I was back in Blighty for a week's detox after the torpor and excess of the Christmas/New Year holiday, during which I lay on the sofa for two weeks stuffing my face in front of the telly. Tarquin La Folle met me off the Eurostar, and after dropping off my luggage at Ye Olde Travelodge Inne, we stopped off at The Lamb in Lamb's Conduit Street, one of the contenders for the title of Oldest Pub in London, for a small libation, before heading towards Russell Square in search of sustenance. We ended up in The Old Amalfi in Southampton Row, which was empty when we arrived but by 9.00 pm was packed - mostly with Italian tourists! How unadventurous of them. I had veal - just because I could. Italian restaurants are the only places you can eat veal in England. It's as if they have an exemption from political correctness. Tarquin had bresaolo something or other. We ordered a £12 bottle of house red wine - when it came it was a Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, which was listed on the wine list at £18. A good start.
Sunday morning my first stop was the Café Pompidou on Pentonville Road, where I treated myself to a Full English with the Sunday papers and a pot of tea, which came to not much more than a fiver! You can take the girl out of the caravan but ... I then boarded a bus which was half full of Italian tourists (not the same ones) who all alighted, with me, at Camden Town, intending to re-visit Camden Market. I was last there 25 years ago, and my goodness, hasn't it grown? I counted at least five different markets, but was particularly impressed by The Stables, which reminded me a bit of the old Kensington Market where you could buy "hippie" paraphernalia back in the 70s. You know - cheesecloth smocks, joss sticks, mandala posters, T-shirts with pictures of marijuana plants, bongs and all that. Except it's vastly bigger and labyrinthine, like a real middle eastern souk. Beautiful, exotic, shiny things. Clothing, fabrics, shoes, jewellery ... and food. I regretted having had a late big breakfast, as I would have liked to try some of the many kinds of street food on offer whilst sitting on a Vespa, but was still picking the bacon out of my teeth. I bought a smashing pair of boots for 35 quid, the saving covered the cost of my train ticket so it was like getting a free trip.
Chalk Farm Road has a similar vibe to Carnaby Street or the Kings Road in the 1960s
The restaurant seating at Camden Lock Village market
The Stables market is full of equine sculpture such as these horses galloping out of the wall
With an hour or so to kill later that afternoon I took a bus down to the City of London, and wandered about amongst the strange juxtaposition of ancient monuments and futuristic edifices bereft of merchant bankers.
My camera is so good, it can even take pictures of the future. This is the
City of London at night as it will look when the Pinnacle is finished.
On the Monday morning I had 2 scrambled eggs on toast and a mug of tea for £2 in another greasy spoon. You'd pay more than that for a croissant in Starbucks. I then collected the rented jalopy and headed north out of the "Smoke" and onto the M1. Driving in UK is so much easier than on the Continent. Signage is much better, roads are more logically laid out, other drivers are more courteous and restrained - even in London, where I managed to avoid straying into the congestion zone. I didn't have one single prang and had a lovely drive up the motorway listening to Steve Wright in the afternoon and singing along to The Fifth Dimension's "Let the sun shine in".
Up in Northants I visited my friend Fernande-Arlette de la Foufounette, or Foufounette-Stickers as she now styles herself, since her Hello! type wedding back in 2007 to Bill Stickers, ex front man of the Prosecutors. Some of you may remember
my report - the speedboat, the helicopter, the fireworks, the Maharajah .... Anyway, Sweet F.A. (as Bill dubbed her in a song that just failed to make the top 200) is as delightful and fragrant as ever. We went for lunch to the
Fox & Hounds in Lower Harlestone, just on the edge of Norffampton, which is a gorgeous pub with a fab restaurant. The beams and flagstones are original 17th century, and are offset by the modern Scandinavian-style furniture. The food is
très gastro. F.A. had
pork fillet wrapped in pancetta, with gorgonzola cream sauce, and roasted potato & apple croquette, and I had
pesto-crusted cod with herb & spring onion mash, baked cherry tomatoes and sauce Choron (pictured below). Afterwards we drove to Great Brington, in the heart of what the Tourist Board likes to call "Diana Country" and poked our noses into rich people's gardens. F.A. is the most English of Frenchwomen, so much so that she does not even cook.
