I’ve been in West Sweden for the past 3 days, bouncing around on boats, looking for some of the world’s best seafood. It’s a hard life. Most people apparently visit Sweden in June, with the peak tourist season lasting just 4 weeks a year – hardly ideal for some of the Swedish people who make their living from the influx of visitors. It’s crazy really, because the place is staggeringly beautiful in the late summer/early autumn. The West Sweden tourist board want to encourage people to visit all year round, which is why they invited me on a ‘culinary tour’ including 3 ‘seafood safaris’; we would look for mussels, lobster and oysters and we would devote an good amount of time to eating them. Don’t mind if I do.

Mussels first. We departed by boat from Lysekil with mussel-keeper Adriaan van Der Plasse who was, I was pleased to note, wearing a classic ‘Salty Sea Dog’  jumper. Very Captain Birdseye. Loved it. He took us out to what is essentially a big pipe with nylon stockings hanging off it; the mussels are ‘sown’ into the stockings and then dangled into the sea where they grow for 2 years in the nutrient-rich waters until mature enough to sell.

The sight of those nylon stockings emerging from the water is quite a thing, let me tell you. Millions of tiny anemones (I think), like miniature shrimp, twist and squirm alarmingly on the stockings. Here’s a video of the spectacle that my friend made.

After looking at the baby mussels, we clambered up onto a rocky island to lunch on the adults. Adriaan had a portable gas stove set up and he cooked the freshest mussels very simply with leeks, carrots and white wine. They were so sweet. We sat eating them and drinking wine, taking in the idyllic scenery. There was carrot cake and coffee for dessert, too; the Swedes love cake and coffee so much that they have a special name for cake and coffee time – ‘Fika’.

Adriaan and his companion were, like everyone we met in Sweden, incredibly friendly, healthy, weathered-looking people, eager to answer questions about the food and the country. Everyone speaks English. This was a blissful start to our adventure; I remember feeling totally relaxed, something I haven’t felt in a while. Well, not since my jolly to Spain er, 2 weeks ago. Ahem.

Details: Our mussel safari was organised by Orust Shellfish and was a shorter version of the usual 5 hour tour. The full tour costs £76 pp. You can also organise it as part of a package with a stay at Strandflickorna Havshotellet, see website here for details. 

The next day we went off to the enchanting car-free Koster Islands to explore South Koster, much of which falls within Sweden’s first Marine National Park: Kosterhavet. There’s something going on with the meeting of 2 tectonic plates under the water, and there are tons of unique species living there as a result. The planned afternoon safari was the biggy we’d been waiting for – lobsters, although in the end it was decided that a 2.5 metre swell in the sea was just a bit too frisky for a group of lily livered Londoners; we retreated, pulling up some pots the next day instead, from calmer waters.

The pots are baited with fish and lowered into the water. Apparently anyone can catch lobsters (providing they’re Swedish), as you don’t need a license like you do for fishing. The lobsters like to hang out in the stony areas with lots of little nooks and crannies they can poke about in. The first pot that came up was just full of crabs, which apparently happens all the time. Obviously crabs are sweet and delicious too, and we enjoyed big pots of them at almost every meal; picking and cracking our way through so many claws, viscera spraying onto hair, eyes and other people’s clothes. How I do enjoy working over a crab, even if I do always stab myself in the fingers with the equipment.

The lobsters fight often with one another and with the crabs too, gnarly little sods; this is why they often lose a claw, then grow a new one, leaving them with one claw bigger than the other. They’re incredibly lively when fresh and the claws need to be banded quickly, as they can take a finger clean off no problem. We saw lobsters as big as 2kg but they’re not good to eat at that age – less sweet and juicy.We enjoyed eating the good ones later as part of a 4 course lobster menu at Sydkoster Hotel Ekenäs and you can too. See details below.

Details: Lobster safari package includes  a three-day lobster experience, with two night’s accommodation, lobster safari, all meals including four-course lobster dinner and a cycle tour of the island. This costs 3,695 SEK (£359) pp (based on two sharing). Details here:  http://www.vastsverige.com/en/Shellfishjourney/products/101926/Lobster-Safari-in-Kosterhavet-Sydkoster-Hotel-Ekenas/

For the oysters, we travelled out to an adorable restored 19th century boathouse in Grönemad, Grebbestad, built on the rocks and supported on piles of stones, like many of the surrounding houses in the fishing villages. Our guide, Per Karlsson, grew up in Grebbestad and has been selling oysters for over 20 years, if my memory serves. He says the oysters of Sweden are considered by experts as some of the best in the world; I’m no expert but I’ve eaten a shedload and they were definitely up there. They can’t be bought here, in case you’re wondering. He has been asked to ship them further afield but refuses; they’re not plentiful enough and will be past their best by the time they reach destination.

They’re harvested from the natural oyster bed underneath the boathouse using a rake attached to a net. Handy.

I asked him if he’d ever been sick from an oyster: “well…only once, and that was because I ate an oyster I suspected may have been almost dead but I just wanted to try finding out.” That’s bloody brave if you ask me. Per said that he never gets sick because the oysters are so fresh and they’re tested every 2 weeks to ensure they’re safe to eat. The Swedes are very concerned with safety, I later learn. We have the opportunity to shuck an oyster (with protective glove) and we eat our fill, washing them down with a locally produced, dark beer I’ve forgotten the name of. The oysters are round, flat natives; metallic, mineral, saline and boy, do they chase the wind out of a hangover. Six perfectly fresh oysters, plucked from the sea just minutes before and BANG, the hangover is gone.

