In that London

Canteen
You know, there are sometimes in life when only a well made Scotch egg will do.

I'm not talking about those monstrosities common to most British newsagents and motorway service stations, all overcooked rubbery egg rattling around in a sphere of breezeblock grey offal coated in an unappetising orange fur. No, I mean a proper hand made Scotch egg, where the yolk is still a bit soft in the middle, the meat is made from actual bits of actual pig rolled in breadcrumbs and fried until amber brown.

The Scotch egg at Canteen on Baker street in London hits the spot. While the accompanying pickle lacks punch, each quarter of scotch egg is a taste of Great Britain. A taste of mum's kitchen, long summer evenings sitting outside the pub drinking ale, jumpers for goalposts...

Yeah, OK, it's been a while since I had a decent Scotch egg. It's a bit of a shame that Canteen is so, well, canteeny. The food served up here has got decent British pub written all over it, and is priced to suit.

It suits me and my Oldest Friend though, as they have a nice spicy drop of Meantime Pale Ale on tap. Our waitress is friendly too, showing enthusiasm for the spicy meat pies on the specials board, and enjoying a spot of banter. Showing us to our table by the window she warns us that a large party are about to take the table for 12 adjacent to us.

"It's OK, we won't disturb them" notes OF.

This appalling bit of humour actually provokes a smile. From a waitress. In London. Did I miss a meeting?

Being growing thirty-something men we both opt for the special of spicy lamb pie. There is the risk with 'spicy lamb pie' of being presented with some sort of horrific car-crash of Anglo-Jamaican fusion food, but thankfully that wasn't the case. The kitchen at Canteen stayed within the tried and tested traditional pie format. A spot of gravy, a fringe of cabbage, gutsy lamb, a soft pastry hat. Excellent.

OF finishes off with trifle of the kind that neither of us has seen since childhood, while I take on a well balanced plate of Neal's Yard English cheeses, just as the large table adjacent fills up with jovial foreign students wondering what the hell a Scotch egg is.

Canteen has two other branches on the South Bank and in Spitalfields, and I'd recommend visiting for something straightforward and quick. As a visiting ex-pat the menu really cheered me up and reminded me that British food is worth missing. Whether this is a unique thing or not I don't know - perhaps London is packed with places knocking out the kind of food that makes me nostalgic these days?

Canteen
55 Baker Street
London W1U 8EW
(+44) 0845 686 1122
http://www.canteen.co.uk/
8am-11pm Weekdays, 9am-11pm Weekends

Del'aziz Fulham
I wake up the following morning at a fancy hotel at the Chelsea football stadium to discover that somehow, by some astonishing luck, I've escaped any serious drinking injury. Mrs Jiffler is slightly more worse for wear though, having been learning how to cook chicken kiev at The Kitchen in Parsons Green. Judging by the hangover, I think the cookery lesson leaned more towards the supping of white wine and chatting than actual cooking. A fry up is in order.

The staff at Del'aziz in Fulham deserve credit for accommodating our wet umbrellas, large suitcases, and my arsing around nipping out to the post office as soon as we get settled. The place itself is one of those unselfconciously smug establishments, all gourmet coffee, bare wooden tables and fancy cakes in the window. A choice of yoghurts and alpine muesli. The sort of place I secretly enjoy going to even though they make me feel like a class traitor.

despite this, their £8.50 (£8.50!!!) full breakfast is ungreasy and both sausages and bacon are well up to scratch. Fried eggs could do with another 20 seconds to firm up to the white, but it didn't kill me.

Dining is at shared communal tables, so everyone pretends to ignore each other while secretly listening. To our right are a family of V-necked Times reading bores while sharing our table are a group of young Australian women who are naturally louder and more obnoxious. One of the women is talking loudly into a mobile phone to family back in Australia, clearly nobody has explained to her that self-amplification is unnecessary with pay as you go.

"Yeah, we're flying to Austria this afternoon"

Pause

"No Austria. In Germany. We're going skiing"

Another pause, slightly longer.

"Yeah, that's the best thing about London. It's so close to Europe".

Indeed. Actually the best thing about London is that it's pretty bloody far from Australia.

Del'aziz Fulham
24-32 Vanston Place
London
SW6 1AX
Tel. 020 7386 0086
http://www.delaziz.co.uk/

Spoonlickers

If the British broadsheets are to be believed, a truly relaxing weekend should involve handing over enormous amounts of money in exchange for a stay at some beige hotel close to a major road where you will be subject to any number of dubious 'spa treatments'. I love a massage as much as anyone, but I can't seem to get excited about making it the focus of a weekend.

