Mooncakes

It was the Mid-Autumn festival, also known as the Lantern Festival in China the other week. It's a pretty important day in the Chinese calendar, traditionally when the farmers celebrate the end of the summer harvest. In modern day Hong Kong, families get together, admire the moon, hang up brightly coloured lamps, and eat mooncakes.

Mooncakes have a thin crust and can have a variety of fillings. This one was filled with a mixed of lotus seed and red bean paste. The duck eggs inside symbolise the moon (sorry, this photo is a bit rubbish).

The story goes that they were used in the Ming revolution to send messages to other revolutionaries concerning the overthrow of the Mongolians. Messages were hidden in the symbols on the crust, and could only be deciphered by taking a set of four mooncakes, cutting them into four, and assembling the 16 quarters. The revolutionaries would then eat the cakes, destroying the message. They are dense, and pretty heavy going. I certainly couldn't eat a whole one, even though they are only about the size of a picnic pork pie. The sweet paste filling tastes OK, but the egg is a bit cloying.

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.

Brrrrrrrrunch.

I've mixed feelings about the word "brunch". It sounds at first like some insidious yuppie portmanteau, but you can have some Tony the Tiger-style fun with it by rolling the "r". Brrrrrrunch. There we go, thats much more fun. Dylan Thomas would have enjoyed Brrrrrrunch.

Enough nonsense. The Sunday champagne buffet brunch at the Intercontinental in Kowloon is a must for vistors to Hong Kong and hungry expats alike. The champagne keeps flowing until your ears go warm and you can no longer differentiate between toes. You have to get up to help yourself to the food though, which avoids any potential Mr Creosote-style exploding. Eeets only waffer theeen....

The restaurant has a fabulous panoramic view across the harbour to Hong Kong proper. I took a photo but it didn't turn out very well due to the champagne. Trust me its lovely, almost as good as the view of the buffet.

I know, I know. Its a hotel buffet. No big deal right? Wrong. A well as the unlimited champagne you get a whole lobster (limited to one each), wagyu beef roast, foie gras, and the kind of cheeses that you want to rub all over your face. Mrs Jiffler saw the dessert station of the buffet and had to be given a sedative.

We took photos. Powers of recall are inversely proportional to quantities of unlimited champagne consumed. Note the absence of anything resembling carbohydrate. You've got to be strategic :Stick to the protein, don't fill up on the carbs. Trust me, I'm a professional.

Fancy things with prawns and crabs, and a bit of foie gras pate...


Scallop (marinated in something or other) had the sweet flavour of the sea. Slices of belly pork that I could have eaten like crisps, fall off the bone chicken, peking duck pancakes, lonely steamed dim sum.

Lobster:

Roast wagyu beef (good) with yorkshire pudding (bad):

Mini-burger, with an assortment of things made from wagyu beef:

Some carbs allowed by the time we got to the cheese. The mimolette was excellent, and the brie was unctuous and chocolatey as you could hope for.

Check out the dessert station. Can you see why Mrs Jiffler had to be restrained? we nearly ended up with a 'face-down-in-the-chocolate-cake' scenario, which isn't good form in these fancy hotels. Out of shot is the ice cream lady, and a selection of wine gums, m&ms, chocolate buttons, hundreds and thousands, and jelly beans for your sprinkling pleasure.

A car-crash of desserts:

This time next week: Hong Kong-Hanoi-Hong Kong, supping beers on a junk in Hong Kong harbour.
Mood: Stuffed
Soundtrack: The hum of the harbour.
Current grip on reality: Monty Python-esque.

Sesame Cement

On the left hand side is a scoop of some sort of boring chocolate ice cream. On the right, resembling wet cement, is a scoop of sesame ice cream. It tastes better than it sounds (and looks).

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.

Hong Kong: Sunshine in a tinfoil tray

Some cities have a soundtrack - a record which somehow captures the indefinable essence of the city. Berlin has Low, and Achtung Baby. New York has Velvet Underground, or perhaps Marquee Moon. Manchester swaggers to the Stone Roses (Although I would imagine Simply Red are more popular up the Trafford Centre).

Hong Kong's soundtrack would be the Beatles sung at double-speed by a Chinese girl group. Populist, mainstream, but a bit wrong.

