao in Bilbao, has been hard won.
Restaurants like Guria can be found in all Spanish cities. Serious, discrete places, seemingly unchanged for decades and serving time-honoured dishes to a loyal clientele unhappy with any messing around with the old recipes.
Guria’s origins date back to the 1920s in el Casco Viejo the old heart of the city, but after the catastrophic flood of 1983, they moved out to the current location on the Gran Vía.
Inside there’s a bistro with dark wood paneling with a posher dining room out back decorated in el estilo inglés _ with leather seats, white linen and 19th-century political cartoons on the lemon-painted walls.
It's not only bacalao. There’s a menu packed with dishes like sirloin steak with fresh goose liver in sherry (solomillo con hígado de oca al jerez) or fillet of hake with hake chins and clams (lomos de merluza con kokotxas y almejas).
However Pildain wasn’t known as el rey del Bacalao for nothing. Although he passed on in 2004, his four classic recipes are still the centerpiece of Guria’s cuisine.
If you can’t decide, you can order bacalao a los cuatro gustos made up of a bit of each, or bacalao del chef where your plate is divided between the two chunks of cod each blanketed in the time-honoured Basque sauces _ pale green pil-pil or deep red Viscaína.
Bacalao al pil-pil is a deceptively simple dish in which the fish is gently heated with garlic, olive oil and a hint of chili in a clay pan until the oil from the fish emulsifies with the oil to form a think, pungent, mayonnaise-like sauce.
Viscaína is the signature dish of the maritime province of Biscay, a rich mixture of red peppers, tomato and onion.
The cuatro gustos option add a quarter plate of bacalao Club Ranero _ invented by a French cook in Bilbao in the 1930s who combined the two local favorites by adding a sauce of red and green peppers to bacalao pil-pil _ and Guria’s own cod recipe with spinach and yet more peppers.
This was all excellent, and well accompanied by an excellent Viña Alberdi crianza from the Rioja Alta. Be warned that both food and wine were powerfull stuff, so go easy on the starters _ go for a plate of seasonal grilled vegetables or a salad of asparagus with tuna.
Still hard to resist desserts like canutillos con crema de queso (cream horns with cream cheese) or cuajada con mel (ewe’s milk curd with honey).
Bilbao, like Lille or Manchester, is one of those gritty, working cities which have reinvented themselves as cultural and tourism centres after some bad years following the decline of steel and shipbuilding industries.
The unavoidable centerpiece of Bilbao’s renaissance is Frank Gehry’s startling, titanium-clad Guggenheim Museum (www.guggenheim-bilbao.es) which sits like some burnished battleship on the banks of the river Nervión.
It’s undoubtedly one of Europe’s great modern buildings and houses an eclectic mix of works from Richard Serra’s vast spirals of rusting steel to intimate Surrealist interiors. Perhaps the most iconic works are outside, Louise Bourgeois’ giant spider sculpture Maman, or Jeff Koons even more disturbing Puppy.
Much as been made of the Guggenheim’s restaurant, part of the empire of superstar Basque chef Martín Berasategui.
It has fabulous sounding dishes like roasted squid with hazelnut oil and Joselito ham, or roasted leg of suckling veal with curd of milk and mustard sauce.
Be warned though you need to book well in advance. Even getting a cup of coffee and a cake at the front of house café required considerable patience.
In Gehry’s wake, the world’s celebrity architects moved into Bilbao big time. Santiago Calatrava did the airport and the delicate arch of the Zubizuri bridge upstream from the Guggenhiem. Norman Foster designed the fast and efficient metro with its, glass, shell-like entrances known affectionately as “fosteritos. Mexico’s Ricardo Legorreta built the 10-story, raspberry colored Sheraton Hotel. Cesar Pelli is building the Iberdola Tower, which will be the tallest building in the Basque country.
Perhaps the city’s greatest architectural marvel dates from an earlier age, out along the metro line towards the seaside suburb of Getxo. The Vizcaya Bridge, popularly known as the Puente Colgante, or hanging bridge. This is one-of-a-kind iron structure, granted World Heritage status by UNESCO. It was built in the 1890’s by a disciple of Gustave Eifel. To allow the high-masted ships to sail into the port of Bilbao from the Bay of Biscay, it links Getxo to Portugalete with a bridge 50 meters up over the Nervión. Hanging from wires is a gondola that swings up to six cars across the river every eight minutes. Vertigo-resistant tourists can take the lift up to the top and walk over or ride below as a foot passenger at a cost of 30 cents a time.
FoodEurope normally likes to avoid the big hotel chains, but made an exception for the Legorreta’s Sheraton. (http://www.starwoodhotels.com/sheraton/property/overview/index.html?propertyID=1457)
The rooms and public spaces abound with natural finishings _ marble, onyx, tropical hardwoods. There’s a soaring atrium rising above a column of light conceived by Basque sculptor Eduardo Chillida. The heated rooftop swimming pool is small but offers great views and downstairs there’s a hearty breakfast to be had at the Aizian restaurant, one of the trendiest eateries in town.
Early starters get tortilla, churros, tuna pie, manchego cheese, as well as more familiar international items.
Later in the day, renowned chef José Miguel Olazabalaga offers a menu that aims to modernize traditional Basque cuisine with tempting concoctions like presa ibérica sobre un turron de pipas y arroz venere y jugo de soja (Iberian pork on sunflower seed nugget and black with soja juice), or rape en costra de bacón sobre mermelada de tomate y pulpo al pimentón (Monkfish wrapped in bacon on tomato marmalade and octopus with red pepper sauce).
Food that's less of a mouthfull can be found in the countless bars in and around the old town serving pintxos – the Basque version of tapas.
One of the great pleasures of Bilbao is aimlessly wandering the alleyways of the Casco Viejo past the tall, narrow houses with their wrought iron balconies and glass fronted facades pausing when the fancy takes you to snack on a pintxo or two.
The imagination of Bilbao’s pintxo producers is endless.
This is a sample of what we got through in one weekend:
- Skewers of green olive and anchovies;
- Red peppers stuffed with creamed cod paste;
- Dried ham on a slice of baguette;
- Potato tortilla;
- Baby squid, tentacles up on a bed of tomato, pepper and onion;
- Bacalao al pil-pil on an open sandwich;
- Mushroom and shrimp kebab;
- Deep fried squid with lemon;
- Tuna pickled with onions, carrot and peppercorns;
- Anchovies with red peppers;
- Smoked ham with brie;
- Spicy tuna paste with shrimp;
- Ham and cream cheese paté.
One of the best places to sample such delights is on the terrace of the venerable Victor Montes café in the Plaza Neuva with a glass of the tart Basque white wine, txakoli. (http://www.victormontesbilbao.com/ivictormontes1.html)
Best of all however is the Café Iruna, outside the old town in the shady Jardines Albia, where the splendid tiled walls date back to 1903 and the pintxos morunos pull in the crowds until late into the night. These are fabulous lamb kebabs, marinated in lemon and paprika and grilled in a corner of the bar. You’ll want more and more but try to save some space for another house specialty, the Valenciano, a cocktail of freshly-squeezed orange juice, vanilla ice cream and Grand Marnier. The way to do it is stir until the ice cream melts then gulp it down. (http://www.cafesdebilbao.net/cafes/)
If you can face the thought of more food, between the old town and the river is the Mercado de La Ribera, an art deco covered market build in 1929 that’s filled with salted pigs tails, Villarcayo black pudding, Pamploma sausages or Idiazábal ewes cheese. Pildain would approve.

Avoiding the hordes in Honfleur requires some Norman wisdom

2008-07-25T16:00:00.009+02:00

Visiting Honfleur on a sunny spring bank holiday gives a whole new meaning to concept of Norman invasions.
Rather than mail-clad hordes heading for Hastings or GIs hitting the D-day beaches, this was an attack by armies of Parisians in pastel polo shirts and espadrilles flowing along the quays and alleys of the old port.
Honfleur is sufficiently charming to withstand even such an onslaught. The shimmering refection of its narrow merchants’ houses in the waters of the Vieux Bassin is one of Frances the classic sights. Behind the harbour, there’s a maze of cobbled streets lined with half-timbered shops filled with cider and calvados and weighty jars of tripes à la mode de Caen. Massive medieval warehouses, once filled with salt for the cod fisheries are now art galleries. Ancient churches show were the first settlers prayed before sailing to Canada, and museums highlight the work of the Impressionists attracted to the Norman coastline by the pearly Atlantic light a century .
Faced with the holiday influx, the best way to appreciate all this is to make an early start. At eight in the morning, the streets are deserted apart from street cleaners, waiters setting up tables and vans dropping off crates of fruit and vegetables for the over 80 restaurants squeezed into this little town of 8,000.
Then you can stroll in the still chill air and imagine the three wooden boats of Samuel de Champlain bobbing in the harbour before they set sail in 1607 to found Quebec, or Monet and Boudin painting the wide, invariably cloud-filled skies, over the mouth of the Seine.
Of course, one time when it’s impossible to avoid the crowds is dinnertime. We were warned to get in early to find a table, but lingered too long playing baseball on on the broad sandy beach at Vasouy and found the town’s best known bistros overflowing by the time we arrived.
Getting a bit desperate, we sank with gratitude into the old lace and velvet comfort of the Auberge de Vieux Clocher when we saw a table free.
As we perused the menu, a handsome young English couple sinking down with similar sighs of relief after ending a lenthy quest for dinner. After the wispy blond, quietly ordered a fishy selection in halting French, her beau looked up hopefully and asked, “Vegetarian?”
“Ah non,” replied the outraged patronne, “pas ici.”
“Just a little salad, perhaps?”
“Les salades vous trouverez dans les cafés á côté des quais monsieur,” she spat back and all but chased the hapless anglais into the street.
The legumes, she explained in triumph to the roomful of somewhat shocked diners, are all needed for the dishes on the menu. To serve a lettuce leaf and half a tomato separately would bring the whole system crashing down.
This hardly seemed very sympa and was rather typical of the place, which although recommended in some prestigious guides, obviously feels it does not need to make an effort to bring in the customers. Our food was okay _ oysters, chicken in cider, cod in sauce bordelaise _ but it carried a rather tired, institutional air to it, and there really is no excuse for serving stale bread in France.
Thankfully, we’d fared better on our first night in Honfleur, thanks to a recommendation from the charming owners of our out-of-town gite.
The Germain family has run L’Ancrage in a 17th century house for three generations, but it still has a fresh modern feel, with jokey young waiters and a few pavement tables overlooking the Vieux Bassin.
Dinner there was a pleasure from the aperitif of chilled glass of pomeau. There’s a daily menu updated with fresh catches – coquilles St. Jacques with linguini, lieu-noir (pollack) _ which is caught by line off the beaches north of Honfleur _ cod in cider. It came to €40 a head including a bottle of crisp Loire wine.
The great thing about staying in a gite, is that you always have the option of doing your cooking, eating al fresco with no worries about finding a table and taking full advantage of all the treasures available in the glorious French markets.
The Honfleuraise (http://www.honfleuraise.com) in the village of Equemauville, just inland from Honfleur, which was once home to the writer, Francoise Sagan, and how contains the famed Tartine et Macaron bakery, where we bought oven-fresh baguettes and buttery hot croissants for breakfast each morning.
Gites can be found all over France, usually in rural homes that are partly or wholly to rent. This one was a typical half-timbered Norman house, with an ancient cider press and a splendid garden shaded by cherry and apple trees which is shared by the Lefebvre family, the owners who live next door.
Taking our hosts’ tip, we headed early to the Honfleur market on Saturday morning to stock up. You can usually bet on French markets being a pleasure for the senses, but this one is really special. Surrounding the mighty église Sainte-Catherine _ France’s biggest wooden church which resembles an upturned man o’ war _ the variety and quality of the food on show was mind-boggling.
Dairy stalls are laden with pats of direct from the farm, the thickest, richest crème fraiche and the holy trinity of local cheeses _ Camembert, Livarot and Pont-l'Evêque. There are glistening piles of mussels and oysters, tables groaning with strawberries, thick andouille sausages and trays of jellied tripe in cider that will rend down to a think pungent stew when slowly heated. Farmhouse chicken and tender pink veal lay ready to be plunged into some of that cream and cider in classic recipes like poulet vallée d’Auge.
Naturally, you’ll need something to help all that down so its good that you buy calvados direct from any number of producers dotted around the countryside here. The Domaine Apreval (http://www.apreval.com/index.htm) is a just about the nearest to Honfleur, its orchards set in lush meadows on the slopes above the Seine estuary. After sampling a selection of vintages at the in a their thatched barn, the 10-year-old blend revealed itself to be an excellent choice at €39 a bottle.
Before you hit the calva, there are plenty of sights to drive out to around Honfleur. Deauville and Trouville are chic fin-du-siècle resorts. Le Havre just across the Seine was that rebuilt after Second World War bombing in a concrete modernist style that was once reviled and is now granted world heritage status. A bit further up the coast are the majestic white cliffs of Etretat and a short ride inland is Rouen the capital of Normandy with its vast cathedral and memories of Flaubert and Monet. A little further afield is Bayeux with its tapestry and the extraordinary beauty of Mont-St. Michel.
All well worth a visit, but if you want to avoid the crowds, it’s perhaps best to try a wet mid-week in November.

Galloping Gourmets in Slovenia

2008-05-21T11:59:00.012+02:00

They love horses in Slovenia.

Those prancing, white Lipizzaners, stars of the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, are a source of national pride.

Perhaps surprising then to discover that our chevaline friends also feature so widely on the dinner tables of Ljubljana, from burger joints like Red ‘n Hot Horse to fancy restaurants such as Spajza, where horse steak is served with truffles rather than ketchup.

Of course the Slovenes are not the only people to enjoy this lean, flavoursome meat. I’ve had foal goulash in Innsbruck and thick juicy horse steak in Brussels’ much lamented Au Brabançon restaurant (which was also renowned for its choesels _ a rich and now rare offal stew served with a single lamb’s testicle floating on top!), not forgetting the saucisse d’âne made from donkeys in the French Alps. In the English-speaking world and beyond, however, eating the relatives of Trigger or Red Rum is really not the done thing.

In the Gostilna Šestica they serve young horse with blueberries and brusnicami (curd cheese pancakes). This is an 18th century inn that’s a bit out of place on the busy main street Slovenska Cesta that cuts through central Ljubljana. Although the meat was a tad dry and the service a little idiosyncratic, this was a fine place to come late on a Saturday night, when the main room fills up with waltzing couples and a gutsy songstress belts out Slovene versions of “Yesterday” and “My Way”. I’d asked to start with a plate of kraska polenta s prustom in radicem, which was not easy. It turned out to be a creamy mix of polenta, curd cheese, dried ham and radicchio and was a delight, although I was somewhat nonplussed when the waiter simultaneously set it down alongside the main course. http://www.sestica.si/.

Slovene cuisine is a happy mix of things Mediterranean, Alpine and Balkan. Expect to find pasta, dumplings and baklava cohabiting on the same menu. The delightful Gostilna Mencigar-Nobile has even more influences. It takes inspiration from the cooking of the Prekmurje region in the far east of Slovenia along the border with Hungary. The Mencigar family philosophy fits in nicely with FoodEurope’s ideals. Having made their name serving Italian food, they decided to go back to their roots in the earthy cuisine of their homeland. Their mission, boldly stated on the restaurant’s web site: “to serve traditional delicacies from Prekmurje, prepared the same way our grandmothers used to prepare them.”

Ljubljana’s first Prekmurje restaurant is a bit off the beaten track, a 15-minute walk east along the Ljubjanica River, tucked away behind Sv. Jožef’s church. From the outside, it’s modern and nondescript. Inside however, great care has been taken to give the three rooms a cool-yet-cozy feel, with soft colours, rustic ceramics and vases filled with dried flowers.

The food here is really something special. Starters include tunka, meat preserved in lard; buckwheat soup made with milk; frogs’ legs with Prekmurje ham. Two of Prekmurje’s trademark dishes _ bograč and bujta repa are so well-liked around Slovenia that they have featured on postage stamps. Bograč is a stew of pork, beef and veal richly spiced with paprika to show off the region’s Hungarian links. Bujta repa is shredded, sour turnip traditionally prepared to accompany fresh pork on koline _ festive pig slaughtering days. The Mencigars serve it in a steaming cauldron served with home-prepared koline pork and sausages.

Also featuring on those stamps is the region’s best known delicacy, Prekmurska gibanica, a fabulously intense cake made of layers of filo pastry, poppy seeds, apple, walnut and cream cheese. It’s divine and something of a national dish in Slovenia. Mencigar’s has a dessert to rival it _ ice cream made from the black-as-pitch pumpkin seed oil which Slovenes usually use to season their salads. Needless to say, the wines – from Istria rather than Prekmurja, were excellent and the staff strongly encourages consumption of slivovica both before and after the meal. http://www.mencigar-nobile.com/

Ljubljana is a perfect place for a weekend trip. It’s small enough that you don’t have to rush around or cover great distances to see it all, and instead can amble around the car-free streets of the old town on either side of the river or take the little funicular railway up to the castle. Once at the top, admire the ceiling of the gothic chapel of Sv. Jurija chapel and the view from the lookout tower, then stroll down through the crocus covered hillside. There’s a plethora of baroque churches around the city, with pride of place going to the richly decorated interior of Sv. Nikolaja’s cathedral. For fans of more modern architecture, the city’s most famous son is Jože Plečnik the secessionist master who scattered the Central Europe with his works. He’s responsible for the landmark Tromostovje bridge in the heart of the city and the National Library is considered his masterpiece. The city’s best-known secessionist building is not one of his however, Ivan Vurnik designed the shocking pink Cooperative Saving bank opposite the Grand Union Hotel and his wife Helena painted the bold façade.

Plečnik did design the two-tier market halls that run along the southern bank of the river. At street level there are little shops selling bread and cakes or cheese and sausages. Down below by the river, there’s an elongated fish market with a varied catch from the Adriatic and Slovenia’s Alpine lakes and the fast flowing rivers. For visitors overdosing on meat, horse or not, the fish market offers a popular restaurant, the Okrepčevalnica Ribca. On the terrace under its arcades you can snack beside the water on squid, shrimp or whitebait with a glass of cool malvazija wine, or take a more substantial fish lunch.
A plate of fried kalamari, with a green salad, bread and a chilled glass of white came to €9.70.

Ljubljana’s morning market spills out of Plečnik’s halls into the squares and streets around the cathedral forming a glorious confusion of colours, with piles of fresh fruit, spectacular arrangements of fresh and dried flowers and a curious and uniquely Slovenian art form _ painted bee hive panels. On Sundays the food stalls are replaced by a flea market on the banks of the river between the Tromostovje and the Čevljarski bridges which is surprisingly hot on mementoes of the old Yugoslavia. Busts of Tito are a bargin.

Two of Ljubljana’s most renowned restaurants are the aforementioned Spajza, a nicely bo-bo place in Gornji trg, one of the most atmospheric streets of the old town and the Gostilna As, which sits in a courtyard next to the central Prešernov trg. Both serve what might be called Adriatic cuisine, with dishes that blur the line between Slovene and Italian. Sea bass baked in salt may be claimed by the Ligurians as their own, but it’s also a firm favorite with the Slovenes, who use their own pure crystals from the salt pans of Piran for the purpose. Both these restaurants have it as a signature dish. As well as its fancy basement restaurant, As also has a covered terrace popular with Ljubljana’s ladies-who-lunch. It does a mean plate of Kraški reznici _ broad ribbons of pasta with karst pancetta, leaks and parsley. http://www.gostilnaas.si/.

One of the attractions of Ljubljana is its location close to both the Adriatic and the Alps. Time your visit right, and with barely an hour’s trip in either direction you can ski one day and plunge into the sea on the next.

On the edge of the Alps, heading north out of the city is the Kranjska region known for its buckwheat and sausages. In the little village of Predoslje pri Kranju is the Gostilna Krištof which would be worth a trip out from the capital even when it doesn’t have the local folk musicians waltzing visitors in on a Friday night.

The chef prefers local organic products and while the food is firmly rooted in the region’s traditions he’s not afraid to innovate which such ideas as “gorenkski suši” an appetizer with raw river trout and their bright red caviar.

The banquet which was offered on the night I was there, started with drinks on the terrace that included liquors made with odd things like pine needles, oregano or fennel.

Inside thinks got serious: smoked beef tongue with horseradish, pear and ruccola was followed by barley soup with that kranjsko klobaso sausage. The highlight was black pudding mixed with freshwater crayfish and spiced carrots. Then came lamb chops with rosemary flavoured polenta, served with black radish and sour cream, To end, chocolate dumpling with homemade strawberry ice-cream and dark chocolate cunningly spiced with some of that Piran sea salt. Each course came with matched wine, including the weird and wonderful Movia Lunar, a cloudy white made by fermenting whole bunches of grapes in underground casks, and a sweet red Pikolit, which like the vins de paille of southern France is made with grapes dried on straw mats. http://www.gostilnakristof.si/.

The whole meal was a tribute to Slovenia’s great attachment to its terroir which produces an astonishing variety of food in such a small country. Only the Illy coffee was not domestically produced, but that come pretty close _ the Yugoslavs only recognized Italian rule over Trieste in 1975, forty years after Hungarian immigrant Francesco Illy set up his company in the border town.

For places to stay, the Antiq hotel in the old town, rates highly; http://www.antiqhotel.si/; the Slon’s rooms can be a bit cramped, but it carries a faded between-the-wars panache and has two fine cafes, http://www.hotelslon.com/; the Grand Hotel Union lives up to it’s name _ if you can afford to stay in the posher, older part, http://www.gh-union.si/.

As for reading material, books set in Ljubljana are not too easy to find but you could try “Death of a Prima Donna” by Paris-based Slovene author Brina Svit, or “Veronika Decides to Die” by Brazilian best-seller Paulo Coelho. Set mostly in an unnamed Slovene industrial city “The Cartier Project” by Miha Mazzini is a wry, punky look at life in 1980’s Yugoslavia.

On the Road to Go Home Lake

2008-04-15T18:20:00.021+02:00

Foodeurope takes the family for a great American road trip and discovers you can find some darn good cooking across the Atlantic.

First stop: New York City. We fly in to JFK and like good Europeans get dirty looks for under tipping the cab driver and the bell hop at the Roosevelt Hotel, a grand Midtown landmark named after President Teddy that opened in 1924 and features in movies like "French Connection" and "Maid in Manhattan" (Jenifer Lopez making up rooms!). http://www.theroosevelthotel.com

Jetlagged but in need of food we wander east down 45th Street and find Menchanko-Tei amid a row of Asian eateries. It offers ramen noodles, roast pork and oden to visiting salarymen. Oden is a broth filled with a rich mix of mysterious ingredients. Mine had daikan radish, an octopus leg, grilled tofu, bits of crab, sausage and more rubbery things that I couldn’t quite identify. The kids take Hakata raman _ noodles in a thick milky broth from the city of Fukuoka topped with sliced pork, red ginger and shitake mushroom. With a bottle of beer and water it came to just $29 for three. http://www.menchankotei.com

Breakfast was in Bryant Park, once a junkie haven, now an island of greenery surrounded by art deco gems. We grab cinnamon bagels, blueberry muffins, orange juice and coffee from the great Turkish deli on 40th Street. By lunchtime, a downpour forces us into Macy’s where we plunder the basement salad bar _ aubergine with saffron, baked tofu, cracked bulgur, bok choi with sesame.