The Collines de Niassam lodge in Palmarin is more my style. Here you can relax without having to apply slices of cucumber and listen to new age forest dolphin music in a room smelling of pot pourri. There is nothing to do at Collines de Niassam. You are a bumpy drive away from the nearest anything, so all that is left is to indulge in a bit of sunbathing, perhaps have a pootle around the lagoon in a canoe or, for the more energetic, a spot of birdwatching among the baobabs. You can choose a hut suspended over the lagoon, or perhaps a pokey little treehouse. There are no TV's, radios or car rapides at Collines de Niassam, just fresh air, fresh food, and a fresh breeze.

The staff lay on three meals a day, each using ingredients sourced locally. This is not for any high-minded eco-friendly middle-class crusading reason, but out of practicality. Making the trip to the city, and preserving imported chilled or frozen goods would just be too much of a hassle. When you run exerything off solar power and scrapyard assembled wind turbines, you have to make sure every joule of energy is spent wisely.

Bread and Jam for breakfast was a bit tight. It was nice bread, and great jam, but it was the same nice bread and great jam every day. Any chance of a boiled egg? Things perked up at lunch and dinner time though (there, I've done it, used the words 'lunch and dinner' instead of 'dinner and tea'. It's a slippery slope.), when more substantial meals are presented to us - crisp salads, smoked fish, smooth desserts, and healthy measures of home made fruit-flavoured rum to wash it all down with.

One night we kick off with boulettes of zebu on cabbage.


These get the ball rolling for a number of jokes ("I didn't know Zebu's had three balls" etc etc).

Curried monkfish with taglietelle comes next:


We'll overlook the pasta for a moment (this is a weird francophone thing, serving pasta with curry. Perhaps they just think it's all 'Orientale' and therefore the same thing), and focus on the meaty chunks of monkfish, one of my favourite fishes for throwing in a curry (expensive in the UK, but ten a penny round these parts). While the curry itself was mild, it didn't suffer the usual Senegalese fate of being loaded with jumbo stock cubes. It tasted clear and sharp, and let the subtle (some might say bland) flavour of the fish speak for itself.

But my word, they just knock you out with dessert:


A whipped, creamy chocolate ganache with alternating layers of white and dark chocolate. Richer than Roman Abramovitch and thicker than Wayne Rooney. This one even beat Mrs Jiffler, and left us with our eyes rolling in our heads in need of a stiff glass of rum to sort us out.

I tried to pop my head in the kitchen for a nosey around and to give my congratulations, but was chased away by laughing ladies. Perhaps I caught them licking the chocolate off their spoons.

Lodge des Collines de Niassam
Palmarin Ngallou, BP 08 JOAL - Sénégal
Tel: 77 639 06 39
resa@niassam.com
http://www.niassam.com

Tales from Kyrgyzstan

The Road to Osh

My back is aching as we drive the seven uncomfortable hours from Batken to Osh. The rust bucket flight out of Batken has been cancelled due to the dirty fog lurking too low across the runway. Now the only way back to Bishkek is to set off on a seven hour race skirting the southern side of the Ferghana valley and hope that flying conditions at Osh are favourable to the launching of aging riveted tubes of metal into the clouds.

Maybe it's a beautiful drive through the mountains. One day I may find out. This February Tuesday it seems bleak and unforgiving, walls of snow covered rock briefly intruding out of the steel grey fog. Tough looking men on horseback appear and disappear like shadows.

"Who is this?" my colleague asks, indicating the earphones she is sharing with me.

"Salif Keita. He's from Mali".

"It's great".

I nod and smile my agreement. My baladeur skips to a song called 'Madan', and our heads bob loosely to the beat as the car makes its descent down another broken mountain pass.

"It's a bit incongruous" she says quizzically, indicating the grey miasma of fog outside the car window.

"That's what I hoped".

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Steinbrau
5 Gerzen str, Bishkek
Tel: 29 33 01 / 68 02 70

There is no need to spend time and money on murder mystery weekends, or going abseiling. The secret to good professional team building is simple: a large plate of sausages and copious amounts of beer.

Bishkek's Steinbrau brasserie welcomes us with a bright and warming atmosphere. Coats off and hands rubbed we take in the Bavarian beer hall styling and the magnificent copper kettle brewery that forms the centrepiece of the barroom. Apparently a couple German fellas decided to set up shop here years ago, and revolutionised beer in Bishkek. It's certainly the place to be judging by the weekday crowds tucking into mugs a Steinbrau and huge plates of meat.

Several German style beers are brewed on the premises, and I opt for a light Helles style beer that reminds me a little of Lowenbrau. To be honest, I'm pretty ignorant of beers outside of the British Isles, so I'll be glad to return to Steinbrau in the summer time. I imagine a couple of afternoons spent sampling the beers in the garden outside will be educational.