The next day I took a leisurely drive down the picturesque A508 to Milton-on-the-Keynes, where I had a most agreeable lunch at The Barge with The Lady Banjobile, a dear friend from my days out in the tropics, and a young man of her acquaintance known only as "The Doctor". I didn't ask - she's always been a free spirit. We camped by the roaring log fire and reminisced about our adventures in Africa, where we once danced the cancan in a dugout canoe going over Victoria Falls. Lady B wouldn't let me take any photographs of her, something about being wanted for credit card fraud in 14 countries, so for the benefit of Interpol here is picture of the pub where she may be found most days. I dished out bottles of Belgian beer and jars of real Flemish advocaat, aka electric custard, and the jalopy felt much lighter as I proceeded in a southerly direction.
On to Reading, Berks, where Vera Slapp and I took Aunt Flossie out to lunch at her favourite restaurant, the
London Street Brasserie. No Good Boyo knows the place. Aunt Flossie is a very loyal customer to restaurants she likes, and I am delighted she has found an alternative to the cafeteria at Debenham's which was her lunch venue of choice for the past 30 years. Apparently she takes her granddaughters to the Brasserie now, to show them how cool she is! She always has the Leffe beer battered gurnard and handmade fries - or fancy fish and chips (you can take the girl out of the caravan) but we managed to talk her into the
warm goat’s cheese, caramelised onion & tomato tart to start, whilst I had
terrine of local game, fig & port chutney, glazed beetroot, and sour dough toast, followed by a
whole grilled Cornish plaice with caper, shallot & parsley butter and potato & watercress salad. Afterwards Aunty just wanted a "nice cup of tea" and that is exactly what they brought her. Vera, more adventurous, ordered a "
tea pig" of liquorice and peppermint. It was extremely weird. At first, when it goes over the front part of your tongue, you only taste the liquorice. Then the peppermint hits the back of your tongue and you get the sweetness. It really messes with your head. She didn't like it much, so I finished it for her.
So much for a light lunch. Vera and Cyril took me out on a very long drive in the evening to
The Frog at Skirmett, near Henley, gastropub par excellence. I had roast rump of Oxfordshire lamb (not Berkshire, please note) which I pronounced to be officially The Best Lamb I Have Ever Tasted. You could have cut it with a runcible spoon. Vera had a
baked stuffed squash stuffed with spicy lentils and crumbled goat's cheese. Cyril, who's a bit like his mother-in-law, in more ways than he would like to admit, had
pie and mash. Apart from the superb quality of the food, the portions were very generous and the prices perfectly reasonable. So you can take your fricadelle, Monsieur Larousse, and put it where ze sun don't shine. The sun shone till the very last in Vera's village Midsomer Dibley, as the photograph at the top will attest.
Back in London, I paid a visit to Oxford Street but it's all gone to cock. I don't like what they've done to Selfridges one bit. It's gone all faux-trendy. My favourite little Italian lunch place, The Lucky Spot in North Audley Street, is no more. I spent my last evening in London at China City just off Russsell Square, tucking into a quarter crispy duck with pancakes, before making a last sweep of Waitrose and heading for St Pancras laden with Melton Mowbray pork pies, Paul Rankin sausages, Davidstowe cheddar, M&S cheese scones, tea bags, bacon and Lemsip. As if to torment me right up until the last minute, there were MORRIS DANCERS at St Pancras! A bunch of elderly geezers dressed up in straw hats, odd socks and bells were capering about to the sound of an accordion, while baffled Belgians and French looked on open-mouthed.
The Harrow Morris (for it is they) performing ancient
fertility rites, which were quite wasted on me
For the rest of the month I shall be nibbling on a lettuce leaf.