An old favorite for dinner, Cabana, serving nueva latina cuisine with wonderful views over Brooklyn and the towers of Wall Street from the pier at South Street Seaport. Set up originally as a Cuban joint in Queens, this is now a mini chain with three outposts in NYC and more in Florida. It’s bright and brassy, with singing waiters, a salsa soundtrack and spicy Caribbean food. Mojitos and virgin mango daquiris get us in the mood. Fried plantain chips with garlic dip and shrimp in coconut sauce lead the way into a great mariscada of fresh, firm scallops, prawns, clams, crayfish in a spicy tomato broth, served with black beans and saffron rice. The pollo jamaiquina was juicy, barbeque blackened and blasted with jerk sauce; the pollo al ajillo, was tender and lightly spiced. It’s a fab place, with a couple of glasses of Californian chardonnay, dinner came to $40 a head. http://www.cabanarestaurant.com

Next night we cross the Caribbean to Mama Mexico on E 49th Street to be serenaded by mariachis, as we suck on Tecate beer and frozen margaritas. There’s also a vast range of tequila. The décor is technicolour, the atmosphere fun and friendly, the menu an encyclopedic array of Mexican classics. The enchiladas de Mole Poblano, dripping with savoury chocolate sauce, were perfect. The enchiladas suizas with salsa verde and burrito relleno defeated the most voracious adolescent appetite. Great coffee, $140 for three a bit steep, but perhaps worth it for La Bamba from the guys with the moustaches and sombreros. http://mamamexico.com

After a morning at MOMA, it was time for a NYC classic, a picnic in Central Park provided by the Carnegie Deli on 7th Avenue. Waiting in line at the takeaway bar you can admire the photos of former customers like Halle Berry, George W. or Sylvester Stallone. The pastrami sandwich is about 6 inches thick, not easy to get your choppers round but more than worth the effort. http://www.carnegiedeli.com

Fairway Market at 2127 Broadway, offers great gourmet shopping for inhabitants of this cool Upper West Side neighbourhood, and the food is available for sampling in upstairs steakhouse. They serve tangy Brooklyn Ale, there’s a wood burning oven fired up for pizza and a great sizzling grill for the renowned burgers and steaks. On our visit, dishes of the day included pasta bake, shrimp and garlic salad and a seared salmon with green beans and cherry tomatoes. http://www.fairwaymarket.com. We skip dessert to head round the corner to the Café Lalo to wait beneath the pavement fairy lights for a table at the place where Tom Hanks met Meg Ryan in “You’ve Got Mail.” Inside this French-style cafe serves up a baffling variety of pastries. Head straight to the triple chocolate truffle. You won’t be disappointed. http://www.cafelalo.com

Stop two: Washington DC. Amtrak down the east coast to a steamy July capital. We’re staying out in leafy Reno Road among the squirrels and songbirds, but it’s still 85 F in the shade. When we head out for an evening at Dupont Circle. Everybody’s eating al fresco, but we manage to grab a terrace table at Raku, a pan-Asian diner filled with after work media and diplomatic types seeking some spice. We feast on pad sew – Thai squid and shrimp in black bean sauce with noodles and stir fried veg, grilled beef and chilli salad, crab ravioli and Hunan chicken salad with ginger and sesame noodles. For afters we head to Kramerbooks & Afterwards café, a late night bookshop that serves a mean ice-cream. http://www.kramers.com. We grab some cones and sit beside the fountains watching crowds dancing away to a souped up New Orleans Jazz band on Connecticut Avenue.
Summer on the Potomac is hot and humid, so we seek refuge amid the air-conditioned delights in the world’s grandest collection of museums. Among the marvels along the Mall we see Judy Garland’s ruby slippers, fly jet fighter simulators, gaze on Monnet facades and snack on Navajo cookies.

Since 1856, the Old Ebbitt Grill has been welcoming Washington insiders to partake of steak, oysters and other American classics. Just a few steps from the White House, this was once a favorite of Presidents Grand and Cleveland. The walrus head looking out from one wall was reputedly bagged by Teddy Roosevelt. The crab cakes are justly famous and the cheese burgers drew rave reviews from the kids. Fresh summer ingredients made the salads a winner and the lamb kebab with garlic, yoghurt and baba ganoush was perfect hotwave eating. http://www.ebbitt.com.

In the happy suburb of Bethesda, Maryland. It was kids’ choice, and we headed to Uncle Julio’s Rio Grande Café. Part of a Tex-Mex mini chain that began life in Dallas in the 1980’s, it’s vast, noisy, and chummy, a fake hacienda serving up huge portions of fajitas, tacos and frijoles while you drink Dos Equis and coke from the bottle and watch football (the real thing Chelsea were playing) on big screens. http://www.unclejulios.com

Stop three: Wellsboro, PA. Drive north in our rented Mitsubishi Gallant along the mighty Susquehanna river we pass big, wooden farmhouses, gleaming grain silos and the occasional Amish buggy as the road takes us deeper into rural Pennsylvania. The aim was to discover a typical all-American small town for the night and the choice was Wellsboro, pop. 3,300 in Tioga County. It was perfect, with a colonnaded court house, pastel-painted weatherboard homes built by 19th-century timber tycoons, a neon-lit 1950s’ movie theatre and a nearby natural wonder in the Pine Creek Canyon _ a forest-covered valley 1,000 feet deep where you can watch Turkey vultures gliding the thermals.
The Penn Wells Hotel is a solid, turn-of-the-century main street hotel which may have seen better days, but is justly proud of its US flag made from Christmas tree decorations that graced the cover of Time in 1940s, and reminds us that Wellsboro was once the Christmas decoration capital of the world. Although the rooms could do with a bit of fleshing up, the fine old Art Deco restaurant is a favorite with locals. Friday was fish night, a thick and tasty clam chowder, followed by Atlantic haddock fried with chips or grilled with baked sweet potatoes and ratatouille. They have the local Yeungling lager on tap, root beer for the kids and chocolate-peanut butter cream to finish up, like a big, sticky spoonful of America. For four this was a snip at $70. http://www.pennwells.com. Before leaving, you must take breakfast at the Wellsboro Diner, an authentic 1930’s rail car serving eggs over easy, crispy bacon, French toast, hot cakes and home fries. http://wellsborodiner.com.

Stop 4: Niagara. Through the wooded hills of northern Pennsylvania and over the border into Canada. The city of Niagara Falls is kitschville, filled with stores selling chocolate “moose droppings,” and droll tee-shirts featuring Mounties and beavers. None of this can detract however from the sheer power of the falls, roaring away in the chasm below. The walkways take you surprisingly close to the thunderous Horseshoe Falls, but to get really intimate with the one-million-bathtubs-a-minute torrent, get drenched on the Maid of the Mist trips which is awe-inspiring and a lot of fun. Dinner took us to Edgewaters Tap and Grill overlooking the falls in Victoria Park. This was apparently the place where Princess Di took her kids on a visit to the Falls some years ago. It’s a fairly standard burger and ribs place, but offers great views and is a reliable family option in a town not overflowing with gourmet choices. Canada has some great beers and this has a good choice including Creemore Springs lager and Rickards Honey Brown ale _ a wiser choice perhaps than the Wayne Gretzky merlot, even for diehard ice hockey fans. http://www.niagaraparks.com/dining/edgewaters.php

If Niagara Falls is a little too tacky for your tastes, head down river to Niagara-on-the-Lake a prim little Victorian town of craft shops and tea rooms sitting on the edge of Lake Ontario across from the 17th century French-built fort on the U.S. shore. The drive down along the Niagara River is a delight trip through orchards and vineyards. There are lots of roadside stores laden with ripe local peaches, apricots and cherries and tasting visits are available at the elegant wineries responsible for Ontario’s growing reputation for table wines as well as the renowned, sweet ice wines.

Stage 5: Muskoka. Highway 400 north from Toronto cuts through rich, rolling farmland that eventually gives way to the rugged granite outcrops and towering pines of the Muskoka lake region. This is 2,500 square miles of lake and forest where Torontonians come to get back to nature. There are 1,600 lakes spread between the wild coast of Georgian Bay and the vast wilderness of Algonquin Park.

Although city folk flock here at weekends, the scale of the place means getting away from all is no problem. Our home was a fabulous wood cabin close to Go Home Lake _ where trappers once gathered at the end of the season before heading homeward. We stayed at our friends' place, but private cottages can be rented across Muskoka, check out www.discovermuskoka.ca.

This is every overcrowded European’s dream of an North American hideaway, perched over the bottle green waters, miles from the nearest neighbor, surrounded by forest, a big stone fireplace, a porch overlooking the lake where ruby-throated humming birds hovered, chipmunks and blue jays disputed crumbs, and raccoons showed up to root around for nocturnal leftovers.

Nature of course has its downside. That became clear when we first stepped out of the car to be assailed by storm of carnivorous insects as we rushed to carry our luggage to the cabin. We soon learned to avoid the early morning and dusk rush hours for mosquitoes, deer flies and other man-eating bugs. Fortunately we saw no sign of the rattlesnakes we’d been alerted to, but the sound of something large crashing through the undergrowth one night and a pile of steaming poo on the drive next morning proved the “watch-out-for-the-bear” warnings were more than scare-mongering.

Although there are restaurants a-plenty in the pretty little lakeland townships like Bracebridge, Bala or Gravenhurst, we were living off the land, or at least the stock of Canadian products we brought up from Toronto, supplemented with occasional trips into town.

The pace of life soon slows down. Breakfast on porridge or pancakes with local maple syrup and dried cranberries from the nearby Wahta Mohawk community. Then a swim or kayak ride on the lake, dodging the snapping turtles _ they are big, scary and curious, coming up close to get a good look at sunbathers, but we were assured they don’t bite unless really provoked. There’s not much too but relax, watch the wildlife, wander the woods or read a good book (Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace is a dark tale of murder in an isolated Ontario farm _ if that does not freak you out too much on a dark and stormy night in your lonely lakeside cabin).

The farmer’s market in Bala provided smoked trout, fresh corn on the cob, maple-pumpkin butter, and nutty Oka cheese made by monks in Quebec. The Chelsea buns from Don’s bakery are justly renowned in the little town build around the rapids where two branches of Lake Muskoka run together. The variety and quality of Canadian beer was a revelation, from Montreal’s St. Ambroise Oatmeal Stout or Moosehead from New Brunswick to Ontario ales like Burlington’s Nickle Brook ale or Confederation from down the road in Barrie, just the thing for watching the sun go down on the deck (just make sure you’re behind the mosquito netting).

To be continued …

Eating beaver the Lithuanian way

2008-02-15T23:37:00.006+01:00

On my first visit to Vilnius, we arrived late, dropped off the bags and headed into the Old Town to get a glimpse of the famed nightlife, only to find it was dead, deserted, a ghost town.
We were bemused, depressed, then a roar went up from bars and homes all around, hordes of cheering people spilled into the streets, a cacophony of claxons rent the night air.
The whole city had been watching basketball and the local club Lietuvos Rytas, had just beaten some Greek upstarts to win a European title.
The impact was astounding. In a bar on Didžioji street just down from the Town Hall everybody wanted to be our friend. A smart chap newly rich from selling Audis bought us drinks, recalled his grandparents’ ordeal under Stalin and extolled the virtues of the free market. One young lady, somewhat under the influence of Lithuania’s excellent ales, decided there was only one way to celebrate and went from man to man in the search for suitable partners. She soon found someone to take up her offer and both were thrown out when they starting getting jiggy with it on a bar stool.
Wild enough you might think, but the next night saw us eating beaver.
It seems these cute little dam-building rodents used to be something of a staple among the Lithuanian hunting and fishing set and beaver stew is now a favourite on the menu of Lokys (www.lokys.lt) a restaurant dedicated to serving up ye olde food of yore in a 15th-century merchant’s home. «Visit our house and taste the master’s hunting takes turned on fire for your delight ! » Lokys’ advertising says it all.
Medieval theme restaurants are all the rage across the eastern Europe, so thankfully Lokys stays just on the right side of kitsch ... or maybe not.
On my first visit, a big group of us sat seated around a vast, roughly hewn table on the ground floor where we quaffed a brain-fuzzying variety of local drinks, ate “beaver meat stew with champignons and farce potatoes,” “quail with blackberries sauce, loved by charming Lithuanian ladies”and “boar-meat roast with cowberries, praised by Grand Duke Gediminas.” We were well prepared then for the wandering minstrels who then showed up to serenade us with bagpipes, tambours and hunting horns, before handing round instruments to all the diners so we could participate in this outburst of Baltic folklore.
My recollection of the place - insomuch as I have any recollection after sampling samanė (homemade vodka), žalgiris (extra-strong mead) and the like – was that it was a lot of fun, but that the food was perhaps not the greatest.
However, the lure of the beaver is strong and on a drizzly winter’s night some years later, I found myself leading a group of curious visitors past the wooden bear at the entrance (lokys is Lithuanian for bear) down the shoulder-width stone staircase to the gothic basement vaults for a second go.
This time the atmosphere was more restrained - troubadours only show up at weekends it seems - but the food was excellent. To start, a glass of gira, a refreshing, only slightly alcoholic drink made from fermented bread and similar to Russian kvass. Since this is Lithuania, this one is made from the wonderful black rye bread duona flavoured with caraway. These loaves show up not only as a basis for a drink, but deep fried with garlic as a starter or snack with beer, and even as dessert soaked with cranberry juice and crowned with whipped cream in the local equivalent of bread-and-butter pudding.
Soups are something eastern Europe does very well; beet and potato are two of the most favoured varieties here. But since Lithuania’s forests are famed for their wild mushrooms, the “boletus” soup seemed a good choice, a meaty broth in which these kings of the fungal race floated in abundance. I stuck with them for my main course, a thick, ripe steak of roe deer on a bed of these cèpes, served with little carrot dumplings and bundles of thinly sliced carrot and courgettes.
Lithuania’s big breweries Svyturys, Utenos and Kalnapilis produces some fine alus (beer), but the Lokys also sells its own “old Lithuanian beer,” named Butautų dvaro which is a deliciously malty brew served in one litre bottles, which you can also buy to take home (although remember you won’t be able to carry them on to the plane.) Just one more treat to help that rye-bread pudding down, Bobelinė, a bitter shot made with cranberries. A great meal even without the bagpipes, for around 100 litas (€30).
A few facts about Vilnius: it’s the capital of Lithuania which together with Latvia and Estonia broke away from the Soviet Union in 1991. In the 14th and 15th centuries in a union with Poland, Lithuania was one of the most powerful states in Europe, with borders stretching from the Baltic to the Black Sea. Lithuanians claim the old town of Vilnius is the biggest in Europe _ although it’s hard to see how they measure these things. Over the years it’s been fought over by Russians, Swedes, Poles and Germans. Even when the rest of Lithuania gained a brief burst of independence between the wars, Vilnius was still ruled by the Poles who called it Wilno. Polish and Russian are still spoken by minorities in Vilnius. One of the most popular dishes in Lithuania are Zeppelins (or actually Cepelinai) _ airship-shaped lumps of mashed potato stuffed with minced meat and served in some slimy cream or oil-based sauce. Lithuanian claims to be one of Europe’s oldest languages and is like no other. Hello is labas, thank you is ačiu (pronounced atchoo, so if you catch a cold people will think you are really polite.)
Lithuania was the last pagan country in Europe, converting to Christianity only in 1387. Since then they’ve made up for it and the skyline of old Vilnius is a forest of church spires, mostly in the baroque style with soaring facades in lemon, cream or peach and ornate bell towers, which give the city a strongly Catholic and almost southern European feel. However, he three best known churches buck the trend. The Arkidatedra Bazilika cathedral is the heart of Lithuanian Catholicism, but looks more like a Greek temple behind the columns of its classical portico. The Cathedral of the Theotokos, Vilnius main Russian Orthodox church, is even more exotic, with its conical towers build in the style of far away Georgia. St. Anne’s is a gothic gem, whose lacy pinnacles so impressed Napoleon that he reputedly planned to have it dismantled brick-by-brick and rebuilt in Paris. The Old Town is not just churches; there are fine palaces and alleyways lined with shops selling linen and Baltic amber. In the heart of it is Vilnius University which dates back to 1570 and is one of the oldest and grandest in northern Europe. Students spill out of the vaulted auditoria and airy courtyards to ensure that the Old Town is no dusty museum piece. There are student bars all around. One of the best is Cozy (www.cozy.lt) which contains a laidback all-day café and restaurant and a hot basement DJ bar at weekends.
You can stay in four-posted style in the old town at the Stikliai Hotel (http://www.stikliaihotel.lt) a luxury inn that’s welcomed guests since the 17th century, from €190 a night. Another historic boutique hotel is Grotthuss (http://www.grotthusshotel.com) a power yellow town house with rooms from €120. Easier on the wallet is the Ida Basar (http://www.idabasar.lt) which has comfortable, if unremarkable doubles from €100, in a great location just down from the Gates of Dawn, part of the old city fortifications decorated with a venerated gold-coated statue of the Virgin Mary. Appropriately, the Domus Maria guest house (http://domusmaria.vilnens.lt) is even closer to the golden gates, offering rooms from €72.
To enjoy the view over all those dreamy church spires, climb the hill in the Užupio district, an artsy neighbourhood beyond the river Vilnele which actually claims to be a sovereign republic with its own independence day … on April 1. Another fine vista can be had from the Gediminas Tower, a squat little fortress perched above the city that’s a symbol of Lithuanian nationhood. Grand Duke Gediminas is the national hero here, a 14th century pagan warrior whose relative religious tolerance saw Vilnius expand into a city of Catholic and Orthodox Christians, Jews and Muslim Tartars living alongside the local followers of ancient Baltic deities. Later that century came an influx of Karaites, a mysterious from the Crimea speaking a Turkic tongue and following a religion with roots in Judaism. They have left their mark on Lithuanian cuisine through the kibinai, lamb or beef pies which look a lot like Cornish pasties and have become a popular Lithuanian snack.
They are particularly tempting in the delightful little Julara bakery and café near the Lithuanian parliament on Gedimino Prospektas, which is the main avenue of Vilnius, housing imposing government buildings, theatres, bookshops and several swanky new shopping centres in elegant stucco buildings.
In the summer, locals will tend to head out of town to eat in the restaurants of Trakai the former capital with its spectacular island castle or to Vandens Malünas, (http://www.vandensmalunas.lt) a friendly restaurant in an old watermill near the Verkiai mansion, which although its menu has standard “international” food it also includes dishes with a Lithuanian flavour such as herring with wild mushrooms and roast leg of duck with pears.
In the winter though, it’s perhaps best to go underground in search of good Lithuanian food in the cellars of the old town. Forto Dvaras (http://www.fortas.eu) is a good bet for the likes of sauerkraut soup with smoked sausage or vedarai, described as “mashed potatoes stuffed in animal guts with crackling and sour cream.”
Then there is Žemaičiai (http://www.zemaiciai.lt) on Vokieciu Street whose underground rooms are divided between bare benches and wooden tables filled with happy crowds of local beer guzzlers and upmarket rooms hung with antlers, stuffed pheasants and the like.
We began with the “half-metre eel,” a thick, smoked monster with a pointy tail and a fixed toothy grin at the other end. Best taken with a shot of iced vodka. Backup came in the form of the “Beer snack” a wooden platter laden with garlic fried black bread, slivers of pig’s ear, slabs of smoked pig’s tongue with pride of place taken by a thick slice from the tip of a pig’s snout, nostrils pointing up to the low arched ceiling. It was excellent with their homemade, unfiltered beer, although I’m not so sure about the Voruta blackcurrant wine. Next up, roast goose breast with fried apples, potato dumplings, brown sauce and apple jam, and to follow šimtalapis, a poppy seed and puff pastry cake with vanilla cream. Maybe that’s what Cole Porter had in mind when he pointed out that the “Lithuanians and Letts do it.” Į sveikatą!

Join the Brats pack in central Europe’s Cinderella city

2008-01-05T18:11:00.000+01:00

Poor Bratislava never seems to get a break. Disfigured by demented urban planners and permanently outshone by its trinity of glamorous neighbours _ Vienna, Prague and Budapest. When the Slovak capital finally gets some big time international attention it’s in a Hollywood horror flick, “Hostel”, that suggests any tourists foolhardy enough to go there are likely to meet a grisly death at the hands of sadists wielding power-tools.

Bratislava has tried to fight back, selling itself as a cheep booze and stag night destination with such inventive tags as “Partyslava,” “Bartislava,” or just “Brats.” Fortunately there’s more to this city of half-a-million. As Slovakia got over its messy, post-independence years of the early ‘nineties, foreign investment has given it one of the fastest-growing economies in central Europe and the capital has had a facelift.

On a chilly weekend between Christmas and New Year, the narrow streets of the Old Town filled with fog, and frost coated the trees above the city up on Castle Hill. The Old Town, or Staré Mesto, is the freshly restored heart of the city. New boutiques, galleries and bars have sprung up all around and there are enough cosy cafés serving great wedges of cream cake to satisfy the most voracious Habsburg appetite.

The Staré Mesto is small in size, but big on atmospherics. Its streets are lined with pastel painted palaces and the skyline punctuated with church spires. With few tourists and most of the locals away skiing or huddled up at home, the pedestrian-only streets were almost deserted as we picked out rococo angels, baroque towers or art nouveau fretwork from out of the mist.

On Hlavné Námestie, the central square, the colourful tiles on the Old Town Hall roof face a trio of great old cafés serving as havens from the wintry weather outside. Café Roland is the grandest, taking up the ground floor of a splendid jugendstil building. Its tall glass façade looks out over the lemon-and-white tower of the town hall, while the dark wood panels inside are hung with turn-of-the-century photographs of the city then called Pressburg or Pozsony by its Austrian and Hungarian overlords.

Roland is a classic central European watering hole offering milky cups of Vienner melange coffee to remind us that the old imperial capital is just an hour’s train journey away, and wonderful makovo-višňová štrúda (cherry and poppy seed strudel), for a fraction of Viennese prices. Just next door, is the rival Maximilan Delikateso, the place for an unctuous mug of hot chocolate. The third of this trio is the Café Meyer a remnant of the Kaiserlich-und-Königlich era where marzipan, chestnut and chocolate tortes are served under a wistful portrait of Empress Sissi.

Café Meyer was a favourite of the great British travel writer Patrick Leigh Fermor who stopped over in Bratislava during his epic walk across Europe in the 1930s. In his book “A Time of Gifts” he lovingly describes a lost world where Slavs and Magyars, Germans and Jews mingle in a colourful polyglot city adjusting to its sudden switch from Hungarian to Czechoslovak rule.

Pointing the way into Mayer's with a flourish of his top hat is the smiling statue of a character known, somewhat unfortunately, as Schöne Nazi. It seems Nazi was short for Ignatius, and this old boy was a much-loved pre-war character known for serenading the ladies of Bratislava in his battered topper. Quirky statues have popped up all over the Old Town as part of post-Communist efforts to liven the place up. On the busy Panská street there is a cheeky bronze chappy sticking his head out of a manhole. Stories vary as to whether he’s a resistance fighter or a peeping Tom looking up the short skirts of passing girls. Outside the elegant French embassy building on Hlavné Námestie is a Napoleonic solider. Bonaparte’s army bombarded the city in 1809 and one of his cannonballs is still said to be embedded in the Town Hall tower. Four year’s earlier, Napoleon’s victory at Austerlitz forced the Austrian Empire to sign the humiliating Peace of Pressburg in the glittering mirrored halls of the Primaciálny palác, the pale pink palace of the primate of Hungary, which oddly enough contains a unique collection of 17th century English tapestries.

Bratislava became the capital of Hungary after the Turks captured Buda and Pest in 1541. Hungary’s kings were crowned in Dóm sv Martina the great gothic cathedral of St. Martin for 300 years. The Magyar aristocracy filled the city with grand palaces like the Pálffyho palác which now houses art exhibitions or the Grasalkovičov palác, currently the abode of Slovakia’s president. Hungary’s first university the Academia Istropolitana is still in the patrician street Ventruska ulica. After the Hungarian lords moved back to Budapest in the 18th century, Bratislava reverted back to a provincial backwater of the Austro-Hungarian empire, although it still managed to acquire some fine public buildings like the National Theatre on the Hviezdoslavovo Námestie, an elongated square lined with embassies and the sumptuous Carlton Hotel down near the Danube.

Workmen were dismantling the famed Christmas market in Hlavné Námestie when we arrived (it closes on Christmas Eve), but some remnants were still operating in front of the theatre, serving thick, paprika-flavoured kolbasa sausages with rye bread and tangy mustard, and steaming glasses of spiced wine. Just round the corner is a Czech bar, Prazdroj serving Pilsner Urquell, but also the thick, sweet tamavy dark beer from the Šariš brewery in eastern Slovakia.

In the old Czechoslovakia it was said that Bohemians made the best beer, Moravians the wine and Slovaks eau de vie. Bratislava’s bars certainly have an array of firewater made from just about every available fruit, although the juniper scented borovička and the slivovica plum brandy seem to be the most popular. The Slovaks also do beer, the pilsner style Zlatý Bažant (golden pheasant) is the favourite in Bratislava. Excellent white wines are produced on the slopes of the Little Carpathian hills that rise out of the Danube valley starting from Bratislava’s own castle hill. Vinyard villages like Svätý Jur and Pezinok are just a few minutes by bus or train from Bratislava.

The best place we found to sample such liquid delights, alongside traditional Slovak cuisine was the imaginatively named 1. Slovak Pub, just out of the Old Town on the Obchodná shopping street. In a jumble of upstairs rooms this is an old student krčma (tavern), that claims to be the only pub in the world where you can get a free bowl of soup with an A-grade exam result. The rooms are dark and cozy, heated with ancient stoves, decorated with stuffed game birds and portraits of Slovak heroes like the local Robin Hood, Juraj Jánošík or Ludovít Štúr, the 19th century poet who fought for Slovak identity under Hungarian rule.