They also make their own wurst, or 'firm German sausages' as they are described on the menu. Everyone loves a firm German sausage, and each of our team selects a different wurst,before haggling over who gets to swap with who. I try simple pork wurst, and do a swap for one of my neighbour's kabanosy. Both are classic sausages, tight in their skins and bursting with flavoursome fat, served up with sauerkraut, smooth mashed potato, and punchy, grown up mustard.

If sausages aren't enough, give the kitchen a couple of days notice and they will prepare you a whole suckling pig (or 'sucking pig' according to the menu).

A whole suckling pig! You know I'll be back.

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The Cowboy Club

N says the Cowboy Club is the place to go after a good sausage feast. He says he doesn't like the modern style places in Bishkek as they are too clinical and pretentious. I suspect he has other motivations too, when we arrive to find that female guests outnumber males at least 8 to 1.

"What's with all the girls?" I ask N.

"I think they come to meet rich guys. The sons of politicians, wealthy Russians, that kind of thing".

They did seem to be enjoying themselves though, dancing and giggling enthusiastically in little groups. It all seemed quite innocent, more like wannabe WAGs on a night out than the pouting, jaded bar-girl culture I'm more accustomed to in the tropics.

It takes a few more Russian beers before I can be coaxed onto the dancefloor. The sexagenarian bleached-blonde DJ is spinning a mix of eighties western pop, new to the young ears of Bishkek, and bad Euro dance. She cues up "La Bamba". I'm not a sailor, or a captain, but at least this has some sort of groove I can shake self consciously to.

And then a pause, a stilted electronic stutter, and a familiar wave of five female voices:

"O lakka lamma le......."

My colleague points at the ceiling and mouths the words "Salif Keita?" with a grin. I nod, and loosen my limbs into the disco-remixed groove.

The dancing girls look confused. It's a bit incongruous.

Restaurant in de Waag

The folks at the recommended Restaurant Beddington are not answering the phone, and we decide that Restaurant de Kas is too far from the hotel, so settle for the Restaurant in de Waag (weighhouse). The interior is pleasingly rustic-Dutch (no, I've no idea what I'm on about either ,it is lit entirely by candles though, which I suppose is quite good), and service is efficient from a cheerful fellow who looks like a miniature viking. The menu is interesting, but the current 1:1 Euro-pound exchange rate is frankly frightening. We go for today's special menu, and try not to think about the fact that it still costs more than the set lunch at Gordon Ramsay's place in Claridges, which has a Michelin star, and posh curtains and things.

Scallops arrive which, while tasty themselves, are totally over-powered by a pile of mixed leaves dressed in a pungent mix of garlic and dill. Somebody is a bit heavy handed in the kitchen. We munch the scallops and push the salad around the plate a little, saving our hopes for the main course.

Tenderloin Steak arrives medium, although we didn't have the option of ordering it any rarer, on a little ginger swamp of 'oven dried tomato risotto' with courgettes. Courgettes are 'A French vegetable' according to the little viking waiter. Cheers Erik, there I was thinking courgettes were a natural mutation of marrows introduced from the Americas or something.

But lets forgive clever Erik for now though, as we might need someone to clear up after we've thrown our plates at the chef for thinking that 'oven-dried tomato risotto' is a good thing to serve with steak. Especially a risotto that is cooked as haphazardly as this. Thankfully the steak itself is tender with a encouragingly livery taste.

Creme brulee gives way with an appropriate crunch, but these short-term thrills are let down by an overly eggy flavour, which fails the world famous Mrs Jiffler creme brulee test ("There's nothing worse than eggy creme brulee").

Then the bill. Christ on a bike! Brits: cancel your holidays to Europe.

Le Lodge, Dakar

Dinerfinophobia - Fear of fine dining in Dakar.

I get the fear before eating out at some of Dakar's fine dining establishments. Too many times I've stuffed my wallet and put on one of my best shirts only to end up a bit disappointed. La Fourchette can be inconsistent. Cozy is like a more pretentious, pisspoor facsimile of La Fourchette. Lagon I's prices don't justify the average cooking, not to mention the kind of tawdry decor that would be laughed at in Blackpool, while the chef at Sokhoman thinks that combining incongruous ingredients is the way forward, when really it's just odd. Rabbit with earwax anyone?

So while I got suited up for Mrs Jiffler's birthday treat at Le Lodge in Almadies, I was suitably nervous. I'm pleased to say though that I think Le Lodge might be a genuinely decent upmarket restaurant. Halle-bloody-orchestra.

We were late for our table, which meant we didn't get the best table for two in the house. Our fault, but they didn't make a fuss. Service was efficent to start off with, not necessarily friendly, but I'd sooner have sharp than shoddy. Aperitifs were reasonably priced - beers for 1500 CFA and cocktails 3500-4000CFA, and we certainly didn't feel rushed as we perused the menu. Amuse-bouche were a little boring, mediterranean veg on a spoon, but at least they weren't the ubiquitous stale mini-bruschetta.

