Skate Knobs at The Wright Bros

There are many wonderful things to say about The Wright Bros, and I know why. Their head chef, Philip Coulter is brilliant. There is a fan club, albeit a strange one as its members have not been formally introduced. But it does exist, for front of house tell me I am not alone in requesting a place at the bar which overlooks his station.

People who pity those who eat alone are missing a trick here: the bar seats, ideal for solitary souls, are the best in the house. I like the one next to the furthest wall, so if I find you on it, there will be blood.

What they say about the early bird is true: on my most recent pilgrimage I was the first customer for lunch and spying skate knobs on the chalk board, was lucky enough to enjoy a plate before they promptly sold out. They were breaded, deep fried and served with tartare sauce. But don't despair if you ruck up and they're gone - they do plateau fruits de mer starting from £15, the most perfect pie with a pastry crust sitting atop of Staub cast iron pots, and have an extensive list of oysters that are sold by the half dozen. To drink they have a lovely crémant by the glass, and bottles of Billecart-Salmon Brut.

Coulter is not only a chef I like, but a word I like too. Burns uses it in his poem To A Mouse and then there is Mrs Coulter of Pullman's Dark Materials fame. Generally speaking, the coulter is often presented as cruel, be it part of a plough or a power-hungry member of the General Oblation Board. But this Coulter isn't - he will pass you a small plate of whitebait or an extra New Orleans oyster on the house, and doesn't seem to mind if you ask him for foody tips even when the rush is on. His mayonnaise is perfectly-peeky and I intend to extrapolate his recipe for celeriac, but only after I purchase a mandolin. Oh - and if that wasn't enough, his father wrote the theme tune to the film version of one of my favourite books - The Water Babies. Based on all of the above, I am going to include the word coulter in my novel, which is set in Hampstead Garden Suburb. I have found a link. Trust me.

Back to the W Brothers. A trip to Borough Market is not complete without a lunch there and in the summer months they open up the front doors allowing customers to spill out onto the pavement. Last week Mr. Zilli was being filmed just outside, although no one seemed sure why... probably doing a Jamie and using the market as a backdrop to blather on about honest grub whilst rubbing radishes. Do either chef shop there though? I shall allow the Lancastrian in me to respond: do they heck.

By the by, I find this mound a curiosity. I pass it every time as I cut my way from London Bridge, past Southwark Cathedral, onto Stoney Street. 'It looks like a small hill' I heard someone say as I stopped to take the shot, but I beg to differ; to me it looks like an overturned mollusc shell, and for that reason and that reason alone, I love it.

Inside-Out Garden Design

On Saturday morning a little book arrived in the post: 101 Essential Tips Planning a Small Garden, with John Brookes as contributing editor. I ordered a used copy from here for not a lot of money. One feature that many will appreciate is that it is quite short; you can read it cover to cover in an hour or so. I got through the first 4 tips this morning before inspiration prompted me to drastic action.

Tip 1, can't remember... Tip 2 tickled me as it suggests you disguise your 'ugly views' (my fences! how did Brookes know?). Tip 3 counsels plan plan plan. Tip 4, Eureka! Subtitled 'Inside-Out Gardening', Brookes advises you analyse your interior design and interpret that style outdoors, harmonising the colour in your house and garden. So, in the name of 'Inside-Out Gardening', I decided to paint my bathtub matt black.

Brookes suggests that on some subconscious level this should 'extend the link' between my indoor and outdoor spaces. I hadn't really noticed before but there are plenty of black bits in my home, including the front door and the Edwardian tile path that leads from gate into house proper. Even my doll house has a black door.

This ties in well with February's edition of The English Garden, which explores three city gardens, including one in Muswell Hill. Having read their testimonials, its seems incumbent on anyone in possession of outside space in a city to consider it another room, and shame on you if you don't. Painting my bathtub may not seem like the first step towards achieving the garden of my dreams, but certainly worth while committing to something small before purchasing gallons of paint for the fences.

And I think it works. Here's what I did: I painted the bathtub with some left over Farrow & Ball dead flat pitch black oil paint, and then, because the walls were looking drab, gave them a lift with a coat of Farrow & Ball's Clunch (col. 2009) in a flat emulsion - it is quite possibly a fad, but for now I feel the same way about shiny paint surfaces as I do glossy leaves. I used a sponge to apply paint to tub and shall shortly be investing in some antiqued mirrors to pick up the theme.