Pride of place here is the national dish: bryndzové halusky - thumbnail sized potato dumplings similar to Italian gnocchi, swimming in melted sour sheep’s’ cheese and topped with chopped bacon and slices of spicy sausage. Brynza sheep’s cheese is the nation’s culinary pride and joy. 1. Slovak Pub gets it from its own organic farm and sells tee-shirts proclaiming: “Slovakia - we gave the world Brynza.” It is a wonderfully warming winter dish, but just one of the delights on the pub’s vast menu. Cesnaková polievka v bochníku is garlic soup served in a hollowed out loaf of bread; gazdovské rizoto has no rice, but groats fried up with smoked meat and vegetables; bryndzové pirohy so slaninou are mashed potato-stuffed pirogi with bacon and yet more brynza; Nakladaný encián is a pickled, camembert-type cheese served with rye bread and chopped red pepper as an appetizer. There’s infinity of roast meats, guláš and schnitzels and cholesterol-packed desserts like slivkové knedle s tvarohom, which the menu happily translates as “stuffed big dumplings with plums and sprinkled with cocoa.” Our vast meal accompanied with beer, wine and slivovica was followed up with a glass of zákvas, the sour sheep’s milk which Slovaks swear is an effective vaccination against hangover. This banquet came to 700 koruna, or €20, for two.
1. Slovak Pub was a happy find. Until then we’d been a bit doubtful about finding a good place to eat in the Staré Mesto, most of the restaurants seemed to be either modern places with cool minimal design serving international cuisine to upwardly mobile Slovaks or folklorish tourist traps. Prašná Bašta, undergound in some old wine vaults, was an exception, offering mostly Slovak dishes to a youthful crowd. We tried fazulová polievka (bean soup with smoked meat and noodles), Arménsky šalát (Armenian salad, basically coleslaw with tons of garlic), Jelení guláš (venison goulash with wine sauce and dumplings) and yet more of the bryndzové halusky, finishing up with a nutty Somló halušky (Hungarian cake). Prašná Bašta has a cool, jazzy ambiance and the food was ok, but not a patch on 1. Slovak Pub.
A couple of other posher places also come recommended, Tempus Fugit just off Hlavné Námestie, Wock among the palaces and churches of peaceful Františkánske námestie, or the restaurant of the new Hotel Michalská Brána in a narrow lane round the corner form the tower of St. Michael’s, the last of the old city gates to survive. Opened in January 2007, the hotel is a gem, with perfumed oil lamps showing the way to modern rooms built into a 600-year-old house. Double rooms start from 4,200 koruna (€120), including breakfast.
Bratislava’s best known landmark is its castle, the Hrad, perched atop a hill overlooking the town and the Danube. Often compared to an upturned table, this oblong block with its four stubby towers is not the most beautiful of chateaux, but the Hrad’s sheer bulk is impressive and the views alone make the climb up to the ramparts worthwhile. On a clear day you can see three countries _ Austria, Slovakia and Hungary, although when the Winter fog comes down even the endless communist-era tower blocks of the Petržalka neighbourhood across the river where barely visible.The castle was built in the 15th century but gutted by fire in the early 19th by boozy Austrian soldiers and rebuilt by the Communists in the 1950s. The exhibitions of furniture and coins are likely to interest only the specialist.
Tragically the Communists also decided to drive a motorway through the center of town in the 1970s, cutting off the castle from the old city. In doing so they demolished about a third of Bratislava’s historic heart, including the Jewish quarter which lay just beyond the city walls at the foot of castle hill. The cafes where Leigh Fermor drank slivovica while practicing his Yiddish disappeared under the bulldozers and although the cobbled lane winding to the castle is still there, its terraced houses are more likely to hold cafes or art galleries rather than the bordellos of the 1930s. Bratislava is never going to rival the splendors of Prague or Vienna, but it’s well worth a visit either on its own, combined with a trip to the nearby Austrian capital, or as a base for exploring the spectacular Slovak countryside up to the Tatra mountains.
http://www.prasnabasta.sk
http://slovakpub.sk
http://www.michalskabrana.com
http://www.rolandcaffe.bestintown.sk/
http://visit.bratislava.sk

Taking it easy in Euskadi

2007-12-23T14:59:00.000+01:00

The first view of the Spanish Basque province of Guipúzcoa as you drive in from France is not good.

Squeezed between the western edge of the Pyrenees and the turbulent waters of the Bay of Biscay, the motorway roars through a concrete tangle of highways, ‘sixties housing blocks and bleak industrial estates.

We weren’t worried though, from the web site we knew our hotel was well away from the urban sprawl, nestled in deep green foothills, among the hayricks and pretty villages made of stone and red-tinted timber. At least that’s what we thought as we turned off the A-8 from Bordeaux and climbed up an increasingly rustic byway.

After a few kilometres, the sign for Hotel Usategieta pointed down a country lane, overhung with branches gleaming in the drizzle that gives these hills their emerald hue.

Then came a surprise. The lane suddenly became a bridge, taking us over the highway again, we passed a lorry park and a service station, and there was the hotel, within sight and sound of the rumbling traffic below.

With trepidation, we parked and walked toward the reception. Although the traffic hum faded, it was drowned out by a blast of Mika’s “Grace Kelly”, swiftly followed by a brace of Spanish disco numbers as a rowdy family fiesta got into full swing in the ground floor restaurant. So much for our restful country inn.

We needn’t have worried. “Ongi etorriak,” smiled the receptionist. That’s welcome in Basque. Even more welcome was her assurance that “Dancing Queen” blaring away downstairs was to be one of the last numbers at the party. As a bus pulled up to take away the revellers, we took a stroll round the grounds.

The Usategieta turned out to be an oasis of greenery amongst the urban mess. The main building is a solid old farm house with stone walls overhung by an oak-beamed roof. The crimson façade was hung with a tumble of blue and white petunias.

Broad-leaved oaks sprout from the lawn with a hammock strung between them to lie back and admire the view of mount Jaizkibel looming over the coast. The vegetable garden was bright with curly lettuce, tomatoes, parsley and anis.

Our room was a stylish mix of traditional and modern, with wood floors, terracotta tiles in the vast bath room. From the balcony we could see the cloud-shrouded Aiako Harria mountain park off to the east.

The Usategieta makes a great place for exploring what turns out to be a wonderful region with the natural grandeur of the mountains to the coast lined with sandy coves and a cuisine which any Basque will assure you is the best in the Iberian Peninsula.

Just a short drive away is the city of San Sebastián, Donostia to Basque speakers. The city’s elegant 19th-century avenues radiate from Concha bay, Europe’s nearest rival to the Copacabana, complete with golden sands overlooked by Monte Urgull in the role of the Pão de Açúcar. There are splendid harbourside fish restaurants on the Paseo del Muelle and a warren of bars and eateries that keep the parte vieja or old quarter humming late into the night. Txikiteo is the Basque equivalent of a pub crawl and the bars of the parte vieja are renowned for their pintxos (the Basque equivalent of tapas) to be nibbled with a zurito (small glass of beer), cider or the local taxakoli white wine.

At the Usategieta they make their own cider from the apples growing in the garden during the season from December to April. Then it’s served with a menu of tortilla and salt cod especially designed to sharpen your thirst. We had to make due with a bottled version as a pre-dinner drink, made with apples brought in from Asturias. It’s poured from on high into tall, chunky tumblers, never more than a finger’s thickness at a time. I have to say that this ultra-dry tipple is something of an acquired taste.

The restaurant is in a great vaulted room which must once have served as a stables or barn for the farming family living above. We were not surprised to find it empty, this is Spain after all and people eat late. But on a damp, July night we stayed eating till 11 p.m. and remained the only diners, which was a pity because the food was excellent.

As we scanned the menu, hot crusty rolls appeared, ideal for soaking up some fruity olive oil from the jar on our table. There were also croquetas de jamón, puffs of potato and ham.

The opening courses were copious. My salad of bacalao contained loads of shredded salt cod, mixed with lettuce from the hotel garden in a light garlic mayonnaise sprinkled with toasted pine nuts and strips of grilled red peppers.

Garden produce featured heavily in the other starters: five fat white asparagus with mayo and vinaigrette on the side; and grilled foie gras served on a bed of seasonable greens that included baby broad beans, peas and tiny florets of cauliflower.

It was a great start, helped down with a terrific wine picked out by tour waitress _ Fernández de Piérola, Crianza 2003, a gorgeously perfumed Rioja filled with plums, figs and summer fruit that’s producee by a new bodega on the border between the Rioja region and the Basque province of Álava.

Among the main courses were that Basque classic bacalao al pil-pil, salt cod slow cooked in garlic and olive oil with a hint of chilli. This is always a simple dish that depends very much on the quality of the materials. The only complaint here was that maybe the cod was a bit on the bland side for having been left to soak too long in the desalting water.

The waitress was insistent that we try the bonito _ a summertime favourite from the Cantabrian coast. Cooked encebollada, braised with sweet onions, the two-inch-thick posto of this small relative of the tuna was fabulous, but too much for a single appetite to handle. For carnivores, the sotomillo steak was grilled to perfection with a handful of chunky chips and more of those some charred red peppers.

The desert list included Tolosa cigarros _ almond and butter cakes from the nearby hill town; orange soup with white chocolate ice-cream and the house special _ raisins and dried local cherries soaked in Armagnac (from just over the French border) served with helado de queso _ cream cheese flavoured ice-cream.

After that, there was a café solo and a glass of patxaran, the local sloe gin, to give us the energy to stagger upstairs.

The next morning we were up early, but squeezed in a breakfast with good café con leché, freshly squeezed orange juice, oven warm rolls, a mixture of hams and jams and a slice or two of Idiazábal sheep cheese from up in the valleys.

B&B was €140 for three, dinner came to €117. All that was left was to say eskerrikasko and agur until the next time.

http://www.hotelusategieta.com
http://www.pierola.com/

Beside the Seaside

2007-11-23T21:25:00.000+01:00

There’s something special about eating beside the sea, knowing your fish has just been plucked from the depths, breathing in the salt air, listening to the surf, watching the sun sink into the water as you down a glass of cool white wine. We’re spoilt in Europe with such variety of coastlines from the Adriatic to the North Sea, the Baltic to the Atlantic ...

Piran is a jewel of a town on Slovenia's short Adriatic coastline. Squeezed within the shores of a narrow promontory, its pastel hued Venetian houses shimmer in the still blue waters.

A tangle of medieval alleys run up the hillside which is topped by the campanile of Sv. Juirja's (St. George's) cathedral _ a copy of those across the bay in Venice. From the cathedral steps, the whole coast of Slovenia curves round to Italy in the west and Croatia in the east.

Side-by-side on Piran's eastern waterfront are the twin restaurants Pavel I and Pavel II, long established local favorites where you can feast on fresh fish and Istrian specialties looking out over the harbour.

We were a big group and put ourselves in the staffs, hands asking for a selection of their best _ although we settled for just two courses and skipped the offer of lobster spaghetti to go between the starters and the fish. Slovenian cooking can be a complicated mix, reflecting the country's location at the crossroads of Central Europe, Italy and the Balkans, but at Pavel's seafood simplicity rules.

The antipasti comprised clams, mussels, shrimp, a fishy carpaccio, soft white cheese and Kraški pršut, Slovenia's air-dried ham which rivals the San Daniele from just across the Italian border. A selection of gleaming fish were presented for our approval, then whisked away and returned grilled or baked to perfection with olive oil, lemon and garlic, there was gilt-head bream, sea bass, rascasse and a big, juicy flat fish.

It was all fabulous, washed down with the excellent malvazija Capo d'Istria wines, and finished off with a tray laden with on-the-house liquors_ plain grappa and others flavoured with lemon or blackberry.
Pavel, Prešernovo nabrežje, Piran, SI - 6330 +386 (0)5/674 71 01, +386 (0)5/674 71 02

___

Noordwijk's dunes lost their pristine nature long ago as the scatter of holiday homes and guest houses was gradually built up until the coast became dominated by the hulking hotels like the Huis der Duin, a luxury ziggurat favoured by NATO ministers and the Dutch football stars.

This North Sea resort is packed in summer with beach lovers from the cities of Holland and Germany's industrial heartland and in springtime it can be bracing base for exploring the nearby tulip fields.

Along the coast stretching away to the south the concrete strip soon gives way to the sandy heathland dotted with villas in eclectic styles from thatched faux cottages to modernist cubes and belle époque palacettes. On a blustery Autumn weekday, the dunes were deserted apart from the odd brave soul braving the cycle path through the grass. The beach is a wide and flat strip of compact sand favoured by joggers and horse riders.

Hidden among the dunes on Noordwijk's southern edge is Het Zuiderbad - restaurant and sun terrace. It's a curious place whose wooden beach huts and deck chairs have been attracting visitors since the 1920s. For 10 years now the main building has housed a restaurant serving seasonal, local produce in trendy, vaguely nautical surroundings looking out over the beach.

It was packed, with an open fire providing a welcome antidote to the near gale blowing outside. Lobster soup fortified with chunks of freshwater shrimp was an excellent warming starter. The main course was grilled fillets of brill served in a Champagne sauce that went very well with the house white, a fruity Castilian Rueda.

The exotic-sounding bavarois van Zeeuwse babbelaar op een spiegel van karamel _ an mousse cake flavoured with the much-loved toffees from the southern province of Zeeland _ rounded things up nicely with a sweet, scented glass of Muscat de Rivesaltes, Domaine Sarda-Malet, 2005.
http://www.zuiderbad.nl/

___

Medieval Porvoo is hidden on an inlet of the Gulf of Finland about 50 kilometres east of Helsinki. Dating back to the 14th century, its old town is mostly made up of wooden houses painted in shades of pale grey, power yellow or rust, clustered on the bank of the Porvoonjoki River. They are filled with little shops, galleries and cafes, which provided a welcome haven on a chilly December day.

This cozy place even has its own chocolate factory, Brunberg's which has been turning out truffles, chocolate kisses and that Nordic favourite, salted liquorice since 1871.

The medieval cathedral which crowns the hillside is under repair after a fire started by teenage vandals a couple of years ago, but thankfully the Wanha Laamanni restaurant just across the square survived. It's in a cherry red lawyer's house dating back to the 18th century, an era recalled in the flowery but restrained rococo interior.

Today's Finnish cooking takes full advantage of the wonderful natural products on offer in its lakes and forests _ game, cold-water fish, winter roots, matchless berries. At Wanha Laamanni you can try arctic char with creamed mushrooms and beetroot, or fried pikeperch with chanterelle sauce. Carnivores can go for the reindeer fillet with puikula potatoes from Lapland, or roe deer with game sauce. They're not their web site, but I remember spotting exotic treats like snow grouse and bear (for a high price) on the menu when I was there last year.

Expect to pay at least €50 for three courses, double that if you take a bottle from the wide, international wine list.
http://www.brunberg.fi/
http://www.wanhalaamanni.com/

____

Our arrival in Alvor did not get of to an auspicious start. After an age to find a parking place along the quayside, the Àbabuja restaurant that we'd been recommended was full. The man barbecuing fish at its neighbor, A Ribeira, said we could get a table there in 40 minutes.

"Tudo bem," we said and set off to take a drink in a nearby café where we could watch a glorious sunset over the lagoon.

The Ria de Alvor is a haven of natural beauty on the Algarve coast of Portugal between Portimão and Lagos. Its mouth divides the great sweeping strands of Praia de Alvor and Meia Praia. The shallow waters are a haven for yachtsmen, seabirds and shellfish.

Alvor was once a small fishing village. Now surrounded by holiday homes and the sandstone cliffs looming over the wonderful beaches off to the west are marred by some ugly concrete hotel towers. Despite that, the waterfront retains its charm and the main street running down to it is a lively evening strip of bars and shops like the cool Atlantic Sud tee-shirt emporium.

When we finally got to the restaurant it was still bursting at the seams and waiters buzzed between the icebox and the vast open-air grill with trays filled with squid, bream, sole and a shoal of other fish.

It looked and smelled wonderful. But after weeks of grilled fish, we fancied a change and kicked off with some amêijoas, the sweet clams which are the finest fruit of the lagoon, steamed with lemon, garlic and a fresh bunch of coriander. Having spotted somebody fishing for cuttlefish in the lagoon earlier in the day, our main course had to be cataplana de chocos. A cataplana is unique Algarvian pan that combines the functions of a wok and a pressure cooker _ in it were chewy cuttlefish, fat prawns and potatoes bathed in a rich tomato sauce flavored with more coriander.

This came with a bottle of chilled white wine from the Alentejo and was finished up with delicious fig and carob cakes. We left late in the night, but still had to thread our way out past the crowds waiting to get in.
A Ribeira, Largo da Ribeira, 15 - Alvor. Tel. +351-282 457 012

Düsseldorf for the weekend

2007-10-29T14:06:00.001+01:00

Rated one of the world’s most live-able cities and one of Germany’s most affluent, the capital of North Rhine-Westphalia offers major league modern art, romantic walks along the Rhine, über posh shopping and an old town that calls itself the biggest bar in the world.
Saturday breakfast:
You can follow in the footsteps of Gorbachev and Pavarotti nipping into the Café Heinemann which is celebrating 75 years of serving quality kaffee und kuchen. The Bahnstrasse branch is the perfect place to fill up before an assault on the shops round the corner on Köningsallee. The showroom in the front is filled with cholesterol boosting confections like the almond-liquor-cream filled herrentorte, award winning champagne truffles or the towering black chocolate baumkuchen. Out the back is a classic old café with leather chairs and dark wood tables serving up creamy coffee and a renowned breakfast selection.

Saturday morning:
Köningsallee is Germany’s most exclusive shopping street. Behind the vitrines are shimmering gold dresses, antique broaches encrusted with rubies, and ermine overcoats, a snip at €13,000. The posh stores are mostly arrayed along the eastern side of the street opposite solid ranks of banks and office blocks.
Between them, along the kilometre-long thoroughfare, are two stately rows of horse chestnut trees and a shady canal cut by low arched bridges. This used to be called Kastanienallee after those conker trees until 1848 when a visiting king of Prussia was pelted with horse muck by disgruntled Rhinelanders, causing the local burghers to make things up to the monarch by naming the avenue after him.
Aside from the international designers, D’dorf is proud of being at the forefront of German fashion with the likes of Sabine Schumacher and Peter O. Mahler, not to mention supermodel Claudia Schiffer who started her career here.
Most of the streets leading off the Kö are also lined with chic boutiques and the odd quirky store like Manufactum _ a marvellous place selling a completely eclectic range of goods from lederhosen to garden hoses, tin trains to Trappist ales. The common theme is that everything is hand made by small manufacturers, with a special section linked to goods made by monasteries and convents. (https://www.manufactum.com/).
At the northern end of the Kö the avenue broadens out and is surrounded by department stores, like the Galeria Kaufhof. These may be ubiquitous in Germany, but a good place nevertheless for those who can’t afford a €1,000 blouse, to pick up a more modest souvenir like a clay pot of AB mustard, a red-and-white Fortuna Düsseldorf scarf, or a snow done showcasing the cart wheeling kids who are a symbol of the city, featured in X-shaped statues around the town.
Lunch:
Düsseldorf’s Altstadt is something of a misnomer. The old town was almost entirely rebuilt after the city centre was devastated by allied bombing raids in World War II. Despite that, the tightly packed streets convey something of the aura of the medieval city. It’s mostly pedestrian and filled with cafes, restaurants and beer houses that have earned its moniker as “the biggest bar in the world.
Within this warren are four old brewery pubs where they make the local specialty alt beer on the premises. Schüssel, Uerige, Schumacher and Füchschen all make alt around the old town _ their beer houses are huge, bustling places, but also manage to stay cosy due to the interlocking rooms lined with woodwork stained to the same the copper tones of their ale and decorated with old etchings or fading photos of celebrated former guests. There are several other alt producers scattered elsewhere around the city. Alt is a refreshingly sharp brew. Served in small, narrow glasses, it’s not a strong as most German beers and is designed to be drunk in quality. In fact it’s much like the Kölsch served in Düsseldorf’s great Rhineland rival Cologne (although natives of either city will argue strongly that their brew is the best.)
The beer halls of the Altstadt don’t mess about. Food here is rigorously traditional, but provides great snack opportunities. How about Flönz – a curl of shiny cold blood pudding served with chopped onion and a slice of black bread at the Zum Uerige. http://www.uerige.de/.
The beer made on the premises is considered by many to be the best in town. Other options include thick pea soup, known as ähzezupp; halver hahn, not half a chicken, but rye bread served with a slice of cheese with caraway and onion; brawn; or mettbrötchen, minced pork rolls.
Saturday afternoon:
Take a stroll round the Altstadt: the Berg platz overlooking the Rhine with its Baroque tower, all that remains of the once mighty palace of the Dukes of Berg after a fire in the 1870s; the ivy-clad 18th century Rathaus, with its horseback statue of local hero Jan Wellem of Paletine; the birthplace of poetic great Heinrich Heine; the gothic Catholic church of St. Lambertus and its Protestant counterpart the Berger Kirche.
Then head downriver along the Rheinuferpromenade, a riverside walkway which brought new life to city in the 1990s when the main road which cut the old town off from the Rhine buried in a tunnel. There are rows of café terraces and views of the endless barge traffic.
Keep walking and you come to the Rhine tower, a 234 meter spike offering great views of the city from a viewing platform are revolving restaurant at the top.
Just beyond, is the MediaHarbour a new development on the river port which has become a showcase of new architecture, most notably Frank Gehry’s jumble of leaning towers clad in whitewash, redbrick or shimmering steel. The MediaHarbour is a cool place to hang out, featuring the trendy Lido restaurant serving French food in a glass cube surrounded by water. At the Eigelstein café, there’s even an outpost of Düsseldorf’s great rival, serving Kölsch beer and Cologne cooking.
Saturday night:
Returning for more beer in the old town is always an option. Zum Schiffchen is reputedly the city’s oldest eatery, dating from 1628. Tuck into liver dumplings with sauerkraut and mash, and kidneys served in a creamy Düsseldorf mustard sauce. It serves Frankenheim alt. http://www.brauerei-zum-schiffchen.de/.