It was pleasing to see that Le Lodge play to their strengths. The menu wasn't padded out with the usual half-arsed sushi and Mexican street food, it sticks mainly to traditional French cooking, with the occasional polite nod to neighbouring Belgium and Italy. The menu has three 3-course set suggestions, at a bargainous 8500, 12500, and 18000 CFA respectively, as well as a pick and mix a la carte selection. While I was impressed with the unpretentious pricing structure, and the quality of what was on offer on the cheaper menus, I made a beeline for the top end. It was a special occasion after all.

Wine list was equally good value, again heavy on French wine, but with a few new world and Italian classics thrown in. An agreeable 'all rounder' bottle of 2006 Brouilly Beaujolais was brought without fuss and uninvited topping up was kept to a minimum.

Mrs Jiffler roamed the a la carte menu and chose filo envelopes of fried goats cheese to start with, which benefitted from a sweet salad dressing. The cheese was smooth and soft and thankfully didn't burst from the envelopes like molten lava. This was a good starter but was somewhat overshadowed by my mighty foie gras ravioli (a slight deviation from France there, at a 2000CFA supplement to the set menu). While the Ravioli had that slight sense of dryness to it that my own homemade attempts have suffered from, the foie gras was generous, and the accompanying veal reduction was bold. Mushrooms are always a problem in Dakar, but the reconstituted mushrooms accompanying this dish were of the better kind, and their strong flavour held its own against the foie gras.

Mains came quickly, and Mrs Jiffler's filet was very young, almost veal, and a touch overdone for medium, but was a tasty piece of meat nonetheless. Three cheese sauce was a strong and unusual departure for Mrs Jiffler, but was met with much approval. My Magret de Canard came cooked medium as requested with a sweet jus and a short tower of parsnips. I refused to believe they were parsnips at first, since I have never seen parsnips on sale in West Africa. Parsnips they were though, and although just a minute away from being overdone, they were a remarkably good foil for the succulent duck.

Something that most up-market places in Dakar do get right are the puddings. In this case Le Lodge let us down slightly. While our puddings were generally good, they didn't quite live up to La Fourchette's benchmark. Mrs Jiffler's fondant chocolat was great, but came without the high quality vanilla ice cream and slicks of marmalade which make La Fourchette's version so sublime. My Tiramisu was surprisingly light, but came in a Muslim friendly version which lacked the desired boozy kick.

The final bill came to about 25000CFA less than we have paid at similar places, which is a big enough saving to pay for a decent lunch the day after, or another bottle of decent wine. We'll certainly go back to Le Lodge - I'd like to see if the cheaper menus are as satisfying. So far this is my favourite of Dakar's upmarket restaurants; service is efficent and unpretentious, the menu is consistent yet still creative, and the wine list is great value.

Hanoi

A recent trip to Hanoi involved some excited recalibration of my culinary compass. Normally when a person looks at a map of the world, their eye is first drawn to their home country to find their bearings. My eye was usually drawn to San Sebastian in Northern Spain, to check that it was still there, ready for my return with a bigger budget, and an enormous appetite. It was my eating mecca. Now mecca has shifted further east, and my eye roams towards Vietnam.

Everyone said "You must try the Pho" (pronounced 'fur'), so I made sure this was the first thing to pass my lips. Procured cheaply from a corner cafe (or pretty much anywhere on the side of the street), Pho is easy: beef stock, beef, herbs, chilli, noodles. It's possibly the most complete meal you could ask for, which explains why Vietnamese folk enjoy it for breakfast. Its healthy, cheap, satisfying and requires a lot of interaction with chopsticks and spoons and slurping. There is no looking back now: I have to work this one out at home. Time to get extra friendly with the butcher and see if he can supply me with a few kilos of beef bones.

After a couple of bia hoi (local brew, about 5 pence a glass) our friends took us out to the upmarket restaurant Au Lac. Here, the grand premises occupy what appeared to be a former colonial mansion, and we were welcomed politely and without any stiffness. Being a group of four gave us opportunity to range widely over the menu, and the presence of a vegetarian meant trying a few dishes that I might normally skip over. The sommelier swiftly and politely corrected a corked sauvignon blanc, while I tucked into the local Hanoi beer.

It was here at Au Lac that I decided that my next home cookery project (after Pho) will be making fresh spring rolls. These were an absolute delight:



Surely there is room for some sort of fast food concept based around fresh spring rolls. Once the fillings are prepared they take seconds to make, and are filling and pretty healthy too. I'm imagining a row of half a dozen rolls lined up in a paper box with an assortment of fillings, dipping sauces already already integrated into the wrapping process. Has anybody ever seen anything like this?

