Manti, Nan and Plov

Manti, Nan and Plov are the three principle characters in a deranged saturday morning kid's TV show. Manti, the lead character, is an undefinable creature of vaguely Bonobo origin. His naive sense of childlike wonder often gets the trio into mild scrapes involving magic umbrellas and other such devious plot devices. Manti's foil is Nan, a bossy female penguin who tries to keep the threesome on the straight and narrow but invariably gets drawn into the adventure. Her unrequited love for Manti doesn't go unnoticed by adult viewers, whose bored imagination occasionally leads them to feel slight unease at the prospect of a chimp-penguin union. Plov is a ponderous lump of a bear, who on the surface appears to be a total clunking doofus, but deep down he is the beating moral heart of the show.

This is what happens when I drink too much Vimto. I could go on for pages and pages, but let's face it, I'm not going to get into the Times Online's list of the World's Top 50 Best Food Blogs by rambling on about about chimps. No, in order to achieve that I shall have to adopt a self-effacing tone, punctuated by professional quality photography taken in my Martha Stewart kitchen in North America/Western Europe. Like some sort of commercial webshite, complete with books to sell and sponsored links to click. They'll be haunted by the ghost of Bill Hicks.

Manti, Nan and Plov.
I was warned not to expect too much from the food of Central Asia, particularly in the winter, so went with expectations lowered. In retrospect though, just because food doesn't come in the colours of the Italian flag, or with a whizz and a bang and a sizzle, doesn't mean to say it's any less interesting. Kyrgyz people I met were proud of their food, eager to share it, and in touch with the way it is produced. That is all it takes for me to admire it.

It seems Manti are popular across Central Asia and the Turkic regions (I spotted a variation of them being prepared in Istanbul recently). In Kyrgyzstan they resemble large dumplings, filled with meat, potatoes, the all important lump of fat, and if you're lucky, some bits of pumpkin. These parcels are steamed or boiled and served with more fat - butter - melted on top with a little fringe of dill. At one place I was offered a vinegary chilli-sauce accompaniment quite unlike any other I've tried on my travels, which added a little poke to the bland meatiness.

Accompanying Manti, and many other Kyrgyz dishes, are Nan breads. A cousin of the Naan breads found in India, and popular in Indian restaurants in the UK, nan is a soft disc of flat bread, usually made with white flour. In Kyrgyzstan they sometimes add a little smooth yoghurt to give the bread a little density. I looked forward to nan at mealtimes, usually tearing up a warm loaf roughly the size of a 7" record to dip into whatever juices I found leaking from my Manti.

Sadly my photographs of both manti and nan didn't turn out in the gloom of the Batken evenings. I did manage to capture a plate of Plov though:


Plov is the Turkic cousin of what most people recognise as pilau, or pilaf (I'm happy to be corrected on this though, my sources are a bit mixed). A simple rice dish cooked in a stock. Pretty much every culture has something similar (risotto, paella, nasi goreng - even jollof rice in West Africa) to plov, which is regarded as something of a national dish. Generally made with Kyrgyz long grain rice, with various vegetables and fruits thrown in according to season. The dish in the photograph contained mutton and what was described to me as 'yellow carrot' - a new one on me. According to my translator, the best version of this dish is made in Osh. She is from Osh by the way.

Of course Kyrgyz cuisine stretches further than manti, nan, and plov. How about dried apricots as bright as jewels, or rice pudding with baked pumpkins for breakfast? I'll be lifting my expecations when I return in the summer.

Samsi

The morning has passed by in a blur of cold meetings and chilly handshakes. The translator's voice a monotonous soundtrack to our huddled gatherings in freezing offices, hands in fingerless gloves wrapped around steaming bowls of sugarless black tea. At least it's easier to stay awake when when every sentence forms clouds of steam.

I'm starving. We're all starving, and we have another meeting in five minutes. This time it's a forester with a weather beaten face and a twinkle in his eye. We invite him to take tea and samsi with us, and his whole face lights up.

With a carrier bag full of hot, dense samsi procured from the roadside we head back to our makeshift headquarters in the hope of finding warmth.