At Zum Schüssel there was himmel und erde (heaven and earth, aka: hot black pudding with mashed potato and apple puree spiked with onion) or Stadtschreiberschmaus _ pan fried leberkäse (liver paté) served with fried spuds, baked onions, fried egg and green beans.
http://www.zumschluessel.de/
You are unlikely to pay more than €15 a head at any of these places. To ease all that down, head to the Kabüffke hole in the wall bar for a glass of Killepitsche, a cherished local herb liquor.
Round off the evening at Roncalli’s Apollo a much loved cabaret replete with acrobats, dancing girls, mimes and magicians. It’s been going since the 1890s, but this year is celebrating 10 years in its new venue under the Rheinknie bridge. http://www.apollo-variete.com/.
Sleeping:
Top of the range is the majestic Steigenberger Park hotel at the top end of Kö. Five star luxury, rooms start from around €200, but go much higher. There have some special offers at the moment, giving weekend nights from €98. (http://www.steigenberger.com)
The Stage47 has doubles from €160 (http://www.duesseldorf-hotels.de/) and the Burns Art Hotel from €145. (http://www.hotel-burns.de/) Both are trendy, arty places.
Cheerfully down market, the Hotel Haus Hillesheim has been in the same family for four generations. It has a nice kitsch bar, OK rooms and a reasonably central location at the southern end of the Kö. http://www.hotel-hillesheim.de/. Doubles from €60. They have a handy car park and will throw in a pass for free public transport for the duration of your stay.
Sunday breakfast:
Stay in your hotel and enjoy the typical German spread of hams, sausages, cheese, jams and breads dark and white. Coffee is not normally a highpoint, but these days you can usually ask them to rustle up a decent cappuccino or espresso.
Sunday morning:
Go north to Kaiserswerth, or south to Benrath.
Kaiserswerth is a history-packed suburb on the right bank of the Rhine. Surrounded by meadows and filled with baroque homes and cobbled lanes it feels more like a village than part of a great city. The U-bahn stop on Klemenzplatz a leafy square lined with cafés, like the cake-laden Café Schuster, the Tonhalle or Fuch amKemensplatz which serves Fuchschen alt beer. It’s a short walk to the Markt square with its high gabled houses and luxury boutiques. On a backstreet next to an old windmill, there’s a 19th century nursing home, where Florence Nightingale learned her trade. Overlooking a bend in the Rhine are the ruins of castle the built by crusading Emperor Frederick I Barbarossa to collect taxes on river traffic in the 12th century. There are romantic walks under rows of lime trees and some sunny beer gardens next to the castle or down by the little car ferry over the Rhine.
Benrath is at the opposite extreme of the city. The pink pleasure palace built here in the 18th century and its vast formal gardens were the playground Prince-Elector Karl Theodor, fun-loving patron of Mozart. The roccoco pile is up for World heritage status and contains the museum of European Garden Art. The grounds a filled with fountains, nymphic statues and swans gliding over ornate pools. Wikipedia says it was here that the late Austrian pop star Falco shot the video for his 1980s smash “Rock me Amadeus.” http://www.schloss-benrath.de/.
Sunday Lunch:
Try one of those Kaiserswerth beer gardens, or if you’re feeling flush check out Im Schiffchen, one of Germany’s most famous restaurants, run by French chef Jean-Claude Bourgueil, a holder of two Michelin stars who long ago traded the Loire for the Rhine. A typical dish would be Glanage et Cueillette de Fruits de Friches Ecrevisses, Mousseline de Cuisses de Grenouilles, Infusion d'Herbes, de Pousses d'Ail et Anis Etoilé for €42. Jean-Claude's is a more modest bistro on the premises, which has a take on the old Rhineland favourite himmel und erde, but substituting the blood sausage for goose liver. http://www.im-schiffchen.com/.
In Benrath, try the Schlosscafé, a pastel gatehouse at the entrance to the gardens serving refined light bites.
Sunday afternoon:
Get some culture.
The K20 Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen is one of Europe’s great collections of modern art. Picasso, Warhol, Pollack, Kirchner, Ernst, local boy Joseph Beuys and over 100 works of Paul Klee. Its sister museum the K21 features contemporary works from 1980 onwards. http://www.kunstsammlung.de/.
Sitting beside the Rhine, the Kunst Palast has its own permanent collections ranging from the medieval to German expressionists. Up to January it’s pulling in the crowds with its temporary show Bonjour Rusland, bringing French and Russian masterpieces from the great collections of Moscow and St. Petersburg featuring the likes of Monet, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Matisse, Picasso, Kandinsky and Chagall. http://www.museum-kunst-palast.de/.
Sunday evening:
If you’re seeking an antidote to all that sausage and beer, sushi would seem a good choice. Düsseldorf has one of the biggest Japanese communities in Europe. Many of the best Japanese restaurants are concentrated around Immermannstrasse or Klosterstrasse. The most renowned include Benkay in the Nikko Hotel, the Kikaku Ito, Nippon-kan, Yabase or the Naniwa noodle bar.
A more traditional option would be Weinhaus Tante Anna which has been has been serving up top notch Rhineland grub since 1828. Up to December, it’s offering a traditional winter goose menu for €42.50 comprising from foie gras with apple jelly, goose consommé with mushroom crepes, roast goose breast and leg served with red cabbage and pears, Brussels sprouts, potato dumplings and chestnuts glazed in honey. It’s finished off with a mouse of rum and spekulatius (Westphalian ginger biscuits) with marzipan sauce. http://www.tanteanna.de/.
If you can still move, try a concert. Düsseldorf is the home of German rockers Kraftwerk and Die Toten Hosen, schlagermeister Heino as well as hosting the Deutsche Oper am Rhine and a bunch of other classical music venues.
Getting there:
D’dorf is a two hour drive along the autobahn from Brussels, Amsterdam or Frankfurt, five from Paris, six from London and just half-an-hour from Cologne.
Düsseldorf international airport is one of Germany’s largest with direct flights to several European cites, North America and beyond.
The railway station is connected to Germany’s excellent high speed ICE system.
There’s an extensive and efficient regional public transport system running trams, busses and a metro around Düsseldorf and into neighbouring cities.

Tahli Ho! Spice hunt leads to exotic East Midlands

2007-10-08T23:36:00.000+02:00

Tea was a mistake.
After stuffing ourselves to the point of exhaustion with the wonderful array of rotis and curries, farsan and daals at Bobby's famed vegetarian restaurant on Leicester's Belgrave Road, a nice cup of spiced chai seemed to be the ideal thing to ease our overworked digestive system.
Wrong.
The steaming mugs came with a complimentary selection of from the dazzling array of sweets on show at the takeaway counter _ syrupy globes in garish orange, saffron and cardamom mounds, lozenges of fudge tinted almond, chocolate and shocking pink edged with edible silver foil.
It was irresistible and necessitated a long post-dinner walk in the rain past the saris and jewellery and Bollywood DVDs in the bright shop fronts at the heart of one of England's most vibrant south Asian communities.

Like many of the restaurants around here, Bobby's serves food with its roots in India's western state of Gujarat, food dubbed the haute cusine of vegetarianism by no less an authority than the actress and food writer Madhur Jaffery.
Bobby's eschews not only meat, but also onions and garlic, although there is some confusion over whether this is because of adherence to strict Jainist principles, or simply because the cook's husband (like Prince Charles) does not like them.
There's nothing fancy about the décor. It's a brightly lit, colourful, cheery and reputedly named after a much-loved early-seventies movie of Bombay romance. The prices are pretty cheerful too. An all-you-can eat buffet for little more than a fiver, complete meal thalis for a quid or two more.
For the uninitiated, a thali meal involves a metal tray containing a collection of dishes each with a different dish.
We were three, and ordered two special thalis _ which included a selection of starters, a mixture of main courses, breads and a glass of cool lassi yoghurt drink _ and one Gujarati thali which had just a main course tray.
The starters were made up of farsan, typical Gujariti snacks. They included samosas with paper-thin pasty encasing a filling containing of potato, peas, cashews, ginger, fennel, coriander; bhaji fritters made with chickpea flour filled with potatoes, cassava and green chilli; kachori (delicate, pastry covered lentil balls); dhokla (fluffy, yellow sponge sprinkled with mustard and sesame seeds) with a couple of delicately spiced dipping sauces.
The thalis themselves contained a cornucopia of delights: buttery lentil daal (midway between a soup and a stew), shredded cabbage salad stained a turmeric gold, a selection of chapati and puri breads, crisp poppadoms. There's khichdi (a yellow rice and bean mash) with a bowl of and lemony sour kadhi sauce to pour over it. There was a curry of potato and chick peas, one with a richly spiced aubergine mix, yet another of fresh green peas and cubes of paneer cheese. One bowl had cooling mint-scented yoghurt, another a sweet, thick cream cheese.
It was immense. By the time we'd wiped out bowls clean with the chapatis and gorged on those free sweetmeats we could only stagger out into the street, to full to contemplate a purchase of takeaway cakes.
Leicester's Asian community was on course to make the city England's first with a non-white majority, until the recent influx of new immigrants from eastern Europe upset the demographic predictions.
But the city's gastronomic traditions are not limited to its eastern imports. The covered market in the city centre claims to be Europe's largest. Its display of fresh local fruit and veg (plus some exotic imports) in the market square is a foretaste of the delights on offer on by the fishmongers and butchers inside.
There are great blocks of Red Leicester cheese and wedges of blue veined Stilton (whose production is limited to Leicestershire and the neighbouring counties of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire).
Leicestershire's other traditional gastronomic glory is the pork pie. Fine examples of this crusty morsel can be found in the market or the famed Henry Walker's butchers shop in nearby Cheapside.
Leicester city centre is a surprising pleasant place, with several pedestrian shopping streets lined with stately Victorian buildings, reflecting the city's past prosperity as a hub of the textile, engineering and footwear trade.
The Town Hall square is filled with greenery and a bubbling fountain supported by four winged lions. The St. Martin's Square and Leicester Lanes neighbourhood is filled with idiosyncratic little shops and cafes. There's a medieval, half-timbered Guildhall, where both Shakespeare and Cromwell are reputed to have stayed. Nearby, the gothic cathedral contains the tomb, but not the body, of Richard III who lost his crown and his life at the battle of Bosworth Fields where the Wars of the Roses came to an end in 1485.
At weekends, the jumble of pubs and clubs around Belvoir and Hotel Street are jammed with thousands of partygoers scantily clad in tee-shirts and miniskirts despite the chill October drizzle. The Grand Hotel _ now part of the Ramada-Javis chain _ is an opulent 19th-century pile in the midst of all that. It's a bargain at 65 pound a night including the full English breakfast, even if the rooms are in need of freshening up.
For a quieter time head out to the plush suburb of Oadby past the millionaires' row of mansions built by the former hosiery magnates.
The Cow and Plough is a country pub on the edge of the city. Opened only in 1989, in some old farm stables, it seems much older thanks to the collection of Edwardian pub memorabilia which the landlords have build up over the years.
Sadly the farm park which originally surrounded the pub fell victim to England's 2001 outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease. The pub has a great laid-back Sunday lunch atmosphere. It has its own brewery, the Steamin' Billy Brewing Co., named after the pub's Jack Russell terrier, making over a dozen award winning ales. The foods not bad either, ranging from giant chunky sandwiches like hot pork and cheddar served with salad and fat fries, to full meals like cod with fennel butter, or roasted pork with Steamin' Billy cider.

http://www.eatatbobbys.co.uk/

http://www.steamin-billy.co.uk/

http://www.goleicestershire.com/

By the Loire, cursed cats and the pike that got away

2007-10-02T22:51:00.000+02:00

The Chateau de Chenonceau was under siege.
Battalions of Italians flooded through the wooded grounds; regiments of Japanese tramped the formal gardens; platoons of Poles rushed the bookshop, a rowing boat flotilla skirted the graceful arches over the River Cher.

"I've done Azay-le-Rideau and Cheverny, it was pretty tough, but nothing like this," groaned one Parisian veteran of the Loire Valley summer campaign as he manned the line in the stables-turned-fast-food-outlet.
Chenonceau it is the epicentre of the annual August invasion of the Loire's chateaux route.
The combination of its graceful towers and arches, its unique position astride the Cher, art-filled rooms and a scandalous history filled with the amorous adventures of French royalty draws tourists from around the world.
Fortunately Chenonceau's charm manages to survive the assault. The view of its arches reflected in the shimmering waters of the Cher is one of the great sights of France and a triumph of Renaissance planning.
Inside, there are paintings by Murillo, van Dyke, Tintoretto, Poussin, Veronese, Rubens. Bed chambers are hung by the richest Flemish tapestries, graced by vast ornate fireplaces and silk draped four-poster beds. Every window offers a glimpse of the river or the formal gardens below.
Those four-posters have seen some wear and tear over the years. Chenonceau is known as the chateau des dames, and this delicate retreat was long the favoured rendezvous for the French monarchy and their courtesans.
Renowned 16th-Century beauty Diane de Poitiers made the place her own while she was the favourite of King Henri II _ until his wife Queen Catherine de Medici kicked the mistress out.
A right royal schemer, Catherine became the power behind the throne in France while three of her sons became king. She ran affairs of state from the little office next to Chenonceau's library. A charming place, no doubt, to plan the massacres of Protestants and poisonings of rivals for which she was renowned.
One of the chateau's most richly decorated chambers is the room of the five queens in honour of such illustrious guests as Mary Queen of Scots and La Reine Margot, played fetchingly by Isabelle Adjani in the blood-soaked movie of the same name.
In the Francois I bedroom, there's a painting of three naked sisters _ the Mesdemoiselles de Nesle, who took turns as the mistress of Louis XV.
The helpful guide also explains how the mother of another of the Louis once threw a birthday banquet for her son and his chums with nude serving wenches on hand to grant their carnal and culinary desires. The era is captured well in Eleanor Herman's rollicking history Sex with Kings.
Just passing through, we had little time to visit the other great chateaux on the banks of the lazy Loire between Tours and Orleans. Just a peak at classical Cheverny _ the model for Tintin's Moulinsart _ and mighty Chambord where we were watched by a boar munching its way through the undergrowth of the surrounding forest.
On the eastern edge of the main chateau drag is the sleepy little town of Beaugency, which boasts its own 11th-century castle keep and brace of medieval churches. The Loire is wide and lethargic here, spanned by a 14th-century bridged considered such a wonder at the time, that many suspected a supernatural hand in its construction.
Local legend has it that the Devil build the bridge over one night aiming to capture the first soul that crossed it. Old Nick's plans were thwarted when a black cat scampered across at dawn, saving the townsfolk from damnation, but earnng the curse of witchery and evil eye for all sooty felines.
Overlooking the bridge, L'Abbaye de Beaugency, rebuilt in the 17th century after a fire, is now is an atmospheric hotel, with rooms in the old monks' cells. Many are duplex, great for families, with views over the sandy banks of the river. There are roaring fires, mounted stags' heads, monumental staircases and long, spooky corridors. A wide terrace beside the shady Loire shore is the perfect place for summer breakfasts.
The restaurant features a tempting selection of sander and langoustines, lapin chasseur and rognons de veau a la grains de moutarde. Unfortunately, both times we've stayed there, the chef's been sick or on leave and we've been forced to dine elsewhere.
With Beaugency perched between the Solonge, the Beauce and the Touraine, three of France's great culinary regions, that shouldn't have been a problem, but both times we ended up disappointed by restaurants brandishing snooty staff or substandard grub.
On our most recent visit we tried L'Abbaye's rival, L'Ecu de Bretagne, an old post inn on the town square, where there's a fine market on Saturday mornings replete with crispy rillions of pork belly, andouilles and andouillettes, fresh local fruit and veg and ash sprinkled Saint-Maure goat's cheeses.
Here the rooms in the main building are cosy and cheap at 70 euros for a double, but a bit rudimentary, those in the outbuildings have been restored to a high standard but come at a higher price.
The restaurant came highly reputed. Comfy despite its size, it's a typically old school French countryside place, with cheery waitresses, an authoritarian sommelier and the expectation of regional cuisine of the highest quality.
We started on a bottle of Cheverny Point du Jour full of cool cherries and a hint of liquorice, then dived directly into the menu de terroir which began with a delightfully creamy terrine de chevre and finished with the pungent pick of the cheeseboard and a refreshing soupe aux fraises.
In between came quenelles de brochet, the restaurant's signature dish.
This is a speciality here beside the pike-invested waters of the Loire. These were fluffed up with beurre blanc and produced a light souffle texture full of fresh eggs and fine butter flavour.
There was just one thing lacking _ the brochet. I could detect hardly a soupcon of any fish. Maybe my brutalised Anglo-Saxon taste buds were missing some subtlety here, but the frown on the face of Parisian missus confirmed that this fish seemed to have gotten away. I asked the waiter if the pike were caught locally, he looked confused and muttered something about a cash-and-carry.
After a third disappointing dinner in a town which has seems to have everything it needs to produce gastronomic success, we were left to reflect that perhaps Beaugency's black cat had crossed out path.

http://www.ecudebretagne.fr
http://www.hotel-abbaye-beaugency.com
http://www.chenonceau.com

Food on the Run in Seville

2007-08-24T16:43:00.000+02:00

Two tips for travelling to Seville: don’t go at all in July or August and take care when jogging after a storm. The first is obvious. It’s just too darn hot. My first trip there was in August, the sun beat down without relief. The heat was Saharan, so hot that we were permanently in a rage. Taking a siesta through the worst of the afternoon might have helped, but we were too poor to afford air conditioning it just led to a restless sweat in our airless hotel room. One July, years later, I’d worked all day protected by the A/C, only to be hit by a wall of high 30’s heat at 8 in the evening.

If you do find yourself there in high summer, go for culture and relate to the suffering saints of Zubarán and Murillo in the Museo de Bellas Artes, or get some holy cool in the vast vaulted space of the Cathedral. It’s the biggest gothic church in Christendom – although of course it started life as a mosque and its great bell tower the Giralda was once the minaret that towered over one of Iberia’s great Moorish cities. Exploring the interior will reveal art works to rival the museum, macabre saintly relics and the tomb of Christopher Columbus, who set off from Seville on his accidental discovery of the Americas.

Seville can be kind on joggers. It’s flat, has some fine parks and both banks of the Guadalquivir offer breezy views for runners. There were no fears from the heat on a bright February morning, but an overnight storm presented an unlikely obstacle to my fitness program _ the streets were littered with oranges. The glossy green trees which line the streets of much of the old city had been laden with fruit the night before and the nocturnal burst of raid and wind had scattered them across the cobbles, presenting an ankle-threatening obstacle course out of the old Jewish quarter.

Once past this slippery challenge, there was a glorious trip through the Jardines de Murillo, around the University _ once the tobacco factory where Carmen rolled cigars in Bizet’s opera. Then past the fountain of the Plaza de España _ a grandiose setting for the planet of Narboo in Star Wars II _ into the shady allies of the Parque de Maria Luisa. Next, the Paseo de las Delicias which follows the palm-lined riverbank alongside the Torre del Oro _ part of the old Arab defences _ and the Real Maestranza bullring. On the left, the multicoloured facades of the Tirana neighbourhood famed for its flamenco bars. Crossing over the river back along the Tirana bank then over again on the Puente San Telmo, past the Cathedral, then dodging the tourists and the fallen fruit into the Barrio de Santa Cruz.

My goal after all this running was Las Casas de la Judaría a hotel of enormous charm occupying a jumble of mansions and courtyards that once belonged to the noble Béjar family, patrons of Cervantes and hosts to the first American Indians who returned with Columbus. Painted in lemon and white and decorated with antique furnishings with a series of linked patios filled with flowers and fountains and Andalusian tiles, it oozes character. The rooms are airy and tastefully furnished. From 120 euros including a great breakfast of jamón, fresh bread rolls, cheese, fruit, freshly made café con leche and orange juice served in a beautiful, cool room covered with murals. The only drawback, would be if you were arriving by car, since the access is through a maze of narrow lanes, culminating in an ally barely wide enough for one vehicle leading to the private underground parking. It’s next to the Santa María la Blanca church, a former synagogue in the heart of the old Jewish neighbourhood which existed here before Columbus’ bosses drove out the community in the 15th century.

Wandering the tapas bars is one of Seville’s great pleasures. Dating from 1670 El Rinconcillo is generally supposed to be the city’s oldest. It retains a spit-and-sawdust feel. Like most of these old hangouts it’s has hams hanging from the ceiling and dusty wine bottles lining the walls. We stood at the counter and chewed some slices of acorn-fed jamón and a plate of espinacas con garbanzas – spinach with chickpeas – a signature dish in Seville, pungent with garlic and with a hint of curry, washed down with a glass of dry manzanilla sherry. Across the street in a rival Plaza de los Terceros establishment we had toasted rolls topped with fried quail eggs, and next door beer with slices of salty Manchego cheese.

The problem the tapeo is that with all that drinking, eating, strolling and chatting, it's hard to remember the names of all the places you’ve been. Las Teresas in the center of Santa Cruz and is well known to tourists. We stopped there for rough red wine with some re-located fabada asturiana and spicy chorizo, then moved down Calle Mateos Gago for garlic prawns and more jamon beneath the bulls heads in Bodega Belmonte, then on to La Goleta, a tiny, hole-in-the-wall for snails in tomato sauce followed up with sweet viño de naranja.

Saturday lunch time around the Plaza del Pan is filled with shoppers knocking back glasses of chilled Cruzcampo beer and tucking into shellfish delights. Café Europa opened in 1925, its award winning tapas include prawns and pungent garlic spuds doused in Baena olive oil. This is the old commercial center of Seville north of the Calle Sierpes. It’s makes a refreshingly down-to-earth alternative to the tourist trail around Santa Cruz. There are splendid tiled advertisements from the 1920s, shops ablaze with flamenco dresses, natty waistcoats and sombreros, embroidered mantas, printed fans and other paraphernalia of the feria and semana santa. Somewhere around here I stopped in for a haircut in an old-fashioned place filled mirors and bright coloured bottles and old boys discussing the upcoming Betis-Sevilla derby. It tested my Spanish to the limit, but you cannot go to Seville without seeing the barber. Then on to one of the many tapas bars in Calle Pérez Galdós for some squid and finally a plate of menudo _ a Sevillian tripe stew in a trendy place on the Calle Alfalfa.

La Campana, a cake shop and café, at the start of Calle Sierpes is the place to go for a café solo and polvorones, a crumbly sugar-dusted sweetmeat made with almonds and lard. It's been the city’s best-known day-time meeting place since the 1880s and boasts a terrace perfect for people watching.

For a more substantial bite, Casa Robles and Becerrita have a lot in common. Both have a long tradition of serving fine Andalusian cuisine. Both are housed in centuries-old buildings offering tapas in front of a succession of dining rooms decorated with tiles, antique prints and paintings.

Juan Robles started his restaurant in the 1950s as a bar to sell his fruity white Condado de Huelva. Robles now has a chain of restaurants, but the flagship in the shadow of the Giralda is still highly recommended by locals. I’ve had a couple of excellent meals here, but the last visit was bit of a disappointment. Our group was tucked away in a rather austere upstairs room hung with Baroque religious paintings. The mixed starters were fine – excellent jamón, satisfyingly salty boquarones (anchovies), grilled vegetables and a tasty dish of mixed wild mushrooms, all washed down with a fine bottle of the Condado de Huelva. I was really looking forward to the main course of perdiz á la Sevillana _ the partridge came stewed whole with potatoes, but was rather bland, dry and tough, a let down, that even the fine Rioja couldn't cheer it up.

Becerrita can be found up near the Puerta de Camona on the edge of La Macarena district. Here a recent second visit lived up to expectations. We started out with a mixture of Andalusian tapas _ boiled new potatoes with lots of garlic and local extra virgin olive oil, fried aubergine with salt cod, strips of steak, bull’s tail croquettes, matched with Torres viña sol from Catalonia. My main course was ventresca de atun rojo con ali-oli de Albahaca – red tuna belly with garlic mayonnaise made with Albahaca olive oil – simple but fabulous, pungent fish, the lightest mayo. Among the choices by my companions, grilled squid with black rice and lomo de buey (ox loin) were all greeted with unreserved praise. Gelado de arroz de leche (rice pudding ice cream) which came with a glass of sweat, sticky Pedro Ximinez wine was the penultimate treat before a huge glass of brandy rounded off a meal that cost about 60 euros a head.

Back over the river in the backstreets of of the old gyspy barrio of Tirana, the Casa Anselma warms up round midnight. It’s packed and steamy and wonderful place to experience spontaneous flamenco, where guitarists, dancers and singers get up and let rip in a whirlwind of foot tapping, hem spinning and palm clapping sevillanas. The formidable Anslema is a renowned performer, when she is not surveying the spectators to ensure nobody has an empty glass, since there is no entry fee and the drinks pay the musicians. Grab a chilled bottle of barbadillo white wine from Cadíz to get into the swing. Forget about being the only tourist though, that ain’t gonna happen _ there was an awed group of Japanese business men when we went _ but they were well outnumbered by local aficionados and it’s the nearest I’ve found to the real thing.

A Load of Tripe in Porto

2007-07-31T00:37:00.000+02:00

Dusk on the Douro. As the golden glow fades, one-by-one the neon signs on the port houses in Vila Nova de Gaia light up, Offley, Calem, Ferreira, the Sandeman don with his cape and rakish Andalusian hat. On the right bank of the river the facades of Porto’s Ribeira district cast their electric yellow reflections on the waters where the high-prowed rabelo boats bob, glossed black as the wine they once carried down from the terraced slopes upriver.

The waters of the Douro and the dark port wines link two U.N. World Heritage Sites: the vineyards carved into the rocky hills high above the river’s serpentine descent from Spain and the ancient city where the Douro meets the Atlantic.

Arrive in the Ribeira by funicular down from behind the Teatro São João and you suddenly emerge from tunnelled shadows into the magnificent vista of the river spanned by the great arch of the Dom Luís I bridge, its Eifelesque grandeur immersed in the lingering rays of a summer sunset. Built in 1886, this engineering marvel is not, as many believe, the work of Eifel, but that of his Belgian associate Teófilo Seyrig. The Frenchman is however responsible for the slightly older Dona Maria Pia bridge which spans the Douro gorge just a little up.

Ribeira is Porto’s riverside heart. A hive of ancient lanes permanently shaded by multi-storied houses linked by washing lines and alive with the bustle of urban life which has grown on these steep shores since the city called Portus Cale by the Romans gave it’s name to one of Europe’s oldest nations in the 11th century. Of course it’s been poshed up a bit, tourists now outnumber washer women and fish wives and café terraces have filled up the Praça da Ribeira cramping the style of the street urchin would-be Decos. There’s tastefully fancy new hotel, the Pestana Porto, newly opened in one of the ochre houses on the corner where cod-fishing fleets used to moor.