I'm still not convinced of the merits of tofu. It was unusual to see groups of men gathering round plates of tofu while knocking back glass after glass of beer at the local bia hoi, but there is something about it that I'm not keen about. I suppose it's just cheese made from soy milk, but without the interesting texture, taste and smell of cheese. Anyhow, one vegetarian dish that did take my fancy was this baked aubergine, which I thought was a fish when it first arrived:


Soft shelled crab with a sweet chilli sauce was probably the best I've ever tasted. I could probably eat a bucketful of these, one after the other.


I got a bit carried away with the food if I'm honest, and had to be reminded to take a photograph of the proceedings. Sadly, we'd already demolished much of the meal. The duck at the bottom of the photograph was something very special - moist and cooked without pretensions. Note the lonely cube of deep fried tofu.


A lot of things make up a great meal - in this case we had the company of good friends, a lot of holiday spirit, and the excitement of being in a new an unfamiliar country. On top of that, the food at Restaurant Au Lac was genuinely outstanding, and the service - from the chilled towels to the most delightful sommelier was first class.

They did nifty cocktails too, with a funky chopstick/drinking straw ensemble which Mrs Jiffler rather liked.

The Mountain in Labour

Cozy, Rue Parent, Plateau.

Visiting Cozy reminded me of going to see Star Wars Episode I (The Phantom Menace) on the day of release in the summer of 1999. we were a bunch of lads in our twenties - old enough to have obsessed over the original trilogy as boys - who'd taken the day off from whatever we were doing to pile into an airconditioned box in the midlands, knees jiggling with the excitement.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away... and the heroic, Wagner-esque John Williams theme tune starts up. A head rush of excitement. Five grown men grinning like fools...

But it turned out to be a load of old bollocks.

Cozy, one of Dakar's so called 'fine dining' restaurants aims to impress from the moment you step through the door. Smart staff welcome you to a long, stylish, well stocked bar. The first impression is that somebody has spent some serious money on this place, and it would only be right to spend some serious money on some serious food. The main eating area features oversized chairs and white downlit floor to ceiling curtains which impress at first but, like the CGI effects in the Phantom Menace, end up looking like a cheap interior design. Maximum style for minimum cost.

I'm not sure why the Maitre d' attempted to sit all of the females in our mixed party along one side of the table, with all the boys lined up along the other side. Perhaps he was thinking les anglophones might want to start morris dancing at some point during the meal. we ignored him in any case, but Cozy continued to reinforce the sexist agenda by handing out menus without prices on to the ladies (all of whom were the principal earners in Dakar, the rest of us being 'trailing spouses'). I've seen this kind of disgustingly chauvanistic behaviour in France before, and I'm not sure, in this day and age, what kind of woman is impressed by this, and what kind of pathetic man thinks it's impressive.

One of the challenges for the producers of the Phantom Menace was how to keep the old audience of grown ups interested, while also hooking into the new toy-hungry market of 7 year old boys. What we ended up with was a confusing mish mash of tedious politics and a 'comedy' animated jester. I think Cozy faces the same problem with its mix of pasta, risotto, sushi and French cuisine on the menu. Surely it's wiser to play to your strengths? Just give us some spectacular interstellar dogfights, and maybe a wookie, and we'll love it.

Most of us skip the overpriced starters, and roam the four corners of the earth with our main courses. While service is mostly quick, one of our mains gets forgotten in the kitchen, and there is that terrible habit of topping up the wine, which extended to topping up my water glass with white. They fail the jiffler fish-knife test by surreptitiously swapping my tableknife for a pointless fishknife. Too blunt to stab a waiter in the leg unfortunately.

They should have given me a steak knife, such was the toughness of my overcooked, undersized planche of turbot. Pommes sautes are rubbery, and the accompanying 'paste' of avocado and hibiscus leaves tastes of nothing. Like a mouthful of emptiness. The others seem moderately pleased with their various gnocci and sushi plates, but nobody gets out of their seat to rave about anything. Half of Mrs Jiffler's sashimi selection is appropriately robust and fishy, while the salmon tastes like my avocado paste.

The only thing you can rely on at these upmarket joints in Dakar are the desserts. Sticking firmly in the French style, desserts come in large portions, with all the creative swirls and splats that you could wish for. Cozy passes the Jiffler creme brulee test with flying colours, presenting three separate flavours (vanilla, pistachio and bergamot) in three cups, complete with dipping biscuit and an appropriately unnecessary frizz of thick pink candy floss hovering on the plate like a psychedelic barbed wire fence.

To finish, Nescafe, barmen with highly gelled coiffs spinning glasses, and badly dressed Toubabs clapping like seals to bad techno. More village of the Ewoks than attack on the Death Star.

Like the Phantom Menace, its easy to switch off the quality control and sit through an enjoyable meal, with enjoyable company. But with expectations set high, I left with a sense of disappointment. Right now the best and most consistent cooking in Dakar is coming from the upper-mid-range places - New Africa, Farid, Jardin Thailandais, for example,while the likes of Cozy seem to get by simply by charging high prices and having a shiny bar.