On the subject of F&B paints, I am quite sad that they have discontinued their oil based range, but still like that their colours are all historically rooted. Sometimes, if I am stuck between a few, the history bit can sway my choice (I always did love a good story). Having said that, the story of Clunch isn't quite so riveting. It goes like this: 'Neutral. As in the chalk stone buildings used in East Anglia. A very versatile off-white'.

Even though all their paints are now water-based, Farrow & Ball make it very clear on their website that their new generation paints can be applied to surfaces painted previously in oil based paint, providing they have been dry for at least two weeks.Bravo F&B. Bravo.

Friday Mornings at Borough Market

Rituals. I have a few, one of which is a trip to Borough Market on a Friday morning, followed promptly at 12.30pm by  a plateau of fruits de mer at The Wright Brothers. I cannot pretend to be alone on this: the market is a mecca for many and as for the oyster house, if you do not book seats in advance, you shall not get a space. Not for love nor money.

There are so many wonderful things to say about The Wright Bros that I have blogged about it separately here. Otherwise, this is how my morning at the market goes...

1. Clam Breakfast.
This is not an oxymoron. A clam is my preferred way to start the day. I cannot abide cereal and bemoan the influence Kelloggs has had on what the majority consume in the am-hours.

Back to clams: Danny's stall is my first Friday stop. Always. He runs it with great aplomb and the same can be said of his skills as a shucker. If you watch him carefully, he gives each oyster a little flip in the shell before serving so that the plumpest part is proud. Genius.

His natives are reasonably priced: you can takeaway a dozen for £5, although it is a lot more fun to just eat them there. The real treat are the large clams. I pray that someone out there will open a champagne-to-go stall next to him. Sadly it shan't be me, as I would drink the profits and them some. In a perfect world it would be the likes of The Three Choirs, Nyetimber or Limney yineyard. They all do smashing organic sparkling English wine which more people should care about.

2. Bob the Butcher

Bob is a name I like. I like saying it. Bob. Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob. Bob is also a butcher I like. He sells award winning meats from Northfield Farm, will mince his meat fresh for you, or grant any other wish within his means. He is a font of knowledge and will happily oblige answering questions providing they are not asked during the weekly rush hour that descends between the hours of 12.30 and 2.

3. The Fresh Olive Company

Without fail I have to pick up a £3.50 pot of Petit Lucques from this stall before heading to Brindesa, which it sits just behind. These small olives are harvested early season and from Carcassonne, south-west France. They are crispy and creamy and accompany a glass or two of Pol Roger very well.

4. Torta de Canaresal

I am hard pushed to pick my favourite cheese but this would be in my top 3 for sure. The trick to this sheep's milk torta is to leave it out until it feels soft, then cut off the lid so that you are left with something looking like a mini-cauldron. At home we scoop the insides out with teaspoons. Quince membrillo always colludes. Brindisa sell out by midday, so you have been warned.

5. My Cherry Amour

Another £3.50 very well spent. The best black cherry jam. Promise.

6. By now it is usually time for lunch. You can read about this ritual here.

Chargrilled Quail at The River Café

Every so often, a great deal comes along and it is up to us folks to take full advantage of it. There's one at the moment at The River Café: if you phone and say the magic words (The Times) you too may enjoy a couple of courses for £22, or three for £28, stamina pending. It is a set menu as opposed to à la carte, but there must have been close to 20 dishes to choose from. And that's excluding desserts.

It took a good 15 minutes and some wine before a decision could be made between the ravioli, mozzarella, calamari, or rabbit to start. The homemade pumpkin ravioli was a sound choice. The 'quaglia ai ferri' however won hands down for the main. Here comes the translation: chargrilled flattened quail with castelluccio lentils and salsa d'erbe. And the verdict - phenomenal.

Not sure what the neighbouring table thought when I pulled out my camera and exclaimed 'My God! I have to photograph this', but I'm glad I did. It looks glorious and tasted even more so. And I think I might know why. Olive oil. More precisely, this one:

The label tells me it is a 2010 extra virgin oil from the Selvapiana Estate in Rufina (to the north-east of Florence). Specially selected, it is thick, green and fruity and all their food is doused in the good stuff, including the salsa d'erbe which is made with Italian bread, parsley and red chilli, all finely chopped and then dressed in olive oil and fresh lemon juice.

As the flavour predominantly comes from the oil, I promptly bought a bottle for £22, conveyed it home and had two tablespoons neat, whilst considering how bread ends up in salsa. Surely it would all squidge together at the press of a blade? The blond came to the rescue. 'It must have been stale' she said, and so it must of, for how else could the bread particles have been so fine?