Gentrification has not however taken over. Porto remains a rough and ready place. Its citizens take northern pride in the saying that Porto works while Lisbon plays. They are happy in the nickname of tripeiros _ tripe eaters _ dismissing the effete inhabitants of the capital as alfacinhas _ lettuce eaters. In the confusion of streets around the wonderful Bolhão market, seemingly endless road works squeeze hordes of shoppers onto narrow pavements and into the path of beggars and hustlers, raucous lottery ticket hawkers and gypsy women traders dodging police with their bundles of fake-label T-shirts.

Along Rua de Santa Catarina and its tributaries there are havens to be found. Alongside the FNACs, Zaras and other pan-European chains are venerable stores specialized in surgical appliances, hardware, seeds, dried fruit, miscellaneous wheels, flags. Bolhão is one of Europe’s great markets. Behind its iron gates, the two story courtyard is filled with gleaming white slabs of tripe, hams from Chaves, fat crimson cherries, paprika-red choriço, alheira sausages from Mirandela, cumin-scented blood puddings, ripe peaches and meddlers, fresh-baked loaves. All this spills over into the surrounding rows of grocers, butchers and pastry shops that appear to be little changed since the 1920s. The Confeitaria do Bolhão is the place to try a francesinha _ a hearty Porto speciality that’s basically a huge white bread sandwich filled with steak, ham, cheese, bathed in a thick gravy with mysterious list of ingredients like mustard, beer, wine … like I said, hearty.

In the belle époque interior of the Café Majestic, white-coated waiters hover with trays loaded with toasted rye bread, pasteis de nata, pataniscas de bacalhau, glasses of chilled vinho verde and concentrated cups of coffee that are called bicas in the rest of Portugal, but known as cimbalinos here in the north. There’s also tea and scones with cream and jam _ recalling the British influences in this city where port wine traders from England once formed part of the city’s commercial elite.

Running through the heart of Porto is the Avenida dos Aliados, the local Champs d’Elysée, lined with grand banks and trading houses running up to the towering city hall. High on the hill to west is the baroque tower of the Clérigos church, one of the symbols of the city. It sits alongside the fabulous Livraria Lello a neo-gothic bookshop dating from 1906 where the excellent choice of volumes on Porto and Portugal are lit by sunlight from the stained glass ceiling and reached by the amazing twisting double staircase linked the three stories of books

On the hill opposite is the Praça da Batalha once the centre of Porto’s high society, the screen of masked balls, wild bachelor parties and operatic imbroglios in Júlio Dinis 1850s novel Uma Família Inglesa. Now it’s a mixture of chic and shady where down-and-outs line up outside a mobile soup kitchen beside the grand Teatro São João and the Hotel Batalha _ a modernized 1950s block which retains some local charm despite being incorporated into the French Mercure chain. It was a real bargain at 60 euros a night for a room for three. The corridors are decorated with photos from the next-door theatre and the rooms offer great views over the city.

Back on the riverside, Dom Tonho is Ribeira’s most famous restaurant, boasting a guest list that includes the likes of Eusebio, Fidel Castro and Catherine Deneuve.

However following a local recommendation we went this time to its more modest neighbour Mercearia renowned for fresh fish and tripe. Like most of the restaurants on the quay, this place is built into the old arched storehouses built into the cliff.

Upstairs is quieter, the window tables offer great views across the river to the port houses in Gaia, and the mighty stone walls are decorated with framed prints of old Porto. Downstairs it’s more down to earth with FC Porto memorabilia taking pride of place.

As with most traditional restaurants in Porto, they don’t make much fuss about port wine. We asked for a glass of dry white and were told they didn’t have any so made do with a icy glass of meia-seco. With it came aperitifs: a dish of whole prawns, some creamy cheese from Azeitão south of Lisbon, tuna paste, olives, good crusty bread rolls.

For the main courses we went for two Porto favourites. First up, polvo à lagareiro _ barbecued octopus. We got three thick tentacles, blacked over coals, doused in olive oil, with a sprinkling of garlic and raw sliced onion served with grilled green pepper and batatas à murro _ tiny whole potatoes baked in ash of the grill. It was … okay, could have done with more garlic, salt and the portion was on the small side.

Next up, tripas à moda de Porto – the city’s signature dish. The legend behind this dates back to the 15th century when the Portuguese went off to conquer the North African port of Ceuta. As the fleet prepared to sail out of the Douro, Porto’s patriotic citizens gave all their meat to feed the troops, keeping only the tripe for themselves. The resulting speciality is a huge stew of white beans, cattle guts, chorizo and carrots usually augmented with such delights as pig’s ears, cow’s feet, lard, bacon, smoked ham, a chicken. It’s all served with a big bowl of boiled rice. This one was nicely seasoned but a bit heavy on the beans and thin on the meat, just a meagre scattering of chunks of chewy tripe and some slices of sausage.

Our wine was a Quinta de Picoto, a fresh Douro red at 12.50 euros. The febras _ pork slices _ with chips which our little'un selected were fine, but this was a disappointing meal not improved by the dessert. Our leite-crème (crème brulé) was supposed to have been caramelized on the spot, but was in fact served cold and undistinguished. The ice cream appeared to be of industrial origin. Overall it was cheap _ 86 euros for three, but I’ve eaten better at the next door Filha da Mae Preta _ which locals tend to deride as a tourist trap. In the end I wish we’d tried the Dom Tonho.

Next morning things got better quickly. The boat left from the Vila Nova de Gaia dock at 9.0 a.m. We were taking a trip up the Douro from Porto to the vineyards and this was an unqualified success.

Our purpose-built vessel was an updated barco rabelo, but instead of hauling a cargo of wine barrels it was set with breakfast tables for the 60 passengers on this purely-for-pleasure trip.

The views were spectacular as we pulled out of the quay under the great iron bridge with Porto rising out in all its summer morning splendour on one side and the circular church of the Serra do Pilar convent high above us on the opposite bank _ the scene of heroic deeds during Portugal’s civil war in the 1830s.

Our cheery guides were pointing out the baroque Palácio de Freixo on Porto’s outskirts as we were served milky coffee and honey coated croissants for breakfast, then we were out of the city, sitting back on the sun deck and admiring the increasingly wild scenery as the successive meanders of the river each revealed a new landscape _ forests of chestnut and eucalyptus, rocky promontories, villages churches covered with blue azulejos, patrician mansions and a surprising number of glass-fronted homes in the modernist style inspired by world-renowned Porto architect Alvaro Siza Vieira.

We travelled with RentDouro which offers these day-long trips from 53 euros-a-head, or even less for larger groups. We passed through a couple of locks that took the boat up 14 and then 35 meters and were then served with an excellent lunch of vegetable soup, stewed steak, and chocolate cake and copious amounts of a very drinkable Douro red.

As the afternoon drew on, we hit serious wine country where embankments of ancient stone terraces rose above us on all sides loaded with vines carrying the raw material both for the excellent Douro table wines and the port itself. The boat moored at Peso de Régua the river town at the heart of the wine trade, where we had an hour to pick up some bargains at the excellent shop run by the Port Wine Route before catching the train for the panoramic journey back along the river to Porto.

Trout by Moonlight in Macedonia

2007-07-13T14:49:00.000+02:00

The full moon lay low and huge over the hills, giving a mercury shine to the lake’s choppy surface. We were deep in the Balkans and on a mission touched with mystery and a hint of danger.

It had started when work finished late on a balmy summer night. Although the hotel’s roof terrace offered a spectacular view over the water and the Albanian mountains on the far shore, the buffet dinner was uninspiring. So we asked some new-found Macedonian friends if they knew a good place to try the famed Lake Ohrid trout.

This provoked some consternation. Several whispered discussions followed over mobile phones in quick-fire Slavonic before a deal was struck and we were told to squeeze into Boris’ Nisan.

Soon we were revving out of Ohrid _ a pearl of city squeezed between the ramparts of Czar Samuel’s 10th-century fortress and the lakeside in a tangle of cobbled lanes, ancient taverns and medieval church domes resonant with the chants of Orthodox priests.

With midnight fast approaching our path dipped and rose past shadowy mountains, hushed villages and snatched glimpses of the glittering waterside. Then we arrived, edging the car into a dimly lit square and scurrying down an ally where our hosts were waiting.

This was clearly not just any trout, for the trout of Lake Ohrid are legend throughout the Balkans, so prized for their succulent flesh that over-fishing has left them endangered and visitors hoping to get a taste are forced to head out to clandestine fishermen’s haunts like the speakeasies of prohibition America.

It thus was with pangs of conscience as well fear of the local constabulary that we awaited the arrival of our illicit main course. But the Macedonians brushed aside any qualms, insisting such clandestine transactions were vital to keep fishermen and restaurant owners in business after the two year ban on trout catches _ and blaming the shortage on unregulated catches on the Albanian side of the lake.

Only when I read up back home did I find out just rare they were. Scientists believe the Ohrid trout are a throw back to the age of dinosaurs, the like of which are only found in a handful of ancient lakes.

Ohrid is one of Europe’s great hidden gems. Few places can combine such spectacular natural surroundings with the glories of 2,000 years of civilization. The city was a major staging post on the Via Egnatia linking Rome to Constantinople. Known as the “Balkan Jerusalem,” it developed as a Christian cultural centre reputed to have a church for every day of the year. Scholars here helped develop the Cyrillic alphabet. Albanians, Slavs, Byzantines and Ottomans sought to gain control before the 1390s saw the start of five centuries of Turkish rule that has left minarets alongside those church domes as well as the bazaar-like shopping streets and the taste for strong dark coffee.

Part of independent Macedonia since the break-up of Yugoslavia in the 1990s, Ohrid looks out across Europe’s oldest lake. We were lucky to have just avoided a heat wave that had temperatures pushing up to the high 30s. Instead a balmy 25 C had crowds of local youngsters taking the sapphire clear and surprisingly warm waters of the lake in the lee of St. Jovan in Kaneo. This is Ohrid’s most photographed church _ a tiny red brick hive perched since the 13th century on a rocky promontory pointing out toward the Albanian shore. After the brilliance of the sunshine outside it takes a bit of time to adjust to the sombre interior, but 100 denar (2 euros) brings on the lights to reveal murals of a plethora of polychrome saints. The whole area is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Back at our anonymous village, the mezzes were arriving, another Turkish tradition that lingers in the former Yugoslav republic. First a laden tray of crudités _ ripe tomatoes stuffed with sliced onion, fat black olives, shredded white cabbage, cucumber and pale green pickled peppers. Next up, a briny, hard feta-style white cheese served deliciously deep fried. Then a local specialty served for breakfast, lunch and dinner _ a kind of compressed, savoury pancake layer cake. There was a wonderfully pungent bowl of mashed garlic, lightly toasted country bread and wickedly hot grilled chilli peppers. This was all washed down with rakija _ not the aniseed flavoured raki of Turkey, but a mildly spiced brandy served ice cold. We were assured this one was homemade and at over 40 degrees was stronger than anything produced in neighbouring countries.

At this late hour we were the only customers, sitting under a vine trellis with the water lapping up alongside, our conversation broken only by the sound of the surf, a chorus of amorous bullfrogs and the occasional step of moonstruck couples wandering along the shingle shore.

Once the trout served in the Ohrid way was a major attraction here. The ban instigated by the sorry state of stocks is just the latest calamity to have hit the once thriving tourist trade, which has so far yet to entice Western travellers scared away by the violence of the Yugoslav wars.

A bottle of local traminer wine was produced. It came with a powerful floral perfume but turned out to be surprisingly dry and the perfect partner for the approaching fish.

The trout when they came were magnificent, the size of boxers forearms, they were split from head to tail and splayed for the pan, acquiring golden, crisp surface that peeled off the bone to reveal the sweet pink flesh within. The waiter said they’d been pulled form the lake barely an hour before. These were litnica, known as the summer trout. It is one of two species unique to Ohrid. The other belvica is the winter trout, although both seemed to be available on this June trip. In contrast to the rosy flesh of the litnica we were told its cousin has white meat. It was piscatorial perfection served just with a plate of chips, the vegetables left from our mezze and another bowl of that great garlic mash.
We finished up with sweet melon from the fertile lakeside fields and a cup of thing Turkish style coffee at around 2 a.m. Not only can I not reveal the name of the illicit restaurant, but I cannot say how much the feast cost _ Balkan hospitality dictated that our friends snatched up the bill before we had time to so much as glance at it.

Norway's naughty nibbles _ cod tongues and whale

2007-07-02T16:52:00.000+02:00

Norway’s Lofoten islands in the 1950s, may seem an unlikely inspiration for gourmet eating.

Not so for chef Kjell A. Jenssen, who has recreated a fragment of his childhood homeland behind the rather nondescript façade of shopping street besides Oslo’s sculpture-filled Vigelands Park.

The amiable Mr. Jenssen has a simple approach, which he explains to first time guests. For him, the icy waters surrounding Lofoten’s craggy peaks produce seafood of such pure quality that _ like his forefathers _ he sees little reason to douse it in fancy sauces or elaborate preparations.

Oslo harbour

And when he says seafood, don’t think that means just fish, for the menu at his Lofotstua Restaurant is not for the squeamish, featuring not only whale, but also seal _ once a staple in remote north Norway, now a hard to find specialty.

After a long walk to the restaurant through the galleries, boutiques and cafes of trendy Frognerveien, we found ourselves enjoying a glass of Mack beer from what claim to be the world’s most northerly brewery in Troemso, while Jenssen explained what was in store.

We were to start with two of his signature dishes _ cod tongues and whale in a cream sauce.

This news was met with a certain amount of apprehension among some of the non-Norwegians amongst us. But nobody dared say “no” and soon compliments were flowing for the sweet, succulent morsels of cod lightly fried in a delicate, eggy batter.

In fact, Jenssen explained, what are called “tongues” actually the glutinous bit from between the fishes’ jawbones _ something I’d actually had once in Iceland sautéed with tarragon and a pinch of curry and there called “cod’s chins.”

Oslo fortress Guard

Next up the whale, minke whale to be precise, cut into thin slices swimming in a rich, creamy sauce. Our host had explained that the taste was similar to a tender steak with just a hint of liver, and he was spot on. It was sinfully delicious.

Whale is back in fashion in Norway. They serve whale meat burgers up in the Lofoten islands and in Oslo’s chicer places, whale sushi is the in thing _ I was served at a reception some and found it a tad bland.

A tastier and more ecologically correct choice among the odder northern seafood is perhaps red king crab. These monsters, which can grow up to almost 2 meters across, were introduced to the Barents Sea in the 1960s from their homelands off the Siberian far east as part of a harebrained Soviet scheme to bring the much prized delicacy closer to markets in Moscow and Leningrad. The crabs have thrived and are now causing environmental havoc in the seas off northern Norway, munching their way down through the fjords. Norwegian fishermen are doing the best to limit their numbers, so feel free to tuck into their sweet white meat with a clear conscience _ great sautéed with a little garlic and parsley.

Back to the Lofotstua, and next up on the menu Jenssen put together for us was traditional boiled cod served with liver and roe.
This is the emblemic dish of the Lofoten islands. Firm, fresh white fish dished up with a generous slice of pink roe, boiled potatoes, a tub of melted butter and a steaming pot of chopped cod liver sauce with onions.

Forget cod liver oil, this all came together perfectly a surprising sophisticated dish made of such simple ingredients.

A Frenchman at the table declared it the best fish he had ever tasted, although by that time the Mack beers had been supplemented by a chilled glass of Linie aquavit – a copper-hued firewater flavored with herbs and spices, that by tradition must travel in a ship’s hold to the equator and back before serving _ so perhaps his views were somewhat distorted.

Lofotstua’s décor aims at recapturing a fisherman’s café up in the islands, bleached wood boards, scraps of net, prints and fading photos of fragile-looking sailing boats against a backdrop of towering cliff faces.

In some contrast to the austere setting, the window overlooking the street provided a constantly colourful parade of comely blonds dressed in scarlet dungaree trousers, blowing whistles and displaying a worsening state of inebriation. This due to high school graduation celebrations that apparently last through the spring.

Two more fish came up next and focused attention back on our plates _ lightly battered, and pan fried halibut and a scary looking beast the locals call Steinbit and translate as Norwegian catfish. Once again excellent quality, presented only with more boiled spuds, a salad, some pickled cucumber and wafer-thin crisp bread.

We stagger toward dessert, Arctic cloudberries with whipped cream, or tilskerte bondepiker, which was translated as “brown Betty” and turned out to resemble apple crumble. Coffee was served in a big, copper kettle, as Jenssen explained why he’d not given us his other “exotic” specialty – seal. Just too gamey to go well with all that fish, he said. Also the cooking needs to be exact, too rare or overdone and it’s inedible, he explains.

Norway’s seafood is legendary, but like most things in this most expensive of cities, it comes at a price. We paid 526 kroner (about 65 euro) a head at Lofotstua.

A couple of day’s earlier, dinner at Lofoten, a more upmarket fish restaurant on the fashionable Akerbrygge quayside dinner came to around 680 kroner (85 euro) for a fixed menu with the cheapest available white wine. Lofoten also takes its inspiration from the islands, but goes in for more elaborate preparations. That menu featured confit of arctic char drizzled with hazelnut oil, a saffron-tinted soup with scallops, grilled fillet of Finnish pike-perch and white chocolate tart with strawberry sorbet.

Ironically, given the price, the bar at this modern, glass fronted place overlooking the harbour is named after the novelist Knut Hamsun who’s best known book “Hunger” tells the tale of a starving writer wandering the streets of the city.

Lofotstua, Kirkeveien, 40, Oslo. Tel. +47-22 46 93 96.
Lofoten, Stranden, 75, Oslo. Tel. +47-22 83 68 66.

Brive-le-Gaillarde: the good life deep in rural France

2007-04-15T11:55:00.000+02:00

Finally I get to taste a nun's fart.
This is not the result of some sort of bizarre sound of music fixation, but an encounter with an elusive French sweetmeat, pets de nonne _ squashball-sized spheres of choux pastry designed to melt in the mouth with an explosion of airy sweetness.
I'd long heard about this mystical dessert, but Chez Francis in the rustic town of Brive-le-Gaillarde was the first restaurant I'd found that served them up -- accompanied by a glass of vin paille _ a sweet wine given its apricot hues and sugary intensity by leaving the grapes to dry for months on beds of straw.

Francis is just about the perfect small town bistro, on the edge of the perfect French small town that itself is surrounded by a patch of rolling pasture land _ the Correze, a green and rugged land that produces legendary veal, formidable rugby players and archetypal Frenchmen as Georges Brassans and Jacques Chirac.
Brive is centered on the 12th-century St-Martins church, a towering pile of gothic and Romanesque that forms a hub for the web of narrow lanes forming the old town. Solid bourgeois facades of powder gray stone contain little stores selling jars of rillettes and fois gras, homemade chocolate, herby liquors or home-crafted, walnut handled pocket knifes.

The rural lifestyle of the region is captured in "La terre qui demeure" and other novels by local writer Claude Michelet.
We hit town on a sweltering July weekend. Built in a depression among the grassy hills, Brive traps the sunshine and thermometers were souring towards 40C. Fortunately we found refuge at Chez Francis just as a thunderstorm rolled down the Avenue de Paris battering shutters, bending plane trees and sending torrents cascading down the mansarded slate roofs.
Francis is a welcoming place, cool and cozy with great local food, arty bric-a-brac decor, a bunch of literary connections and bubbly blond hostess keen to chat about the famous Parisians who make this a de riguer dining spot when attending the Brive book fair and cover the walls in gushing graffiti to mark their appreciation.
The chef himself escaped from the capital 20 years ago to open the bistrot and bring a touch of big city sophistication to a menu thoroughly rooted in regional tradition.
He serves crispy flat bread and the first glass of vin paille while we check the menu.
There's a starter selection which turns out to be a fabulous little tour around the midi and beyond: a bloc of buttery fois gras, red-pepper-rich gaspacho with forcaccia, a chartrelle salad, a mi-cuit of salmon, aubergine tempura and barbagiuan _ the stuffed ravioli of Monaco (courtesy of the sous-chef's recent stage on the Cote d'Azur).
Right back to the Correzian heart of things for the main course _ veau de lait with gros frittes and giroles. Touch-tender baby veal with fat, salty chips and sauteed wild mushrooms - gorgeous. Then a slice of fourme de Valciviene _ a Stilton-like blue cheese _ produced up the road. All this accompanied by a happy red wine from the nearby Perigord _ Domaine de la Valette.
To end up along come those ecclesiastical trumps to round of a classic meal.
They are kid friendly too, producing a fine menu d'enfant featuring a big bowl of chilled gaspacho, a steak-frite of junior size but grown up quality and cherry clafotis.
Brive's cooks don't have to look far for their ingredients. The town has two great food markets.
Overlooked by the cheap and cheerful, Hotel Chapon Fin, the little open air farmers' market in the Place de Lattre de Tassigny has a great selection of fruit and veg - peaches, pears, golden Limousin apples, fresh walnuts and wild mushrooms but is just an aperitif to the vast covered halls of the Marche Georges Brassens _ once immortalized by the acerbic songwriter.
Row upon row of stalls groaning under strings of garlic, gleaming salad greens, bunches of sunflowers, jars of honey, pungent rocamadour goats cheese, crates of apricot and melon. Venture a little deeper into the maze of goodies and there cages of ducklings rabbits and pigeons, jars of foie gras and slabs of confit de canard.
Strangely enough for a town hundreds of kilometres from the sea, there's a lighthouse overlooking the market bustle, actually it's a water tower disguised as a lighthouse for reasons nobody was able to explain.
No sea, but when the sun really begins to bake, the people of Brive can head out to the Lac de Causse, just 10 kilometers away which boasts freshwater beaches for swimming and watersports.
The hills around Brive are dotted with picturesque stone villages like Turenne, Curemonte and Saint-Robert which are members of the exclusive "plus beaux villages de France" association.
Built on a ridge Curemont has not less than three castles and a 12th century church; Turenne, clustered on a hillside beneath the ruins of its fortress was an independent state until Louis XV brought in into the French kingdom in 1738; the stone manor houses of Saint-Robert were built around a Bendictine monestry.
Collonges-la-Rouge stands out thanks to the vivid red stone used to build it in the Middle Ages. Tracing its history back to the 8th century, Collonges cobbled streets have been largely untouched since a 19th century outbreak of phylloxera devastated its thriving vinyards and forced almost half the population to emigrate. The gothic church of Saint-Pierre has an ornately carved doorway arch, there are renaiseance noble houses, an ancient covered market and a museum housed in a 16th century home decorated with a carving of a mysterious mermaid.
In days gone by Collonges lived on sales of geese and walnuts, now on summer days it's a bit overwhelmed by tourists winding round the alleys and filling the cafe terraces and there's a fair ammount of tacky souveniers for sale among the bottles of nut licqour and foie gras on offer in the village's low-walled boutiques. It can be bit of a relief to head down the hillside back to Brive's unpretentious charms.
Correze's eastern neighbour is the is the département of Dordogne, or Dordogneshire, as it's become known for the hundreds of British immigrants who have flocked there attracted by the landscape of riverside villages and storybook castles as well as the renowned cuisine.
If you want a castle of your own without paying a king's ransom the Château de la Fleunie, in Condat-sur-Vézère, has rooms starting from €65 in a Templers' fortress built between the 12th and 15th centuries. Here you can live out your lord-of-the-manor fantasy surrounded by over 100 hectares of meadow and parkland, with its own flock of deer. The best rooms are in the four massive turrets with walls built to withstand a siege, oak-beamed ceillings and antique furniture drapped with flowered tapestries. For all its fairy tale ambiance, the hotel has all mod cons. There's a gym in the dungeons, saunas and bar beside the pool were you can sip cocktails overlooking the Vézère valley. Not surprising the food's great too.

Wiesbaden _ Wine on the Rhine with musical cheese

2007-04-15T11:36:00.000+02:00

You can't help but admire a city that boasts the world's largest cuckoo clock as one of its major tourist attractions.
This is Wiesbaden, where in 1946 when the old Rhineland spa town was rebuilding itself after allied bombing, a certain Emil Kronberger decided to decorate a whole facade of his corner souvenir shop with this monument to kitsch, complete with outsized oak leaves, giant antlers and frescoes of slaughtered game.
The store is self is filled with a bric-a-brac of enamel Christmas decorations, smaller cuckoo clocks and baleful military nutcrackers representing mustachioed guardsmen in splendid Napoleonic uniforms.