There is more from Dakar at Dakar Restaurant Reviews. Next post I'll be back in Asia.

You got the money, I got Le Seoul

Surely a contender for one of Dakar's strangest restaurants is 'Le Seoul' on Rue Amadou Assane Ndoye in Plateau. If the old estate agent's adage about 'location, location, location' were to be believed, then Le Seoul should be doing a roaring trade. As it is, they don't have many punters, don't want many punters, and would prefer it the punters all buggered off home now please. I wonder if its a front for something more sinister? There's a lot of it about.

Its a nice peaceful spot as well, a little courtyard haven with a pool and nicely made furniture. the Senegalese staff were friendly, if slightly bewildered by our large group of foreign wannabe karaoke performers. The food was nice too, as long as you eat what you're given.

Perhaps Le Seoul is a misnomer. Le Pyongyang would be more appropriate, what with the 11pm curfew, no menu-just buffet stylings. Its a good buffet mind you, leaning more towards Vietnamese than Korean I'd guess. For some reason I enjoyed deep fried fish goujons. Octopus sashimi was good, but they weren't generous with these so I had to be quick. Other sushi bites lacked flavour, but were enjoyed by the crowd nonetheless. Fresh spring rolls seem to be everywhere lately, which is a good thing.

Karaoke-wise you get your own little room and karaoke set so you can croon to your heart's content without disturbing the other customers (hang on, what other customers?). the selection is a little weird, and the lift style muzak backing tracks are a bit insipid. But what the hell does that matter? Just get some beer down your neck and start shouting.

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If I'm a selt then you're a sunt.

Le Celtic, Rue 6, Point E.
The owner is a quarter Irish, or something, which explains the name. There is no annoying Irish memorabilia about the place, apart from the odd Guinness beer towels, so bring your own bodhran.

Its another empty place, but this time they're eager to please. The bar area is comfortable and drinks are reasonably priced, with changing cocktail offers lit up on a neon board. You can also see into the nice clean kitchen and give the chef a wink.

Food is European grills and steaks and the odd bit of pasta. Our group were all pleased with their food, although some reported the vegetables to be 'a bit garlicky'. At one point the staff emerged from the kitchen with a large plate full of spare pommes sautes and distributed them around the table. Ironically the last place anything like that happened was in Dublin, in late 2002, and involved a fried egg and a black pudding (you don't get that kind of service in Bewley's mind).

Please come and spend your money here in Le Celtic, its my new local and I'd hate to see it struggle.

More Dakar nonsense on Dakar Restaurant Reviews.

Rat Alley

Time to go through the leftovers of the Hong Kong trip.

First up: Rat Alley. Just off Lan Kwai fong, there are no rats, just a bustly Saturday crowd of tourists, expats, locals, Elvis impersonators, and restaurant touts. The quietest tout wins, and we settle at Coco, which has a colourful menu of Thai and Malysian dishes. I'm drawn to the Malysian dishes, and as an amateur in the region my choice is expertly guided by our hosts. We over ordered and over ate. Perfect.

Look at these (slightly dark photos):

Perfectly crisp meat samosas with a mint dip.

Chicken satay, done proper, not all rubbery.


The photos dried up at this point, partly due to a brief Elvis related interlude:


And partly due to a combination of Tsing Tao beer and enjoying the food too much.

More leftovers later in the week.

Jiffler in the Guardian

An article on the Guardian food website included a link to Jifflings' sister blog: Kigali Restaurant Reviews. One of my favourite food writers, Jay Rayner, included the link in his blog-article about ethnically incongruous restaurants.

Excellent news! Big thanks to Jay and the Guardian / Observer online.

I forgot about Gordon

Prior to the Asian food meltdown the Jifflers stopped off at Gordon Ramsay's new(ish) restaurant at Heathrow Terminal 5. Plane Food (whoever came up with that name is still recovering) invites us to relax in a kind of jetsons themed dining area, or perch at a bar, ideal I guess for solo travellers. Apparently the decor is designed to give off an aviation vibe, what with it being in an airport and all that. Inspired.

Anyhow, seating and service is swift because Mrs Jiffler and I are the only customers in the whole restaurant. OK, T5 is quiet tonight, but come on? There are two flights leaving for Hong Kong, and another for Moscow. Flights packed with high rollers who might easily drop some cash Chez Ramsay. I feel an episode of kitchen nightmares coming on.