Details: The oyster experience was organised by Everts Sjöbod and there are various packages available. See links here and here. 

So you can probably tell that I thoroughly enjoyed the seafood journey experience and I think the packages are good value. A major word of warning though: Sweden in general is expensive [edit: see comment from Steph below], particularly if you like a drink (I think you know that I do). A European pint will set you back at least 7 quid and in one restaurant, a bottle of JACOB’S CREEK was over £30. If I were you, I’d book the seafood experiences with accomodation and meals included. There’s no doubt about it though, Sweden is a stunning country with some of the best seafood available. If  you’re an outdoorsy person, you’ll adore it. The Koster islands in particular are beautiful and if you do go, try to fit in a cycling tour; there are no cars to worry about and pedalling around with my mates was the most fun I’ve had in ages.

Even though I still feel like I’m bobbing about on a boat more than 24 hours later, I’m thrilled to have been invited to experience such a breathtaking country and of course, I had fun stuffing as much fresh seafood into my trap as possible. The details of how I came to find myself dancing wildly in a bar to the sounds of WHAM! and Credence while a Swedish man gyrated in my face shouting “let’s do it for the English girls!” shall go unmentioned.

You can see all my photos from the trip in my Flickr set, here. 

More information about West Sweden:

Website: www.westsweden.com
For more information about the Shellfish Journey: www.westsweden.com/shellfishjourney
Facebook page: www.facebook.com/westsweden
Twitter: www.twitter.com/westswedentb
Blog: www.explorewestsweden.com

SAS Flight Information

Heathrow to Gothenburg fares incl taxes and charges :
£63 one way
£103 return
www.sas.se

I’ve just come back from a week in Puglia, specifically the Itria valley, which encompasses the provinces of Bari, Brindisi and Taranto. The area is noted for a distinctive architectural feature, the trullo; a conical shaped stone roof designed to cool in summer and insulate in winter. Our villa, Trullo Tranquillo was located just outside Ceglie Messapica in Brindisi, hidden away in a labyrinthine network of narrow dirt tracks. Being tucked away like this was not a bad thing, although it did define the way we shopped and ate while in Puglia. I thought it might be of use to others who want to visit the area if I share my experiences of shopping and eating here.

With no restaurants within walking distance of our villa and only 2 drivers among 9, all of whom harboured a desire to get drunk, opportunities to eat out were limited. Mostly we bought ingredients at local markets and cooked for ourselves. Our excursion to the town of Monopoli however, saw us busting bellies at Osteria Perricci.

There’s no menu here, an unexpected relief. Monopoli is a coastal town, so they just serve fish; “antipasti?” our host asked. We nodded. “Pasta?” Of course. “Fish? Grilled? Fried?” We ordered both.

First bruschetta, properly made. Ruby ripe tomatoes smooshed into garlic scrubbed toast. The tomatoes in Puglia are to die for.

Favourite antipasti were butterflied anchovies drenched in the ubiquitous (delicious) olive oil; meaty morsels of octopus and sweet mussels bathing in grassy pools of their own juices mixed with, you guessed it, lots of olive oil. A couple of duds didn’t spoil the fun at all; battered fish was, for me, all bready batter and little fish. Sundried tomatoes were chewy as ever, although the accompanying chunks of cucumber rocked; a sweet, round variety that tastes like a mild melon.

Huge bowls of pasta next – ‘fish’ spaghetti, predominantly octopus and squid in a tomato sauce which tasted of shellfish shells, silkily bound with cooking liquor. The second, not the Orecchiette typical of the region but similar in shape (I think Cencioni), delightfully chewy, the sauce packed with garlic and white wine, the bowl clattering with mussels and sweet clams. Chillies were added at table.

Eating was becoming more difficult. Simply grilled fish was delicious, but an effort. We picked lamely at fritto misto; I stuffed down as many tender squid rings as possible.

A refreshing lemon sorbet could not have been a more welcome finish, sitting atop sweet glazed strawberries, it saved us from passing into a food coma.

The owners don’t speak much English at Osteria Perricci but they’re very friendly and make it easy to get by with gesturing, nodding and piss poor attempts at speaking Italian. Our meal came to around €25 a head I think, including a few beers and a bottle of wine. You can walk it all off around Monopoli afterwards too; the old part of town is well worth a look.

Osteria Perricci
Via Orazio Comes, 1
70043 Monopoli Bari, Italy
080 9372208

We couldn’t visit Italy and not eat pizza. One evening 4 of us left camp to pick up some takeaway from Mamm Ce Pizza in Ceglie Messapica, reasoning that 1 pizza per person should be enough. As we sat waiting for our order it slowly dawned – they were the size of small planets. We staggered out with towering stacks, the owner following behind us; we turned to find him pointing and heartily laughing at our tiny Fiat 500. I think we made his evening. Next thing I know I’m jammed in the back, pizza boxes rammed between my face and the seat, not a millimetre to spare. Each bump in the road guffed more hot cheesy steam into the eyes. We snorted with laughter the whole journey, as did everyone who passed us.

Nice though, and cheap (€7-11 each for those monsters). The ham and ricotta was my favourite. Here’s the menu.

Mamm ce Pizz
Via Taranto, 5
Ceglie Messapica
Brindisi
334.3643145

The remainder of the time we shopped at (fairly) local food markets; some were better than others. I really hope my memory serves me correctly here because it could save you a lot of disappointment. Of the 3 we attempted to visit, only 2 were actually where they were supposed to be – those in Cisternino and Alberobello. We found stall holders at the former very friendly, at the latter a little less so, as at one point we got into a misunderstanding trying to buy figs and had to run away. Don’t let that put you off though, the majority were lovely.