Samsi are essentially a Central Asian cousin of the humble pasty. They are a favourite street snack in Kyrgyzstan and come with a variety of fillings - mutton, beef, cheese. The Samsi here in Batken are less refined than their urban equivalents. Expect tough old mutton and, most famously, a thumb sized nugget of fat in the middle "because the men like it that way".


I keep my scarf on to eat, but the grease leaking from the Samsi necessitates sleeves being rolled up. Hot fat shoots out with every bite, making it's way quickly down my wrist before finally congealing in the cold close to my elbow.

The forester speaks up, the translator translates:

"Do you like our samsi?"

I look at the oily puddle on my plate, and think of the hard ball of greasy mutton fat making it's way to my stomach.

"Yes" I say, and help myself to another.

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.

Oranges

Back in Dakar, the tree in our backyard is bulging with oranges. Not the sort of oranges you'd want to eat, all pithy and thich, but the sort of oranges you might make into orange juice, if you could be bothered. Say you had Friday afternoon off work. And a four metre wooden curtain rail just lying around.

The technique is simple; stand on the roof of the flat and thwack away at the oranges with the wooden pole. Half an hour and 100 or so oranges later and you have this:


They're a bit grubby perhaps, but will do for juice. A few are even good enough for marmalade.


Much squeezing later, et voila: My first glass of juice made from Point E oranges.


Very satisfying. I can't wait for mango season.

There might be a brief hiatus in posting as I'm off on a short job to an unusual place where I'm not quite sure there will be much in the way of internet access. Will do my best to get one or two posts out. More to come from Dakar, plus three (!) new countries.

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.

'Ta-daaaah' in a sort of Sino-Dutch way

I don't know, you write a couple of blog-posts about eating out Netherlands style and the next thing you know you're invited to a Dutch dinner in Dakar. Based on a sample size of two, I can now infer that Dutch men know how to cook. My friend's potato and garlic soup was that perfect combination of velvet-smooth soup with al dente nuggets of garlic. Lekker.

New Peking / Niuw Peking, Ede.

I thought I'd managed to block out the memory of eating at the New Peking restaurant in Ede, but I'm going to have to get it out of my system here on jifflings instead. Being a somewhat conservative town, Ede shuts down at about 8pm and everyone goes home for a spot of self flagellation, or to watch the telly. whatever. Anyhow, the New Peking looked inviting; we could order a set-banquet from the Dutch-language-only menu and be assured of eating something recognisable, and it was a 25 minute walk through the snow to the next restaurant. We had cold feet. It was a no brainer.

It started reasonably well. The chicken soup came with crystal clear broth and shredded pieces of proper poultry. Spring rolls and other deep-fried things were springy, and you know, deep fried. Nothing worth getting the trumpets out for, but solid, neighbourhood chinese restaurant cooking all the same. Our feet had started to thaw by this point as well. Things were looking good.

Rather too soon after clearing away the detritus of our starters, the owner arrived pushing a trolley and proudly presented us with a platter of main course dishes. when I say proudly, I mean she made a noise as if to say 'Ta-daaaah' in a sort of Sino-Dutch way. Raising an eyebrow each, we peered at our wagonwheel sized tray of mixed dishes and made that peculiar gurning noise that British people do in restaurants when they are trying to convey enthusiasm and satisfaction, when really they are thinking "What the fooking hell is that supposed to be?".

Some chicken, in sweet and sour sauce. Some vegetables, also in sweet and sour sauce. Onions and some shredded bits of cow ringpiece (in blackbean sauce, phew). Deep fried balls of... stuff, bobbing miserably in a polluted lake of sweet and sour sauce with half a tin of watery cocktail fruits emptied nonchalantly over the top, and finally a herb omelette in, er, sweet and sour sauce.

We actually ate some of it. To be honest, I couldn't wait to try the omelette. I knew already that it would be a total disgrace, but I thought it would make Mrs Jiffler laugh. The sweet and sour sauce wasn't even a passable attempt (and since it seemed to be the house speciality, one might expect something half decent), but appeared to be made from equal portions of tinned tomato soup and white vinegar. Seriously.

At least we could laugh about it, and pick at a few bits of meat and rice. We didn't bother with dessert though. The cold weather outside seemed more appealing.

Branson's pickle

I know, I know...