Don't balk at the price and never underestimate a great olive oil. It can turn an entire meal around. The castelluccio lentils you can get from here at £15 a kilo (the good news is that they require no soaking) and 4 quails can be yours for less than a tenner from Borough Market.

Smithfield Market

Shakespeare's Macbeth has to be one of my favourite plays. I love a good tragedy. Macbeth is not only that, but full of strange happenings, like prophetic bearded ladies hanging out on hills in bad weather, so that suits me fine. Strange things are also supposed to happen when there's a full moon. And so they do. Like getting up at 4am to go meat shopping.

I highly recommend it full moon or not, although it does help if you have a partner in crime to share in the merriment. There is plenty to enjoy. For a start, 4am has to be one of the only times that driving in London becomes pure pleasure. The streets are your own, there are no charges to pay and parking is a doddle. It is also as close as London comes to feeling unpeopled...

Until you get to Smithfield Market that is. You will find it awash with white transit vans and populated by many a man in blood-stained overalls and hard hat.

They're a cheery bunch at Smithfield Market. I would be too if I worked in such a beautiful building. It's 140 years old. Dickens describes it in chapter 21 of Oliver Twist:

‘It was market morning. The ground was covered nearly ankle-deep with filth and mire; and a thick steam perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above. All the pens in the centre of the large area, and as many temporary ones as could be crowded into the vacant space, were filled with sheep; and, tied up to posts by the gutter-side, were long lines of beasts and oxen, three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a dense mass: the whistling of drovers, the barking of dogs, the bellowing and plunging of beasts, the bleating of sheep, and the grunting and squeaking of pigs; the cries of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides, the ringing of bells and roar of voices that issued from every public-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping and yelling; the hideous and discordant din that resounded from every corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the throng, rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene which quite confounded the senses.’

It has evolved since the 1830s of course, and thankfully the meat-men have so far been spared the fate of their compatriots who were evicted from Old Billingsgate in 1982 because the suits didn't care for the fishy smells.


Macbeth and the market have something in common: blood. And lots of it. If you are at all squeamish, the 'horrid image' of wholesale slaughter is probably not for you. The place is populated by a bevy of Bellona's bridegrooms chopping, sawing and hacking. You will most likely see a sow 'unseamed' from 'the nave to th' chops', so if that doesn't put you off, go. It is great fun.

You can buy: a suckling pig for £65; half a full grown pig (sawn straight down the middle Damien Hirst-style) for £60; lamb shanks by the dozen; rabbits skinned and gutted for a fiver; goats; all sorts of hoofs; heads; sweetbreads; tripe; offal; eggs; even vacuum packed potatoes... You can haggle till you're hoarse though as the traders just don't budge. Not for 1 kilo, not for 10, not for 100. 'If you bought 500 tonnes, then I might come down a bit' was one trader's reply, even when the blonde pledged she would commit to 70 kilos of chicken carcasses.

For me this morning's outing was oxen themed. According to Edward Mogg's New Picture of London, 110,000 oxen were eaten annually in our great city during the 1840s. That's impressive. I'm not sure how popular oxen is today, but I came back with these bits: 1 fresh oxtail (£4.50 a kilo) which came to £6 from William Warman & Guttridge; and 2 ox cheeks from Channel Meats.

I did make the mistake of first buying an oxtail from J.F Edwards for £9, but only thought to ask of its provenance and whether it had been frozen after I paid (these details are not made clear on any of the stalls). It was German and had previously been frozen. I was too shy to ask if I could return it, but hey-ho, it takes time to work out which traders are for you. Oh yes, I also bought a haggis for £2.50, which shall be eaten on the 25th of this month.

Back to the cheeks. Ox cheeks I have eaten only once before: Gordon Ramsay at Claridges a few years ago. They were marvellous, although the salmon coloured walls of that dining room I shall never forget. You can read about what I did with my oxtail here, and ox cheeks here.

I asked the chap at Channel Meats if he had any tips on how to cook the cheeks, and he said no, but added that they must be good because Gordon buys the exact same ones from him too.

4pm westbound on the A406

The sky has been looking rather wonderful at 4pm from the A406. Soft blues and haziness heading towards the Henley's Corner intersection.

Cod Cheeks at The Albion Pub, Islington.

Cod cheeks. Cod cheeks. Cod cheeks. Cod cheeks.

