At the legendary Ibiza ‘MediterrAsian’ venue, Zoë Perrett discovers the art of zen… and sharing plates

Bambuddha may be one of Ibiza’s best-known venues, but Googlemaps doesn’t seem to have heard of it – for it directs you to a small backstreet in Santa Eularia and not the famous San Juan ‘restaurant road’ which hosts 10 great eateries along an 8km section.

The restaurant website notes the error, so we’re the ones at fault. Screeching up to the valet parking, we make heartfelt apologies for our tardy arrival which are waved aside by the friendly front desk crew, who reassure us that we’re not the first to have reached the venue via an unnecessarily circuitous route.

No matter how fraught your journey’s been, though, entering Bambuddha provides instant chill. Located within an impressive Thai pyramid structure filled with Buddhist statues and natural materials, it aims to – and succeeds in – offering a ‘Mediterrasian’ experience.

A vast chandelier takes centre stage; carefully-directed neon cleverly employed at lower levels to create a moody ambience and instil a feeling that you’re dining alfresco although the opposite is true. Above our heads, a painting lends Oriental touches to a depiction of Dalt Vila. It’s quirky, and it’s cool.

Much like the menu – a behemoth that boggles the mind and tempts you to over-order. Luckily, staff are well-versed when it comes to dispensing advice on quantity and type. We rapidly discover that (depending on appetite and greed) we should go for 2-3 per person, and that service is ‘Asian-style’: food is for sharing and delivered as it’s ready, rather than in staggered courses.

Kicking off with a cocktail is never a bad idea. Bambuddha’s list raises a smile before we even raise a glass; each drink boasting a suggestive moniker. I go for the Foreplay – a long combination of Tanqueray, yellow Chartreuse, rhubarb syrup, lemon, watermelon, liquorice bitters and tonic that’s a happy match to the salted edamame we’re nibbling.

A little bamboozled by the sheer breadth of choice on Bambuddha’s menu (split into well-populated sections headed Dim Sum, Bao, Kushi, Green, Raw, Sea, Soup, Curry, Sushi, Sashimi and, finally, sides), we put our appetites in the hands of the kitchen.

The first dish to be brought to the table by our knowledgeable waitress is a som tam. The Thai papaya salad is simultaneously sweet, sour, sharp and spicy – a fragrant, refreshing start to the meal. A pretty plate of yuza hamachi follows; the yellowtail slices cut slightly thicker than is traditional, designed to be wrapped around the fresh basil and red chilli scattered atop the fish.

Bambuddha’s signature Sashimi Blossom delivers not only six pieces of super-fresh tuna, salmon, and hamachi, but also a range of seaweeds – all beautifully arranged in an edible tapioca crisp basket. Ebi tempura urumaki combines the raw and the cooked; the sushi roll a fusion number which combines those crispy prawns with avocado, asparagus, onion marmalade and spicy mayo.

The wagyu burger is my highlight of the meal. It transpires that it’s also one of our waitress’s favourites, and a highly popular order amongst regulars. Featuring a soft steamed bao in place of the typical bun, chilli jam, and a Big Mac-style sauce, the whole thing is, quite frankly, finger-licking good – handy, because it leaves delectable meat juices on my digits.

Kowloon King Crab is delivered along with the information that the dish was inspired by the chef’s visit to Hong Kong with his Chinese girlfriend. How faithful the recreation is I can’t comment upon, but what I can say is that the winning combination of sweet seafood, spicy tobanjan creamy sauce and chilli flakes almost moves my dining companion to tears.

Buddhism is big on balance, and we feel that our mostly-healthy meal affords us an indulgent dessert. Or five, for we opt for the two-or-more-person ‘Group Orgasm’ – an assiette showcasing Bambuddha’s sweetest treats.

There are serious pastry skills on show here. A mango-based Anni Xian Bing creme brulee is lifted with a zip of ginger; dots of violet and calamansi gel are teamed with an Aperol sorbet; a toffee and cereal pannacotta is made sweetly savoury by a chocolate-miso ganache and ‘salty butter sand’.

I love the ‘Kietsu’ – a cheesecake-like confection inspired by Japan’s cherry blossom season, but it’s a merry mix-up of coconut milk foam, dulce de leche, banana, Oreo crumb topped with peanut and chocolate ‘roots’ that really floats my boat.

We might not quite have reached nirvana at Bambuddha but we’ve certainly enjoyed our evening… and sampled some rather good food that’s put us on the path to gastronomic enlightenment.

