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

Shifting the backblog

The backblog has reached Himalayan heights now. I need to get things moving a little, which sadly involves cutting the rest of the Istanbul trip into bite sized chunks, to be consumed at one sitting. Rather like tapas.

So, without further ado, here are some tasty street scenes:

Baklava? My favourites are the ones that filled with milk and honey that burst open when you pop them (whole) into your mouth.


Or perhaps some Turkish Delight? None of that dodgy Fry's stuff either, this is a serious business. Those nutty rolls along the bottom shelf are specifically designed for the removal of fillings.


Check out these jars of preserved vegetables. How cool would a bunch of those look on your kitchen shelves?


One of the friendlier stalls in Beyoglu (Sahne Sk, Balik Pazari No:3/A). I stocked up on apple tea here and the owner, Murat, gave me a little bag of mixed nuts to munch on as I tramped around the wet city.


Restaurantage:
It's far too easy to get lured into the tourist traps in Istanbul, but there are some great little places out there. Little cafes where you can buy strong tea and munch heavy slabs of borek (preferably for breakfast) are everywhere.

My top pick for Istanbul is the Sultanahmet Fishhouse (http://www.sultanahmetfishhouse.com/ , Te: +90 212 527 44 41) in the old part of town. The welcome here is super-friendly, the wine list is good (check out the Corvus Estate Okuzgozu Bogazkere 2005, pictured below) and it's the kind of place you can stop for a few tasty nibbles or a full on seafood extravaganza that smells like a good day at the beach.


Another oddity I came across, and thoroughly enjoyed, was a small place with a name I couldn't comprehend in Beyoglu. Wandering the streets alone one Sunday night I pressed my nose up against the window of a place filled with laughing Turkish families under strip lighting tucking into massive salads and skewered meat.

After finding myself a seat it quickly became clear that none of the staff spoke a word of English (unusual in an Istanbul restaurant) and the familiar game of smiles and hand gestures ensued. A can of Diet Coke in hand I observed my fellow diners - the place was packed with families and groups of young students, who all seemed to be eating the same thing and chatting away noisily. As the only none Turkish person there I realised I'd finally, and happily, escaped the tourist traps.

Plates of flatbread arrived, along with yoghurt, lemon slices, fresh parsley, mint, and coriander, spring onions, tomatoes and lettuce, and a chap brandishing thin skewers of lamb and beef. Self-assembly kebabs then? I haven't been able to find another word to describe this style of eating, but the food was zinging fresh, and it was very informal, and lots of fun. The whole lot, with a cup of tea at the end, came to about 5 euro. Happy days.

That concludes Istanbul Jifflings, rather too briskly I'm sorry to say. I think some reformatting of Jifflings is in order, so watch out soon for a new look blog, with some more reports from Senegal, the UK, Lisbon, and Kyrgyzstan.

More Istanbul

Where were we before that brief hiatus? Ah, yes Istanbul, about two months ago.

Istanbul in Feburary is like Manchester in February. Grey up, grey down. It's just as wet, but has more mosques, and fewer children dressed like security guards.

It's easily done. You arrive in a new city, one that is throbbing with eating potential, all confident and well travelled, ready to take on the best that Istanbul has to offer.

Then you end up in a tourist trap. Twice.

Our first foray into the aforementioned TT occurred in the Cicek Pasaji just off the Istiklal Caddesi. At a cellar restaurant filled with a mix of tourists and young locals where we're promised multiple courses plus all we can drink for about 30 Euro. I can drink a lot, so this seems like a good deal. There is entertainment as well. Goody.

The food is unremarkable, as I should've expected. A variety of fridge-cold dips and mezze introduce an overcooked Bream, followed by a plate of pale fruit for dessert. The drink flows liberally though, which adds to my sense of well-being.

Entertainment is in the form of a drunken band. Perhaps a shambolic act, or perhaps just a general shambles, I'm not sure. They periodically interrupt their routine to argue threateningly with each other as they make their way between tables. The sweating guitarist grimaces at me and indicates his top pocket. I cotton on sharpish, fill his pocket with the green folding stuff, and mutter a gentle instruction to shut up and piss off.