There is nothing wrong with what goes on your plate in Hong Kong though. After only a few days I accumulated enough jiffle-post worthy food observation for the foreseeable. Then I went to Hanoi and had to start all over again. Anyway, enough rambling, Look at this egg custard tart:

Like foil-wrapped sunshine. It was lovely and hot too, and went all down my chin. Produce of the marvellous Tai Cheong bakery. Favoured by Chris Patten when he had the keys to the shop. Nicknamed "Fat Patten's Egg Tarts" apparently.

More photos and foodie porn from Hong Kong (and Vietnam) soon.

New hotel, Novotel

Enough. After spending months in the Chez Lando I've finally upgraded to the Novotel. OK, Lando might still have the best bar in Kigali (I prefer my bar grotty with good service, rather than chic with bad service), but the breakfast was beginning to grind me down, as were the constant demands to move out of my room to accommodate the weekly truckload of earnest adventurers who have been overlanding in search of 'the real Africa' or whatever it is the brochure has convinced them they're going to find.

So here I am in the Novotel, my rough and ready credibility in tatters. The room is nice though, and there is a fridge, and a pool and a bar, and a bad restaurant where the beers cost more than double the price of the Chez Lando and the waiters have been lobotomised. Nextdoor is the Havana Club though, preferable for its plastic tables, great staff, and massive mugs of mutzig.

Its only for a few days, and I'm nearing the end of this trip, so I need a place just to keep my head down, spend some quiet time, and not have to ask twice for everything. Novotel is good for that, although I'm finding a strange lack of privacy about the place. Like many hotels in African cities the Novotel Kigali is one of those places where people not only stay, but also visit to do business, grab a sandwich from the bakery, use the gym or the pool, have a meeting in the bar, or even have their wedding photos done (4 separate weddings on the lawn yesterday, with 2 more backed up queing to get in).

So those moronic Republican contractors who I met in a bar the other night now say "Howdy" over breakfast. Colleagues pop in to use the gym. I have to hide from that weirdo NGO person by the cash machine. Now and again I see someone I like and am happy to exchange a few friendly words with while buying a sandwich at the bakery, but more often than not its somebody I really don't want to speak to, especially when I'm padding around in flip-flops with bad hair and an old t-shirt on, or lying by the pool sunning my gut and writing blog posts.

See. Its tough in the tropics.

The breakfast is a notch up on my old gaff though. Despite headless chicken style service, the bread and the fruit are fresh, and you can get a couple of fried eggs or a crepe freshly prepared by a woman who seems to really enjoy making them. I'm into the crepes at the moment. Small thin ones with a dab of sugar and a squeeze of lemon. A few slices of fruit on the side, maybe some goats cheese on a slice of wholemeal bread. Its beginning to sound like a healthy and fulfilling breakfast.

This time next week: Brunch at the Intercontinental Hong Kong.
Mood: Coffee
Soundtrack: Children splashing by the pool
Current grip on reality: Tenuous at best

Fame at last

Weirdness.

I think I have been recognised. The owner of a restaurant I've reviewed, eyes like a rabbit in the headlights. Slowly the cogs are turning... thinking...

That's the bastard...

Perhaps I shouldn't have put my picture up on the blog.

I wonder if they spat in my mojito.

Fruit Salad

Sitting hunched over my fruit salad and coffee in the Chez Lando breakfast room I tune into the conversation of two Ugandan fellows on an adjacent table. One wears a relaxed looking linen suit with a peach coloured shirt and no tie. His companion is more formal, wearing a navy double breasted affair with gold buttons, shiny tie, and the label of the suit still attached to his sleeve cuff. His shoes are very shiny.

Linen suit: "How do you say 'eight' in French?"
Navy suit: "Its 'eight' same as in English"

I sigh into my fruit salad. They haven't changed the fruit salad since I started staying here in January. I've eaten this at least 150 times now, as part of a drudging daily ritual of getting something healthy inside me before I get to work.

Linen suit: "Are all the numbers the same then? The same as in English?"

My coffee cup smells slightly of fish.

Navy suit (after a pause): "No, just some of them".

A large American woman across the room raises an eyebrow, then pretends to look out of the window.

Linen suit: "Which ones then?"

Navy suit: "I only know up to ten. It goes 'Un, deux, tree, quarte, sink, six - that one is the same - sept, eight - same, nine - same, dix'"

I decide that it's time to change hotels.

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.

A recipe for mango chutney

There was a mango glut in the garden. Nextdoor's mango tree overhangs three gardens, and we were all competing with the fruitbats to get some fresh mango action. In the end, they fell faster than we could eat them, juice them, or give them away - so some ended up in this mango chutney.