Make it real

Where? Bambuddha, San Juan, KM 8.5, 07840 Santa Eulària des Riu, Ibiza, Iles de Baleares, Spain
Find out more: To visit the website, click here

Okay: so by British standards, it’s actually a cake; but in Greece (or at least Naxos, where I discovered it), it’s known as orange pie – or ‘portokalopita’ if you fancy getting your tongue round new words as well as new flavours.

But whatever your chosen nomenclature, orange pie is utterly delicious: syrupy; citrussy; almost juicy. It also employs one of the most intriguing methods I’ve (n)ever come across: replacing flour with crisp-baked, broken filo sheets.

The result? A cake with a unique texture: pudding-like, punctuated with chewy little pieces you’d be hard-pressed to identify as pastry.

Soak the whole shebang in a rich orange syrup (which I’ve un-traditionally laced with orange liqueur for a deeper, more marmalade-y flavour), and you’ve got a crowd-pleasing dessert guaranteed to wow even the most learned foodie dinner guest…

GREEK ORANGE PIE RECIPE

Makes approximately 10 servings

INGREDIENTS

For the syrup:

• 100ml Cointreau (or other orange liqueur, but this has the ‘cleanest’ orange flavour), optional
• 300ml orange juice (ideally freshly-squeezed – use the zest in the cake)
• 450ml water
• 500g granulated sugar
• 200g demerara sugar

For the cake:

• 450g filo pastry sheets (defrosted if frozen)
• 2 oranges (for boiling – bitter Sevilles if you can get ’em in season)
• 250g granulated sugar 
• 2 large eggs
• 250g vegetable oil 
• 250g full-fat milk
• 3 oranges, zest only (use the juice for the syrup) 
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1 tsp baking soda 
• 1 tsp baking powder 

METHOD

1. For the syrup, place the Cointreau, orange juice, water and sugars in a large saucepan set over medium heat and stir until all the sugar has dissolved.

2. Bring to the boil, then remove from the heat and set aside until required (if preferred, you can make the syrup a couple of days ahead and refrigerate ’til required).

3. For the cake, preheat the oven to its lowest heat, and grease and line a 30cm x 30cm baking tin.

4. Separate out your filo sheets and scrunch each one up, then pop them onto baking trays and bake in the oven for around 1 hour, until completely dry and crisp. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool.

5. While the filo is in the oven, place the 2 whole oranges in a large saucepan of cold water set over medium heat.

7. Bring to the boil, and simmer for 1 hour (until the filo sheets come out of the oven). Remove from the water and set aside to cool.

8. Increase the oven temperature to 180^οC (160^οC fan), and place the cooled oranges (yes; the whole lot; skin’n’all) in a food processor along with the sugar.

9. Blitz the oranges and sugar together until smooth, then add all the remaining cake ingredients and blitz to a smooth batter. Transfer to a large mixing bowl and set aside.

10. Crumble the cooled, crisp filo sheets into small pieces (not dust!!!), and gradually mix it all into the cake batter, stirring until evenly combined.

11. Pour the batter into the prepared 30cm x 30cm baking tin, and bake for 45 minutes, or until a skewer inserted in the middle of the cake comes out clean.

12. Remove the cake from the oven and use a skewer to piece tiny holes all over the surface (stick it almost all the way through).

13. Pour the reserved, cooled syrup evenly over the entire surface of the hot cake in four batches, allowing it to soak in completely before adding the next batch. (if you’ve let the cake go cold before this step, heat the syrup first – hot cake=cold syrup; cold cake=hot syrup).

14. After the final batch of syrup has been added, set the syrup-soaked cake aside for at least 30 minutes.

15. Serve warm; ideally with vanilla ice-cream, although Greek yogurt works well too if you’re aiming to be slightly less sinful (or want a tangy counterpoint). Or go for a Terry’s vibe with a scoop of chocolate ice-cream, a la Paradise Taverna Kastraki…

More tasty inspiration?

• For my ultimate travel guide to Naxos (including where to get the Greek island’s best orange pie), click here
• For more recipes from all over the globe, click here

Infuriatingly intangible, difficult to define and supremely savoury – what exactly is ‘umami’? Zoë Perrett gets to grips with this tricky taste…

Ever get that warm glow of ultra-satisfaction from a particularly flavoursome titbit or a spoonful of deeply-savoury gravy? Umami. Ever had cause to take pause after biting into a rich, ripe tomato? Umami. Ever slicked Marmite onto morning toast, splashed soy into a stir-fry, or sprinkled Parmesan on pasta? Umami, umami, umami.

But what on earth does the word actually refer to? It’s a tricky question, and there are many answers, depending on who you ask. Its literal translation from the Japanese is beautifully beguiling: ‘savoury deliciousness’.

You might not know that umami is present, but its absence can leave you feeling deprived. It has the power to bring wishy-washy flavours sharply into focus and turn flat, dull dishes three-dimensional and technicolour.