A belly dancer arrives, her torso tight as a drum, her face like a rucksack full of broken bells, hips alternating between "drugged snake", "angry wasp" and "malarial cat". I blew the last of my baksheesh on the band, so she goes in search of a more generous/drunk target.

Thankfully there are some good bars in Beyoglu, playing old fashioned rock and roll.

The next evening is Valentine's night. Can there be anything more depressing than walking up the Istiklal Caddesi in the pissing rain, fighting against a tide of umbrella wielding couples (while your valentine is on a different continent)? Yes there can. You could go to the Haci Abdullah restaurant, which looks alright from the outside - all jars of preserves and air of authenticity. It's not until you're inside and seated that you discover that it does not serve alcohol.

This time the entertainment comes from an adjacent table filled with British IT contractors. We listen in to their awkward stories and tedious anecdotes about mobile phones and facebook. One man announces that it is his birthday, and his colleagues look at the ground and mutter happy birthday. The food is grimly unmemorable. I may have had meatballs. And maybe some things wrapped in vine leaves. My colleague remarks that the conversation of one the gentlemen on the adjacent table (blessed with a foghorn voice) was so stupid and inarticulate that she worried that he might have been bitten by a zombie. The Dawn of the Dumb.

Things got better in Istanbul though...

Mogador

What a mighty name for a restaurant. Mogador sounds like a baddy from Lord of the rings, played by an 18 foot hammer-fisted Brian Blessed on PCP. Mogador eats cats, smokes children, and does very unpleasant things to those naughty Hobbits.

A swift google reveals that Mogador is many things:

• The Portuguese name for the south west coastal region of Morocco
• An ancient Phoenician fort in Morocco
• A small hamlet near Margery Wood (would she?) in Surrey, UK.

The Mogador in Dakar is a fine dining establishment with a snow white interior and some neat outdoor furniture for the summer. I'm told that the ladies loos are 'the most luxurious in Dakar'. So make sure you spend a penny.

The menu sticks to very creative French stylings with none of the miserable ethnic diversions common to Dakar fine dining. While the wine list offers the usual suspects at not too outrageous prices. We stick with the usual suspects - beers and Beaujolais - and I make another mental note to remember to bother to learn more about wine.

Amuses are a delicate diversion from the usual mini-crostini type annoyances, but nowt special. Mrs jiffler's potato gratine starter disappears quickly, although the truffle oil didn't really assert itself. My starter demonstrates that some creative thinking is going on in the kitchen. A neat pastry feuillette comes bursting with smooth melted Bresse Bleu, accompanied by a camembert ice cream. The competing yet strangely complementary flavours and temperatures of these two cheesy components form a whole far greater than the sum of it's parts. A slightly odd bush of salad on the side appears irrelevant at first, before it's intended purpose as a bitter mop for the unctuous bleu presents itself. My word. In Dakar.

We could have continued on this creative trajectory through main courses and desserts, but decided to test the chef's hand with straightforward steak frites. Over poncification of steak frites spells disaster, but Mogador serves it straight up and smoky, rare as requested, and hung like a horse. A five pepper sauce, and proper chips are simple perfection.

No dessert. That steak will take some digesting. Petits Fours Secs are made in-house and amuse Mrs Jiffler over good coffee.

Two courses, a beer, water, bottle of brouilly, coffee comes to 51,000Fcfa for two. Not cheap, but better value than most upmarket places in Dakar. We're not talking molecular gastronomy here, but I'm glad somebody in Dakar is taking things a little further than the usual French school dinners with a token selection of mediocre sushi. I await the day when the chef at Mogador gets hold of a sous vide cooker. Then those pesky Hobbits had better watch out.

More from Dakar at Dakar Restaurant Reviews

Bishkek Restaurant Reviews

I can't see Bishkek becoming another addition to the Jiffler empire of obscure city guides, especially since the good people at the Spektator are doing such a good job of reporting on the restaurant and nightlife scene. I should be back here later in the year so I might give the editorial team at the Spektator a call, see if they'll take me out on the town.

I've had a run of bad luck with Chinese restaurants lately (see Dakar Restaurant Reviews for the latest disaster) and my first meal out in Kyrgystan was to prove no exception. Exhausted from two nights in the air and a days work my colleague and I cast out for the nearest restaurant.