I scoured the web for recipes, and there are a lot of different recipes. I took a few of the most reliable looking and simplified them into this one. It should result in a nice thick chutney.

Ingredients: (Enough to fill two small jam jars)
2 large mangos, not overripe.
2 small apples
A fat clove of garlic (two if you like it garlicky)
A piece of root ginger - enough for a tablespoon of ginger.
500ml of white vinegar (white wine vinegar will do)
25ml of tarragon infused vinegar (not essential)
1 heaped tablespoon of Coleman's mustard powder
1 heaped tablespoon of Paprika
400g sugar

Some sources recommend drying the mangoes slightly before hand. This might lead to marginally better results. To do this, skin and cut up the mango into your preferred chutney consistency, then either:

• Cover them in salt, leaving overnight in the fridge. Drain off the juices in the morning, rinse, and pat dry with kitchen paper

or,

• Spread the chopped mango on a large chopping board and get Mrs Jiffler to stand over them with a hairdryer

or,

• Don't bother, just use the mangoes as they are.

Then:
Peel and cut the ginger into short matchsticks.
Push the garlic through a garlic press.
Peel and cut the apple into small 1cm cubes.

Add the apples, vinegar, garlic, ginger, mustard and paprika to a large pan. Bring to the boil while stirring in and dissolving the sugar.

Once the mixture is boiling and all the sugar has dissolved, add the pieces of mango and simmer for 30 to 45 minutes (it may take longer) until you have the desired consistency. Keep stirring from time to time towards the end so it doesn't stick and burn on the pan.

While the chutney is simmering, sterilize two empty jam jars by boiling on the stove (or heating in the oven, or using nasty chemicals, or whatever).

Once the chutney is the right consistency, take it off the heat and leave to cool. Once it has cooled, spoon it into the jars, seal, and keep in the fridge.

Bring the jars to room temperature before serving (with curry, or on a cheese sandwich).

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.

New Jiffling Website

Some repainting on Jifflings, and look: a handsome photo of the Jiffler (check out that steak). I'll work out how to put a photo in the title bar one of these days as well. Then it will look smart.

But the "news" is that I've spawned the first spin off in the jiffling empire: Kigali Restaurant Reviews now has its own site. It was my most popular posting, with some interest from expats and visiting tourists alike. With its own standalone site it will be easier to maintain. Please keep me updated if things change in Kigali - I'm always interested in new openings and the ups and downs of various establishments. I'm due to return to the city shortly, so will hopefully cover a handful of places that I have missed.

Coming soon I hope to publish a new site: Dakar Restaurant Reviews. A few people have mentionned that such a resource would come in handy, particularly an English language one. So why not eh? I'm halfway through the write up now, but this one may take some time. In the meantime I've written a review of La Fourchette, which I will post shortly.

Plans are also afoot to prepare a guide to the curry cafes of Manchester, some more resto reviews from Zanzibar, and Anglesey reviews. I'd like to encourage readers to help me put these together by offering their recommendations and highlights.

I'll also be developing the site a little, providing links to other foodie blogs of note, as well as food websites and producers. Again - I'd like to invite reader contributions to help with this.

Jifflings will remain much the same, with reviews and recipes and opinion pieces, but will be supplemented by the "satellite" blogs. Apologies for being a bit weak on recipes this year - I've been staying at a lot of hotels, and eating out a lot. Should have a couple of recipes up by the end of the week though.

Changes

A bit a Experimental Reformatting going on... do not adjust your set.

Something of an announcement soon. Will shake the blogosphere I'm sure.

More soon...

Back in Dakar...

Moving house is a ball-ache in the UK, but here in Dakar it involves the co-ordination of landlords, carpenters, electricians, the power company, plumbers, and a bunch of cretins with a van and a passion for scratching, denting, and otherwise mutilating furniture.

As far as I was concerned my only possessions comprised:

• 1 Swiss Watch
• 1 Red wine coloured Gibson Les Paul guitar
• A large box of CDs
• Assorted quality kitchen utensils (pride of which being a beautiful bright red retro-style enameled colander).
• 2 Laptops (thats a business thing though, so doesn't count)
  

It seems that living in Dakar I'm now (part) owner of an assortment of heavy handmade furniture, an awkwardly shaped sofa, and enough plastic buckets to fill an olympic swimming pool. There is also an oven, otherwise known as "the fucking oven", and a pre-WWII fridge freezer which has been "customised" by local fridge repairman Malik "Frigo".