Cod cheeks have been on my mind since I ate them on Saturday night at The Albion Pub, Islington. They were simply phenomenal. So much so that in under 48 hours I have returned for round 2, with one family member in tow and the family dog, Guji. I even called on Sunday evening and again this morning to check the cheeks were in. Like Gatsby, with one hand on the ticker, I'm going back to relive the moment. By noon, I should be washing them down with an equally wonderful tipple of Black Sheep Bitter, pulled from the Albion pump.

And that is exactly what I did.

The Albion is a great pub. It is so for a number of reasons: the food is fab; the bar well stocked; they allow dogs; and with 72 hrs notice they will do a suckling pig that you will talk about for many a day to come. It has a garden for the summer and real fires in the winter.

Back to cheeks again. Cheeks seem to be appearing on menus with increasing regularity. Or could it simply be that now I know I like them I'm beginning to take note of their existence. Either way, I have to get to the bottom of this dish so I can fully satiate my urge to eat them every day. Skate knobs are another delicacy to master too, but more of that later.

There is no easy way of extrapolating recipes from chefs. It can be done, but god knows I've tried and failed on many an occasion. I sometimes wake at night in a cold sweat over a green tea ice cream I had in Cape Town: for neither love nor money would the chef budge. I fainted, I fawned, I fluttered my eyelashes but nope. Nada. At the Albion, my father's dog Guji disarmed them before I went for the jugular. You can read the recipe here, or better still, go there and have the dish proper. It's a steal at £6.50.

The Best Laid Plans...

'...the best laid plans...'
Most of us know that this verse ends 'in misery and pain', particularly my mother's students who struggle* each year with the border dialect of Burns's poem To A Mouse. But as I am neither mouse nor man, nor GCSE student, my plan should, with some luck, go to plan.

It is easy to assume so anyway from the comfort of the couch. Things will get a lot more exciting once I am out in the garden actually doing stuff - and making mistakes - but for now list-writing and reading seem the summation of my armchair exercise. I was reminded of this verse whilst dipping into the 5th scene Of Mice and Men this morn. It is a book I know well and admire greatly for its narrow framework and carefully detailed settings. Steinbeck has the ability to tell a story both economically and dramatically - not one of those 'why use one word when I can use twenty' types. It is also a text that insists on its artistry - and why not. My novel will too.

Tight design should equally apply to my future garden, although I am not sure that re-reading Curley's wife's rambling monologue will get me there. It is a good confession though, full of blighted dreams. What I should be reading is John Brookes's Garden Design Workbook. It offers a step-by-step guide to the design principles of creating the fantasy garden, beginning with a scale plan and ending with... success, I guess.

Here's the equipment he advises I need: a pencil (ye-es); a drawing board; a scale rule (described as indispensable); a compass (heaven forbid - I haven't used one since the 80s); circle templates; a 45º triangle and a 60º triangle. The last time I saw a compass put to good use was in secondary school - someone carving out HELP on the school desk during physics.

I am adding to this list of items my father's fabric tape and lots of tracing paper. The tape measures up to 30m. You can follow my first steps here.

*My mother has just read this post and has asked me to add that her students don't actually struggle.

Worm Café

To my mind composting and city gardens never seem to sit well in the same sentence. You alway imagine the compost hidden somewhere at the bottom of the garden, but there isn't a bottom to mine - it is simply too small to host the heap... and besides the smell and sight of this growing mound is the concern that Crack Fox and his friends might like to have a midnight rummage through my pile of peelings and egg shells. No thanks.

But there is an answer... a worm café. I am getting mine from Wiggly Wigglers. It isn't bad on the eye, and with some TLC will provide compost and 'worm tea' for life. Apparently the water from your kitchen waste percolates through the various levels to produce a liquid fertiliser. It is not cheap mind: £106 for the complete kit, with worms - yes, they send you 500 grams (approx. 1000) live native composting worms. But then you have free liquid feed for life and the satisfaction of knowing you have done your bit to help our precious planet. There are some helpful videos on the wiggly wigglers site, not to mention great feedback from people who have bought it.

It may be worth considering purchasing some DE (diatomaceous earth) while you are at it. DE is the fossilised remains of millions of microscopic unicellular plants (diatoms) that live in lakes and seas. The powder, sprinkled finely over peelings or what have you, will help control any fly problems you have with your wormery. It is not at all harmful to the worms. There are other uses for DE too - you can mix it with your compost to improve its moisture retention.

Special Plants Nursery

The wonderful thing about leaving London is coming back to it. I believe so anyway. But that doesn't stop me thinking I should leave London more often. It is amazing where you can end up after 2 hours in a car heading anywhere but the city centre.