I've already had a good moan about airline food before, but I reckon I could take a few lessons from a recent Virgin Airways passenger, who wrote this magnificent letter of complaint to Richard Branson.

Apparently the Bearded one rang up the passenger in person to apologise and has offered him/her the opportunity to help select the menu for future Virgin flights.

Some Dutch Cuisine

After the high and low culture of Amsterdam, the Dutch trip turned into a jaunt around the provincial towns of Eastern Holland. In the snow. Utrecht was pretty, as were the pokey cobbled streets of Zutphen. Apeldoorn was dull, but not as dull as Ede. Wageningen was dark. Arnhem was frankly a bridge too far.

I learned a few things about Dutch food along the way. Culinary factoids which wouldn't fit in my other posts:

Broodjes are filled baguette-like sandwiches. Paling (eel) is the speciality filling of choice, although sadly Bryans Brasserie in Zutphen had run out, so I had to make do with lashings of smoked salmon. I recommended Bryans Brasserie if for some bizarre reason you find yourself in Zutphen.

Cone of Friets / Chips are available everywhere, but you get what you pay for. 2 Euros will buy you a cone of insipid little french fries, but 4 euros will get you a monster portion of heroically thick cut chips. Lashings of mayonaise and ketchup all over, or you could opt for patat oorlog (chip war!) chips topped with pretty much everything they can find in the kitchen.

Dinner at a friend's house in Arnhem was an excellent bowl of boerenkool stamppot (mashpot). This is essentially a mash up of rookwurst (smoked sausage), potatoes and curly kale, served with a spot of mustard on the side. Simple comfort food that was perfect for the sub-zero conditions.

I have to concede that they know a thing or two about cheese in the Netherlands as well. I'd previously mocked Dutch cheese, having only being exposed to Edam and the odd block of Gouda. I thought that the only defining feature of these cheeses was their ability to travel well without losing any of their blandness, hence appearing in supermarkets across the world. I was very, very wrong though, and very, very impressed to see market stalls and specialist cheeseshops in every town bulging with marvellous mature cheeses of every possible configuration. Not only that, but Dutch cheesemongers even know a decent British cheese when they taste one - something the rest of continental Europe still hasn't caught up with.

Michelin 2009 List Leaked.

Those of you who give a toss may already know that the 2009 Michelin list was leaked over the weekend.

The Guardian website's food section has enjoyed this, with heavyweights Jay Rayner and Matthew Fort (Oh, and Tim Hayward, with his pet Otaku) chipping in column inches. Much of the debate centres around whether or not the whole Michelin star system is meaningful, or useful, or too French.

I've had the privilege to eat at a couple of Michelin star places: Midsummer House in Cambridge (two stars) and Martin Berasategui's Kursaal Restaurant in San Sebastian (one star). While I enjoyed the food - the excellent food, and of course the company of Mrs Jiffler, neither restaurant left me feeling like I'd had some sort of epiphany. We ate excellently cooked, slightly Frenchified food in an inoffensive environment (although the waiting staff at Midsummer House were a bunch of ballsacks). That is all.

An aging colleague once advised me that the best way to eat a mango was "in the shower with a beautiful woman". Good advice, but I'll settle for eating one underneath a tree in the tropics, scooping out the flesh with a penknife. There is no way any chef, not even Gordon Ramsay (what is it with ballsacks?), is going to improve on that.

This is probably why the Michelin system doesn't make sense in the UK, or for that matter, much of the rest of the world. It represents something which, while held aloft as the pinnacle of refinement, has actually become something of a tired culinary backwater. It is hard to access because it's expensive, narrow in its predominantly French stylings, and has a somewhat formal and beige atmosphere. Status symbol eating for wealthy bankers - and we all know by now that they've got no idea what they're on about.

The exceptions prove the rule - St John received its first star this year for its robust, masculine British cooking. Yet critics and other chefs have been salivating over St John for a decade. The Fat Duck in Bray has three stars, but I think we'd all know about Heston Blumenthal's kitchen magic without Michelin's acknowledgement.

Most restaurants in Britain, and indeed the rest of the world, don't conform to Michelin's boring standards. Think of all the great Chinese restaurants, grubby little curry cafes, Turkish grills, bowls of pho, fish suppers, and mangoes eaten under trees that transcend anything in the Michelin guide. It is here where you'll find energy, excitement, and FUN.