Anyway, its done now, sort of. There are still a few things that need fixing, but whatever, manyana.

During the move (which lasted 40 days and 40 nights, or thereabouts), we were forced to eat various things excavated from the bowels of the freezer, or visit our new local bakery, Les Ambassades. We faced some serious moral dilemmas, such as how to dispose of 18 months worth of accumulated wine bottles when you live opposite the mosque in a dry quartier... Oh, and I have become addicted to Orangina.

Unfortunately the oven survived the move.

We're a bit nearer to things now anyway. Nearer to restaurants at least. Although the Sabura (Guinean and Portuguese grub, and a nice bar with music) over the road has chosen this week to close and start renovating. We're within staggering distance of a nice Thai, a supposedly miserable Korean place, two bakery/diners, and a couple of unexplored venues. There is a bit of overpriced fastfood at Colonel Gaddafi's petrol station as well, but I'm intimidated by all the Lebanese kids in fake Gucci sunglasses and too much gold, who hang around there pouting and looking like proper bell-ends.

A fond farewell to our previous regular haunts; Hong Kong 2 (Vietnamese Cuisine of course, never did find Hong Kong 1 though), where we will miss the miserable elderly proprietor, and the prawns in ginger. Also Sao Brazil (which I'm sure we'll visit again, just not with such frequency), which has my two favourite waiters in Dakar, one about seven feet tall, young and cheerful, the other about 5'6", older, and very serious looking. I had a quartre saisons there on Friday night for old time's sake.

New haunt seems to be the aforementioned Les Ambassades, where one can find Orangina in both bottles and cans, and they do a half decent croque-madame for 1400 CFA. Bargainous.

A disastrous chicken dinner on Sunday which even the use of the new meat thermometer couldn't save, what with all the juices burning and making a mess of the pyrex. A side of roasted butternut squash cubes was soggy and forlorn.

I wish I'd taken a photograph of the squash though, as it was the size of two footballs, and enough to make industrial quantities of soup (a variation on the Pumpkin and Red pepper soup from jiffler November 2006), for eating and freezing for later. The soup is more of a success than the chicken at least, and crispy fried slices of a chorizo I picked up Lisbon float temptingly on the terracotta surface.

Lisbon

What a marvellous bunch TAP airways are. First there was the 'incident' with the puking woman (I won't write about that here, as it could be serious), then the lost bags... what could go wrong on my way back to Dakar?

Well it started well, when they insisted at Heathrow that I'd never travelled outbound in the first place, and that I'd cancelled. Luckily I had my old boarding pass tucked into my diary to prove my existence as a passenger to the surly woman at Terminal 2. A delayed take-off from London was, I'm told, because of the outgoing George W Bush (our paths keep crossing this year... whats his problem eh?), leading to an unplanned 24 hours in Lisbon.

Fortunately the hotel (Arts Hotel - VIP Executive it says) we were stranded in was half-decent, in a slightly worn-out boutiquey kind of way. And with 24 hours in Lisbon to kill, what else was there to do but eat?

TAP had given me vouchers for breakfast, lunch and dinner at the hotel, so I bowled down to the breakfast buffet with high hopes. It wasn't bad I suppose. Scrambled eggs were buttery, but bacon was too fatty (yes, I just said too fatty). Breads were good, but the little hotdog sausages looked suspicious. Best of all were slices of Flamengo cheese, a new one for me, and not bad on a buttery roll. Of course, this was about my 150th hotel breakfast this year, and if things continue as they are with work I've got about another 100 to go before Christmas, so I'm blase about it all these days.

I decided to work a little at the hotel in the morning, before taking lunch in the hotel restaurant. Rather than go in for the three course deal I was entitled to I just ordered the pork main (Feeesh or pork) so I'd have a little time to explore Lisbon. The waiter placed me in a freezing airconditioned corner with all the other TAP refugees, facing the wall which was thoughtful, and poured me a glass of Portuguese red while I waited for my 'Pork'. The wine smelled OK, but its astringency screamed across my tongue. Urgh. Stick to the water.