The Special Plants Nursery in Cold Ashton is something of a mecca for me. It's just seven miles from Bath or a small detour from J18 of the M4, depending from which way you come. I drove the half hour from Nailsworth on the A46 and the journey was mighty fine, enhanced all the more by heavy mists and drizzle. I passed through Pensylvania and Petty France. By the by, there is a very good fish market and oyster bar in Nailsworth called William's. It is open till 4pm. I purchased a kilo of fresh squid from them, which I later stuffed, and was happy to note their carrier bags are biodegradable. I also purchased these handsome heads of organic garlic.

Anyway, back to business.  Once you turn off the A46, the half mile jaunt to the nursery takes you past many a sheep-strewn field. This part ticks all the country-side boxes... as I navigate Greenways Lane, the city-dweller inside me does fret how living at the end of such a narrow road be manageable. However, the chances of meeting another car head-on are slim in January. I'm not sure how many people make the trip in the winter months, but I was curious as to what Derry Watkins had growing. The answer is quite a lot actually.

The nursery is arranged according to the needs of different plants. There are a number of poly tunnels, each boasting a different array at various stages of growth. During the summer months the nursery thrives, but even in January it has charm by the bucket loads. There are signs of life everywhere. In the section designated to plants that require shade, sarcococca confusa caught my eye. Also known as 'Christmas Box', the description reads 'very fragrant white flowers in Jan, evergreen, small shrub for shade'. In this case 'small shrub' means a hight of 150cm and spread of 200cm. The flowers are quite unusual as the petals are very narrow. The leaves are glossy though, so I'm not sure this one is for me.

The cornus 'Midwinter Fire' is also not for our garden - but what a stunner. Being a Spurs fan, my husband is distressed by the colour red. The associations are all wrong. In one of the poly tunnels I met the nursery cat and spent a good half hour picking up the small plant pots it had knocked off the table ledge. It was a very friendly cat, no doubt happy to see a visitor, and followed me about with great affection.

Before leaving I called Derry to see if I could take a seed list and she directed me to her front door where it was handed over with some good advice. She thought it not a bad idea at all to empty the beds and start again, if I had the time and inclination. She also suggested that I test the soil's PH level before making any purchases. Her plants are mostly alkaline friendly being near Bath. She wondered if I might find my soil acidic and clay heavy. Then she stressed the importance of compost. 'I have more than I know what to do with' she mused, and then suggested the next time I come I fill the boot of my car with some. In terms of making my own compost longterm, although she had never used a worm café she conceded that it would work for a city garden where space is limited.

Road Trip - Gloucester

Gloucester is a beautiful part of the world. Lucky for me I have a friend who lives there, so tonight will be spent in a cotswold cottage, with good company, good wine (I shall be taking a bottle of Torre del Falasco 2006 Amarone, which I bought here) a dog and an open fire. Bliss.

Another plus is I get to visit one of my favourite nurseries, appropriately named Special Plants Nursery. And believe me, it is special. This is because it is run by a remarkable plantswoman called Derry Watkins, who is something of a miracle worker when it comes to all things horticultural. Plants respond well to her touch; she has a marvellous array of unusual ones and grasses for sale. I love grasses, so to get some tips in advance of purchasing mine later in the year, I shall be popping in to take a look at what is happening at her nursery in January. Derry is very patient and an excellent listener. She laughed when I called and asked if her nursery would be open. 'The only time the nursery isn't open' she said 'is when I have to go to the dentist'. It really is worth the trip from London, but rest assured, her team do also send seeds across the world and will mail a catalogue to you upon receipt of an SAE and 5 x 2nd class stamps.

The nursery is no more than a 10 minute drive from J18 of the M4. You get to it by driving a half mile down a country lane no more than a car width's wide. The nursery itself is adjacent to her house and garden. The garden is open every Wednesday in July, August and September. Better still, Derry hosts 'Special Tuesdays' where at 11am and 2.30pm a free talk in the garden is included with the £4 entry fee.

Derry's plants are both beautiful and strong; 'I grow anything that takes my fancy, anything that I'm crazy about' she says. This isn't the first time I have been to her nursery, but I am already excited to see what outdoor plants have survived the winter under her wing. You can read more about my visit here.

Coffee and Contemplation

My friend accidentally read a draft of this thinking I had written 'Coffee and Constipation'. No. Coffee is actually very good. And for constipation too as it happens. I drink less of it now that I no longer smoke cigarettes. The two used to be such good company...