Spending time in Cali.... Los Angeles Edition

OK. I am officially rubbish. Goodness knows how many dishes I’ve cooked and thought well, wouldn’t that be perfect for the blog. And how many times I’ve been out and thought oh I’ll just take a photo for the blog. But somehow. The blog has managed to stay in stasis for a few weeks.

But my recent trip to America was just too good to miss out on sharing with you fine folks.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve maybe been a bit snooty about people who go to America on holiday all the time – I mean where is the challenge in going to a country where they speak the same language? Pooh pooh to that. Well I take it back.

So let’s get down to business. The food. Well the first thing is that there was absolutely tonnes of it. If I talked through every dish I had while I was out there, we would be here for bleedin’ ever. So this is going to be a shortish run-through of the things that found a special place in my heart...

Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles

Ever heard the Notorious B.I.G song ‘Goin’ Back to Cali’. Well, I’ll tell ya, it’s a treat. I believe the lyrics go a something like this:

Frequently floss hoes at Roscoe's
If I wanna squirt her, take her to Fatburger
Spend about a week on Venice Beach
Sippin Crist-o, with some freaks from Frisco

Well ladies and gentlemen, this is Roscoe’s... And while I’m not down with the flossing of hoes (dont even want to think about what that means) I can say hand on heart that Biggie made a damned good call on this place.


The name of the restaurant says it all, chicken and waffles are the main attraction here. That is a plate of southern fried chicken, huge fluffy waffles drowned in a vat of maple syrup. Sceptical? I was but can see the appeal of this gorgeous little heart-attack on a plate. If you’re going at the weekend be prepared to queue.

I’m saving Fatburger for next time. Speaking of burgers...

Bob’s Original Double Deck Hamburger
Bob was a big boy. He ate lots of his own burgers, probably washed down with quite a few of his milkshakes too. Bob's is one of the original diners

They are very nice. For me though, half the excitement was checking out the vintage cars gathered in the parking lot for their weekly meet. Swing by on a Friday evening and hang out with the drivers who are a massive fount of (slightly obsessive) information about their Beach Boy-styled cars! Then chow down on a big juicy burger.

Melisse
After lounging around in my sandals and summer dresses, Melisse cropped up a refreshing breath of formality. Chef Josiah Citrin serves up a gorgeous amalgamation of haute-French cuisine at this Los Angeles institution. We were almost more impressed by the service than by the food and the food was excellent. Watching the waiters however, was like watching a well-rehearsed and much practiced ballet. Dishes were served with a flourish and worked their way through a catalogue of the most delectable ingredients....a trio of foie gras, artichoke soup, wagyu beef.

Asia de Cuba
Asian and Cuban food? Asia de Cuba pulls off what could be a disaster of flavours with excellent style. It’s no wonder that this is one of the Sunset Boulevard hotspots... That and the rather cute waiter....



Santa Barbara Wineries – Kalyra & Fess Parker
I couldn’t go to California without heading out to some wineries. So when Rachel had the brilliant idea of visiting some of the wineries from Sideways in Santa Barbara County, I was enthusiastic to say in the least. We started off with Kalyra, a small winery in Santa Ynez headed up my Aussie-born winemaker Mike Brown.

I’m not going to pretend to be an expert but the Sangiovese caught my tastebuds’ attention ...

We moved on to the larger, more industrial Fess Parker winery a fifteen minute drive away where the pours were on the generous side. Hence the notice...

I find it hard to get excited about wine in the same way that I do about food but the woman behind the bar was incredible and her passion was infectious. So Rachel and I got a bit tiddly and passed out in the car back to LA. The end. I did pick up a Riesling that I’ll be cracking out at the Christmas Supper Club in a few days. I loved it at the time, but the subsequent hangover obliterated the reasons why... will keep you updated.

Gin gin ginned – The Elgin

Once in a while, you’ll form a tumultuous relationship with a food or drink that will rock you to the core and never leave you the same again, in the manner of Scarlett and Rhett. The first one I remember was with Marmite. As a nipper I loved the stuff.

