A pub in the countryside...

Leafy Broughton, a wealthy hamlet north of Huntingdon, is a throwback to old England. Tucked away on a single-track road off the A141, the grand country houses are focused around a fine sixteenth century church and the inviting looking Crown Inn - a typical focal point-type pub first built in the seventeenth century and used as a saddlers shop. Indeed, it's so important to the locals that five years ago forty-four of them bought it when it was faced with closure.

More recently it has been passed back into private hands, the interior has been renovated to reflect the contemporary feel of the menu and the dining area has been transformed into a cool, clean, modern space for up to thirty-six. Tastefully, the bar area retains its rural charm with space to linger for a pint with the newspaper. The resulting atmosphere is relaxed, casual, family-friendly, and free from the faux affability of equivalent city centre establishments. Basing its dishes around seasonality and locality, the food reflects this modern approach to dining. Even the wine menu changes with the seasons - showing a real understanding of the importance in pairing drinks with food. For non-wine drinkers the Crown prides itself on its real ale selection and continental beers.

The menu has an unapologetically British emphasis, with French and Italian influences. Consisting of a good range of starters, main courses and desserts, plus a specials board, chef-patron David focuses on classic dishes like the perfectly cooked pigeon breast with puy lentils or coarse chicken liver pate and piquant red-onion jam we ate for our first courses.
A charming and attentive waitress, armed with freshly baked bread and full of smiles, had seated us next to some impressive French windows that led into an inviting beer garden, perfect for a summer family lunch. After our starters, a hearty roast Cornish leg of lamb with pancetta, mashed potato, baby onions and finished with a thyme jus was enjoyed, along with some super-fresh mackerel, zesty lemon-dill potatoes, earthy roasted beetroot and a watercress salad, perfectly dressed in a light salsa verde. The two dishes summed up the new Crown Inn - the modern, light touch of the mackerel, with the bucolic lamb doffing its cap to the past.

Although the emphasis was clearly on quantity as well as quality (no silly tiny portions here), we still managed to find space for pudding. Not desserts mind you, but pudding. One of the most pleasing elements of the Crown Inn's menu was the return of proper puddings, including a steamed treacle sponge with real egg custard, a selection of homemade ice creams, and a vanilla panna cotta with shortbread. We opted for a deep, luxurious, rich chocolate tart with vanilla ice cream. It was a perfect end to the meal that could be summarised as real food, done properly. It was one of those chocolate moments that see you scraping the plate for every last morsel of the dark gold.

The young, dynamic duo of chef-David and general manager-Paul have succeeded in creating a casual, brassiere-style pub that has no stuffy dress code or formality, just an emphasis on relaxation. You can bring your own bottle for a small corkage fee, you can park your car outside and leave it there all day, you can lollop around in the garden, you can eat a meal indoors and your dog can sit with you in the bar area. In short, you can do what you want. If you do want to eat, booking is advisable, especially at weekends. At a time when many rural pubs are closing, or being enveloped by bland brewery-backed chains, independent jewels like the Crown Inn offer real hope for the future of eating out in Britain - support it if you can.

NB: this is not in my usual 'style' . I haven't gone nuts, it's a copy of a review I wrote for www.localsecrets.com - a review website covering Cambridgeshire.

Bacon and Eggs: Gastronomy?

I was watching the BBC programme 'Top Gear' last night. James May, Jeremy Clarkson and that little rat Richard Hammond, were engaged in a contest to see who could get from Italy to central London fastest - Clarkson in a custom made, limited edition Buchatti, or James and rodent Richard in a single engine bi-plane. Clarkson won. It took him almost thirteen hours, but he beat the Wright brothers by just a few minutes. It was, I suppose, mildly entertaining but on the whole I don't understand the link between (small) men and cars. The moment some bore in the pub starts talking about horse breaks, gibbering about engine power or waffling about where the speed cameras are on the A14 I'm completely lost. There was a time when I used to fret about this. Now I just console myself that I might not be able to change a tire, but I can sharpen a knife in double quick time. Apparently, there's something of the 'animal' about driving ludicrously fast. The sense of danger releases endorphins and can give you a primeval rush, which is admittedly difficult to achieve in my Grandfather's (g.b.h.s) Renault Clio. Automatic. But I do get the same feeling when under real pressure in the kitchen. Your pace quickens, your concentration narrows in, and before you know it, three hours have passed in the blink of an eye.