Here comes the science bit…

Although we all experience its effect in our daily dining, umami didn’t officially arrive on the food science scene until 1908, and its intricacies remain rather foggy for all but the most scientifically-minded foodies.

Professor Kikunae Ikeda was the man who coined the term ‘umami’ to describe a taste sensation he established as unique from the four known basic tastes at the time: salty, sweet, sour and bitter. In this instance, it came from the amino acid glutamate; further Japanese research also attributed its character to fellow aminos, inosinate and guanylate.

So the world knew umami existed, but it wasn’t until 2002 that dedicated taste bud receptors were discovered on the tongue. Umami’s persistent, lingering character is perceived all over the tongue, literally making the mouth water. As humans, we’re born loving it; both amniotic fluid and breast milk are glutamate-rich.

Umami features in food the world over, but it is especially prevalent in Asian cuisines where many common ingredients such as MSG – the much-maligned ‘universal taste enhancer’ – fish, seaweed, miso, dried mushrooms and soy are rich in the three key amino acids. It may also be one of the reasons for our abiding love affair with Japanese, Korean and Chinese food.

Helpful for health?

If you’re eschewing fat in a bid to get your silhouette slimmer, amp up the umami to make a dish feel full-bodied. It’s also known to trigger a feeling of satiety in the brain, so those who seek out the sensation may well feel full on less food and fewer calories.

Easy ways to add umami – What to buy and how to use it

• Parmesan: Grate and bake mounds into crisp wafers, and use rinds in soups and stocks
• Dried mushrooms: Rehydrate to top pizzas and use the
  liquid in the dough
• Olives: Pulse into a tapenade and spread under a whole chicken’s skin before roasting
• Onions: Caramelise and use as the base of a gravy with beef stock and Madeira.
• Celery salt: Use as a dip for asparagus spears
• Miso: Add a small spoonful of mellow red or brown miso paste to chocolate cake mix
• Soy sauce: Splash into home-made caramel or roast nuts with soy and honey
• Anchovies: Stuff fillets and fresh rosemary into slashes in a leg of lamb and bake
• Tomato purée: Knead into bread dough or enrich home-made tomato soup
• Kombu seaweed: Slice and simmer in soup or dry-roast and then crumble as a condiment

The name of Russell Norman’s Farringdon trattoria may translate as ‘ugly’, but, says Zoe Perrett, Brutto is a beaut

Yeah I’m beyond fashionably late visiting Brutto, but that’s down to the similarly tardy opening of the Elizabeth Line, without which Farringdon was a right faff for this Isle of Dog-ian. Now I can zip from Canary Wharf to Farringdon in just 9 minutes, the world is my oyster – and Brutto is my local tratt.

And what a tratt, at that. Russell Norman’s never been a chap to deliver duds, and a year-and-a-quarter after opening its doors on the former Hix Oyster & Chop House site, Brutto remains packed at every service. Great for them, not so great for us bowling up on a Thursday evening in December, wing and prayer to hand in lieu of a booking, fully prepared to wind our necks in and, in seasonally-apt style, be informed that there’s no room at the inn.

But we have a kernel of hope in the fact that LB and I seem to have luck in our favour when it comes to being granted instant access to insanely popolare Italian gaffs; vis New York’s Don Angie, which reportedly gets 400 booking enquiries a day, yet our chancing it one Saturday night was rewarded with a table at which we enjoyed of the best dinners we ate that side of the pond. If everyone has a guardian angel looking over them in some aspect of life, then ours clearly has a penchant for pasta.

And indeed fate (or more probably Brutto’s GM, Monique Sierra) smiles upon us on this occasion too, in the form of Table 8 – a sometimes-present two-top carefully tessellated into Brutto’s floorplan leaving just enough room for the waitstaff to nimbly dance – quite literally when a particularly groovy synth-pop song comes on – between us and our neighbours.

There’s an exacting art to table spacing, and Russell and team have painted a gingham-tableclothed masterpiece here, creating a proximity to one’s fellow diners that’s intimate without being the slightest bit intrusive. The same crowded-not-cluttered vibe is echoed in the picture-laden walls, the draped-napkin-style lampshades which resemble the ghosts of Nonnas past, and the general, gorgeous hustle-bustle and hubbub of a busy restaurant doing its thing.

It’s Christmas – or near enough – so in spite of sparkly water usually being my most extravagant tipple, I treat myself to a cocktail. The addition of grapefruit soda to my negroni-based-bev is one that’s both delicious and dangerous; rendering this typical sipper so gluggable that I’ve downed it before LB’s even raised his dry martini.