I wouldn’t bother trying the market in Martina Franca; advertised in our guide book as happening ‘all day’ we failed to find anything apart from stalls selling cheap clothes and toilet rolls [Edit: see comment from Tony below; they do exist!]

All the markets carry the same stuff (seasonal, innit) and you’ll find fishmongers and butchers dotted around the towns. To find the markets, just head for the centre, it’s obvious once you arrive.

Fat, buttery green olives.

Bright pink prawns with purple heads.

Saving the shells to make pasta sauce.

Bream ready for the BBQ.

Tomato salad – one of many.

Langoustines.

Can’t beat a mooch around a foreign supermarket.

Now I’m going on a week long detox (that’s obviously a joke, I’m really making focaccia).

A holiday always leaves a cook feeling inspired and a  rich squid stew in a restaurant in L’Escala set my mind racing about making my own version, with added pork. Before that experiment though, it was time to get some practice in the ways of a traditional Catalan stew.

The beginning  is a sofrito – tomato sauce cooked long and slow to develop character and sweetness. I cheated on this and used a jar I had from Brindisa because, well, I had it. In this I simmered some squid pieces until tender. For my white fish, I scored a bargain on some monkfish cheeks at Moxon’s in East Dulwich. I asked for the cheapest firm white fish in the shop and that’s what he produced – big meaty chunks at a fraction of the price of the tail (I got 300g for a few quid). On the shellfish front, I dropped in a giant prawn per person and then clack, clack, clack as I stirred in some fiercely barnacled mussels.

At the end the stew is thickened with a picada – a mixture of breadcrumbs, garlic and toasted ground almonds. Such a magical combination. The garlic remains punchy yet not raw and the ground nuts enrich the broth, the breadcrumbs swell and thicken. A final squeeze of lemon at the table and a torn hunk of bread for scooping and it’s time to slurp, shell and mop. One of the most complex and delicious dishes I’ve eaten in a very long time.

Catalan style fish stew

300g firm white fish (I used monkfish cheeks), cut into bite size chunks
200g mussels, cleaned and de-bearded
1 giant prawn per person
250g squid, slices into rings and tentacles roughly chopped
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
1 large onion, sliced
A handful flatleaf parsley, chopped
1 315g jar of sofrito or you can make your own
1 litre fish or vegetable stock

Lemon wedges, to serve
Bread, to serve

For the picada

1 clove garlic, crushed
1 slice dry white bread, made into crumbs
50g almonds, lightly toasted

Begin by sweating your onion in some groundnut or vegetable oil in a heavy based large pan. Cook it on a low heat for 20 minutes at least until the onions are very soft. Add your jar of sofrito plus the stock, paprika and squid and bring to a gentle simmer. Put a lid on and let cook gently for about an hour.

For the picada, pound all the ingredients together in a pestle and mortar until as smooth as possible.

Stir in a couple of tablespoons of the picada just before you add the remaining fish for the final few minutes of cooking. My prawns were very large so I added those for 2 minutes, plus the white fish and mussels for another 3 minutes. Garnish with the parsley and serve with lemon wedges and crusty bread.

You know you’ve had an intense eating experience when mid-way through a meal you wonder if you can actually go on; when your friend decides he can’t and has to leave the table 3 times to be physically sick and then, when it’s over and you’ve made it through, you’ve eaten so much that a button pops off your dress. This is what happened during the 12 course ‘Feast Menu’ at 3 Michelin-starred El Celler de Can Roca in Gerona. The restaurant is run by 3 brothers – Joan (Roca) the savoury chef, Jordi the pastry chef and Josep the somellier. We were booked in for dinner on the last night of our holiday, to make sure we went out with a bang. It was one of the most intense meals of my life.

The earliest dinner sitting is 9pm, very late by British standards but perfectly normal to the Spaniards (we saw a couple sit down to dinner at midnight) and when we arrived the place was dead. The first thing that struck me was the silence. We shifted about nervously, talking in hushed voices. As the place started to fill up though the air came alive with background chatter and the tinkle of glass and cutlery. The recently built space is modern – clean lines, starched white, lots of mirrors but the restaurant’s ethos of being in tune with the surrounding landscape is apparent: a sky-exposed central area is planted with trees and tables dotted with pebbles.

The €115 tasting menu was quickly ditched for the more expensive €145 ‘Feast Menu’, as dishes like ‘baby squids with onion rocks’ and ‘steak tartare with mustard ice cream’ jumped off the page. It was just about do-able, as long as we didn’t drink. One of our party was driving anyway and a fizzy aperitif included in the price kept us happy.

The accompanying ‘snacks’ added up to a course in themselves; ‘caramelised olives’ hung from a bonsai olive tree and kicked off a sweet and salty theme which continued throughout the meal. There were 7 in total but my favourite was a ‘bellini bonbon’ – an ice cold pink sugar sphere which burst instantly in the mouth to release the cocktail or, if you are my friend, burst between your fingers when you tried to pick it up, sending an unflappable waiter back to the kitchen to fetch another.

And so it began. A culinary marathon which was exquisite in places and downright challenging in others. Here are my peaks and troughs:

The bread: the best of it on the sweet and salty theme like my black olive brioche. Not as good as The Ledbury‘s bacon and onion version but I have that on a pedestal. Our first proper course arrived in a clear glass orb; a light smoke enveloped little vegetable cushions concealing pieces of the famous Catalan anchovies beneath. I’ve a lot to say about those anchovies: another post. The dish was light and interesting (although the broth practically flavourless) but things were about to get a lot more intense.