I won’t go into full details in case you marmite haters chunder a little in your mouth but my memories include the usual suspects – Marmite and Toast, Marmite and crackers but also a few more erratic dishes (Marmite, baked beans and mashed potato anyone) and sometimes a grubby finger dipped straight into that brown pot and transferred straight to the mouth. Then, one day, I woke up and I hated the stuff. I still can’t get my nose near the pot without going an unflattering shade of ashen brown and getting all wriggly about the mouth.

The reverse has been true of gin. I don’t remember having any childhood opinions about gin (well, it would be rather worrying if I did) but I know that when I went to uni, the general impression I had about the stuff was that it was a) The drink of old whiskery ladies b) absolutely vomit-inducingly vile.

To say I disliked it could take the prize as the understatement of the century, so much so that when a friend decided to start up the Oxford Gin Appreciation Society (OGAS), I put myself forward for the role of equal drinks opportunities officer. But, as Sam wrote more and more letters to the various gin distilleries dotted about the UK and the bottles of free gin started to land on our doorsteps, I found myself increasingly tempted. Surely it couldn’t be that bad?

The ice was completely broken one night when we held the OGAS Gin Olympics (known as watching Eurovision with various gin-based dishes such as gin pineapple upside down cake and gin jelly to the rest of the world) and I discovered that gin was really quite nice. And we’ve been in love since, happily ever after and all that crap.

So, when the old gin palace in Ladbroke Grove The Elgin reopened a year ago, I was intrigued... Other than their continuing association with dodgy Victorian types, gin palaces haven’t received much attention over recent years. And this was one that claimed to have over 35 gins behind the bar and served some excellent food to boot.

My recent trip to Bob Bob Ricard had got me thinking about the pairing of alcohol and food. Wine of course, but even beer and vodka have received their fair share of exploration in terms of pairing with food. But gin? Not so much... So I had a chat with the manager at The Elgin to see if she could put together a few things and she did.

A dense, meat-packed smoked duck salad was paired with a Cauronn gin all the way from Speyside, Scotland, which brought out the rich flavours of the duck quite well, the smoked salmon salad with a saffron gin was another winner.



My favourite by far was the grilled sea bass, which was served with a Hendrick’s gin and tonic with cucumber instead of the lime. Not only was the cucumber an ideal foil for the delicate sea bass, but the overall effect was one of a light and refreshing meal that suited a late-summer’s evening to a t.

Unsurprisingly Clare voted that her steak would have been better off with a red wine, but it was an experiment that was worth doing and, she was still left with a gorgeous steak that she put swiftly away before guzzling the gin afterwards.

We were too full for dessert – so instead we sipped on a sloe gin on the rocks as a sweet ending to the meal before tottering off home. It definitely got me thinking, if you have any ideas about the pairings, give me a shout I’d be very interested to hear them.

Waiting rating: Ingenious pairing of food and gin. Nuff said.
Scoffing potential: Almost as good as the drinking potential, which is almost unlimited.
Wallet buddy: Not too cheap, not at all steep as we like to say down at the Grove.
The crowd: Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts popping in from Notting Hill for a quiet bite and drink rah rah rah
96 Ladbroke Grove,
Ladbroke Grove
020 7229 5663

Girls Love Steak Too! The Lonsdale

I'll start this blog post by admitting that I'm slightly embarrassed because it is mainly about steak. Again.

Someone (male) said to me the other day 'You love your steak an awful lot for a girl'. Yes I do. But what does that even mean? Because I have mammaries that I am not supposed to like eating a healthy slice of big fat steakiness? Not this girl my friend. He of course tried to retract it with some kind of mumbled jumble about well 'girls normally like salads and stuff, you know, all that rabbit food, tofu, salad err'. He slowly stuttered into silence under the glare of my withering gaze.

'So I'm not girly then, is that it?' 'No no, of course not, you know what I mean' I obviously didnt and said words much to that effect before he uttered the singlemost worst thing he has ever said to me. "Well, it's not very ladylike Julianna." 6 days later and I am still barely speaking to him. So here it is for the record.