The chicken liver toasts we’re sharing to start call for wine and, just as LB calls for a list, UB40 start singing about the Red, Red sort – which of course is precisely what he’s after. An exceedingly well-priced Beaujolais is full of red fruit and bright acidity – the fermented-grape equivalent of Madagascan chocolate. The pâté, meanwhile, reminds me of a food memory far more glorious than it sounds on (digital) paper: a particular kind sold in Sainsbury’s in the late 80s (although four year-old me never slathered it on St. John sourdough). Don’t for a second think this is a diss: its bright yellow-and-red label is carved so deeply and fondly into my memory for good reason.

To follow bread we have pasta, which seems only sensible given that achieving extra personal padding currently costs less than turning on the heating. Locanda Locatelli’s tortelloni in brodo has long been one of LB’s death row dishes; with its robust, hearty, fittingly Florentine character, Brutto’s is a very different beast, but it, too, instantly joins his pre-mort menu. For me it’s mushroom tagliatelli because, magical or not, I’m always fond of fungi – and I like this chantrelle’n’chestnut affair a lot.

LB’s already panicking he’s too full to do his main course justice, so I suggest he dons his recently-acquired reading glasses and summons up an alter ego – a la Superman/Clark Kent – who’s still hungry. Whether it’s the method acting or the sheer allure of his Tuscan beef shin stew, he makes a fairly heroic effort when it arrives and, after a sneaky spoonful of a stew so rich thick’n’ flavoursome it could almost be rechristened ‘Meat Jam’, I assume the role of selfless sidekick to help him out still further.

On my own plate are fat pork and fennel sausages, earthy, herby braised green lentils, and a sinus-clearing dollop of Dijon mustard – a triumvirate only a fool would argue leaves any tastebud untingled, and a dish in which the bangers are banging. Celery and tarragon pep a green salad to a level that has LB declaring it his best ever, while a bowl of tiny roast potatoes are up there with my Godmother’s God-tier ones.

Always craving something sweet – although heaven knows why when he’s got me – LB orders an affogato, and puts paid to the espresso-drowned vanilla ice-cream faster than Santa on a mission to get through every mince pie left out for him on Christmas Eve. Given its immediate proximity and the fact that party season is upon us, I attempt to capitalise on his caffeine buzz by proposing a post-prandial pop into Fabric before we head for home, but he’s not having it (and after all those carbs, I doubt even a doppio would have done the trick).

An eyebrow-raisingly reasonable bill later, we reluctantly leave Brutto’s cosseting embrace, utterly enamoured. There are few restaurants that feel totally transportive, but this place sits amongst their number: to dine at Brutto is to feel safe, cosy, joyful and utterly removed from whatever’s happening outside its four walls when you’re inside them. I reckon a full apocalypse could be raging on Cowcross Street (and let’s face it, with the permacrisis that is 2022 it’s an entirely probable prospect), and still everything would seem alright for the duration of your dinner. Respite at first bite is a thing, and it’s a thing to be celebrated.

MAKE IT HAPPEN

• Brutto, 35-37 Greenhill Rents, London EC1M 6BN
• Visit Brutto’s website here
• Find @brut.to on Instagram

Main image: Resy

In which Zoë Perrett gets tarted up and checks out a Derbyshire hotel with a lengthy heritage and fantastic food 

Confession time: we went to Bakewell and committed a culinary crime.

Any fule kno you’re supposed to buy your sweet treats from the town’s Old Original Bakewell Pudding Shop, whose once-owner Mrs. Wilson put the eponymous baked item on the menu – and Britain’s culinary map – back in 1921, but, owing to heavy rain and the proximity of a parking space, we opted instead for the delights purloined by The Bakewell Tart Shop.

And what’s more, we went for the heathen’s choice – aka the shortcrust tart version rather than its puffy, puddingy predecessor.

As we took our leave, the town’s purists may well have already been circulating a petition to have us stoned for our flagrant disregard for tradition. But if so, we remained blissfully ignorant: safely back in the car, stuffing our faces with the spoils and passing towns whose names inspired our Bond villain alter egos: Lickpenny and Dethick.

Parading around The Peacock

We arrive in Matlock with the car’s interior newly-decorated with buttery pastry crumbs, smears of rich frangipane and sticky jam fingerprints; as though Storm Callum had snuck in through the air vents and wreaked havoc. It’s not just our vehicle who’s feeling the effects of our consumption – both LB and I are in dire need of a lie down.

Thankfully we’ve parked up within staggering distance of The Peacock, where we’re checking in to check out the Grade 2-listed, triple AA Rosette-d restaurant-with-rooms owned by Lord and Lady Edward Manners, who reside just up the road at Haddon Hall.