And so to the pork, which turned out to be loin and looked fancy enough stacked on top of hash-brown-lookalike potato cakes with a big puddle of gravy and two halves of cherry tomatoes arranged like nipples on top, just to make it look kinda classy. It came quickly, as it had clearly been made a while ago, possibly last Easter, and left in the sun to keep warm. Total lukewarm rubbish. The gravy would have been ok had it not being on the verge of congealing. I left quickly.

Resolving not to eat my dinner in the restaurant that evening I took the metro downtown in search of an alternative venue, clean underpants, and a poke around the town. Lisbon seems like an attractive enough city, and I did my usual thing of walking in random directions and seeing what turns up. A film crew shooting something or other. Some people selling salt cod. Lots of Portugal flags hanging from apartment windows in support of the national team's efforts in Austria. Not quite as many tourists as I'd would have imagined. Monuments and all that. Normally I love wandering around a new city, but today wasn't right. I didn't have the company of the (handy Portuguese speaking) Mrs Jiffler, and I really wanted to be back in Dakar, sleeping in my own bed for a change.

With new underpants procured I set off to weigh up the best of the curbside cafes. My criteria were:
-Busy
-Plenty of locals
-nice grilled-fishy smells from the kitchen
-not too pricey, but not too cheap

Finding one which seemed popular with Portuguese men (a sure sign of either large portions, or attractive waitresses, or both) I settled down, ordered some water and chose grilled swordfish from the specials menu. Given that Portugal is right nextdoor to Spain, where they know a thing or two about food, and also on the Atlantic, I thought that eating out bistro-style would be a safe bet. Well, I was right about the portions, and the waitresses, but not about the safe bet. Carrots and green beans came boiled to buggery, while a large portion of potatoes needed a healthy slick of (very good) olive oil to make them worth noticing. The swordfish wasn't bad, fresh tasting at least. It all came to about €10, which is what you'd pay in a bog standard British pub for a similar standard of badly cooked shite.

A gang of British backpackers piled in to the bistro as I was finishing, scattering luggage everywhere and ordering cokes. Looking on, I started to feel old all of a sudden... Remembering bumming around in Liguria a few years ago when I was younger, and thinner, and more fashionably dressed; eating langoustines and drinking too much wine. Mind you, I got offered marijuana twice in the street today, so I must still look a bit young and studenty.

Back at the hotel I was all packed up, showered, and sporting fresh underpants, when it occurred to me that there was still time to see what the restaurant offered for dinner, maybe taste a little, and see if things had improved.

This time I was greeted by more professional waiting staff, placed a little better. The menu was the same as lunchtime though. I avoided the salad (lettuce leaves with white dressing), soup (odourless brown liquid) and went for the fish. Which was salmon. From Scotland. Overcooked, therefore undereaten.

So what gives? I get 24 hours in Portugal and the food is mediocre. I was hoping for something a bit more worthwhile to see me through transit. Perhaps I just had bad luck. Any suggestions for a place to eat next time TAP screw up?

Weekend in the UK

After nearly 24 hours in the Kenya Airways Bermuda triangle, and nearly as long on the circle line to Euston, I finally surfaced blinking in the sunlight in London. Too late for a dash down to Canteen on the South Bank for a breakfast, I had something generic and utterly forgettable in a place called 'Eat'. The name of the place sums it up really doesn't it? Somebody should open up a shop and simply call it 'Shop', or 'Buy', and sell really generic, slightly rubbish things. A bit like Muji.

John Lewis for a new suit and a few bits and pieces, and out of curiosity I thought I'd nip to the basement food hall to see if they might have some choice pickings for a picnic lunch in Finsbury Circus with my oldest friend. I didn't realise quite how dangerous it would be until I found myself standing in the cheese area staring into the middle distance, just breathing in the cheese. Its been a long time.

Lincolnshire poacher was procured, nice and crumbly, cut into picnic sized chunks by a friendly woman at the cheese counter. Luckily she did it swiftly as she might have returned to the till to find me with my mouth stuffed with Idiazabal, and Barkham blue all over my chin, looking both anguished and sheepish. What else..? Potted Shrimps from Morcambe where an absolute buttery delight, posh bread, smoked Scottish salmon, plums, apricots, a 500ml bottle of Beaujolais, and some pork and pickle pies as requested by my friend. The pies came from Marks and Spencers, where I had to snatch the last packet before other marauding picnickers got to them.

Don't let me go into that shop unsupervised again.