Wiesbaden is the capital of Hesse. It sits on the north bank of the Rhine, just across the river from Mainz and downstream of the Main from Frankfurt. Although once the site of a Roman fort, it is essentially a 19th century city, build up in the glory days when Europe's great and good flocked here to take the waters and play the fashionable gaming tables.

The social heart of the city is the Kurhaus, a massive stone building in the ostentatious neoclassical style favored by Kaiser Wilhelm II which houses the casino which inspired Dostoyevski's short novel "The Gambler." The interior displays a lighter touch, with light streaming in from domed central foyer and great stain-glassed arches displaying the imperial black eagle and the three gold lilies' of the city's coat of arms.
Twin rows of white washed colonnades run out on either side of "bowling green" lawns in front of the Kurhaus. One is now filled with one-armed-bandits and bland meeting rooms, the other houses chic shops and backs on to the Hessisches Staatstheater, another Wilhelmine pile which rivals the Kurhaus for fin-de-siecle grandeur.

The chic shoppers of the Kolonnaden are captured in another literary great _ Thomas Mann's "Confessions of Felix Krull."
Two of the city's finest restaurants face each other across the bowling green. The Ente in the fancy Nassauer Hof hotel flaunts a Michelin star and Kafler's niched in a wing of the Kurhaus is a cheerful bistro in dark wood and leather with walls lined with a thousand black-and-white photos of passing stars.
All this pomp is separated from the old town by the elegant Wilhelmstrasse, lined with designer boutiques and jewelers, it's known locally as the "rue." The Altstadt is bit of a misnomer _ although the narrow streets may follow a jumbled medieval plan, most of the houses are of 19th-century vintage. The oldest building in the city is the 17th century Altes Rathaus, but even that was partly rebuild in 1829.

Other points of interest are the towering red brick Marktkirche build over the arches of the underground market, the sprawling new Rathaus and the sober Stadtschloss, one a royal abode, now home to the Hessian parliament.
For foodhounds, the old town's main interest is in the scattering of wienstubbe tucked away in the allies. Wiesbaden is most definitely a wine, rather than a beer town. The Rieslings grown on the slopes of the Rheingau overlooking the river are reputed to be among the best in the world. The crisp fresh wines are quaffed from elegant brown-stemmed goblets.
Weinhaus Koegler in Grabenstrasse, is one of the best. Homely wooden benches, linen napkins, sepia prints of venerable burghers looking down from the walls. It was the definition of gemuetliche.
Our bustling blonde hostess produced a couple of bottles of "dusty dry" Hochheimer Reichesthal Riesling 2005, and we set out to take on a couple of Hessian starters. First came Handkaese-mit-musick _ little blocs of hard young cheese soused in vinegar for a week in little Rhenish pots and spread on cumin-flavored bread with a sprinkling of raw, white onion. Why mit musick? Because it's supposed to make you fart.
This was followed by spundekaese, a paprika-favoured cream cheese delicious on warm from the oven flat brown bread.
Main causes were robustly typical. Thick steaks with roast potatoes, ribs with sauerkraut, schnitzel. I took leberknoddle - liver dumplings plump and moist served on a bed of perfectly prepared kraut.
To follow up, we were served chocolates with a nectar _ Riesling eiswein Bodenheimer Leidlecke _ made from grapes left on the vine until the frosts arrive to produce a sultana sweet dessert wine. Naturally, that had to be followed by a chilled glass of schnapps _ a marc from the same Riesling grapes.
In need of some purification after all that. Wiesbaden's other magic liquid is on hand, the hot, mineral-rich waters that bubble up from the ground below are what made the city what it is. You can take a range of cures at the Kaiser-Friedrich-Theme - built in 1913 and recently restored to their romano-oriental glory. Saunas, steambaths, massages, its open from 10 to 10, longer on Saturdays. Prudish Anglo-Saxons beware, the management warns that "nude bathing is preferred."
For those in a rush or afraid to bare all, you can get a taste of the waters in the Kochbrunnen, a near scalding spring open to all just of the Taunusstrasse, which is another chic avenue where the heavy gothic and classical revival architecture so prevalent elsewhere in the city is enlivened by a selections of more delicate jugendstil facades.
Turn into Roederstrasse and there's Bobbeschaenkelche, reputedly the town's oldest restaurant and another that oozes old Rhineland charm. Snug alcoves, upholstered benches, wood paneling and faded etchings of Hessian infantry. This time we were trying the local reds made with spaetsburgunder grapes _ known as pinot noir in their native Burgundy from where they were supposedly brought to the banks of the Rhine by Cistercian monks 800 years ago.
To be honest I find those northern reds a tad on the light side for my tastes, but they went down well enough with another plate of spundekaese - perked up with onion and more pepper this time, but unfortunately without the fresh-baked bread. The main event was tafelspitz - a thick slab of boiled beef served with an unctuous, cold, green herb sauce _ a Frankfurter specialty _ and boiled, parsley sprinkled spuds.
Other local specials included mustardy meatballs, steak tartare and the usual array of steaks and schnitzels.
The place is also renowned for having Kulmbacher bier _ a legendary Bavarian brew _ on tap. And of course an array of local schnaps was brought out to finish off - spirits of pear and raspberry and a smooth, copper hued distillation of the ubiquitous Riesling.

Wiesbaden's charm is not all olde worlde or belle époque. The city promotes itself as a premier shopping center from the department stores of the Kirchgasse to the frontline vitrines around the Wilhelmstrasse and the funky boutiques in the Altstadt.
Cafe Maldaner is the place to go for kafe und kuchen beneath the chandeliers and among furriered old ladies taking on seemingly invincible wedges of cheese cake or chocolate gâteaux with their whipped cream topped coffees.
The younger crowd hangs out in the Havana Cafe across from city hall to sip on mojitos or foaming glasses of Radeberger beer from Dresden.
I stayed in the Hotel Oranien, an elegant four star dating from the 1870's on the edge of the old town with doubles from 104 euros including a fine buffet breakfast. My room was spacious, the bathroom was stocked with Bulgari toiletries and there is a cozy bar for night caps.

Severed socks and meals with eels; the perils of dining with Danes

2006-07-10T16:07:00.000+02:00

There comes a point late into a Danish wedding party when word goes round that it's time to cut the end off the groom's sock.
Now, with Gloria Gaynor pumping away in the background and several glasses of øl already dispatched, that sounds like the sort of drunken idea that is just one misheard consonant away from putting a serious dampener on the wedding night.
The Danes, however seemed well prepared. The hapless chap was duly yanked off his feet, relieved of his patent leather shoes before a flash of scissors leaves five bare toes poking out from his truncated hose.
"It's to make him unattractive to other women," explains the suitablely beautiful blond bride. "In the old days, women wouldn't look at man with a hole in his socks."
So logical enough then.
With hopes of sowing wild oats thus ruled out, the groom can only be grateful for that other local tradition which states that whenever the bride nips out to powder her nose, all the females in the room must rush over to give him a kiss.
Fortunately Scandinavian equality ensures that the chaps all get to snog the bride each time the sockless one pops out for a Carlsberg-induced pee.

These particular Nordic nuptials could hardly have had a more spectacular setting. Middelgrundsfortet is one of three sea fort builts in the Øresund strait between Copenhagen and the Swedish coast toward the end of the 19th century, persumably to head off any threat of attack by maurading Swedes.
On a long midsummer's evening, bathed in gentle sunlight the view from here sweeps round from the Swedish shore past the delicate 8 kilometre curve of the Øresund bridge which now connects the two countries, to the church spires that punctuate Copenhagen's skyline.
Middelgrundsfortet is the world's largest artificial island but a stroll round its grassy perimeter takes only about five minutes.
Although some (disarmed) anti-aircraft missiles are still on show to remind visitors that this was a military base up to the 1980s, the island is now a popular day-trip or weekend destination for Copenhagers. Within the labyrinth of bunkers built into it is one of the city's strangest hotels.
Guests reach their rooms along long echoing underground corridors. It's all a bit Alcatraz, but beyond the heavy iron doors, the rooms are spacious, decorated with nautical charts and have the air of an seacaptain's cabin. Ours had a splendid view over the sound and Copenhagen in the distance. The island has small beach for those brave enough to face the chill, and a fine terrace along the quay side with cafes and a restaurant. Our wedding feast was held in a long candlelit mess room, all very hygge (cozy - a suprisingly important concept in this land of minimalist design). The menu reflected the long-standing French influence over the way Danes treat their abundant northern fisheries and renowned agricultural produce.
Turbot and langoustine were moulded into a terrine with typical Nordic herbs chervil and dill, this was followed with veal stuffed with breast of guinea fowl and foie gras, flavoured with truffle oil. Then Gateau Marcel - a favourite Danish chocolate cake - served with a rum and white chocolate mouse, and carrot and orange sorbet.
Danish food is not always so fancy.
It's still possible to get red polser hot dogs from stalls around the city, or pick up soused herring and smoke eels from the harbour side in the pretty fishing harbour of Dragør.
Visiting a few years back a Danish friend answered my request for typical local food by taking us to a basement restaurant just off the Strøget _ the shopping street that runs through the heart of the city. I tried the hakkebøf med kartofler, bløde løg og spejlæg _ which is basically a beefburger with potatoes, onions and fried egg.
Next night we were down in one of the old taverns of Nyhavn, once an infamous seafarers haunt, now surely one of Europe's most beautiful city streets, a harbour inlet filled with old boats and lined on each side by candy-coloured merchants' houses.

This time, my friend suggested I try biksemad. Which turned out to be basically minced beef with potatoes, onions and fried egg. When I pointed out that this seemed to be somewhat similar to last night's delicacy, Jan was amazed. "No, no, this is completely different, the meat here isn't formed into a burger, AND this has slices of beetroot!"
I forgave him, largely because he also took me on a bar crawl that took in Charlie's, a crowded little dive on the Pilestræde where dedicated drinkers down wonderful local ale's like Fuglsang and Hancock with a slighly furtive air, as if the Carlsberg/Tuborg beer police might somehow catch the breaking the big brewery's stranglehold.
He also led me to trendy place nearby where a beautiful, if slightly inebriated, blond, started out of the blue to nibble on my neck. Jan dragged me away. "I'm really sorry," he said, before I could protest. "That happens all the time up here."
Danes do like to have fun. During the long summer nights the cafe terraces and historic sailors' pubs that line Nyhavn are jammed with revellers and next morning, those who overdid it with the øl and aquavit can be found sprawled on the cobbles. At the other end of the Strøget _ Europe's longest pedestrian street _ is the Tivoli amusement park a sprawling collection of scary rides, open air restaurants and lantern-lit gardens which has captivated kids and their parents since the days of Hans Christian Andersen.
Of course, Copenhagen is also a capital of cool, renowned for its stark design of B&O stereos, Bodum teapots and the functional furniture of Arne Jacobsen. To be surrounded by some of this white-on-white modernism, try The Square hotel, just down the street from Tivoli on Rådhuspladsen. It offers a bargain "therapy for couples" stay for just 1,000 kroner that includes a free bottle of champagne and a Danish pastry (here they call it Wienerbrod) laden buffet breakfast from the top floor restaurant overlooking town hall square.
The Langelinie Pavillonen down by the quay near the Little Mermaid is a chance to eat among some of that Danish design. A 1950's glass square offering great views across the harbour and filled with Jacobsen's "ant" chairs and Poul Henningsen's artichoke lamps, this place was so cool that Wallpaper magazine chose to have its Copenhagen reception there. The food is a fine Franco-Danish combination and there are dance halls, lounges, sun terraces for chillin'. However, it's best to call ahead, (+45 33 12 12 14) because the place is often booked up for parties or corporate functions.
Another sophisticated eatery is the unlikely named Cafe Ketchup in the heart of downtown. This has a cool cafe at street level and a grown-up restaurant in the basement where prime local ingredients are given a gourmet makeover into the likes of baked cod served with pan fried and smoked roe and a warm salad of chanterelles, baby spinach and baked balsamic beetroot or grilled beef tenderloin on potato/celery purè flavoured with truffle, sautéed mushrooms and cranberries.
There's a fabulous wine list, and if you're in a group ask for your own room under the stairs. All this does not come cheap, but it's great for a blow out and they've recently opened a second restaurant in the Tivoli.
Ketchup proudly announces the North Sea or Baltic origin of its fish. That's not always the case.
The Mühlhausen Brasserie is a pleasant enough place on HC Andersens Boulevard with an interesting selection of modern art work and a reputation for grilled lobster, but when we asked the waitress where it was from _ fully expecting her to say it was plucked from the Kattegat fresh that morning _ she said "Egypt." Oh well, it was tasty enough, among the eclectic variety of vegetables served with it was a hummus-like chickpea puree, perhaps in homage to the Middle Eastern origins of the crustaceans. We started with sea scallop carpaccio with truffle oil, but didn't like to ask were they were from. The fruity Albarino wine was definitely from Galicia.
The long June days can transform Andersen's city from a drab, winter duckling into glittering summer swan overlooked by vast skies of forget-me-not blue where the sun rises at 4 a.m. and slips away just before midnight after longest, lingering dusk.
It makes Copenhagen a great town for walking in. Much of centre is traffic free, although you do have to watch out for the powerful looking women on big black bikes who seem to thunder by from all directions.
The Strøget is the main axis running through the old town getting more upmarket the closer you get to the Kongens Nytorv the great square with its temples of belle époque class - the Hotel d'Angleterre, royal theatre and the Magasin du Nord _ this being Copenhagen's chicest department store, with a basement foodhall which is a great place to pick up Danish delicacies from Albani beers to danablu cheese.
The Royal Copenhagen Porcelain Manufactory, Bodum homeware and the Illums Bolighus design shop are also to be found along Strøget. The street, which actually changes its official name several times along its length, cuts though several elegant squares including Amagertorv, where the Cafe Europa provides a strategic spot from where to watch the world go.
Wander off the main drag and Copenhagen is full of intriguing backstreets lined with little shops selling antiques, perfumed candles, second-hand books. The wonderful charts found in fishmongers around the world with drawings showing fish species in a dozen languages are made in Denmark and can be picked up in bookstores here. The dead trendy make-it-yourself IQL lamps are sold in the Bald & Bang Shop in Rømersgade.
There are cobbled streets lined with the high facades of bourgeois homes painted in rainbow shades, courtyards where the dappled sunlight pics out half timbered houses in vivid red or shocking orange.
Rosenborg Slot is a fairytale castle in peaceful parkland. Built in the early 17th century by it was once the home of the royal family and still contains the Danish crown jewels. A tour through it is a great introduction to the country's history. Rose Tremain's novel "Music and Silence" set in the renaissance court of King Christian IV would make the perfect accompaniment to a visit.
Today the royal residence is down the road in the Ameliaborg castle where guards in bearskins and sombre blue coats protect the neoclassical castle and steadfastly refuse to smile despite the best efforts of camera-snapping Japanese tourists.
Further afield is the Opera house which opened in 2005 to the complaints of traditionalists objecting to its great square roof jutting out across the harbour towards the royal palace and the Little Mermaid. Soon to join it is an ultramodern ballet centre next to Nyhavn. Heading the other way down the waterfront is the "black diamond," a futuristic glass library.
The Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, just next to the Tivoli, contains the city's best art collection displayed in airy galleries, amid tropical plants. It has Egyptian mummies, northern Europe's best collection of Greek and Roman art, Rodins, Degas' and Gauguins, plus the airy landscapes of home-grown painters from Denmark's 'golden age" in the early 19th century.
Better known Danish art works are served for lunch. Smørrebrød is the country's most renowned gastronomic invention and the words open sandwich just doesn't do it justice. A spread of these delicate little arrangements of cheese or meat or fish matched up with slices of rye or white bread is designed to combine colours, textures and flavours in a feast for the eyes as well as the palate.
Ida Davidsen is Copenhagen's most famous purveyor of smørrebrød. Her family has been serving their complex snacks to Copenhagen for three generations and her little restaurant on Store Kongensgade is often besieged with customers keen to try her latest innovations which she tends to name after various great Danes.
Footballer Michael Laudrup is honoured with a concoction of roast pork, tomato and beetroot, while jazzman Victor Borge gives his name to layers of raw salmon, lumpfish caviar, Greenland shrimps and crayfish tails served with lime and dill mayonnaise.
The choice can seem baffling.
At a family lunch we served Gravlaks med raevesauce _ marinated salmon with mustard sauce; dyrlaegens natmat _ the vet's midnight snack featuring salt meat and liver paste served with raw onion rings; roget aal og roraeg _ smoked eel with scrambled egg; rejesalat _ prawn salad; and one whose name escaped me that involved duck with red salad.
Normally these are despatched with beer and ice-cold aquavit, but our hosts were among those many Danish francophiles and served a wonderful sancerre that matched a treat. Skal!
Practical
We flew to Copenhagen with SAS -- fro 168 euro return inc. taxes.
Bed and breakfast at The Square was 1,000 DKK (about 135 euro) with a bottle of champers thrown in under the Couple Therapy plan.
A night in the.Middelgrundsforte was also 1,000 DKK inc. breakfast.
Dinner:
Main course at Cafe Ketchup around 280 DKK
At Langelinie Pavillonen around 225 DKK
At Mühlhausen Brasserie around 175 DKK
Ida Davidsens smørrebrød also available to takeaway run from 50 DKK to 150 DKK.

Reading
Rose Tremain's novel "Music and Silence" is set in the renaissance court of King Christian IV.
Karen Blixen's "Winter Tales" are good for Nordic atmospherics.
Jens Christian Grøndahl's "Silence in October" is a tale of angst ridden love armong the arty set in modern Copenhagen.