Operating as a hotel since 1832, the 17th-century former manor house is a beaut; the styling of its 15 bedrooms, bar and restaurant deftly swerving twee country house overload whilst retaining many traditional elements which honour the building’s heritage; including Violet Manners’s society portraits.

Through our room’s lovely leaded windows we can see it’s still tipping it down, so instead of actually going to local caverns like the charmingly-named Devil’s Arse, we visit vicariously via the medium of a comprehensive guest information folder. Then, exhausted from our explorations, we snuggle down to watch a Four In A Bed omnibus in which none of the featured hostelries are as nice as the one from which we’re watching.

Were we not so easily pleased by daytime programming, we could have got our audiovisual kicks from The Peacock’s ample DVD library. We’ve also been invited to participate in homemade shortbread, but after our excessive Bakewell intake, to do so seems somewhat (over)gluttonous.

Season’s eatings

After LB’s obligatory nap and my attempt to melt away some of the calories by lying in a scalding hot bath for an hour, we make our way to the bar: a snug space with thick stone walls, a low ceiling and an open fire, where the olde world vibe makes you feel like something in your pitch-perfect margarita has spun you back a century or three.

Reading the menu, however, brings you firmly back into the present. The Peacock’s longtime head chef Dan Smith’s modern British food evolves in step with the seasons, based around local produce. Dan’s dish descriptions are taciturn, proffered merely as lists of key components. But each set of ingredients reads like culinary poetry – or at the very least, as a crash course in what works with what on a plate.

Having put paid to a lilliputian truffled mushroom soup with a brown crab arancini – one of those amuses you’d happily supersize in lieu of a real meal – we move though to the understated, bijou dining room where we’re accosted by a bread basket whose contents threaten to stop us in our tracks before starters: the most notable culprit a damp, dark treacle loaf.

We dine respectively from land and sea. I can’t resist the starter which absolutely epitomises a British autumn: gamey grouse, elderberries, a lentil and black pudding ragout, and a silken, ingenious riff on bread sauce based on toasted croissants. LB’s gone with an altogether more exotic affair, where delicate white crab meat meets yuzu mayo and warm dashi broth.

My Derbyshire beef fillet boasts far more of roast-y, umami character than its ruby red appearance would indicate – its robust flavours echoed and enhanced by comte ravioli and cauliflower. LB’s main plays on contrasts rather than complements – buttery-sweet pollock, ferrous brassicas and salty Morteau sausage proving a triumphant triumvirate.

Puds – sticky toffee pudding and a bittersweet Casa Luker chocolate tart with prunes and chestnuts – are good, but most exceptional is a pre-dessert of Mirabelle plum granita, chantilly cream and a fudgy hedgerow sorbet whose parts, in spite of their chilly temperatures, collectively conjure the experience of eating a fruit crumble with custard.

Bed… and breakfast

Fullness and fatigue preclude a nightcap back in the bar, so instead it’s more in-bed telly and a satisfying night’s sleep – one which I carry on right through until after LB has returned from a breakfast whose setup and execution he deems ‘absolute perfection’.

It’s high praise coming from someone as well-acquainted with morning goods as he – but then The Peacock is worthy of high praise all round.

Make it happen

Where: The Peacock at Rowsley, Bakewell Rd, Rowsley, Matlock , Derbyshire DE4 2EB
Find out more: To visit the website, click here

Filipino food virgin or veteran? Whichever end of the spectrum you sit, says Zoë Perrett, your tastebuds’ll do a tango here

Beneath a black-and-white striped awning, a gorgeously garish pink neon sign announces tonight’s dinner destination. Despite that 80s Miami aesthetic, we’re in Kensington not Florida and, just to mess with our minds a little more, we’re here to eat Filipino food – a bombastic blend of native and foreign influences including Spanish, East Asian and Malaysian.

Romulo Café’s moniker comes from the surname of the family who founded the venue in memory of General Carlos P. Romulo – the Philippines’ longest-serving Secretary of Foreign Affairs, and the first and only Filipino to win a Pulitzer Prize. This branch is the well-loved Manila chain’s first London outpost, and it’s a little bit of a corker.

Sepia-tinged family photographs lend the black-and-white wallpapered, forest green-painted dining room the feel of a family home; an impression only reinforced by hospitality that’s correctly yet wholly inadequately described as ‘warm’.

Cocktails deliver on flavour and frivolity. A berry-laden number named for notorious Filipino shoe-hoarder Imelda Marcos is served in a stiletto; the ‘Batangus Bad Boy’ is poured from smoking bottle to tumbler. We sip as we nibble at ‘The General’s Combo Platter’ – a generous agglomeration of pork and chicken skewers, fish spring rolls, tempura prawns, and a duck-stuffed steamed bun.