At our picnic, my friend told me about spending hours in John Lewis with his fiance choosing flatware for their wedding list. We were both a bit surprised that we knew quite so much about flatware and cutlery. Not only that, but I'd actually stopped to browse the flatware selection on the way to the food hall. I'm a bit of a traditionalist, prefering a heavy English design with a French style edge on the knife, whereas I think he's modern-traditional...

Heaven

At long long last... a place has opened in Kigali that can (almost) be enjoyed as a restaurant in its own right, rather than being 'not bad for Kigali'.

Wondering into the reception area of Heaven for the first time we were greeted with smiles and a cheery, if slightly cheesy, "Welcome to Heaven". I had to force up an eyebrow in an attempt not to look too impressed, but the sense of pride our greeter took in making us feel welcome made me crack, grinning like a a giddy schoolboy. At last, this looks like a real restaurant.

The dining space at Heaven seems at first to be of considered and precise taste. There is a touch of a luxury safari camp feel to the decor, with a bit of a modern edge. Everything has a quality look, but once you get below the surface there are a few cracks that need looking at. Cutlery is a little lightweight, and already starting to look worn, while the the floorboards vibrate annoyingly as the staff (usually the mincing husband-owner, but more of that later) trundle around the restaurant. However, artwork is varied (and for sale) but doesn't detract from the overall space, and even the tiles in the toilets seem right, reminding me of the lining in a Paul Smith suit.

I should say that this review is based on four visits, or maybe it was five, with different friends and colleagues, ordering differently each time. Since the menu is pleasingly short - one A4 page - unlike the tedious telephone directories on offer elsewhere in Kigali, I've seen most of what the kitchen can do.

Waiters are friendly (I rather like Boniface), and take drink orders swiftly and efficently, although I asked for an ashtray for our table 6 times one night, and the smokers ended up standing their dead cigarettes on end like a line of little white soldiers. Cocktails are well mixed, and beers are draught, but the wine list is mediocre given the price (100%+ mark-up on the Supermarket opposite Chez Lando).Drinks come with an amuse of chapatti chips for dipping into a tahini-like paste, the same thing every time I've been so far, but thanks anyway.

The menu goes into some detail about using ingredients from Rwanda etc etc. I'm sure this will impress visitors, but I'm a bit jaded by all this local sourcing chin-stroking, which is very much de rigeur back in the UK (more of this in future blogs). What Heaven can be proud of is that it takes this limited range of locally available produce, and turns out a creative menu of main courses that stands out from other menus in the city.

Starters are a bit samey-dippy-chapathi-yawny-yawny-didn't-we-just-have-this-as-an amuse-bouche. There is a soup, but its a bit on the sweet side. Mostly its a bit beige. Throw in a few limes and chillis here and there and we might allow ourselves to get excited.

Burgers can be the test of a chef, and at Heaven they come beautifully rare (as ordered) and herby. A triangle of local gouda rests on top. Thick-cut chips are miles ahead of the usual insipid french fry offerings, and the salad has been cut with care, with nothing wilted and manky hiding down below.

Filet mignon: Very good, and cooked to order. Cassava leaf sombe-type sauce somewhat pointless, but full marks for having a go.
Pork Ribs: Very tasty, but too small a portion. A pointless slice of pineapple.
Fish: Directionless.
Chicken: Good apparently, but this is the one thing I haven't tried.
Vegetable crepe: Large, filling, but its for the vegetarians right? Since they don't have any palate, who cares about what they eat?
Pepper stuffed with lamb and rice: my favourite, although I'd still like to see more on the plate.

Nice sorbets. But I don't really do puds.

Don't get me wrong, Heaven is a good place. The food is good. Thank heav.. I mean thank god somebody has opened up a place like this in town. But: Heaven is not as good as it thinks it is. Not yet at least. The owner, Mr Heaven, (although I suspect his wife is the real force behind this), needs to chill out a bit, or get off the shop floor. All that self belief looks a bit dumb next to the amateur waiting skills and charmlesss arrogance. I don't like to get personal in a review, but the last thing any restaurant needs is some over-confident berk flouncing around trying to be Mr Bigtrousers. Mrs Heaven does decent enough work on the floor because I suspect she cares about owning a restaurant, not about being a restaurant owner. Good luck to her.

(Post Script: The New Times - a national newspaper in the Orwellian sense - ran a piece on Heaven. The reviewer stated that the name is a misnomer since they serve alcohol. Perhaps this is what passes for humour with the cretins at the New Times. Or perhaps they're just kissing PK's tee-total ass as usual)