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.

Ban this sick filth

This place, with dozens of branches throughout Holland, is a fecking disgrace. Named FEBO after Ferdinand Bol apparently. Can you hear that? It's the sound of Bol spinning in his grave.

You put your money in the slot, you take the disgusting thing out of the window, then you're supposed to eat it.

De Lekkerste? Smerig more like.

2009: A Dutch Odyssey

The British Airways business class lounge at Terminal 5 is ace (although no complementary copies of the Guardian, only the right-wing rags). You can eat as many bacon sandwiches as you like, before leaving your beloved flat-cap on one of the comfy sofas and not realising until arriving in Amsterdam.

Having never been to Amsterdam before, I've high hopes that the city adds up to more than it's reputation as a continental Blackpool. we arrive in cold, drizzly weather, but that doesn't dampen my spirits. This kind of weather is ideal for exploring a city, as you don't feel too bad about lingering over coffee, or ducking into a cheesemongers to warm up a little.

The tacky touristic part of town is as expected: hazy stag-parties giggling outside coffee shops, and rough looking sex workers jiggling inside windows. In the drizzle it feels like a cross between a crap Norfolk seaside town in the winter and a kinkier version of Camden. The eating options are grim, with gaudy chinese restaurants, fast food joints, depressing Italian restaurants and, for some reason, dozens of Argentinian steakhouses.

On the plus side, the rest of Amsterdam is marvellous. The network of concentretic canals makes for picturesque rambling around the city, pausing occasionally to admire the architecture, peer into an antique shop, or make way for a cyclist. The Rijksmuseum is just small enough to prevent the onset of museum fatigue, although I reckon that Rembrandt fellow was overrated. I can appreciate the whole light and shade thing, but next to Vermeer, or de Hooch it all looks a bit souless. A bit like he was painting for the money. Anyhow, the best thing to follow a traipse around the Rijksmuseum is coffee and a waffle, eaten in a freezing shed by the nearby ice skating rink:


Our Dutch cousins do a great cup of coffee, and that waffle provided 120% of the recommended calorific intake. Check out the plate though - I haven't seen one like that since staying in my Auntie Edna's static caravan in the early 80's.

I miss my flat cap.

Festive Flu

After spending much of December looking forward to some festive cooking with Jiffler senior, the Jiffler household was struck down by an evil flu. Christmas over-indulgence was thwarted for a good 6 days as we all slumped on the sofa, staring into the middle distance, drinking hot Ribena.

Thankfully there was some good pie-related news. A food highlight of the superb wedding breakfast at B & C's Boston wedding was the chicken and ham pie, served by a cast of volunteer chefs, complete with chef's hat.


I shall wear that hat for all future pie-making adventures.

Looking back over the year

Perhaps this is just lazy blogging, but the British newspapers like to do end of year round ups, and I quite enjoy reading them. So apologies for the sense of deja vu, normal service will resume shortly.

I've been blogging on jifflings for three years now, and 2008 had a really different feel to it. This wasn't through design, more a change of circumstances. The first year or so had me living in Manchester, commuting to see Mrs Jiffler in North London, and cooking up all sorts in the kitchen. It was in some ways a more personal kitchen diary. After a few months hiatus in 2007 I got back on the jiffle-wagon with a strange report from Morocco, which kind of set the tone for 2008's restaurant reviews and culinary travelogue. Jifflings is still food first, but a travel element has crept in and made itself at home.

2008 saw posts from London, Cambridge, Anglesey, Dakar, Hanoi, Hong Kong, Kigali, Nairobi and Lisbon. Street food, a michelin starred restaurant, one of Gordon Ramsay's eateries, and even a garden centre came under scrutiny. I also started Dakar Restaurant Reviews, and the bizarrely popular Kigali Restaurant Reviews, which featured on the Guardian Website.

I'm not sure I can keep all this travelling up in 2009 (although I'll be kicking off in Holland, and am going somewhere really weird in Feb), and there simply isn't time to review every restaurant, write up every recipe, or rant every rant. This year I'd like to start a new project I've been thinking about called 'In defence of British cooking' (George Orwell won't mind I'm sure). Since I've already three sites on the go I might have to limit this to a monthly post on jifflings along with all the usual stuff. New year's resolution is to put more photos up on Jifflings. Let's see how it goes.