Water (no tap offered) comes fast, as does food. Superfast, which is ideal as we end up pegging it for the flight anyway (nobody told us about the poxy monorail thing). Both of us take a fish main, and thanks to the wonders of moleskine notebooks I can report:

Mrs Jiffler:
Seared Loch Duart salmon, lemon and fennel

Jiffler:
Steamed wild seabass, asparagus, samphire and lemongrass nage

Yes, thats right, nage. Go here for a description of what a la nage is. I looked around to check that we hadn't suddenly entered a timewarp in Terminal 5 and been transported back to some sort of 80's restaurant hell where chefs use opaque foreign language terms in order to appear imaginative. No, we're still surrounded by overdesigned aviation chic, so we must be in some noughties restaurant hell designed by cretinous architects from New York. Phew.

Its good though, the fish. The nage is actually pretty more-ish and its a pleasure to have a bit of samphire on the plate. Do I detect a hint of basil in that sea bass as well? The salmon is robust and the accompanying lemon-fennel salad is just the sort of refreshing thing you need before a long flight. Sides of new potatoes and glazed carrots are just that. Carrots perhaps slightly underdone, but I don't mind them that way.

Two fish mains, carrots, spuds, water, a coke, and service. 50 quid mate. Come on hurry up, the meter is still running.

Its nice to have something decent - very decent - to eat at the airport (I prefer to avoid those sushi bars with the men in Navy blazers and perma-tanned ladies), but at quids fifty for two to sit in a restaurant designed by some sort of Top Gun fetishist is a bit over the top. Its no wonder the place was empty. They do some more reasonably priced snacks which might please the daytime punters in search of a sandwich and a little bit of Gordon Ramsay kudos, but the prices are still going to keep out the masses. Maybe thats the idea.

One other thing: This isn't the restaurant's fault, but due to security regulations you're given miniature cutlery to use. This is in case you steal a knife and go beserk in the aeroplane cabin. Most people can probably manage with the mini-eating irons provided, but unfortunately my hands are a touch on the agricultural side, and I struggled like a monkey learning to use chopsticks.

Latest from Kigali

For all my bleating, things are actually looking up foodwise in Kigali. There have been a few new openings, and I've had happy visits to a few old favourites. More fuel for Kigali Restaurant Reviews.

Its been over 2 years since I first visited La Sierra in town, and I was overcome with feelings of nostalgia while enjoying a cheese and ham butty there with a colleague earlier in the week. A proper butty: well filled on brown slice bread, cut into triangles. They do do a mean samosa there as well. A shame its so far from the office as I could happily eat there every lunchtime.

Revisits to Heaven, New Cactus, Khazana and Papyrus were a bit mixed. The burgers are still good at Heaven, and roast poatoes hit the spot. I was pleased to see no flouncing about on the shop floor as well. Still that expensive wine list to put right though.

Visiting in Papyrus with a table of fussy philistine eaters was a bit grim, as was my four seasons pizza. Chewy dough and half melted cheese sent them way down in my estimations. My neighbour's taglietelle was dry and lukewarm, as if it had been hanging around for a while. Perhaps it was because it was very busy (with good vibes as a result), with a few large groups to cater for, but they need to be able to cope with this.

Indian Khazana: The only non-white diners in the chock-full restaurant were sitting at our table. we made a couple of gags about it being 'Muzungu Khazana', but its not that funny really. Breads are still good though.

On a largish work gathering at New Cactus my neighbour leaned over and asked quietly if I thought that New Cactus might be the best restaurant in Kigali. Mulling it over a while, I think it might very well be. A broad but quality menu, reasonable wines by the carafe, very cheerful staff, no problem with large groups, and no problem with drunken consultants. Right now its my number 1. Another colleague politely asked if anyone would be offended if he ordered the veal. I shook his hand in encouragement.

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Flamingo Chinese Restaurant
Flamingo has re-opened in a tasteful, though less dramatic venue in Kimihurura, which is fast becoming Kigali's restaurant district. I think this is where the Rwandese middle-classes are eating in preference to the Khazana these days, and I don't blame them. The menu is bursting with choice and unusual (for Kigali) dishes, and the service is friendly, if a little forgetful. I enjoyed the searing hot towels which perked me up on a week night when I was feeling a little tired.

Spring rolls were a bit samey, but crisp and fresh. Won ton soup was bursting with flavour, despite the dumplings being a bit on the gloopy side. Szechuan chicken relied too heavily on onions, but came with a welcome chilli kick and a side of crisp vegetables and noodles. Next time I think I'll go for one of the sizzling dishes which I enjoyed watching as they emerged dramatically from the kitchen. A large group of Chinese visitors staying at my hotel seemed delighted with the performance.

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As a little post-script: I'm currently working on a page for Anglesey and Bangor restaurants. Since I'll be passing through in September I'd welcome and appreciate any suggestions of new openings, or any other little gems I should visit, otherwise I'll probably end up in the same old places.