It looked popular, and we were led into a back room crammed with smoking Russian teenagers in various states of inebriation. Somewhere nearby there had been a fashion explosion. Girls with crimped fringes sported diamond print sweaters paired with leggings and fuck-me boots, while the boys, shaven haired and pale, dressed as if they were at work on a Welsh sheep farm circa 1983.

With an English menu finally procured we managed to order three dishes and settled back to drink lukewarm tea from dirty bowls. As our dishes came out of the kitchen it became clear that we'd over ordered. First, an enormous bowl of "Meat with aubergines" which was in fact "Tripe with boiled cucumbers and whole garlic cloves". I don't care what people say, tripe is not my idea of easy eating. I've tried it many times, and will no doubt eat it again, but once every two years is probably enough. Next up was a large and murky puddle of bizarrely textured mushrooms served with greens, before we were served the house speciality, that old Chinese classic "Chicken with potatoes".

We ate about a third of what was in front of us. Felt a bit guilty, and left.

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Adriatico on the other hand is a smashing place. Rated by many as Bishkek's best Italian restaurant the menu promises Pizzas, pastas and the usual meat dishes. Service is swift, if a little fussy, and once again we over order. This time we eat the lot though.

Greek salad lacks punch, and olive oil, but the selection of salumi more than makes up for this. cheesy ravioli all round comes with what appears to be a super generous serving of grated truffle. Judging by the mildness of smell and flavour. and the paleness of colour, these must be Chinese truffles, bit still, nice to have truffles innit, perigord or not.

Decent coffee, so-so gelato and tiramisu wrap things up. This may end up being the default comfort eating restaurant for my future sojourns to Bishkek. One of those restaurants that fit the bill when you're hungry, worn out and just need something pleasing and familiar.

Adriatico Restaurant
219 Chui Avenue
Bishkek
Tel: (+996) 312 61 46 09 (Take away service available)

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.

Chinese Chain Reaction

That last post started a chain reaction in my head, leading to this post, which I hope celebrates some great Chinese food. It also clears up the last of my notes from Hong Kong.

(Yes, I keep notes)

Yi Jiang Nan, 33-35 Staunton Street, Central, Hong Kong.
The first and only time I've had the pleasure of drinking cold beer out of a chilled bowl was at Yi Jiang Nan. It didn't make me drink any slower mind you, such a receptacle has not yet been invented. Despite this, I also managed to find room to try a few delicious brews from the extensive tea menu.

The punters here were a mix of foreigners and small groups of Hong Kong Chinese, while the decor stretched to pleasant 'scenes of rural China', with no over the top jade monstrosities. All was calm, but I'm not sure if the atmosphere was spoiled or improved by the Irish "traveller" on the adjacent table loudly trying to impress a group of American "travellers" with his 15 words of Mandarin. I didn't realise quite how many ways there are to wordlessly communicate the words "this bloke is a tosser" without resorting to the internationally recognised hand signal.

For an upmarket Szechuan place, it's not a million miles away from what gets served up in the better places in UK, albeit less sweet, with more heat, and more of an emphasis on the danglier bits of the animal. The food here is surprisingly light, and a large bowl of minced chicken wrapped in lettuce disappears quickly. The real speciality though is the crispy roast mutton with garlic sauce,.As masculine as a plate of food can possibly be, this revels in the oft-ignored robustness of mutton and pairs it with dedicated finger sucking garlickery. That is how to distract me from my beer.

Yi jiang Nan made me want to explore more Szechuan cooking, not so easy in a world of "internationalised" Chinese restaurants. Recommendations welcome.

Dims Sums at Eighteen Brook Cantonese Cuisine, 8/F, Convention Plaza , 1 Harbour Road , Wan Chai , Hong Kong
Certain people may tell you that the best dim sum are served in grotty little street cafes with dead animals hanging in the window and the smell of drains outside. Only by sitting among the ordinary folk with their bad haircuts and cheap plimsoles will you get the real authentic dim sum deal, in between slurps of tepid green tea and bouts of diarrheal anxiety.

All a load of complete lopsided bollocks of course. Street markets and backstreet cafes have their place, but where dim sum are concerned, I prefer air-conditioning and glass fish tanks over greasy windows and the scent of sweaty arses anyday.