Last week, having dragged myself out of bed stupidly early for a job interview in London (which I secured- hurrah!) and chewed the fat with the representative of an American based client, I was in need of feeding. There were two options - a very classy looking coffee shop with lovely glass doors, fancy looking cakes and lots of young, wealthy types; or alternatively the River Cafe nestled below a just underneath a gloriously grey, wet and drizzly Putney Bridge tube station - a fairly shabby looking greasy spoon that seemed to be staffed by age concern and frequented exclusively by council workmen. In the event, there was no contest. The decor was immense, like walking into a time warp. Perfectly placed bottles of condiments, coupled with those little glass salt and pepper shakers you used to see at primary school. Faded posters of 1980's Italian football sides drooped off the walls. I wanted to move in.

This was never going to be high-class food - the tables were plastic, the chairs wobbled and the menu board looked like it hadn't changed since 1975, but the locals were clearly knew what they wanted and whilst it wasn't rammed there was certainly a brisk trade going on. The workers were busy - driving their cars quickly. "Tea or Coffee?" barked the guy behind the counter at me - to which my order of "Tea no sugar" was relayed to an elderly woman who replied with an affirmative, in a bizarre half-cockney/half-Italian accent. "Two rounds, bacon, egg and fresh tomatoes" was then screamed into the kitchen - and five minutes later, it arrived, I read the paper, and I ate. Without realising it, it was gastronomy. Taste - texture - smell - colour - flavour.

Bacon = coarse, light colour, salty.
Egg = neutral white, smooth and a rich yolk exploding onto the plate.
Tomato = sweet, soft, juicy, bright red.

The elements of this most simple of platters both complimented and contradicted one another all at once. Genius. I was having a moment, and all for £2.50. In these times of limited credit and economic nervousness people will surely revert to basic feeding habits. Real people, eating within their means. Granted, enough to give a cardiologist a heart attack (which would be hilarious) but really, who cares? It's been a timely reminder of how much I enjoy food and the very basic pleasure it can give me.

Rice and Peas, Curry Goat, Plantains

Location: Hammersmith, London

Sometimes you discover food that reminds you why you fell in love with eating. I've long wondered why black-Britain has not succeeded in bringing its food to the high street, in the same way that Indian-Britain has. Go down any thoroughfare in most towns and cities, and you'll find at least one curry house, but how often have you seen a restaurant serving traditional fare from the Caribbean? I'm sure sociologists may have all sorts of theories about this - if you believe the statistics then black-Britain performs badly on many social indicators including education, social mobility and the rest. Perhaps Indian-Britain is simply more ambitious, more "go-getting", or just more sure of itself. A few restaurants won't change that, but at the very least, food has the potential to foster curiosity about other cultures, and the way "they" do things. It can wipe away that initial hesitancy, those thoughts of "this isn't for me". It's much better than being lectured about tolerance by some bloke from the council. Taste the food, and you are having the same experience as thousands of Jamaicans or Indians before you. It gives you direct - not sanitised political correct nonsense - access to the people. You can be, for a brief moment, one of "them" and then choose to explore that feeling further, or to withdraw.

I have no experience of Caribbean food. This is absolutely my fault - for someone who professes to want to try everything there is on offer, I made the cardinal mistake of assuming that I wouldn't be impressed. Sure, I know some of the composite parts, those ingredients that crop up continually - scotch bonnet peppers, plantains, coconut, rice - but the reality is that this unique cuisine is an amalgamation of a wide variety of cultural influences from the west coast of Africa, to the asian sub continent via the major imperial powers of Europe. Yesterday I was researching a marinade for jerk chicken that included orange juice, soy sauce and olive oil - now that was confusing, and as I have mentioned a thousand times if there's one thing I'm wary of its fusion food. I'm still learning, I know very little, but as I mentioned above I've become completely obsessed with finding out more.

The reason for all this is Hammersmith market, held on a Thursday of each week. Now, I hate going to London. To do so is something of a chore, but I was there for a job interview so I couldn't complain. I felt rather like a downtrodden husband visting his in-laws, times one-thousand. Having an hour to kill, and spotting the market I wandered over, in search of a nibble for lunch. There was an impressive array of options including some delightful smelling north African food, a falafel stall with a queue that was at least thirty people deep (complete with furious looking office workers glancing at their watches every thirty seconds), the obligatory home made burgers and sausages, and gloriously, a very simple, slightly scruffy looking stall with two ramshackle signs reading "curry goat" and "jerk chicken". It was manned by two large, jolly, perma-smiled Jamaican ladies, with whom I was immediately charmed. They were cheeky, and were mercilessly mocking customers who were staring and clearly considering if it was worth a visit to the hospital. I've noticed that at a food market, certain stalls have the equivalent of pub-reconnaissance, that phenomenon of walking up and down the street from different angles, past the pub you're debating wether to go in, trying to catch a glimpse of the interior and/or clientele before opting for the soulless neon-clad bar at the end of the road. But the two ladies had those types sussed. "Give us a try!" one would say, to shrieks of laughter from the other, complete with thigh slap. "Come on over, we don't think it will kill you too bad!". Cue high-fiving and spoon waving. They were great.