I will totter around in heels, much to my simultaneous pleasure at looking about 5 inches taller and chargrin that the price is the discomfort of considering every movement I make in them in terms of potential pain factors. I very rarely wear trousers (apparently another unladylike thing according to my prehistoric-era neanderthal buddy). I like the so-called girly foods such as salads, tofu, brown rice, soba noodles - in other words HEALTHY food that my dear little friend the oik doesnt seem to have got his head around. But I also like, scrap that, love a steak 'raw and wriggling' to quote Gollum and blue as can be. So there.

Which is why my Thursday night sojourn to The Lonsdale was really a very pleasant one. Myself and Anne-Laure from Tasty Diaries descended on Notting Hill's newly reopened bar/ restaurant/ club ready for a night of girly chatter, cocktails and steaks. And that's exactly what we got.




The Lonsdale achieves that rare combination of being as much of a bar as it is a restaurant. It's one of my pet hates for a place to be described as a bar and restaurant, only to find when you arrive that if you're not eating you're shoved onto a high stool at the front and treated with a disdain normally reserved for lepers. No such thing in existence here, you're encouraged to plump yourself down wherever you like (if you're clever, on the leather banquettes towards the back of the venue) and peruse the cocktail or food menus, whichever takes your fancy.

It wouldnt have been too hard to get rather steaming on the cocktails alone, which were worth the trip themselves. Expertly mixed, the list would take weeks to work through - you may regard this as a challenge. I'd be thoroughly interested to hear if anyone ever takes it up.

Overall the food was very good. The steaks at The Lonsdale are bought from Allens of Mayfair, the oldest of London's master butchers who are, confessedly a dab hand at the craft after 120 years of practice. While the Sirloin steak with mustard sauce was admittedly, a little on the tougher side than we would have liked, the filet with bearnaise was flawless: a moderately large slab of meat that would have shone even being eaten on its own but went perfectly with a few chips and a fresh tomato, basil and onion salad. Sorry kiddos, no photographic evidence of the actual steak..

To round it off, we got stuck into the Sticky Toffee Pudding and Creme Caramel, both of which were very tasty, but proved too much after the other two courses.
And then, off we tottered in our high heels, post cocktails, post giggles and post steak. So far, neither of us has grown a mystery beard or hairy feet as a consequence. So a message for my friend. Girls like steak too. Please drag yourself out of the 1800s, I love you too much to let you run around alienating the fillies as you have been known to call us with silliness such as that above...

The Anthologist - A Bookmark in the Anthology of an Avid Eater

Well, it's been a rather busy week of eating in a few of London's newest restaurants, in which one of the highlights was undoubtedly The Anthologist, on the outskirts of The City on Gresham Street.

I hadn't heard about the restaurant cum bar until last week, but it appeared that lots of others had because it was packed to the rafters, impressive, even for a Thursday night.

Because of the location, there were the expected city types hanging around - lawyers, bankers et al - a friendly crowd refreshingly lacking any of that 'Oi you stepped on my toe' rabble you'd find in my Brixton local (joking ahem).

Especially pleasant becuase the standard of clientele was not too displeasing in the looks department either, making me very glad that I'd decided not to go with the hoboesque hole-y jeans and wifebeater remaining in the clean non-taken-to-Glasto pile of clothes in the wardrobe in the morning.

Menu-wise, it was quite a random assortment of international flavours - one glance took in dishes from Thailand, Italy and, of course, some good old British standards. For mains I ordered the steak and chips.

There's always some kind of residual guilt thing going on when I know I'm going to write something up for the blog and I order something a bit dull like steak and chips. But as soon as I tucked into the plate of meat they served up I sent a silent thank you to the rebel in me. It was amazing.



For something so simple, so many restaurants get steak and chips so wrong - the meat's too tough, it's overdone, it's dry, it's flavourless, it's all fat and no lean - just a few from the catalogue, and that's only the steak. But this was excellent. The steak was blue, just as requested, almost overwhelmingly juicy and bursting with flavour. The chips were crunchy and chippy. Fluffy and yummy. Nuff said.