The prawn was the first real challenge. The barely cooked body lay naked, head intact next to a beach of prawn dust, its legs removed and standing to attention. “When you’ve finished the meat, suck the head to extract the flavour” recommended the waiter. We nodded excitedly, having done exactly that at our BBQ two nights previous. This head however, was different – filled with scary bright red and brown gunk, the likes of which I’ve never encountered. We concluded it must have been injected by the chef. Not wanting to wimp out, I picked it up and sucked. Intense shellfish flavour. The most intensely prawny prawn I’ve ever eaten but a dish which would might better served with a blindfold.

Feeling slightly queasy, the Comte, walnut and onion soup came as a relief. The flavours were familiar, but powerfully reduced. Fillet of sole with olive oil emulsions was just great fun. We worked our way from bottom to top as instructed, through each ‘Mediterranean flavour’; camomile was downright weird, pine nut creamy and olive oil topped with a crunchy, miniature caramel-olive-oil bubble.

Baby squids with onion rocks was my favourite savoury course – it’s fair to say I inhaled it. The ‘rock’ was an onion-y seaweed-coloured sponge. With each spoonful the foam swished back and forth in the bowl, picking up pieces of rock and squid like lapping waves. The menu aims to celebrate the local harvest, re-creating features of the surrounding landscape in the presentation – this dish achieved that perfectly.

After this things started to get hairy. I loved the silky, barely-cooked red mullet fillets with lard – they flaked like cooked fish but remained as translucent as if plucked straight from the sea. The surrounding suquet however (Catalan seafood stew) was starting to push me beyond my richness threshold.

Steak tartare, one of my all-time favourite dishes, was more difficult to eat than it should have been, even though the pearls of mustard ice cream were wittily perfect. The spiced puffs on top were superfluous though, and tasted like a Wotsit in development phase. By the time it was finished I felt nauseous but didn’t know why. I looked up to find my companion as white as a sheet. Flagging the waiter down he pleaded, ‘”no more food”, criss-crossing his arms for emphasis. I felt tearful about struggling with the next dish, a lamb and apricot combination, but pulled through, forcing down all but a few scraps and the frankly rather minging milky blob at the side.

As our friend got a little closer than he’d like to the porcelain throne, we gobbled up a reviving lemon dessert. “It’s the evolution of lemon sorbet” said the waiter but it was more than that, bringing me back as it did from the brink of defeat. A whipped icy puff soothed my tired, overstimulated palate and increasingly lemony components refreshed with life-saving waves of citrus flavour.

The desserts proved to be the best courses of the evening, and that’s coming from someone with a firm savoury preference (ice cream excepted). A rose soufflé was a sugar-cased tower topped with violet dust that was old-school sweet shop with none of the old-lady-soapy. Perfectly sweet wild strawberries lay beneath.

Our final dessert was a black Tahitian vanilla ice cream with a mixture of vanilla, caramel, liquorice and black olives; an odd combination of miniature pieces of various textures, which together were supposed to taste like the flavour of the ice cream. They didn’t, but were fun nonetheless. The ice cream was perfect with such a complex vanilla flavour. Some of the best I’ve ever tasted. Petit fours were great too, the marshmallows almost fizzing on the tongue.

Tasting menus can be really hard work. Eating 12 courses of very intense, rich food late at night is taxing for the digestive system. We sat down at 9 and left gone midnight. Our only other main complaint was the chairs. How a restaurant offering a menu that takes over 3 hours to consume can make chairs so fiercely uncomfortable baffles me. The back was the wrong height, the seat the wrong length, the whole thing under-cushioned. We shifted from bum cheek to bum cheek to get some relief. Speaking of bum cheeks, our charming and efficient waiter (who spoke excellent English) managed to cushion his up against me no less than three times as he moved around the tables. This was simply hilarious rather than annoying.

As I let out a huge sigh of relief mixed with satisfaction once the meal was over there was an audible ‘pop!’ – I had burst out of my dress through sheer over-consumption. I’d like to say I was embarrassed but I just felt pride at my own stamina.

There were moments of true brilliance at El Celler de Can Roca; it was a rollercoaster of excitement, confusion, fun, relief and truly amazing cooking. I had a blast, I’d do it again and it’s definitely worth the money. It’s also a hell of a lot easier to get a table here than at El Bulli and according to my friend, there are many similarities. I just wish the whole thing had been a bit more comfortable.

El Celler de Can Roca
Carrer Can Sunyer, 46
17007 Girona
Spain
Website

When visiting a capital city, it is hard, as a Londoner, to resist a little game of matching up the different areas with London equivalents. The area just off Rossio for example, we decided was Leicester Square (high concentration of tourists), and our riverside beers were enjoyed on the ‘South Bank’. Our trip out of town to Belém then, to the home of the Pastel de Nata (custard tart), was rather like heading out to the ‘burbs for a day trip. We also made a classic capital city transport error, by getting the train and changing twice (as TFL would no doubt advise you to do), when just a short bus ride would have sufficed; not all parallels were immediately apparent.

Our destination, Pastéis de Belém, was apparently the first place to sell the tarts outside of the spectacular, dream-like Jerónimos monastery (where they were invented) that stands just a few hundred yards away. The tarts are supposedly the best in Lisbon and only 3 or 4 people in the family-run business are privy to the recipe. From the outside, Pastéis de Belém looked like a regular-sized coffee shop but on the inside we discovered room after cavernous room, not a single one of them empty.