And once I had some, so was the food. Goat curry is by far the best thing I have eaten this year. It was unbelievably tender, and a deep rich colour. Flavour-wise it was similar to a mature lamb, and cooked on the bone was literally melt in the mouth. It had been marinaded - and the tastes I could distinguish were cumin, some heat (scotch bonnet pepper), a slight saltiness and ginger. Served with the classic staples, rice and peas plus some sweet sweet SWEET fried plantain, which counteracted the heat of the curry wonderfully well. It was served in polystyrene tray, eaten with a plastic spoon whilst sitting on the pavement. It fired the curiosity in me - what exactly goes into the marinade? How long is it marinaded for? Do you need to use a certain type of bean for the rice and peas? Lots of questions and new things to explore - which is the incredible thing about food, you never run out of things to learn. Obviously, I'm not going to write a recipe for Curry Goat - the trouble is, I've no idea what is authentic. But I have come across this video, which seems promising, if only for the way the girl says "Jamaican Curry Goat" - absolute classic.

More than cockles and lava bread...

One of the most memorable St David's Day hilarity moments occurred in 1987 at Ysgol Y Ddwylan, where I spent my formative years in education. We were all sitting on our backsides in the gym hall, legs crossed and hands clasped on shoes, and dressed in traditional Welsh costume - miners outfits with clogs for the boys, red cloaks, petticoats and tall black hats for the girls. We were also encouraged to wear either a leek or a daffodil on our breasts, as these are both traditional symbols of the nation. We were in the gym hall to learn of St David's many miracles. The most famous occurred in mid-Wales. David was preaching to a crowd who were all airs and graces until those on the back couldn't see anything. As you can imagine, this was intolerable. To avert a riot, David simply gestured to them, (I understand in an annoyingly nonchalant manner) the ground rose up under their feet, and the ruffians now had a grandstand view. Following that, they then saw a white dove come and land on his shoulder - a sign of God's blessing at this action. Other interesting "facts" included that David was born on a cliff during a storm (a sure sign of foreboding) and his diet refrained from meat or beer. Anyhow, back to the primary school gym. Some girl at the front who was only four and had red hair obviously got hungry during the lesson, and decided to eat her daffodil. This was swiftly followed by some screeching and screaming as she was rushed to the boys toilets and forced to throw it up by a teacher. I can only think that as some people were eating their leeks, she thought it was fine. Obviously, rather than showing some concern, we all fell about laughing and tried to storm the toilets to have a pee, thereby embarrassing to the poor girl further. Completely hilarious, God we were cruel at times.

We didn't particularly eat anything on St David's Day, but often people would eat Welsh Cakes, or some Bara Brith with some tea. If you were after something savoury, you might eat some Cawl [kow-ul], which is a half-way house between a soup and a stew, traditionally made from lamb, perhaps some bacon, potatoes, carrots and stock. All of this is very hearty stuff, and whilst fantastic for the home, full of history and love, it hasn't exactly created shock-waves through the culinary world. Thankfully, there are now some great chefs taking the undoubtedly great produce we have and refining them into delicious meals. Matt Tebbutt, owner of The Foxhunter in Natygarry, is a really good example of this. One of his signature dishes is Lamb with Saffron Leeks and Cockles - a delicious marriage of sea, earth and animal. You can find the recipe here, where there is also a video talking you through it.

So there, the obligatory St David's Day post quickly finished. To friends at home, enjoy yourselves, and make sure you only drink Felinfoel Ale. All day long. And if you really do want to cook something Welsh today, here you go:

Hwyl!

Welsh Cakes
Makes 20-odd

I first cooked these as a nine-year old in primary school.

God I felt impressive.

Ingredients:
8oz self-raising flour
4oz butter
3oz sultanas
3oz caster sugar
1 level tsp mixed-spice
1 egg

Method:
1. Sift all the dry ingredients, then add the butter as if you were making pastry. Try to get that nice 'bread crumb' consistency.
2. Mix through the sultanas.
3. Beat the egg, add it to the mixture, to make a dough. If the mixture seems to dry you can add a little water or milk to bring it together.
4. Now roll the mixture onto a floured surface, you need it to be a quarter of an inch thick.
5. Cut out circles, about two and a half inches wide.
6. Cook on a heavy bottomed frying pan, lightly greased with some butter. They should be browned well, but not burned, so don't cook on too high a heat. I like eating them with more butter and/or some Welsh Honey.