As the table is cleared to make way for mains, LB refuses to give up the accompanying dish of spiced dipping vinegar. It’s an excellent decision – dunking chunks of the crispest pork I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering into the fierce, fabulous liquid is a highlight in a meal where the sole disappointment is that we can’t eat everything on the menu.

Despite vast portions, we make admirable inroads into honey-and-chilli-glazed beef shortribs that manage to be at once sweet and super-savoury, and the rice-noodle-and-mixed-seafood pancit palabok that our waitress describes at the Philippines’ answer to spag bol.

Desserts are largely unfamiliar (as well as just plain large). The multi-coloured, -flavoured and -textured halo halo looks like viewing an Eton mess whilst high on hallucinogenic substances. A slab of coconut pudding is studded with parmesan crisps, served with cheese and sweetcorn ice cream. We suspend our disbelief, dive in, and emerge convinced – if a shade over-full.

Showcasing a cuisine that’s the perfect blend of the familiar and the exotic, attracting the firm fan and the uninitiated alike, this Manila thriller deserves a lot of love from London.

Make it happen

Where: 343 Kensington High Street, London W8 6NW
Find out more: To visit the website, click here

This novel stage adaptation of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol is a jolly good show, opines Zoë Perrett in her review for Northern Soul 

My first encounter with A Christmas Carol featured a load of Muppets, witnessed by my primary school self on the screen of the communal telly-on-wheels rolled out for the end-of-term film.

Twenty-odd years later, the prospect of seeing it performed on stage by humans aroused more excitement than Tiny Tim experiences when Scrooge gifts his family a fat Christmas turkey. Sorry for the spoiler, but everyone knows this tale’s outcome. What matters is how compellingly it’s told.

This version of the Dickens’ classic is imparted via Deborah McAndrew’s genre-mashing, thought-provoking and wholly entertaining adaptation, performed by the Leeds Playhouse Ensemble company.

Set in Victorian Leeds, it opens with a sickly Tiny Tim (Lipalo Mokete, gamely coughing his lungs up) whose condition is lamented by a motley crew of peasant apparitions who, via a dynamically-choreographed musical number, proceed to transform the set into Scrooge & Marley’s offices.

Robert Pickavance’s Scrooge is the archetypal horrible boss; more concerned with commerce than Christmas and none too pleased about affording his employee Bob Cratchit (a world-weary Darren Kuppan) the day off. ‘Humbug’ is his embittered response to almost everything – even a dinner invite from his handsome nephew Fred (Dan Parr) which I’d gladly snap up.

Returning home on Christmas Eve, Scrooge is visited by Jacob Marley, who, rather than sharing a sherry with his old business partner, turns up draped in chains and scares the bejaysus out of Scrooge, informing him that he’ll shortly be visited by three Christmas spirits: Past, Present and Future….

Make it happen

Where: Leeds Playhouse Pop-Up Theatre, Playhouse Square, Quarry Hill, Leeds LS2 7UP
When: Performances until 19 January 2019
Find out more: Read the full review on Northern Soul‘s website here

Image courtesy of Andrew Billington

At a luxurious Fortnum & Mason supperclub, Hélène Darroze – aka ‘The World’s Best Female Chef’ – treats Zoë Perrett to an unforgettable dinner

‘The World’s Best Female Chef’ just cooked me dinner. And, as you’d expect, jolly nice it was too. Mein host’s brother is also in the house; here to share a few fine examples from the family Armagnac collection.

Hélène Darroze is not, perhaps, your typical two-Michelin-star-holding chef. Her lack of airs and graces and abundant warmth are clearly apparent as she introduces the menu for her one-off supperclub in Fortnum and Mason’s Fountain Restaurant. The feast will be family-style; something, says Darroze, ‘a little different’. She wants her assembled guests to have a bit of this and that, dipping in and out of multiple shared dishes. This food is not flashy; designed not so much to create conversation as to keep it flowing like the wine.

Fortnum’s is no stranger to hosting supperclubs; in fact, this is the final event before The Fountain undergoes an extensive refurbishment. Planned well in advance of the unguaranteed announcement of Darroze’s achievement (set to be formally announced at The World’s 50 Best Restaurants Awards in June), securing the chef as host has proved quite the serendipitous coup for the department store.

Predictably, after the revelation, tickets for a well-priced supper by the chef of both her eponymous Parisian restaurant and The Connaught in London became instantly elusive.

So my attendance indicates that I am clearly in with the in crowd, although one gets the distinct inkling that Darroze always aims for an atmosphere that’s far more ‘inclusive’ than ‘exclusive’. Tonight, the food definitely facilitates that feeling.