Before getting down to the important business of the tarts, we took refreshment in the form of Bock (of course), and some savoury nibbles. The Portugese seem to have a fondness for foods which have been deep fried and then left to go cold; I found some more palatable than others. These salt cod cakes were warm thankfully and very pleasant; simple and light, with soft flakes of fish which didn’t overpower and a grassy lift of parsley. There were a couple of sizeable yet forgettable quiches too and then it was on to the main event. Of course we wanted to know just what was so damn special about these tarts compared to others we’d tried and I’ll admit to being slightly sceptical. When they arrived however, even on first appearances, they did look different. See the Pastéis de Belém tarts in the top photo below and one of my earlier conquests underneath…

You can see that the pastry is much more delicate in the Belém version, and the custard covers the whole surface of the tart rather than being a smooth, sunken pool as above. The pastry was familiarly delicate and flaky, sending a flutter of shattering flakes all down your top with every bite, but there was less of it, meaning more room for that wobbly baked custard, which was slightly less sweet and pleasantly more eggy than the lesser versions. Cinnamon and powdered sugar are provided for sprinkling at the table but I prefer to eat mine as they come. Top tarts indeed.

If I were to find myself in Belém once again, then I would definitely pay a return visit, although I would probably just order Pastéis de Nata and plenty of them; an indecent, towering plateful in fact. I would suggest that any visitor to Lisbon do the same. A national culinary treasure and quite rightly so; go and eat the original and the best.

Café Pastéis de Belém
Rua de Belem, 84-92,
Belem
+351 21 363 7423
http://www.pasteisdebelem.pt/

Winter opening hours (1st Nov-30th April): 08.00-23.00 Mon-Sat, 08.00-22.00 Sun.
Summer opening hours (1st May-31st Oct): 08.00-24.00

N.B. The nearby monastery is closed on a Monday – we were most disappointed.

I’ve just been to Portugal for The European Wine Bloggers Conference. Obviously this is a food blog, but I’ve been making an effort in recent months to really get stuck into the rather daunting task of learning more about wine. I drink enough of the stuff, yet always seem to have a problem retaining information about it; this must change.

That said then, I’m not actually going to write about the wine in this post, as I need some time to consolidate, assimilate and generally gather up my thoughts on a topic I’ve never been confident in writing about. The post will need some careful consideration. In the meantime, a review which skips off my fingertips with minimum effort: Bonjardim restaurant not far from Rossio square. We’d received a recommendation from Bibendum’s Willie Lebus who raved about their spit-roast chicken, and so we wasted no time in heading there on our first night and ordering a big pile of chook, chips and salad.

At most restaurants in Lisbon, the waiter brings a selection of nibbles such as ham, cheese and pâté to your table before you place your order. If you eat them however, you will be charged. Fortunately for us, the charming waiter in Bonjardim informed us of this; bonus points for that. We no doubt ordered a round of Super Bock: a refreshing, (always) ice-cold lager which can be found everywhere in Lisbon, or was certainly to be found everywhere that we went, and was permanently attached to our hands (a person can get wined out you know). It was light, fizzy and went down like a dream. Bish Bash Bock.

The mountain of chicken arrived on a silver platter and the feeding frenzy ensued, with myself and my mate polishing off two quarters each and then splitting a third. It comes with a dinky little pot of piri-piri sauce which seemed to consist of chilli flakes, oil and salt as far as I could tell and was highly addictive. You dunk the brush into the pot, swirling to get a good dose of those spicy flakes and then brush onto your bird as desired. A few stray hairs from a well-used brush were picked off and then it was nothing but me, my face and chicken; we probably should have got a room. The skin was golden and crisp with just the right amount of soft fat remaining beneath, like eating really good crackling. The flesh was super juicy within. I suspect they turn over tables very quickly because the chicken was so moist; it had clearly not been hanging around for long.

A well dressed salad offered some freshness and went some way to giving the impression of eating healthy stuff. The whole lot, including wine, came to around 15 euros each and we left with full bellies, high spirits and huge enthusiasm for a crawl of the famous Ginjinhas: shops which specialise in smooth and sweet cherry brandy served in little shot sized paper cups with booze steeped cherries lurking in the bottom, if you’re lucky.

Three days later, feeling delicate to say the least, my mate and I returned to Bonjardim to gorge ourselves once more. What better hangover cure than spicy chicken and lots of it, followed by a final mopping up of juices and a dunking of bread in the piri-piri pot. We washed it all down with copious amounts of Bock, naturally. Service was charming and sweet, our waiter waving us a cheery goodbye when he left at the end of his shift. We were still settled firmly in our seats, well on the way to our next hangover, which may have had something to do with the scale of our beers in the bar afterwards (see below); my puny wrist strained to lift the glass.

Bonjardim is a little gem, tucked away in the side streets of Lisbon among a lot of other restaurants which all look pretty much the same. I can’t comment on the rest of their menu, but I can advise you to order chicken and chips, lick your lips and eat, drink and be merry. Bonjardim does simple, unpretentious food in the rather shabby and sometimes dilapidated, yet always charming and pretty back streets of Lisbon; you’d be a fool not to pay it a visit.