The truffled chips were equally good!

The dessert list was like a roll call of all your favourite little friends coming out to play; Eton Mess, Chocolate Brownie, Creme Brulee - nothing too adventurous but all well executed and testament to the fresh ingredients. As we're slap bang in the middle of strawberry season, it seemed like a crime to shy away from the Eton Mess, so much so that we both had it. Another unregretted decision.

And then, when the wine/cocktails had been drunk and the food had been eaten, it was time to leave. I can't speak for Farzana but I was fairly preoccupied carefully hiding the food baby that had magically appeared - sidling out of the restaurant sideways might have made me look a bit weird but better than looking a bit pregnant (a suspicion that was only reinforced by the fact that someone offered me their seat on the tube on the way home... though he was cute and it turned out he was just young, Australian and polite, or at least so he claimed later).

It was a steak as big as my head

No lie. I sat and stared at it. It stared right back at me. Immediately, I knew this steak meant business. Meaty, bloody, tasty business that would leave me disdainful of all other steaks I’ve had in my life....

Well you’ll probably want a bit of background and who am I to deny? Let’s set the scene, I am sitting in La Cabrera - often referred to as Argentina’s best steakhouse, or parilla (no easy task as there’s one everywhere you turn). There are ten of us at the table – and though the buzzing sound of chit chat and laughter had been quite prominent a few seconds before, the silence hung over each and every person. The kind of silence that comes about because you have so much to say that it’s not even worth saying anything, that saying nothing is actually the nearest thing you can get to coming close to expressing what you are feeling. Scene set? Moving on.



“That’s the biggest steak I’ve ever seen in my life”. The silence was broken by Mike, and everyone quickly chimed in with some form of agreement. But then it was quiet again, the only noise the sloshing of the wine into the equally gluttinous-sized glasses as the waiter worked his way down the table and as people divvied the steaks in two and began to take in the true meaning of an Argentinean asado. I almost didn’t want to eat it in case it turned out to be a disappointment – no chance. The first taste was exquisite, the second taste was sublime. The third, fourth and fifth disappeared in a haze of steak-infused haze that I can only vaguely recall with a shiver down my spine and a smile on my face.


It's a rubbish picture but you get the point when that's HALF the steak...

Although there were sauces and chips and pumpkin and many, many accompaniments, all I was concerned about was the steak. Screw papas fritas, how good can chips be? And sauces? Who needs sauce? I grudgingly conceded to some pumpkin as an effort at a balanced meal (a poor one you needn’t point out) but, really, it was like having one of Cinderella’s ugly sisters on stage at the same time as Marilyn Monroe – the contrast is so great that the ugly sister suddenly appears to be a sub-human ork-like animal when really she is just an unfortunate looking lass with a few warts. In fact, if you’d seen her on her own, you wouldn’t have thought she was that bad at all.

The only other thing I was really paying attention to was the glass of Argentinean Malbec gracing my hand in between each steakfested mouthful. Whoever first decided that red wine and a good (great!) steak went hand in hand really deserves a page in history.



Rewind a few hours. I’d been told that there was a steakhouse so good that people queued for hours outside to get a seat and a bite and I’d laughed. How good could one steak be? It’s the middle of Argentinean winter and therefore fairly nippy outside. I’d obviously be game, because I’m a curious soul who’s always wanting to put these things to the test but the rest of the city? Especially when you can walk right into any steakhouse and pretty much guarantee a decent if not mindblowing feed?

Well if I hadn’t been so busy eating my steak, I’d have been eating my words. In the end ten of us went to the restaurant, which meant a very long wait outside, in the cold. But you know what, it wasn’t so bad. We had heaters (good), free slices of chorizo (good good), champagne (err excellent) and a whole lot of conversation.



By the time they found us a table someone slyly suggested that we stay for one more on the house, but we figured we might as well see what the fuss was about. And now I know, and now you know and I will never laugh at the idea of waiting outside a restaurant again.