After a particularly potent Bas Armagnac cocktail chased with a few too many croquetas filled with molten Brebis Basque cheese, I take a pew and prepare for a religious experience. Whilst I wait for sustenance both spiritual and gastric, I heed the call of the bread basket; slathering Espelette pepper-laced butter onto tender, sprightly crumb and cracking-crisp crust.

Then, curiouser and curiouser, what looks like a large pork pie comes our way, delivered on a slate with a stone mustard jar. Has Darroze gone a bit Brit to honour Fortnum’s heritage?

Not a bit of it. This is Darroze’s take on pâté en croûte; cutting a chunk from the handsome hunk of pastry reveals the moist meat and pâté of Les Landes corn-fed chicken bejewelled with asparagus slivers. The mustard is a truffle laced, sinus-scorching Dijon, and the clean slate is finished with pickled, perfect vegetables so tiny they could have been designed to tempt pixies to get their recommended five-a-day.

If the pickles are the picture of health, then the salt cod brandade is the stuff of sin; ludicrously, lusciously rich, almost béchamel-like potato puree punctuated by the satisfying salinity of salt cod chunks, deep-golden breadcrumbs atop lending a very necessary crunch. Nutmeg whispers rather than shouts, exactly as it should. It’s a starter, but one fears a single spoonful too many could finish you off.

Fittingly for such a bewitching dish, the last starter is served in witches’ cauldron-esque pots. The stew comprises tiny chickpeas which provide just the right bland canvas for the assertiveness of chorizo; both marrying quite marvellously with generous chunks of octopus that’s been beaten and roasted into melting-soft submission. I could happily eat all eight of its legs – as it is, I eat more than my fair share.

It’s probably a good thing, then, that the main course is a light, bright plateful – a well-judged move on Darroze’s part, and one, one suspects, derived from extensive experience in filling people with just the right amount of good food and good cheer.

Hake Koxkera features a good chunk of the firm fish atop a green-pea-and-white-asparagus assemblage that’s crammed with clams and crowned with half a soft-boiled egg; the latter a treat whose presence is always welcome on my plate. As we finish, left only with pools of flavoursome liquor, my earlier indiscretion of begging for the bread basket to be left at table is revealed as a wholly sensible – if slightly gauche – manoeuvre.

Beholding a small sweet tooth and a great big appetite, fine dining desserts often leave me unsatisfied. Somehow, I suspect that won’t be the case on this occasion – and that suspicion is joyfully confirmed with the precise plonking-down of a veritable trencher of a dish laden with both style and substance.

A chocolate éclair is just that – cocoa choux, beautifully-bitter ganache, a shiny, salted caramel-piped chocolate plate atop. The addition of whipped cream to the vanilla-and-lemon redolent rice pudding at once lightens and enriches the dessert served in a Kilner jar whose lid I’m sorely tempted to snap shut so I can sneak the leftovers home. Billy Bunter-rotund babas are cream-filled, flower-and-fruit decked, and sluiced with Armagnac at table.

And then, Armagnac alone; three flame-coloured examples whose respective fire and flavour first came into being in 2001, 1992, and 1978.

The Darroze-hosted evening’s at an end and, through a thoroughly pleasant, booze-induced fug, I make a critical, earth-shattering analysis: The World’s Best Female Chef can really cook.

Find out more: For information on foodie events at Fortnum & Mason, click here

If you’re of a certain age, you’ll recall a youthful Take That insisting that ‘everything changes but you’. You know what? The lyric is a lie. In the past decade or so, my dining companions and I have all changed dramatically – and so, too, has the area in which we dine this evening. Once the exclusive preserve of ne’r-do-wells and ladies of the night, Kings Cross is now the stomping ground of Guardianistas and culture vultures; and, accordingly, is home to the sort of rather lovely eateries those diners demand.  

Hungry gourmets are not restricted to the upmarket-restaurant-littered environs of Granary and Pancras Squares. A brisk walk up York Way towards Holloway and off the beaten track (for now, for regeneration continues apace), sits CôBa – a neighbourhood Vietnamese you’d be nothing short of chuffed to have in your locality. 

But, even coming from further afield, it’s worth the journey. Much like the area itself, the restaurant’s founders have undergone an evolution of their own: starting out as the at-home ‘Table For 10’ supperclub which catered for just that number, they’re now happily ensconced in a much larger, scruffy-smart, altogether pleasant bricks-and-mortar site. 