Anyhow, big thanks for reading in 2008. Happy new year.

Linkage

The World Wide Web is bursting at the seams with other food blogs. These range from the professional to the absolutely bloody useless.

Here are some travel and food favourites from my bookmarks this year:

Dos Hermanos - two brothers based in London who eat and write very well indeed. A pretty influential blog on the London restaurant scene, with a healthy amount of travel thrown in.

Chocolate and Zucchini - you probably already know about this one from the Sunday supplements. Super recipes and great photography.

The London Review of Breakfasts - it's the most important meal of the day apparently.

Well Done Fillet - A waiter's eye view of restaurant life.

Noodlepie - a professional looking site, enjoy the regular postings or dig around in the archives for dispatches from Asia.

Cheese and Biscuits - another primarily london based blog, Cheese and Biscuits also offers a monthly cheese review alongside the frequent restaurant reviews.

Rambling Spoon - Travel and food with creative photography.

Word of Mouth. The Guardian Newspaper's own series of food blogs cover food related issues, and occasional mindless trivia.

Foodporn.com - trust me, it's safe for work

Chez Pim - another famous blogger, with fabulous photography.

Eating Asia - just looking at these photographs from Vietnam makes me want to book a ticket

Finally a friend and expert breadmaker from Dakar who writes about the beat of West Africa life at How di bohdi?

I'll pop the links into the side bar thingy when I next have a mo. That's all for now. I return to Europe tomorrow for a couple of weeks of home cooking, crumpets, and proper beer. Will post photos and maybe the odd review soon.

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 Market Action

The markets in Hanoi were an absolute delight, bursting with vibrant colours and and fantastic smells. Much of what we saw seemed fantastically exotic - I could only recognise about half of the fruits, vegetables and roots on sale. We took some surreptitious photos at a covered market off Pho Ly Thuong Kiet:

A typical transaction (note use of motorbike helmet as shopping basket - very eco-friendly):


Or you might prefer just to drive your motorbike straight into the market:


We'll be back to kit out the kitchen:


Rotisserie dog anyone? Possibly the only thing I could never bring myself to eat:


My favourite Longans - about 10 cents a kilo:


Thats all from Vietnam, at least until I've found an excuse to go back. Watch out for a fresh spring roll recipe on Jifflings in the new year.

My dragon eyes are hungry for the prize

This is home cooking in Vietnam:


A massive whole fish (I reckon a Bream of some sort, but a translation wasn't available) with zinging lemongrass flavours, rice noodle salad with fresh and fragrant mint and basil, and a bowl of plump green water spinach called rau muong, that American readers might know as 'morning glory' (cue sniggering from British readers). It looks like a fatter version of watercress and tastes deep and savoury, similar to asparagus but also a bit earthy, like spinach.

Dragon eyes


Longan fruit. Known to Vietnamese folk as 'dragon eyes' because they look a bit like eyeballs when you peel them. Despite coming from Wales I've never seen a real dragon, or a dragon's eyeball for that matter. Anyhow, once you get the knack of split-peeling them and popping them whole into your mouth (one handed in one very graceful flick of the wrist I'll have you know) you're in for a more-ish treat. They taste very similar to lychees and come with a hard black seed which is the perfect size and density for drunken spitting competitions.

With apologies to The Loft for the title of this post. I don't know what came over me.

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.

Pies and Prejudice

The latest home cookery project has to perfect a meat and potato pie. I've experimented with a couple of things so far, involving large pies, mini-pies, beef and Guinness pies and so, but there is still some way to go.

What I have learned so far:

• I am useless at handling pastry
• West African Guinness doesn't make a good pie ingredient. It's 7.5% alcohol and tastes a bit too Guinnessy.
• Despite my usual prejudice, bisto is an essential ingredient.
• Despite my usual prejudice, I may have to resort to Delia.

These mini-pies made a great treat while Mrs Jiffler was in Cape Town the other week, served with the last of the HP sauce (no more until Christmas now) and a couple of beetroot.


Anyhow, this post is a call for pie suggestions and recipes, particularly for prater pies. How do I get the pastry right?

More from Vietnam next time.