Restaurante Bonjardim
Travessa de Santo Antão 12,
1150 Lisboa,
Portugal
+351 213 427 424

Please excuse my silence this week, I’ve changed hosts and had the blog re-designed* so neither you nor I have to endure that blasted header design of mushrooms plus hideous curly font  for one more second (apparently some of you might not see a change yet depending on connection and location, in case you think I might be going mad). I may have been silent here but I’ve been busy elsewhere and I even squeezed in a day trip to Paris, courtesy of Eurostar who are currently promoting the idea of day tripping to either Paris, Lille or Brussels (£59 return until the end of October).**

After a painful 4am wake up call, my mate and I excitedly boarded the 6.55am Eurostar and two and a bit hours later, hopped off at La Gare du Nord, slightly bleary eyed and in need of coffee and a map. This being a day trip and all, we squared full up to the challenge of fitting in as much as possible and so one caffeine injection and a couple of wrong turns later, headed off in the direction of the Eiffel Tower – we would nip up and see what all the fuss is about while working up an appetite for lunch in the process.

I already knew I wasn’t a huge fan of heights but seriously, I had no idea I would suffer the full on nauseating confusion of vertigo. At first I thought it might be my lack of fitness making me feel sick as a dog as we hiked up to the first viewing platform but as my knees started to tremble and dizziness went from nagging to overwhelming I guessed something might be awry. We panted and huffed it to the second floor where they wanted more money to go right to the top – a downright cheek. I can’t say I was disappointed when we decided they could stick their view. We got the lift back to sweet, sweet ground level and decided to hunt down some lunch at Le Repaire de Cartouche.

At the end of lunch, the bistro was still bustling. The space is small in a cosy way with lunching diners crammed in upstairs and a formal dining space visible down a narrow wooden staircase. The crowd was reassuringly lacking in tourists. We seemed to attract some attention from the locals inside what with our pathetic broken French and our cameras (the close quarters made any attempt at discretion completely pointless) but we ploughed on and ordered a bottle of rosé and whatever we could decipher from the (14 euro) lunch menu and our stilted interaction with the waiter.

I chose the terrine de campagne which arrived in a good hefty slab atop a well dressed herb salad. The terrine had a satisfying coarse texture, a good porky hit, generous seasoning and a melty layer of fat on top. I spread it on the toast in obscenely huge wadges with forkfuls of the salad which, being heavy on the tarragon, complimented the meat perfectly.

Hardcore carnivore that I am, I ordered steak haché and green beans to follow. The flavour of the beef was good, although not amazing but my main grumble was that it was over-cooked. The waiter hadn’t asked how I wanted it but to be honest, I can’t blame him, our French is awful. We did notice however that the same dish at the next table was gloriously pink and we speculated whether they had assumed the poor English girls might be scared by the sight of raw meat, bless ‘em. This may well be an unfair assumption on our part. The fact that the whole thing was doused in an immodest amount of butter helped take my mind off the problem somewhat.

Overall, the meal was simple, rustic, delicious and cheap. Le Repaire de Cartouche got our stamp of approval and we headed out with smiley faces to walk off the pork fat and booze fug. A look at the Pompidou, a cheeky Leffe and a stroll down the banks of the Seine to the Louvre later and we were running fast out of time. We managed to squeeze in a glimpse of the Champs Elysees too before a short (and brilliantly efficient and easy to navigate) Metro ride towards our next food destination, a wine bar called Racines, recommended by Time Out.

Alas, the trip was a wild goose chase as the bar has closed down. Somewhat despondent and incredibly fatigued we skulked over to a nearby bar to be day light robbed of 8 euros each for a pint. Sometimes the ‘go with the flow’ approach kicks you in the backside. Heading back towards the station a sudden wave of desperation to cram in another meal took hold and we ducked into a nearby pharmacy to ask some local gals if they knew anywhere nearby. They pointed us in the direction of a bistro round the corner of which, amazingly, we never checked the name. As Lizzie says in her write up, “it’s opposite a pharmacy around the corner from a wedding dress shop by Le Gare du Nord,” if that helps.

I started with a salad of boquerones. I adore anchovies and these were silky soft and delicately herby. The salad itself, although threatening to teeter the wrong side of generously dressed, was fragrant with herbs and the beans had soaked up all the salty juices. A welcome light starter after so much meat and beer.

My main course, the mullet with remoulade, was equally delicious; the remoulade light, not at all gloopy with a subtle yet confident kick of wholegrain mustard. A crispy skinned, flaky fillet of mullet on top and I was a happy lady, albeit a happy lady with indigestion as we wolfed down the lot plus beers in 30 minutes and darted for the last train home.

I think you’ll agree we crammed a huge amount in and although truly knackered at the end of it, I am now a full convert to the idea of day tripping to Europe, particularly with this Leisure Select Class deal – champagne on the journey home is incredibly effective at soothing weary feet. If you want to do a city ‘properly’, you undoubtedly need to stay there, but for a kick ass change of scenery? Do it. You get out what you put in basically. I’ve done Lille, I’ve done Paris and next I’m going to get me a big steaming bowl of mussels in Brussels.

You can see all my photos from the day here and my photos from Lille here.

*A huge thank you to Emme Stone for the site design and to my mate @handlewithcare for making it all work and putting up with me being thick about tech stuff (he also has a food blog by the way).

** I’ve had an e-mail from Sarah at We are Social letting me know that it is in fact £59 return until the end of October but in standard class, not leisure select.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about when I say, ‘Eating Eurovision‘ then um, where have you been?! If you follow me or any of the other participants on Twitter, you surely couldn’t fail to notice the desperate pleas for help. Our challenge (set by food journalist Andrew Webb), was to each draw a Eurovision participating country and then go forth into the city with the aim of seeking out some traditional cuisine. To be perfectly honest, I thanked my lucky stars when I pulled this Danish beauty out of the bag and tried not to show too much relief when others plucked countries like Moldova.