On the Road in Britain

2006-06-06T00:17:00.000+02:00

From Dim Sum to Bakewell tart, a bright future for England's eating

A road trip around Britain. Six cities in six days. 2,000 kilometres; four great old pubs; two-award winning Asian restaurants; fish-and-chips in Brighton; seaweed, served soggy with faggots on a wild Welsh cliff-top, or fried crisp with prawn and sesame in the heart of Manchester's Chinatown. The original Bakewell tart and possibly the best ice-cream on the planet.
England is always a new experience for me. When I left it, Margaret Thatcher was prime minister, pub food was scampi in the basket and the choice of wine was likely to be was Blue Nun or pink Mateus. Now reinvigorated northern cities have arisen out of decades of industrial blight. Chic couples sip Chardonnay and nibble dim sum among boutiques built into impeccably restored Victorian warehouses; coffee comes in a baffling variety from ristretto to double hazelnut latte; and Lithuanian sales girls serve butternut squash with chili and roasted pumpkin seeds as an alternative to the all-day, full English at motorway service stations.
Some things never change though, when we chugged into Dover a near gale howled though the Channel, horizontal rain pound the White Cliffs and temperatures were more February than May.
The downpour chased us across the salt march of Romney, past the medieval charms of Rye and continued as we took succour from a shoulder of lamb slow roasted with mint and cranberry in the genteel back room restaurant of the Denbigh pub in Bexhill-on-Sea, a city with the highest proportion of retirees in the UK.
We hit our first overnight stop as a hundreds of brave Mini enthusiasts sought to protect their Union Jack draped, Italian Job-themed vehicles from the tempest at the end of a London to Brighton rally.
Shivering for shelter on Brighton's one surviving pier, we watched the waves batter the burnt out skeleton of its sister down the coast. There's candy floss and boxes of fudge, Brighton rock in three dozen glossy hues. The helter-skelter is closed by the inclement weather, but more modern contraptions swing and jolt screaming fair-goers up and over the raging sea.
When we finally get some respite from the deluge it's to take a quick buzz through the Lanes _ the old fishing village at the heart of the city _ now filled with fashionable stores and trendy fusion food halls. The Hindu fantasy of the Royal Pavilion, Prince George's Regency pleasure dome is a must-see attraction, despite the current ugly scaffolding. Eschewing the exotic eateries down Western Road, we march on to Bankers, which competes with Bardsleys up by the station for the title of purveyor of Brighton's finest fish and chips.
Like so many of these bastions of traditional British grub, the owners of this chippy are actually Cypriot, their origins revealed by the Mediterranean seascape hung over the takeaway counter. Tucked away in the non-smokers' dining room the murals are all Brighton belle époque, Edwardian ladies with parasols parading down the prom. The menu provides all the necessary huss, haddock, cod, skate and plaice. Batter is suitably crisp, the fish in shark-sized portions is firm and fleshy fresh, the chips thick cut and soft in the British taste - none of that fancy, double-French-fried crunch here. A break with tradition takes us away from tea to a bottle of the house white, an acidic vin du pays that left me thinking that a nice cup of cha might have been a better deal after all.
Temporary sunshine brightend a walk back along the seafront, past the Grand Hotel where the IRA tried to blow up Thatcher's government in 1984. We loose some money to the pier's one-armed bandits, then stop for espresso and amaretto cheesecake in the Terrace Bar and Grill, a modern, cafe with comfy leather sofas and a circular glass front offering a front row seat for of all the black clouds scudding in from the West.
The delights of an old-fashioned B&B ... in the Lanes Hotel overlooking the sea, we get Weetabix followed by bacon and eggs freshly cooked to order (crispy and sunny side up), sausage, beans and grilled tomato, a big pot of good strong tea, lashings of toast with marmalade and Marmite for those inclined. All served with a smile by our sweat Continental waitress. A round 100 pounds for a room for four.
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We set off for out next stop over the soft slopes of the South Downs, skirt London and strike out west getting a break from the rain as the Seven suspension bridge grants us a spectacular watery vista over the great estuary leading into the dark, Celtic green hills of Wales.
Swansea's town centre was ruined by three days of Luftwaffe bombing in 1941. The post-war reconstruction was not successful, leaving a soulless heart of shabby shopping malls and concrete precincts. More recent efforts have given it a new maritime quarter complete with marina, the National Waterfront museum and some swank new hotels and bars. But, at least on this chill spring evening, it was lifeless.
Instead the heart of the city was beating down Wind Street which is home to back-to-back bars and restaurants. Many are brash modern places aimed at the under-20s, but tucked in among them is the No Sign Bar, a legendary literary hangout where the Welsh bard Dylan Thomas began his life of booze that would end with death at 39 after a heavy night in the White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village. Renamed the Wine Vaults in Thomas' story "The Followers," this old place oozes atmosphere, particularly in the front section around the bar. You half expect to see blind Capt. Cat from Thomas' "Under Milk Wood" sipping on a pint of Brains SA served by the hand of Mrs. Ogmore-Pritchard. Food wise it's moved on a bit from Thomas' times and now serves serviceable tapas to compete with the renowned Spanish bodega, La Braseria, a reported favourite of Catherine Zeta-Jones, just down the road. We were disappointed that they'd run out of Welsh cawl - a local lamb stew - and the salmon fish cakes. However, the salmon steak with honey and mustard glaze on butter bean and rocket mash was excellent. The leak and pork sausages with Celtic champ mash were copiously tasty and the bar was loyal to its old wine merchant's link by serving some fine white Rioja. Iechyd da !(as they say around here). Dinner for four: 50 pounds.
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Tucked away behind banks and high street fashion stores is Swansea's covered market, an idiosyncratic slice of local colour that has survived the blitzing of its original home the competition from all the Tescos and Asdas. It's a big rambling place with stalls selling everything from knitwear and love spoons to vacuum cleaner attachments and second-hand Barbara Cartland paperbacks. It is the food vendors that steal the show though. Butchers with spring lamb and black beef, trays of faggots and sliced black pudding; cheese merchants displaying crumbly white Caerphilly, or ale-and-mustard flavoured Y Fenni; bakers flipping pancakes and trading savoury patties, raisin-rich Welsh cakes, but no bara brith - it seems this fruit-rich traditional loaf is too expensive to make!
The heart of the market is the seafood stands where fishwives tout their pungent pots of cockles and muscles from the nearby Gower shores, chewy whelks, lobster tails and crabs claws. Among all the shellfish are pots of slimy laverbread seaweed _ traditionally rolled in oatmeal then fried with bacon and cockles for breakfast! With the weather looking promising, we stock up with provisions for a picnic and head out for the wonders of the Gower Peninsula.
This jagged oblong jutting out into the Bristol Channel is a place of wonder from childhood holidays 30 years ago. The first part of Britain to be declared an area of outstanding natural beauty is reached by the coast road that sweeps round around the vast tidal curve of Swansea's Bay, surely one of Britain's best urban beaches. The Gower's roads are mostly narrow, shady lanes twisting through the valleys and offering tantalising glimpses of the forget-me-not blue sea. On Pennard Common, cars park in a line just back from the sheer cliffs with the vague line of Devon's coast on the horizon.
Although the sun is shining we keep the doors shut against the biting wind and eat our Welsh goodies from the market. Faggots - compact meat balls made with pork, liver and sage; Swansea pies of soft pastry filled with sloppy mince and onion; laverbread that tastes of spinach boiled in sea water; the little flat scones known as Welsh cakes. Across the cliff tops is a bracing mile-long walk to Three Cliffs Bay, recently voted one of the top five views in Britain, a perfect beach of honey-toned sand surrounded by rocky outcrops and bounded by a little river sneaking through to the sea. Beyond loom gorse-covered hills speckled with white cottages.
Next up is Rhossili, a truly breathtaking sight, where the grassy hills plunge down from almost 200 meters to a three-mile arc of sand battered by rollers which make the beach a favourite with surfers. At the southern end is the mysterious Worm's Head rock poking out into the sea and a target for adventurous ramblers at low tide. There's a hotel, pub and National Trust shop. And, at the head of the path running down to the beach, a fine tea room offering great views and a wicked Victoria sponge. A bigger variety of pubs and restaurants can be found in the picturesque nearby fishing village of Port Enyon.
Back towards Swansea, the bay-side resort of Mumbles was a bit short on the promised Victorian charm. Looking for a place for dinner, the choice seemed to be string of unappealing Asian restaurants and some sad looking pubs. We ended up in Verdi's, a cafe founded by a family from South Wales' large Italian community. A modern glass place on the harbour side, it has strange licensing arrangements that mean you can only drink wine with a meal, last orders are at 9 pm and there's a complex, semi-self service arrangement for getting the meal. The pizza and pasta were only average. Dinner 60 pounds for four. Verdi's also has an ice-cream rivalry with Joe's another Italian place along the seafront. Both have a penchant for some exotic flavours but neither Joe's Turkish delight, or Verdi's apple crumble flavour really convinced.
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Back to England through the pasture and forest lands along the Monmouthshire marches, then cut through the Midland sprawl to Coventry. Another city centre destroyed in the Second World War, but Coventry seems have done better in modernising its post-war reconstruction. An inner ring road leaves the compact city centre largely car free. There's a succession of shopping centres linked by broad pedestrian streets with fountains and carts selling baked potatoes and pork roast. It's mostly 1950's brick work containing all the familiar high street acronyms BHS M&S, C&A, etc., but somehow it seems to work. There's a proud statue of Lady Godiva riding bare back and a soaring chrome archway leading to the new transport museum which recalls the city's car-making past.
Ruins of an old priory have been incorporated into a garden and square with lined with trendy new bars like Dogma, Prague and Flamingo.
Enough half-timbered or stone buildings survived the Nazi fire bombs to give a taste of the old medieval town. And then of course there is the Cathedral. The vast, vaulted modernist building was a symbol of Britain's recovery from the war. It is very much a work of its time, and not to everybody's taste, but it forms an undoubtedly impressive whole with the gothic ruins of the 14th century old church alongside. The vast stain-glassed windows flood the nave with blue light, especially when viewed from the altar looking down to the angel-etched west screen. Britain's top artists of the day were recruited to decorate leaving Graham Sutherland's giant tapestry of Christ, Jacob Epstein's statue of St. Michael vanquishing the Devil and the cross made from medieval nails collected from the old ruins which has become the city's peace symbol.
The Polish and Ghanian produce stalls in the market show the extent of Coventry's multicultural mix, but the city's south Asian community has left a more enduring mark on the city's cuisine and the Turmeric Gold restaurant has won a host of local awards as the best Indian eatery. Housed in a 400-year-old house in medieval Spon Street, the interior is a disconcerting mixture of olde English inn and maharajah's boudoir. The service was friendly and attentive handing out hot towels and welcoming glasses of mango lassi. The rest of the meal wasn't really up to the mark though, like a seventies throw back, prawn tikka marsala featured a few of the poor creatures drowned in a vivid red, cloyingly rich sauce, the gold shashlik special was a rather bland kebab. The best bit was the side vegetables - lemony chick peas, okra with mango power. With a couple of Cobra beers the dinner for four was 82 pounds.
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Manchester, elevated as post-industrial capital of the North in the decade since the city centre was devastated by an IRA bomb is now little less mad, a lot more cool and looking seriously laid back on the sunny, traffic-free streets around St. Ann's Square, where well-heeled shoppers slip from designer boutique to pavement cave. The in-crowd head to the Lotus a blend of Chinese tea house with wine bar that offers cuttlefish cake with lime leaves and ostrich in lemongrass sauce for those seeking some adventurous mid-shop refuelling.
Red brick temples to the Victorian workshop of the world have been stripped of soot and now gleam with civic pride alongside the towering monuments of new steel and glass.
Among glittering new urban landscape of Exchange Square, between the world's biggest Marks and Spencer's and the trendy new Triangle shopping centre is a giant wheel to rival the London Eye. From the summit you can see the Pennine hills, Old Trafford stadium and the white glass slab of the Beetham Tower, freshly declared Britain's tallest building outside London. Down below, the Millennium quarter has relocated half-timbered pubs, the Old Wellington and Sinclair's Oyster Bar next to the 14th Cathedral in the medieval heart of the city. Round the corner is the bobo Northern Quarter with off beat stores and pop art cafes. There's a thriving gay scene round Canal street, a vibrant China Town, neon-lit Indian eating on Rusholme's "curry mile", canal-side nightlife around Castlefields and Deansgate locks. All set to a local soundtrack that ranges from the Halle Orchestra to Joy Division, the Smiths, Oasis, the Buzzcocks ....
Manchester has world class museums featuring pre-Raphaelite painting in the Manchester Art Gallery, trains and planes in the Museum of Science and Industry and the ultramodern celebration of city life, Urbis. The Manchester Museum down in the university houses an eclectic mix of T-Rex skeletons, live tree frogs and Egyptian mummies, while The Lowery arts centre is dedicated to the matchstick men of the city's favourite painter.
The Briton's Protection has been serving ale to Mancunians for 200 years, its name apparently linked to Peterloo Massacre of 1819 which happened up the road. Local lore has it that the landlord of the time favoured the Lancashire militia rather than the radical reformers who fell victim that day. The massacre is portrayed on tile panels that line the labyrinth interior beyond the standing-room only front bar. It's popular with Halle musicians from the next-door Bridgewater Hall who pop in for pint or two of Robinson's beer brewed in nearby Stockport.
A couple of other 19th century pubs in the city centre Mr. Thomas Chop House and Sam's Chop House have become renowned bastions of traditional English food, but the intricacies of English licensing laws made it difficult to dine with kids, so we headed down to Chinatown.
Yang Sing on Princess Street has long been touted as the best Cantonese restaurant in Europe, but its reputation has recently taken a battering with some aggressive reviews. It's newly redecorated, and the refined interior aims to create the atmosphere of 1930s Shanghai. A small army of waiters and waitresses in red and black buzz among the packed tables. Chief chef Harry Yeung is a master from Guangzhou who's been giving Mancs a taste of his local cuisine for 30 years. The menu is vast and wonderfully exotic, featuring the likes of suckling pig with jelly fish, and steamed chicken feet. Tempting to be sure, but the kids were demanding something more familiar, who we order a set menu for three _ which was 66 pounds and more than enough for four.
Starting with spring roll and deep fried shrimp dumpling, then great dim sum, spare ribs in thick, smoky, nutty sauce, sesame and prawn toast on crispy fried seaweed, chicken and sweetcorn soup. All of this was wonderful, familiar Chinese restaurant standards taken to a whole new level of sophistication, perfectly accompanied by the fruity Argentine Torontes house wine. The trio of main courses included delicious prawn and mangetout, fine peppery beef and onion stir fry and sweat-and-sour chicken with pineapple _ now, the kids loved that last one, but it was a sticky step too far toward the takeaways of old for me. All in all a great meal.
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A short drive south east through the Mancunian suburbs is the Peak District, some of the wildest countryside in England. Plunging valleys, wind-swept plateaux, rough-hewn stone villages. Wedged between the country's biggest industrial cities the peaks are a rugged haven of calm. Amid all the natural grandeur are fine stately homes like Chatsworth - the palace of the Peaks, recently the backdrop for the movie of "Pride and Prejudice."
Jane Austin stayed in the Rutland Arms hotel in the market town of Bakewell which also features in the novel. Shortly after her stay, a cook there invented the jam and almond filled Bakewell tart which has become a nationwide favourite. Also known locally as Bakewell Pudding this delicacy is now sold in several bakeries and cafes around the village. The Bakewell Tart Shop and Coffee House on Matlock street sells wickedly huge wedges of tart with steaming hot custard, and offers lemon, cherry or coconut variations on the theme, as well as a selection of savoury pies which would be just the thing for picnics in the Peaks.
Nottingham has a bad reputation as Britain's capital of crime. Perhaps that's what you get from spending centuries vaunting the virtues of the world's best-known outlaw. Whether the hoodlums who have given Robin Hood's hometown the UK's highest crime and murder rates are aiming to give to the poor is unlikely, and the city is struggling to revamp its fearsome image. Wandering the centre on a balmy Friday night, it was boisterous but not threatening around Market Square as revellers staggered between the city's famous pubs.
Urban renewal is centred the old Lace Market area and the streets running up to Sheriff's castle, which are lined with boutiques and cocktail bars. The chic Lace Market Hotel is here, alongside the Cock and Hoop pub. Delilah's grocery store has a taste festival of local beers and cheeses alongside a great selection of olive oils, smoked hams and wines. Down the road is elegant Paul Smith store. The designer is a local boy who started his career in Nottingham following those other great British trademarks, Boots and Raleigh bikes. Nearby Castle Gate is the site of the stocking factory where D.H. Lawrence once worked and featured in his Nottingham-set novel "Sons and Lovers."
Nottingham claims to have more pubs per head than any other city in England and three of them dispute the title of Britain's oldest.
Best known is Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem which is built into the limestone caves beneath the Sheriff's castle. No evidence that Robin and Little John stopped by for a pint and bag of pork scratchings, but the pub's name is supposed to date from the crusades when local knights would meet up here before setting off to plunder the Holy Land. It's an intriguing place with a succession of little rooms linked by stairs and corridors extending deeper and deeper into the rock with cozy alcoves and cavernous ceilings reaching up toward the castle above. A big range of beers features Old Trip bitter made by local brewer Hardys & Hansons.
Disputing the title is the nearby Ye Olde Salutation inn which claims 13th-century roots and The Bell, in the heart of the city just off the old Market Square. Originally the refectory of a monastery, the Bell has been an alehouse since the days of Henry VIII and its cosy low-beamed front rooms still carry the Tudor interior behind the pub's Georgian facade. There's a bigger, noisier bar out the back popular with students and a quiet family restaurant upstairs. The friendly staff explain that the small square opening cut into the wall downstairs was once used to check the hands of incoming customers. Those with missing fingers were judged to be lepers and refused entry.
The restaurant serves old-fashioned pub food such as Kimberly pie made with beef and H&H beer or sausage and Old Trip beer-flavoured sausages floating on a mountain of mash. Excellent blackberry and apple crumble to follow. A window seat gives a great view over the city centre and increasingly inebriated crowds of pumped up chaps and scantily clad chappettes.
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Driving from Nottingham to Norwich takes in the flat lands of Lincolnshire and the even flatter Fens of Cambridgeshire and Norfolk, criss-crossed with canals and dikes through the flower fields and market gardens. En route is the fine old stone town of Stamford and the stately Burghley House two other places where Keira Knightley strutted her stuff in "Pride and Prejudice."
"Norwich, a fine city," says the sign as you arrive. Dominated by its hilltop Norman Castle and spectacular 11th century cathedral, Norfolk's capital has medieval streets like Elm Hill and Tombland, a colourful market in front of the 1930's town hall and a new ultramodern library and arts centre, The Forum. A major city in the Middle Ages it has dozens of churches and even more pubs, like the Adam and Eve and the Fat Cat which regularly wins awards from real ale connoisseurs. Unfortunately it was raining fat cats and fat dogs the whole time we were there, so we were forced to shopping shelter in the landmark Jarrold's department store which dates back to 1823; the art nouveau Royal Arcade _ home of Coleman's Mustard Store; and the vast Castle Mall and Chapelfield shopping centres.
There's an ice cream vendor on the market which makes a honeycomb flavour which tastes of crunchie bars. But for a ice-cream nirvana you have to move further south into Suffolk and Alder Carr Farm in Needham Market. Here you can pick-your-own fruit, buy Suffolk cured bacon, or home-made chutneys and smoked fish in the farm shop. But the real attraction is the ice-cream. I've tired Giolitti's in Rome and Paolin in Venice, but have never had gelati as good as these from Suffolk. There is nothing but fresh fruit, sugar and cream in each of the 14 varieties, no flavouring or artificial preservatives. The fruit is plucked fresh from the farm. There's gooseberry and elderflower, stem ginger and rhubarb, blackberry and apple, as well as single fruits like strawberry, tayberry and damson. Hard to pick a favourite, but the sinfully spiced Christmas flavour is awesome.

Algarve Diary

2006-05-19T19:24:00.000+02:00

Fish, fado and flowers –

welcome to Portugal in April

Lagos, April 2005

Wednesday, 12 April:
Ah, the benefits of budget air travel. A three-hour flight and we exchange neighbours scraping ice from their windshields for neighbours coating each other with sun cream.
Spring can be a great time to visit the Algarve – if you catch the weather. It is a lot less crowded than the summer and the landscapes are fresher,and greener, with wild flowers carpeting the hills in blues, pinks and yellows.
“April in Portugal,” as Portugal's great fado singer Amália Rodrigues once crooned, “Can love exist anywwher but Portugal in April?”
These days, some parts of Portugal's south coast strip have a less romantic reputation, getting a bad rap as a haven for cohorts of northern lager swilllers. But come out of season or stick to the balmy and largely undeveloped east coast east between Faro and the Spanish border, or head west to the windward shore beyond Portimao and you can find a land of unlimited charm, with the best beaches in Europe, fabulous seafood and a laid back lifestyle that makes for the ideal escape from the rat race.
Lagos is an 80 kilometre drive from Faro airport, along the new Via do Infante motorway.
We stay at the expanding Marina complex across the river from the town centre. The new wing of the Marina Club hotel is just opened – minimalist design, flat scene TV, big roomy apartments opening onto the kidney shaped pool. A two-bedroom flat is 145 euro a night.
Cheaper options can be had in the nautically themed Estibordo building or by renting privately in its twin Bombordo.
The Marina has shops, cafés restaurants, overlooking the luxury yachts bobbing in the harbour. It's a five minute walk to the old town, ten to the wonderful 6 km, curve of soft sand that makes up Meia Praia beach.
Newly built on the crest of a dune overlooking the western end of Meia Praia is São Roque, which after three or four visits has become one of my favourite restaurants.
It has everything: great location, the freshest seafood, good wines and friendly service. The glass façade reveals a seascape ranging from the distant cliffs Alvor and Praia da Rocha, the surf crashing on beach below and the ramparts and church towers of old Lagos just across the river.
There's a broad terrace blending into the sand and an airy interior decorated with colourful abstracts by Vila – the celebrated co-owner of another classic Algarve restaurant – Vila Lisa just down the road in Mexilhoeira Grande.
We are given no menu, but are guided to an ice cabinet where the waiter sweeps away layers of crushed ice to reveal an array of fishy delights.
Lagos fishing port is a stone's throw away and the fish looks like it just came from the nets. There is red mullet, bream, bass, turbot, squid, grouper.
To start we have a portion of amêijoas – sweat clams steamed just enough with garlic and coriander with a squirt of lemon – a wonderful recipe named after an obscure 19th century poet – Bulhão Pato. I can think of no better way to start a meal.
A bottle of a crisp dry white from the Douro – Quinta Seara D'Ordens was the ideal companion. Main course was grilled pargo – a large sea bream. It came whole but sliced down the spine. The waiter expertly sliced off fillets and kindly asked us if we also wanted the head. I have to admit to declining. Delicious, light white flesh, fresh enough to need just the lightest charcoal grilling. It tasted like it had just stopped splashing about in the cool Atlantic waters outside.
Served with boiled new potatoes tossed in excellent olive oil, fresh oregano and garlic, and a great salad of roasted green pepper, carrot, tomato and lettuce.
They have great old Algarvian desserts – carob tart or a wonderful sticky wedge that combines carob, fig and almond – the trinity of regional sweetness.
Thing black bicas of espresso and then we are offered a glass each of the home-made bagaço – Portugal's answer to grappa. Usually it's more than a little rough, but his was the house's own, aged in port barrels and with a taste that matched its warm ruby complexion.
To help it down came a complementary bowl of toasted almonds and dried figs – a really nice touch that rounded off a great meal.
About 30 euro each. Like almost everywhere in Portugal families are more than welcome. At the next table a big, multi-generational family were tucking into a huge dish of massa do peixe – a fish stew with pasta which is a house speciality.

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Thursday, 13 April:
Sun shining bright at 7am. Clear blue skies. We stock up in Lagos municipal market in its newly restored 1920's home beside the river that separates the old town from the fishing harbour.
Fish on the ground floor, fruit and veg above. At this early hour, fish were still arriving from the boats across the river, some still gasping in the air.
The multitude of life aquatic on show ranges from tiny whitebait to great, blood-dripping sides of tuna and corvina the size of a man. We picked up a pair of plump red mullet and a wing of skate. Upstairs there's a great view over the river, port and beach and raucous vendors tout the season's best in strawberries, meddlers, broad beans, onions, potatoes, tomatoes, peppers ...

Then the beach. Lagos' best known is Dona Ana. We parked there – impossible in the summer crush, but no problem today. Then walked south over the cliff tops to Praia do Camilo. The views are breathtaking, the honeycomb cliffs of the Costa d'Oiro running towards Lagos, then the broad sweep of the bay backed by Meia Praia's white sands running off into the distance to the Alvor estuary and the towers of Praia da Rocha on the horizon. Beyond loom the Serra da Monchique mountains. Looking down the cliffs at the deep, dark sea, there are rocky coves and inlets. One small beach for nudists, another even more inaccessible with just two couples soaking up the rays. A myriad of wild flowers, multicoloured butterflies pursued by a cacophony of bird life – rosy hoopoes, dashing beeaters, choughs, screeching gulls battling for pinacples on the cliff tops, bands of larks and finches.

Praia do Camilo is always worth the long climb down. Two crescents of golden sand wrapped by crumbling sandstone cliffs, limpid waters, sheltered by the Atlantic winds. Never too crowded. We explore rock pools and hidden caves that open up to the sky. Look out for the divers hunting octopus and cuttlefish, then swim in the chill water before lunch with sandwiches of presunto (smoked ham) and sardine paste.
Then walk some more to the lighthouse overlooking the rocky outcrop of Ponta da Piedade, where little boats carry visitors in out of the sea caves Drink a coffee in the cliff top café among the Spanish visitors who flock to Portugal during the Easter semana santa.
In the evening we grill our mullet on the balcony, drink a bottle of Planalto wine form the Douro and fall tired and a tad sunburnt into early bed.

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Friday, 14, April:
Good Friday and an armada of low grey cloud blows in with a forecast of rain till Sunday. Along with thousands of other disappointed sun seekers, we head for Algarve Shopping – the giant, post-modern, vaguely Moorish, completely over-the-top shopping centre outside Albufeira.
This is a traditional rainy day alternative. There is a big range of shops _ Iberian home décor at Loja do Gato Preto, Portuguese menswear at Throttleman, alongside international chains like FNAC, Zara, Benetton.
There's also a vast array of fast food joints. We hit O Kilo _ a Brazilian chain found in shopping malls around Portugal, where you load up black beans, shredded cabbage, ground manioc, sausages and a range of spit roasted cuts of beef like the lean salted picanha or juicy maminha. When you've filled your plate, they weigh it and you pay by the gram. Washed down with fruit juice combinations like strawberry-passion fruit or mango-orange. It sure beats chicken nuggets.
Still raining so it's afternoon movie time. Films are almost always in the original language in Portugal, with subtitles. Nanny McPhee was a family favourite.
Dinner at home is favas à Algarvia _ fresh broad beans from the market fried in olive oil with chouriço, morcela (black pudding), torchinho (bacon), garlic, onion, sea salt and a bundle of fresh, green coriander. With it a fine bottle of Quinta dos Grillos – the oddly named grasshopper farm – from the Dão region near Coimbra.

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Saturday, April 15:
The sun is back. We head to the Santa Amaro market to stock up with vitals for a family Easter. Far from the tourists downtown, this market is less well stocked, but cheaper than its main riverside rival. It's currently operating away from its usual site in an old cork factory overlooked by a couple of white storks nesting on a disused chimney stack. A cheerful place with some excellent butchers specialized in porco preto - the acorn-fed, semi-wild pigs from the Alentejo region to the north.

A stroll from Lagos' old town leads to the Paderia Central – the city's best bakery. This is a wonderful old place where locals stand in line for freshly baked bread and cakes. At this time of the year, the rush is for folhar – sweat Easter loaves heavily flavoured with aniseed. Some contain a boiled egg. It's for decoration and Easter symbolism – don't eat it with your cake.
Lunch was a salad of skate and potatoes awash with chunks of garlic and a puddle of olive oil, followed by fresh local strawberries, oranges and meddlers.
After that, a couple of hours by the pool and a long walk along Meia Praia beach as far as the Por-do-Sol restaurant – a great place to sit outside and watch the sun go down over simple grilled fish, or to join the crowds on a Sunday lunchtime, where the Angolan owner cooks African favourites – muamba da galinha (chicken with palm oil and corn or cassava meal) or caldeirada de cabrito (spicy goat stew).
The walk builds an appetite for another of the Algarve's great culinary events – dinner at Adega Vila Lisa.
Tucked away in the big, farming village of Mexilhoeira Grande, just off the road from Lagos to Portimão. This is a superlative restaurant. Unmarked on the main street twisting up though the village, it's in a simple whitewashed Algarve house with bright yellow shutters and the door frame picked out in cobalt blue.
The inside is rustic. You share big tables and sit on rough wooden benches. It may not be the best place for a romantic tete-a-tête, because you'll be in enforced communion with your neighbours, who may well be visiting politicians or TV personalities from Lisbon who have helped maintain Vila Lisa's legendary status in the capital for over 20 years..
It's always crowded, despite the additional space upstairs and in the patio behind.
Contrasting with the rural fittings, the walls are covered with the big bold abstract paintings of Senhor Vila – an artist on canvas as well as in the kitchen who runs the place with his partner Senhor Lisa.
You don't get a menu. The serving girls just bring you dish after dish along with constantly refilled flasks of the anonymous house wine – either white or red or both – they are both hearty, rough and ready brews that go down a treat with the rigorously traditional food.
We start with slices of morcela sausage, triangles of fresh white cheese, potatoes tossed in olive oil and oregano, a little plate of eggs scrambled with tomato sauce served with chewy country bread.
Next up comes sopa de cacão (dogfish soup). This is a nod to the cuisine of the Algarve's northern neighbour, the Alentejo, an unctuous confection with slices of crusty bread, chucks of firm white fish in a tangy juice tasting of vinegar and coriander.
Then broad beans again, with golden fried toucinho, morcela and a slice of fired peixe espada – the long silvery scabbard fish whose toothy grins are one of the scariest sights in Portugal's fish markets.
The next course is pernil de porco – one of Vila Lisa's signature dishes – leg of pork slow roasted to produce the perfect combination of tender flesh and crispy, crunchy skin.
Just when you think you can't take any more, comes sopa do grão – chick pea soup fortified with oxtail broth and handfulls of fresh mint _ the twist in the tale of this gastronomic epic.
Dark, pungent sweetmeats made with figs and almonds come with a pot of excellent coffee and a icy bottle of medronho from which you can drink your fill. This is a fire water made from the sweet red fruit of the strawberry tree which thrives on the wooded hills of inland Algarve.
An extraordinary civilized meal in, one of Europe's great restaurants. All for a fixed price of 30 euros a head. Unbeatable.

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Sunday, April 16:
A family visit for Easter and we prepare a lunch of coastal goodies. Fresh local prawns boiled with sea salt and a dash of piri-piri, Aljomoho – a gazpacho-like concoction using up day-old bread, tomato, green pepper, oregano, and loads of garlic. The main course is caldeirada – fish stew similar to French bouillabaisse. Ours had conger eel, dogfish, skate, grouper, with potatoes, tomato and pepper.
To finish up an Easter sponge cake layered with sweetened egg yokes and topped with toasted almond and doce de gila – a jam made from fibrous pumpkin like vegetable grown around here.
A post lunch walk along the water front past the 16th century Forte da Ponta da Bandeira, which guards the entrance to Lagos harbour – built to counter raids by the likes of Sir Francis Drake. Alongside is Praia da Batata – potato beach – the closest to town. It's popular with local families and teenagers. The water was recently cleaned up and the local diving and sailing clubs are based there offering beginners' courses, beneath the Naufragio bar, which offers great view across the bay.