Rubber Cheese Shortage

Back in Kigali, and there seems to be a shortage of rubbery Gishwati cheese. Thankfully there seem to be a few new cafe and restaurant openings in Kigali, so I'll be working my way through those for future bloggage.

Out on the tiles the other night and I was greeted with inebriated embraces by the owner of one of Kigali's most popular restaurants, then mobbed enthusiastically by the head waiter and chef from one of his rivals. Strange. I wonder if they've been reading Kigali Restaurant Reviews? Maybe I'm spending too much money at their establishments.

Dakar Restaurant Reviews

Dakar Restaurant Reviews is now online.

The first post features a few of my local eateries, all within staggering distance of the new Chez Jiffler in Point E. There is more to come though - with posts on Plateau, Yoff-Ngor-Almadies, cafes and patisseries, Goree Island, St Louis and Saly coming soon.

La Fourchette

La Fourchette, Rue Parent, Plateau, Dakar.

Its anniversary time Chez Jiffler, so a slap-up meal at somewhere fancy is in order. Mrs Jiffler and I scrub up well, despite having to get dressed for the evening in the dark thanks to the useless so called 'electricity company'. I've started enjoying wearing nice suits these days as well. Perhaps its a sign of growing up.

La Fourchette (The Fork) is one of the classier joints in Dakar. Putting the bland chain hotel dining rooms aside, there are only a handful of properly upmarket places to go in town; notably Le Lodge, Farid, Cosi, Sokhomon, and the surreal, yet ultimately disappointing Lagon II. La Forchette is the one with the real reputation for fine dining though, and I've heard good things about it here and there.

Front of house is smart enough, and we're shown to a decent table. The bar area looks like the sort of place I could knock back a bit of rum, and the restaurant is stylishly decorated (thankfully they didn't go with a forchette theme). Its something of a windowless box though, and although the A/C keeps us cool enough, the place quickly fills up with smoke as the French pile in with their Gitanes. More of the Frenchies later.

The menu is a little bit overwhelming as there appear to be multiple-personalities at work in the kitchen. You have a range of French-style starters and mains to get through, plus a selection of Mexican dishes, Japanese sushi and tempura, Italian platters, and the daily specials. The wine list is more trim, mostly French with a couple of Moroccan, New World and Spanish plonks thrown in to keep the prices down.

Mrs Jiffler recommends the sushi, and so we opt for a 'pirogue' of mixed sashimi to share as a starter. It comes presented on a wooden pirogue (Mrs Jiffler likes this kind of novelty) and looks quite smart. Capitaine and tuna are fresh and flavoursome, but the salmon is a cold tasteless lump. Wasabi is fresh and zingy and soya sauce is decent quality, but the rice just falls to bits in our chopsticks. Messy. I spot a few other more conventional sashimi options coming out of the kitchen, which in fairness look better held together than the pirogue, perhaps the boat was a touch too experimental.

Mains then, and the t-bone I ordered from the specials is unavailable. The waitress is gracious and witty about her error and recommends the Entrecote. This comes rare, as requested and tastes like a steak that has been left to hang for a while, unusual in Dakar. Unfortunately its a bit of a stringy cut, and I have to wrestle the knobbly bits out of my teeth. Vegetable sides are nicely al dente and carefully presented. Mrs Jiffler's Pork comes in an oriental style, with the odd surprising nugget of chilli. Her bucketload of rice could have been cut with a few veg to keep things interesting though.

So far, so inconsistent.

Its a treat, so we decide to squeeze in some puds. La Fourchette is famous for its puds, and I've been watching plate after plate of Roti au Chocolat coming out of the kitchen to the obvious delight of assorted French ladies. Mrs Jiffler leaps at the chance to try one, while I attempt the Creme Brulee en Coque, mainly to find out what they mean by en coque. After a few minutes our plates arrive, and the inconsistencies earlier in the meal are immediately forgiven. The baked chocolate is sublime, coming with a scoop of dreamy vanilla ice cream and a little smudge of marmalade. "En Coque" means your creme brulee comes served in three neatly opened egg shells (making the most of leftovers I see). Normally I not so impressed with this kind of gimick, but I concede it has some wit, and the creme brulee is outstanding. A neat crunch, followed by more of that lovely vanilla kick, the custard so smooth that I have the childish urge to lick the shells out.

During the course of the meal We chug through a good bottle of Beaujolais, a half bottle of OK Cote De Rhone, and some fizzy water. The final bill comes to something in the region of UK restaurant prices, which is becoming less of a surprise in this town. For a treat in Dakar, its worthwhile now and again, despite the inconsistencies. Certainly its popular with the French and Lebanese of all ages, who pack out the restaurant, with virtually no Senegalese in sight. I wonder if the lack of Senegalese customers is because, or in spite of this. Maybe La Fourchette is no longer fashionable with the Dakar glitterati, or perhaps even the Dakar-riche are feeling the crunch.