My first investigations yielded the suggestion (thanks Charmaine) of Madsen restaurant in Kensington and, although it does look rather nice, I wanted something a bit more traditional, more full-on nitty-gritty hardcore Danish. My trusty friend google turned up ‘The Danish Club‘ (a stones throw from Green Park tube), founded in 1883 and patronised by Queen Margrethe II of Denmark no less! Full of excitement, I was straight on the blower to the lovely Lizette Bang, who invited me (and my mate) over for a traditional ‘Danish Platter’ – result!

I will admit to feeling a little out of place when I rocked up in my usual clobber to find something akin to a beautiful stately home awaiting me. It was the kind of place where you automatically start whispering and worrying about your posture – pillars, chandeliers and paintings with eyes that follow you around the room. The staff inside were warm and charming however, and fears of not being worthy slipped away as we moved through to the dining room to begin our Danish adventure.

We kicked things off with a strong, dark and super malty Danish beer which Lizette tells me may have been ‘Christmas Beer’ (Juleøl) – so popular that the Danes drink it all year round.

A measure of seriously potent Aquavit (Akvavit) arrived at the same time but (on the advice of our waiter) remained untouched until the food arrived – the idea being that you sup it as an accompaniment to the herrings on the Danish platter. You take a bite of herring, followed by a sip of Aquavit.

The platter is apparently a very traditional meal, typically served at lunchtime and bulging with fish, fish and more fish. Oh, and meat. As suggested, we started with the herrings (my favourite part of the meal). There were three kinds – the first marinated in Madeira, the second straight up pickled and the third served in curry sauce – all sweet, soused and incredibly soft, almost buttery in texture. Among the other fish we devoured were smoked eel, fried plaice, prawns and smoked salmon. Among the meats, a Danish meatball (frikadeller), crispy bacon and pate with rye bread. It is the use of rye bread which makes Danish cuisine different from that of other Scandinavian countries apparently – the bread is spread with butter and the fish piled on top to make an open sandwich, or Smørrebrød.

Amongst all that fish nestled some welcome crunchy beetroot and mystery pickle, which my friend and I tried and failed to identify as pickled pear. Together with some crispy fried onions, the whole plate was a fishy, meaty extravaganza of contrasts although in the end, it defeated even two ladies with seemingly bottomless pits where our stomachs should be.

At this point the restaurant was really filling up, as was the surrounding bar. I imagine this place is a real haven for the Danish community in London – there are some 600 members of the club, although Lizette would like to encourage more of the 40,000 strong Danes in the capital to sign up. I left the Danish Club feeling rather privileged actually, to have been so generously invited and to have enjoyed such warm hospitality. A huge thank you to Lizette and the staff at the Danish club for making my Eurovision challenge a success and a pleasure.

Posts from the other participating bloggers here.

Oh, how I wish we had spent longer in Iceland. I think nearly everyone I have spoken to about it has asked whether we ate puffin during our stay. I am sorry to report that we didn’t. There is only so much you can cram into four days and it just didn’t happen to cross our path. Then Gordon Ramsay goes and cooks it on the F Word last week and everyone is talking about it. I was this close! No bother, we still had some delicious experiences, a couple of which were suggestions of our fantastic tour guide, Gunnar. Sixty nine years old but you would never believe it. Perhaps it’s all that bathing in mineral rich waters, breathing clean mountain air, enjoying the fantastic scenery at every turn. Gunnar remained firm that the reason for his youthful looks and constant cheerfulness was down to all the fish he eats and who could disagree with that? We all know that fish is really, really good for you – physically and psychologically. This man was the best advert for a fish filled diet that you could possibly imagine. Full of energy, warmth and more than the odd song..

The first meal in this little round up was one of Gunnar’s suggestions although this time, sans fish. On our way to see the spectacular Gullfoss waterfall, he mentioned a famous lamb soup on offer in the cafe there. He described how the soup comforts the weary on cold winter days – meltingly tender lamb chunks and vegetables swimming in a clear flavoursome broth. It wasn’t particularly cold, but the soup was still incredibly comforting, like it was easing and fortifying tired limbs with each mouthful. Make sure the bread has a good thick coating of Icelandic butter..

I decided even before the plane had landed in Iceland that sushi was most definitely on the menu at some point. I have serious sushi cravings most days anyway but I knew the quality and freshness of the fish here would be excellent – a no brainer. Not Icelandic, but a no brainer nonetheless. I warn you now though, I have done a bad thing. To be fair, I didn’t actually know what I had eaten until after it had passed my lips. Some ultra-bright red sashimi whizzed past on the conveyor belt – uber-fast by the way – someone having a joke methinks. It was unfamiliar therefore I had to try it. Unable to identify it from the menu and no staff in sight I could wait no longer, it got ate. Not particularly exciting, I couldn’t really identify a flavour as such, it was very mild, a little like beef but different in texture and colour. It wasn’t until we struck up a conversation with two French-Canadian guys opposite us that we found out, it was whale. I know, I know. My bad. We’re not supposed to eat whales are we?

The rest of the sushi was good, nothing amazing but good. The real star was the sashimi, really, really generous bowls of melting tuna which I just couldn’t get enough of. We washed it all down with generous amounts of Asahi beer. While I’m on the topic of beer, the Icelandic brew Viking definitely deserves a mention. It’s a strong beer (hic), at 5.4% but it’s also light tasting and had the ability to make me burst into fits of giggles, particularly on a boat in the middle of a rather choppy Atlantic. A lot got lost on the deck.