On the far end of the beach begin the ragged cliffs that are the trademark of the great string of beaches that make up the golden coast running south and west from Lagos.
Batata is a mini Acapulco, where local kids leap of the cliff tops into the sea. Not something I'd recommend after a big lunch.

With the wind picking up, we walk back through the old town walls and past the statue of Gil Eanes – the local hero and one of the first great Portuguese discovers. Lagos was the point of departure of the early voyages and was the base, along with nearby Sagres of Prince Henry the Navigator.
Stop for coffee in the Cafe Central, an old-fashioned favourite in the heart of the city, where tourists sit in the sunny terrace, but locals prefer to enjoy their coffee and cake inside, where the prices are dramatically cheaper.
For dinner we cook Cozido do Grao – an Algarve version of Portugal's national dish of boiled meat and vegetables. It includes beef, pork, a selection of sausages, potatoes, runner beans, pumpkin, chick peas, mint, all boiled up in a hot pot together. The water is strained off and used to cook rice to go with in all. Washed down with a robust Alentejo red.

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Monday, April 17:
Lunch at the Adega da Marina _ a cheap and cheerful place alongside the river in Lagos. Very popular with Portuguese families who will form long queues on the pavement outside to get in.
The immense rooms are decorated with fishing paraphernalia and waiters rush around among the long tables. It's big, brash and noisy.
Part of the popularity must be the price. The dish of the day is less than 5 euros, a plate of grilled sardines 5.80 euros.
But go early, we arrived at 1.30: sardines were off and the dish of the day _ arroz de safio, rice with conger eel _ was sold out.
Instead I went for that old favourite, chicken piri-piri. Not bad, if a bit greasy. The piri-piri sauce came on the side and was satisfyingly spicy. Not a great culinary outing, but good for a budget family lunch.
Later that night we ended up at the Amoras bar on the Lagos Marina, a trendy, laid back sort of place, popular with the yachting set for cut price cocktails at happy hour. It's open terrace overlooks the water, but most eyes were glued to the big screens at either end of the bar _ showing live football from both the Portuguese and English leagues.

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Tuesday, April, 18:
The Easter holidays are over and the city empties out. We had the hotel pool almost to ourselves and spent the day there in the patchy sunlight.
For dinner Galinha Cerejada – cherry chicken – so called because of the ruddy colour the bird is supposed to take on after being fried with garlic in bacon fat and served with rice cooked in stock.
In contrast to the hectic weekend, the city was dead after diner with none of the normal all night summer street life.

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Wednesday, April 19:
Clear blue skies, but that old Lagos bugbear, the west wind, sweeping in from the Atlantic cools things down.
It's a good day for a run along Meia Praia – six kilometres end-to-end, and reward at the eastern extremity of the beach: a glorious view of the Ria de Alvor – a great estuary alive with bird life. Its sands are the haunt of shellfish hunters digging for cockles at low tide. When the tide is in the still waters offer shifting shades of blue and a calmer, warmer alternative to the surf rolling onto the beach.
The water today was almost deserted and surprisingly warm, great to have a dip and dry off running back. like a castaway on all that deserted white sand.
In complete contrast, in the late afternoon we head to Praia da Rocha. I'd not been here for about 15 years and the scale of the new development is astonishing.
The broad, palm lined avenues of tower blocks give it a mini-LA feel. The architecture ranges from modernist monoliths to mock-Moorish fantasies. Along the cliff-top strip, Irish pubs fight for space with hippy trinket stores, pizzerias, vast discos, theme eateries like the Sitting Bull wild west restaurant. The old Penguin hotel is closed down and the elegant Bela Vista – once a haven for exiled world leaders, looks under siege.
I dread to think what this is like on a packed, boozy summer night. Best to keep your eyes seaward on spectacular of sandy beach below, which is long and wide enough to guarantee some space even at the height of the season.
At the far east of the strip, things calm down, there are some older surviving villas and some picturesque gardens tumbling to the beach to recall the resort's belle epoque origins. The Santa Catarina fortress still offers spectacular views along the beach and across the mouth of the Arade river to the tranquil beaches of Ferragudo village on the far side.
We drive into Portimão passed the now mostly disused fish canning factories which were the economic mainstay here in pre-tourism days, then skirt the riverside Praça Manuel Teixeira Gomes square with the charming old Casa Inglesa cafe. Then over the old bridge to Ferragudo.
This beautiful fishing village is a world away from Praia da Rocha across the river. The whitewashed streets wind down a low hill below the church to a little creak that runs into the Arade. Beyond the cafe-lined main square is a warren of lanes lined by well-kept traditional homes. There is a bohemian feel too it with little handicraft shops, artists studios and inviting bars like the Très Macacos – the three monkeys.

Past the quayside market and the stacks of lobster nets, road bends to a famed restaurant – Suoeste. In a former salt warehouse augmented with a glass fronted veranda, it looks out over the river and the Portimão skyline. As we take our seats, the waiter brings over a huge tray laden with one each of all the fish available tonight – three species of bream, sea bass, sole, giant shimp – all gleaming fresh from the sea.
Three of us share a big sole, which is whisked outside where two old boys gut and grill by the harbour, throwing the waste into the water to the delight of the gulls wheeling overhead.
While waiting, we are served a Portimão speciality of carrots pickled with cumin, then plate of whole shrimp fried with garlic and squirted with lemon – lovely.
This place is not much fun for non-pescavores. The best they had on offer was omelette and chips.
The fish arrived whole with a smoky charcoal whiff, super fresh and grilled to perfection. Served with boiled new potatoes and an excellent salad. To drink we had a bottle of Soalheiro vinho verde, crisp and clean.
Deserts arrived with the sun already down and the lights of the city twinkling across the water. A succulent fig tart and carob tart topped with a fine, almond crust like Italian amaretti – both were interesting takes on Algarve classics.
All in all the food and setting were difficult to fault, but the service could definitely have been improved. The sole arrived when we were still eating our prawns and one bowl soup just never came. It's also a bit overpriced at 150 euro for four. Excellent coffee and medronho though.

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Thursday, April 20:
Overcast skies ruled out beach or pool this morning, so the day was spend mainly in town. The Casa de Isabel tea rooms, first in Portimao, then with a branch in Lagos, was a pioneer in reviving regional cakes. The Lagos version lies a block inland from the river is now called cafe Vasco da Gama. It has the same somewhat unfinished attempt to establish old world charm, but the cakes remain as good as ever – egg and almond confections taken from old conventl recipies like touchinho de ceu – bacon from heaven, or the deep dark, chocolately tarta de alfaroba.
An afternoon run takes in the wonderful Praia de Pinhao beach, which is hardly ever crowded, soft gold sand, rocks and coves to explore, calm waters sheltered from the wind and within an easy walk to town.
Dinner at home. Spring lamb cooked with fresh peas and a big handful of coriander, followed by just in season local melon.

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Friday, April 21:
Marisqueira Rui is a temple dedicated to Portuguese seafood situated oddly enough in the Algarve's biggest inland town _ the old Arab capital Silves, a 20 minute drive from the coast.
In a down town pedestrian street, Rui's has litte to distinguish it from the outside apart from the lines of wood-be dinners waiting for a table of summer nights.
What attracts them is certainly not the drab interior with its cork covered walls. The draw is some of the best shellfish in the region, and in particular one dish – arroz de marisco – shellfish rice.
This is Portugal's answer to paella and like the Spanish dish, the quality varies greatly. Rui's is rightly reputed to be one of the best in the land.
What you get is an earthenware pot filled with rice slopping in a tomato and coriander sauce and brimming with crustations and molluscs.
Ours had shrimp, spiny lobster, bits of spider crab, clams, crayfish, razor clams. It is a monumental dish when done well.
Diners not going for the rice, tend to go for a simple mix of shellfish and the room reverberates with the sounds of hammers bashing away at crab claws and salty lips sucking the innards our of leathery goose barnacles. The rice takes a while to prepare, so take care not to fill up on the hot roles and garlic mayonnaise that they bring to ease the wait.
Quite why anybody would want to eat meat here is beyond me, but there are some landlubber alternatives _ several featuring Alentejo black pork.
A good range of fresh fruit and the usual carob or almond desserts. With a good bottle of Marques de Borba white. it all came in at a very reasonable 60euro for four.
Silves itself is a historic riverside city, dominated by its hilltop castle which resonates with old legends of Moorish maidens and dashing crusaders.
The gently sloping land between the mountains and the coast is the called the Barrocal. It's mostly pasture and meadow land planted with citrus groves, vines, almond trees that blossom white in February and wild flowers that coat the ground with colour in springtime.

Clinging to one hillside is Alte, considered by many to be the Algarve's most beautiful inland village. Pristine white houses cluster astride a torrent that tumbles towards the coast. There is a skyline of the lacy, pointed Algarve chimneys. Although there's a handful of souvenir shops catering for bus trips from the seaside resorts in high summer, the village is no tourist trap and was almost devoid of outsiders on this spring day, apart from a few picnickers out by the cascades upstream.

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Saturday, April 22:
Lousy weather, caught up in a downpour. We seek refuge in some cafés, the rather dingy Gil Eanes, in the square of the same name and the more attractive Oceano, with it mosaics of tiles, tropical fish tank and good cakes. It's the nicest café in the centre of town.
For dinner, we let the kids choose and ended up in Café do Cais, in the Marina. An “international” menu that includes some Asian-influenced dishes as well as a few Portuguese classics. The clientèle is overwhelmingly foreign. The kids were a bit disappointed because the menu that attracted them with burgers and salads turned out to be only for lunch. Dinner was more posh – lots of fish and steaks and prices that were almost double the lunch options.
To be honest, things were not so bad. There was a fine view of the stormy sunset over Lagos, cool loungey music and rather neat upscale, beach-bar décor. An original selection of nibbles to start – roast red peppers, olives, Spanish queso manchego and a dip of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, piri-piri and course salt.

Despite the international dishes on offer, we go that for that Algarve gastronomic icon amêijoas na cataplana. This involves a unique Algarve implement, a shiny brass dish that is half-wok, half-pressure cooker. Into this go clams, presunto ham, strips of pork, chouriço, tomatoes, garlic and green pepper. It was rich and tasty and completely authentic- apart from the addition of a bowl of rice – which is not really the done thing. The kids went for steaks, one with mustard sauce, the other with Roquefort – all of which appeared to be in order.
The desserts had a very un-Portuguese feel – lemon baveroise, chocolate fudge cake.
This is not really my sort of place, but it made a change. With half a bottle of the house white _ a reasonable low-budget Alentejo tipple, plus coffee and medronho (not for the kids). It came to 90 euro for four.

Practicalities:

Getting There:
We went Faro with Ryanair, for just over 200 euro a head. The Algarve's international airport is also served by other budget airlines, charters and traditional carriers. TAP Air Portugal has direct flights to several European capitals.

Getting Around:
Local car hire YOR Car was a cheap alternative to the big companies. We paid 204 euro for 11 days in a Hyundai Getz with air conditioning and a CD player.
There is also a train link from Faro to Lagos, which is slow, but offers views along the coast for those not in a hurry.

Restaurants:
Adega da Marina
Avenida dos Descobrimentos, 35,
Lagos.
Tel: +351 - 282 764 284.

São Roque
Urbanização de São Roque – Meia-praia,
Lagos,
Tel +351 – 282 792-101.

Vila Lisa
Mexilhoeira Grande,
Tel +351 – 282 968-478.

Sueste
Rua da Ribeira, 91,
Ferragudo,
Tel +351 – 282 461-592.

Marisqueira Rui
Rua Comendador Vilarinho, 27
Silves
Tel +351 – 282 442-682.

Reading:
Books set in the Algarve are rare, even in Portuguese. One that is translated into English is The Migrant Painter of Birds, a family saga by award winning author Lidia Jorge.
For a darker look into Portuguese thinking try the works of Nobel winner Jose Saramago. His earlier works like Baltasar and Blimunda, or The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, offer a magical look at Portuguese history. Later novels such as Blindness or The Double are bleaker views of modern society.

Soundtrack:
The Art of Amalia offers a good introduction to the late queen of fado and includes the original track Coimbra, which became April in Portugal in the English version.
For a more modern take on fado, try the albums of Madredeus. The group is from Lisbon but have performed some wonderfully atmospheric concerts in the open air auditorium beside Lagos' medieval walls.

2006-05-03T22:40:00.000+02:00

Sofia, Bulgaria, April 2006

In his classic 1930s spy thriller "A Coffin for Dmitrios," Eric Ambler paints Sofia as a capital of Balkan intrigue, rife with political assassination, illicit drug deals and boites de nuits where unsuspecting visitors are lured by cheap champagne and Armenian dancing girls.

Sofia has moved on. Today the Bulgarian capital stands on the threshold of the European Union; its golden youth shop for Gucci shades and La Perla knickers among the designer temples that line Vitosha Bd. and the one-time communist backwater promotes itself as Europe hottest new nightlife destination.

Under the brash nouveau-riche facade, Sofia manages to retain a sense of the decadent charm of Ambler's city which has survived the intervening decades of war, Soviet-domination and the new capitalist excess. The master of suspense would have appreciated the "no firearms" signs on the doors of restaurants and the frisking by burly, cropped hair bouncers outside the more discerning nightclubs.

Stand at the top of Maria-Luiza Bd, and Sofia's turbulent history in the cultural confusion of Balkans is clear to see. On one side is the conical minaret of the mosque left behind after 500 years of Ottoman rule. Peaking over the roof of the central market is Europe's largest Sephardic synagogue, a testament to Bulgaria's efforts to save its Jewish community from the Nazis. Just up the road are the Byzantine domes of the old Sveta Nedeyla orthodox church.

The cultural diversity is reflected in Bulgarian cuisine where deep rooted Turkish traditions blend with Mediterranean and central European influences. Carnivores will delight in the quality of the grilled meat, but fresh salads, marinated vegetables and great yoghurt dips will recall the Aegean islands. Dill and pickled cucumbers mix with sweet peppers and fresh tomato. The olives are great. In the central market, the dense, blood-red salamis could come from Hungary, while next door gleaming slabbrinyriney white cheese and honey soaked pastries are more Athens or Istanbul.

Bulgaria finally broke free from Turkish rule in 1878 after Russia took its side in a bloody war against the declining Ottoman empire. That conflict led to construction of Sofia's best known landmark, the The Alexander Nevski cathedral. This neo-Byzantine pile rises up over the city in four tiers of domes, arches and gilded cupolas. It commemorates the fallen in the Russian-led armies that secured Bulgaria's independence. From the outside it's imposing sight, inside it is awe-inspiring. The vast vaulted space is dimly lit with few candles and low-voltage yellow bulbs just revealing the mural-covered walls. Devout Sofians on their way to work in the mornings will pop in for a quiet prayer. In the crypt lies the national icon collection.

A further reminder of Bulgaria's complicated history is the nearby Russian church. A fantasy of golden onion domes and colourful gilt facades. It was built in honour of Tsar Nicholas II just before the First World War, when Bulgaria sided with Germany against the Russians.

Around the cathedral is a fascinating jumble of market stalls selling a sometimes bizarre selection of potential souvenirs ranging from delicately woven cotton table covers and the rainbow shaded kilims to antique broaches, reproduction icons and Soviet era bric-a-brac _ Red Army vodka flasks seem to be particularly popular. One trader was offering selection of old violins and accordions.

Bulgaria's rush to join the West has thrown up some uncomfortable contrasts. The level of poverty can be shocking for a European capital, alongside signs of all too ostentatious new-found wealth for a sometimes dodgy few. Battered Trabants battle for parking space on the city's beleaguered pavements with huge black BMWs. Ragged gypsy kids scavenge through rubbish bins outside the chic designer stores. Tales of official corruption and organized crime are hair-raising.

The country's transition to European mainstream can catch visitors out. A German colleague forgot he was leaving the EU and arrived without his passport. He ended up spending 27 hours detained at the airport. It's also best to be on your guard against the currency traders aiming to buy euros in the street or taxi touts at the airport. A British friend paid 40 leva (20 euro) to get into town, more than four times the normal rate charged by the official yellow cabs lined up outside departures.
Another tip: try to learn a bit of the Cyrillic alphabet. It could help enormously helpful just to follow street signs so you can find your way around. For example, it's much easier to find Khan Asparuh street, if you know the sign you're looking for is: yл. Xaн Acnapyx.

While Winter can be grim and summer an inferno, spring provides the best opportunity to enjoy Sofia's abundant greenery. Even the narrowest side street seems to be lined by trees, and stately horse chestnuts _ blooming in April _ cast their shade on the many broad avenues of the centre. Leafy squares and gardens abound. Open air cafes fill city parks, and restaurants and bars all seem to have verdant gardens hidden behind them. Above it all looms the Vitosha mountain range whose forest-covered slopes and snowy peaks rise up above the southern suburbs. There is first class skiing less than an hour's drive from the city centre.

Tucked away on a wooded hillside about 10 kilometres south of town is the Boyana church _ Sofia's hidden gem. The little Orthodox chapel is unassuming from the outside, but duck through the door and you find a treasure trove of medieval murals telling the story of St. Nicholas. The paintings date back to the 13th century, some are even older. A taxi out there cost about 8 leva (4 euros), but it might be worth asking the driver to wait, because finding a ride back could be difficult. It's a charming spot, the church is surrounded by a peaceful garden planted with towering 100-year old sequoias. The Church is locked and you have to ask the guide and the even older gatekeeper to let you in. I arrived just after opening time at 9.30 am. and had the place to myself _ a rare experience at a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Monkish Mixed Grill

Manastirska Magernitsa is a perfect introduction to Bulgarian food.
The "monastery cook house" at 67 Khan Asparuh street is an elegant yellow-painted 19th century town house set back from the street in a little garden.
Spread through several small rooms, the restaurant is chock-a-block with Bulgarian folk art. There was a throaty young woman belting out tunes accompanied by an accordion player, and bashful waitresses in folksy outfits. Despite all this, it just about stayed on the right side of kitch, and it was reassuring that most of the dinners were Bulgarian.
The menu was daunting, running to over 30 pages of traditional dishes rendered into unlikely English.
The owners have a mission to gather up old recipes from the Orthodox monasteries that are dotted around Bulgaria. Its slogan is: "161 Bulgarian monasteries, 161 Bulgarian recipes."
When the task of perusing them all became too much, the waitress suggested we followed her into a side room where haunches of lamb, veal and pork roasted over glowing embers. With a mixed grill and a selection of salads and appetizers we were set up.
First she brought soft, sesame-coated bread accompanied by a wooden bowl of spiced salt.
This is a traditional start to a meal and went down a treat with the first glasses of the red-fruit-packed "No Man's Land" wine _ from vineyards on what was once the barbed-wire covered Cold War frontier with Greece and Turkey.
The platter of starters included Shopska salad _ a Sofia dish involving tomatoes, cucumber, red pepper and onion and covered with a grated, hard _ pecorino like _ sheep's cheese.
There was garlicky marinated aubergine, and creamy balls of thick yoghurt, some mixed with soft cheese, others containing cucumber and still more garlic _ very satisfying, and surprisingly healthy.
The meat came in great juicy hunks. This was expert barbecuing. A selection of roast vegetables on the side, including a round of grilled beetroot which gave a refreshing slant on a much-maligned root.
Desserts include some more of that creamy yoghurt with nuts and honey and a rich carrot and lemon cake called "Grandma Teta's treat," (or something similar, my recollection of the latter stages of the meal are a bit hazy due to all that No Man's Land).
Great Turkish coffee and some fine Bulgarian brandy elaborately warmed at the table.
This was a very good meal _ the best I was to have during my stay, although be warned it's expensive by Sofia standards. http://www.magernitsa.com

The tranquillity out at Boyana contrasts with down town Sofia, which seems always to be abuzz with the locals' devotion to street life. Sofians love to pass the time over a coffee or beer and the city must have one of the highest ratios of cafes. Some are simple hole-in-the-wall places where passers-by gulp plastic cuts of espresso on the hoof, others belong to tacky chains, but there are an extraordinary number of agreeable places, either boasting hip design or some old world charm.

The triangle of narrow streets between the Vitosha, Graf Ignatiev, and Evlogi Georgiev boulevards seems to have the highest concentration of interesting bars, restaurants and boutiques.

Art'Otel

To overnight, the Art'Otel on Gladstone street just off Vitosha is a good choice right among the bars and restaurants of the district and a short walk to most of the cultural highlights. It's spanking new and the rooms, though small, are comfortable and relatively stylish. Over 60 TV channels to chose from, well-stocked minibar, and smiling staff. Breakfast includes a selection of local cheeses and cold meats, great yoghurt with a choice of four different types of honey, a big stodgy apple and walnut cake, baked apples and the warm, white-cheese filled pastry called Banitsa which is a national nibble. Pity about the bland industrial orange juice, lukewarm coffee and lousy tea, but all-in-all worth the 95 euro a night. www.artotel.biz.

The bars serve some interesting takes on beer snacks. In one called Divaka, they had none of the very drinkable local lagers, but the Staropraman came with broccoli in a garlic and dill sauce and deep fried red peppers stuffed with feta-like white cheese. In another place, our beers were accompanied with a plate of better-fried fresh cepes. It's a long way from pork scratchings.

Coffee culture is big in Bulgaria. One place at the top-end of Vitosha asked if I wanted my espresso from Illy, Lavazza or Segafredo beans! If your trip takes you to the thoroughly ugly National Palace of Culture _ a 70s style Communist throwback once named after the wife of dictator Todor Zhivkov _ you might want to escape to the nearby ChillOut Cafe which is a trendy haven for the city's young and beautiful, and serves a tasty snack of pancakes stuffed with chicken, bacon, pickled cucumber, dill and garlic sauce. www.chilloutbg.com.

Mahaloto
Bulgaria has produced wine since the ancient Thracians and is proud of the fact that the newly independent state in the 1870s introduced laws governing wine production even before it passed the constitution. To try them you can do worse than the Mahaloto restaurant on the corner of Vasil Levski Bd. and Garf Ignatiev Bd. This cosy, brick-lined basement, decorated with saucy French underwear adds from the 1920, is renowned its selection of wines, notably the powerful reds for which Bulgaria is justly famous. We tasted quite a few here before settling on a Merlot produced by the famed Todoroff winery in the south.
The atmosphere is intimate and jazzy, with Cesaria Evora and some other
gently Latin grooves on the sound system. The menu mixes "international"
standards and Bulgarian grills and has some vegetarian choices.
There are good salads to start _ I had a plate of grilled aubergines, peppers and courgettes in some light olive oil. Then pork in a creamy dill and garlic sauce with mushrooms.
Deserts were forgettable, but the coffee and rakia _ a Balkan fruit eau-de-vie rather than the anise-flavoured Turkish raki _ were good. A three course meal with a bottle of wine each (!) came to about 40 leva (20 euro) a head.

And so to Sofia's notorious nightlife. We ended up in Tiffany's, a club just off Vitosha Bd. This had been recommended by some locals as THE happening place. After getting cleared by security and dodging through the SUV's double parked on he pavement, we find ourselves in a vast lounge packed with muscular lads in skin tight Armani T-shirts and bevies of scantily clad beauties sipping mohitos to a thumping techno beat. I'm not sure if any of the girls were Armenian, but taking my lead from Ambler's hero it seemed best to play safe, so after downing a bottle of over-warm Becks I turned and headed out into the night.

Reading
Apart from "A Coffin for Dimitrios" where the plot lingers a while in Sofia on its way from Istanbul to Paris, Eric Ambler set another of his thrillers in the Bulgarian capital _ "Judgement on Deltchev."
Malcolm Bradbury's "Rates of Exchange" and Julian Barnes' "The
Porcupine" take Communist Sofia as their inspiration.
Books by Bulgarian writers are hard to come by in English. One entertaining work is "Natural Novel" by Georgi Gospodinov, a tale of intellectual angst in modern Sofia. Another is the 19th century national epic "Under the Yoke," by Ivan Vazov which is set amid the struggle to throw off Turkish rule.

Getting started

2006-05-01T21:55:00.000+02:00

Pictures from recent trips. From the top: Bologna, Ghent; Innsbruck, Munich; Taormina, Antwerp.