Creative cocktails were a Table For 10 ‘thing’ and they remain so at CôBa. Our teenaged selves would have spilled our green Skittles-infused vodka in excitement upon viewing the menu; their 30 year-old counterparts merely ooh and ahh, then sip approvingly. For four very different girls, four very different drinks; including my own – and, it transpires, my favourite – blood-orange-and-Campari-sorbet-topped Roman Holiday.  

All that catching up doesn’t half build an appetite, and we fair fall upon a selection of starters. Sharing is caring, and we care, so we do. Aussie Damon Bui’s menu is inspired by his Vietnamese mum’s classic comfort cuisine – and, if she were to feed me the deep-fried butter chicken, lamb chops, spiced beef skewers, and prawn and pork pancakes we somehow divvy up, I’d want her to adopt me.  

CôBa’s prawn toast requires a paragraph of its own. M&S would say ‘this is not just any prawn toast’, and I’d have to agree. Prawn toast 2.0 features an inches-thick topping more closely resembling a flavoursome fishcake than that insipid prawn paste, and comes with CôBa’s superlative Sriracha mayo – the stuff which, Damon teases me, could soon be available to buy. 

Mains are typically fresh and fragrant, and fall into barbecue (various proteins served atop cold rice noodle salads) and broths. From the latter, a cauldron-like bowl of the special chilli chicken ramen delivers all the fire and flavour you’d hope, plus a healthy helping of noodles, plus the abundant herbs and beansprouts that so often signify Vietnamese cuisine. Its duck-based cousin is slurped with similar relish.  

Noodle salads hang around little longer – my own topped with a healthy number of charred betel leaf rolls filled with tender, smoky beef, a mate’s with succulent’n’spicy chicken. Papaya salad is different to the Thai incarnation, but no less complex, beguiling, or welcome on the table. 

We are full – of good food, of good cheer, of good friendship, but it’s not enough to stop us plunging four forks into one of the cracking cakes CôBa procures from baker extraordinaire Tarunima Sinha of My Little Cake Tin. This one’s a mango and passionfruit pyramid; fitting, perhaps, because I’d quite happily place it amongst the wonders of the world. 

Old faces, new places, and a top-drawer dinner from a crew which deserves every success. Everything changes, but sometimes change is for the good. 

Make it happen

Where: CôBa, 244 York Way, London N7 9AG
Find out more: To visit the website, click here
Images: Helen Abraham & Kurt Rebry

Zoë Perrett finds a little piece of Peru in London’s Soho – and likes it very much

You know that thing where your dear friend has just given birth and you’re hoping against hope the baby’s cute so you don’t have to feign affection? The same scenario is true of lovely chefs and their new restaurants. You want to be enamoured, but it aint always easy.

Thankfully, my nose grows not a millimetre when the irrepressible Martin Morales bounds over like a proud parent to ask my opinion of Casita Andina. Because I fell in love instantly and completely.

In the 200 year-old property once known as ‘The Little Cottage’, Casita Andina has found a home actual and spiritual. The restaurant could have occupied the wonderfully-wonky
three-story house since time immemorial – it feels like Martin and co. have moved in, happily slapped punchy pink and turquoise and yellow paint around, and littered the place with travel knick knacks. It’s a petit Peru on Soho’s fringes.

The drinks list twists your imagination and tastebuds: all pisco-based reworkings of classic cocktails and teas whose recipes sound like an apothecary’s shopping list. The nicely concise menu  – inspired by the Andes’ family-run picanterias and the area’s women (the titular ‘Andinas’) – features just as many esoteric Peruvian ingredients.

Although it’s not made into A Thing, gluten is naturally absent. But it’s worth noting, because it means you can eat a little more and feel a little less full. For us, that means rich bits – deep-fried (and delicious) avocado chunks; pork and liver croquettes –  juxtaposed with fresher flavours: a watermelon, black quinoa and salty cheese salad, and the most beautiful trout tiradito I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Ají de gallina is Casita Andina’s reworking of a Peruvian classic of chicken in yellow chilli sauce. Crisp-skinned, rare lamb loin slices sit on an Andean herb puree; more of that animal appears in a rib-sticking, soul-satisfying dish of dark beer-sauced sweetbreads. It’s a pretty procession, and one that’s pretty darn tasty.

For pudding, strawberry and avocado pot is not a car crash in a glass but a weirdly compelling combo. ‘Choco-Sauco’ appears on the plate like a comet streaking through the sky; an agglomeration of chocolate mousse, ganache, elderberry gel and puffed cereals so good that I (attempt to) ignore the presence of popping candy.

Congratulations on your latest arrival, Martin. It’s a beauty and an asset to the London restaurant family. With this little gem, I’ve an inkling you’ve birthed a high-flyer.

Make it happen

Where: 31 Great Windmill Street, London W1D 7LP
Find out more: To visit the website, click here