Eighteen Brook Cantonese Cuisine in Wan Chai fits the bill alright. On the 43568th floor of some sort of swanky office building/ghastly exhibition centre, you'll find glacial A/C, Bond-villain style fish tankery and robot-ninja waitering staff. Orders are taken via some sort of bingo card system and smoothly delivered to the kitchen. The atmosphere is that of zen-like calm and precision despite the 100+ diners, which can only mean that the kitchen is like some sort of shouty, sweltering temple of doom.

Green tea comes piping hot and poured to electron microscope precision by the robot waiters. Dim sums come as delicate as dandelions, none too sticky or too greasy. Roast pork puffs are as light as clouds with a core of hot, sweet, unctuous pork. Fresh shrimp dumplings practically leap across the table to do battle with baby scallops rolled in rice sheets. Even pan-fried turnip cake is better than it sounds.


Ho's Bakery, 44 Faulkner Street, Manchester
The taste of those roast pork puffs takes me back to one of my favourite lunchtime stops in Manchester - Ho's Bakery on Faulkner Street. Ho's has a little upstairs restaurant that does a cheap and filling lunch. But the real magic is in the downstairs bakery, which churns out the best sweet and savoury pastries in Manchester.

The roast pork crisp pastries are the the most fun you can have for less than a quid. It gives me a warm glow to reminisce about how lucky I was to be able to shop in Chinatown (try the Wing Fat supermarket) once a week, and pick up something small from Ho's bakery on the way home.

The best time to go is just before seven o'clock on a winter morning, before the city has really woken up. Bleak skies, damp streets and the occasional rattle of a tram leave you feeling as though you've stepped into an Anton Corbijn photoshoot. Dodging the delivery vans and streetsweepers you can duck into the bright, scented warmth of Ho's bakery and treat yourself to a soft, golden honey bun fresh from the oven.

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.

Crunchy Songbird

I felt as though I should at least eat something vaguely ridiculous in Vietnam, so, having been told that the swan was off, opted for a sparrow salad. It came de-plumed and deep fried with a salad of herbs and chilli and was a crunchy delight. Mrs Jiffler couldn't stomach eating the head so passed that over to me. It made a strange popping sensation under my molars and I'm sure I would have been disgusted by the sensation of its brain matter squirting out onto my tongue had it not been for the satisfyingly savoury hit that accompanied.

Our friends had taken us to a fantastic place, a kind of canteen surrounded by stalls selling different dishes. You choose a selection of dishes from whichever stalls take your fancy, and waiting staff bring them to you plated up at a table for a modest mark-up.

Aside from the sparrow salad, we munched our way through pigs trotter soups, pho, fresh spring rolls (yes again), cooked spring rolls, chicken, squid, more squid... Best of all, lunch for four, with beers and more than we could eat came in at under £12.

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.

Lamma Island Seafood Odyssey

Traditionally, a junk is a sailing boat of Chinese origin, designed and built to go out into the open ocean. Modern day junks tend to be pleasurecraft built with powerful engines and room for plenty of beer. Many of the big firms located in Hong Kong own a 'corporate junk' as a treat for employees, and for entertaining important clients and, on this occasion, two aid workers from Westest Africa on a dashing mission to fill their faces with molluscs and crustacea on the island of Lamma. All aboard?

Yung Shue Wan in Lamma is famous for its row of seafood restaurants. Families and junketeers occupy large round tables with a Lazy Susan at the hub, and are encouraged to inspect the seafood living in nearby tanks, before it goes into the pan.

Not that much encouragement is required. I'm never happier than when tormenting a cuttlefish. If you poke them, sometimes they go purple.


Some of the prawns are a bit lacklustre, but razor shell clams in black bean sauce are a treat. Chilli crab, or rather CHILLI! crab is forehead tinglingly hot. All is well.

Fondling some sea snails below. In the basket below my right elbow are Abalone, a rare mollusc prized for both its meat and its sometimes iridescent shell.

Previously these expensive delicacies had been on my mental list of 'things to eat', but I'm reliably informed that most of the abalone sold in Asia come from a nefarious trade with South African gangs. Drugs for molluscs and smiliar unpleasantness, so they're quite rightly off the menu today.

Soft Italian red wine sees me through the voyage back into Hong Kong harbour, and things started to get a little blurry.