I know, I know, how could I? All that fantastic native fare to work my way through and I caved to a burger. It was the Viking. That’s all I’m saying.

After the waterfall, we moved on to Iceland’s national park, Vatnajökull, spectacular and fascinating as it is situated directly along a fault line. The European and and North American plates are splitting apart, resulting in dramatic landscapes and a big old lake. Apart from being the only place above sea level where this phenomena can be seen, it is also one of the top diving destinations in the world – you are actually diving between the tectonic plates.

This isn’t the lake! It’s very close though and rather pretty. The water is crystal clear. This was the spot where Gunnar asked if we might like to try his dried haddock, a snack which can be found pretty much anywhere in Iceland – of course, we said yes please. You tear off a piece of fish, spread some butter on top and it’s down the hatch. It’s delicious actually and is washed down incredibly well with a glass of beer, which is what Gunnar is dishing out in the photo. A perfect little food moment in such a stunning history-steeped setting. We were completely beat by this point but it remains one of my fondest memories of a magical country.

The country, people. Not the frozen foods supermarket. Firstly, dodgy photo alert! If your sensitive little eyes are easily offended by shockingly bad photography then look away when you get half way through this post. In my defence, I didn’t take my good camera, was for some reason focus-challenged throughout and I fully admit to being worse for wear (read: drunken), for a good part of the holiday these meals.

Secondly, I just need to gush about Iceland before we begin. Quite simply, it is breathtaking. I have never visited a country where I’ve seen volcanoes, stunning blue mineral filled waters, glaciers, mountains, geysers, springs and lush greenery all at the same time. Everywhere you look there is a truly amazing landscape. Just go.

So, I expect you are here to learn about the food then? We only visited for four days but we did get a fair amount of eating and drinking done in that time. Of course, it was all about the fish. Icelanders have to make do with what they can glean from the surrounding environment as all other foods must be imported like everything else, which is why the place is so damn expensive. They have fish aplenty though and prize their mountain lamb and skyr (an Icelandic yoghurt), and very good it all is too.

I thought I would begin by showing you what we ate in the restaurants we visited before moving on to the more impromptu stuff in my next post. Our first meal was actually in our hotel restaurant (Panorama Restaurant at Hotel Arnarhvoll, Ingolfsstraeti 1, IS-101 Reykjavík, Tel.: (+354) 595 8540), overlooking the Atlantic, black lava formed mountains looming in the background. The photo above is a little amuse bouche which we remember was delicious but can’t be certain that it was flavoured with white onion and fennel. Whatever, the mandarin oil on top was gorgeous.

Next, I opted for the soup which described itself as “Langoustine Soup – Fennel – Citrus”, which is exactly what arrived. The manner of serving it was a little less predictable however as first the bowl arrived with lid as above – Chris took a sneaky peek inside his bowl and was promptly told ‘no!’ by the waiter. Then came some rather ominous looking black flasks, which we were to find out contained the langoustine soup. It all seems like more washing up to me but the whole palaver did have a fun element to it.

Oh, how that soup is rich, very rich. The bisque type soup with intensely rich and flavoursome but someone definitely had a heavy hand with the cream. We were to learn over the next few days that much Icelandic cuisine is rich, at least in restaurants anyway. You might speculate that this was once to provide hearty sustenance in a cold climate but Iceland actually has a very temperate climate, despite it’s Arctic location (due to the Gulf stream).

Next I ordered the Arctic Char with parsley root, horseradish and ratte potatoes. That breaded morsel in the foreground is a succulent langoustine. I asked the waiter beforehand what Arctic Char tastes like and he described it as a cross between salmon and trout which describes it pretty damn well actually. It’s got a bit of oiliness like a salmon and has the delicate flakiness of a trout. It was sort of creamy, salty and really rather delicious with perfect crispy skin. My favourite bit. Again though, the dish was really rich. So much so, I couldn’t even order cheese. Absolutely unheard of for me. I am still disappointed with myself and my stomach as we speak.

Next up, our traditional Icelandic 7 course meal at Einar Ben Restaurant, (Veltusund 1, IS-101 Reykjavik, Iceland, Tel. + 354 511-5090). Einar Ben describes itself as ‘pure Icelandic’ and is housed in an 18th century building just off the main square in central Reykjavik. You can see here that many of the buildings in Iceland are clad with corrugated metal. This is not hugely attractive but is highly effective at fending off extreme weather conditions such as strong winds and the occasional hurricane.

For some reason I do not have a photo of the first course and I do not know why. A little salad of marinated scallops with radishes, chilli and carrot juice. The scallops were uncooked, sliced finely and delicately flavoured. I could have eaten a big fat plateful but then I had another six courses to go so..

Next, a shellfish-soup with curry, coriander and cumin, served with scallops and langoustine, which was rich (surprise) but also sensitively curried so that it was still predominantly fishy.

My sincerest apologies for the photos, the above and also from this point forward. Next, arrived a piece of cod fillet with fried cauliflower, artichoke purée and truffle oil. They were totally stingy on the truffle oil to the point where I think it wasn’t actually on there BUT, the cod, oh, the cod! The most perfectly cooked, flakiest, succulent piece of cod I have ever ever eaten. Chris agreed. I didn’t really care about the rest.

Does someone at Einar Ben have a parmesan fetish? This is “carpaccio with mixed nut-salad, ginger and fresh parmesan”. Carpaccio of what I hear you ask? Well, it must be beef I guess, thing is, it was so doused in parmesan and cut so unbelievably thin, it was near impossible to taste anything at all. It was a bit like eating one of those flying saucer sweets as a child, sugar paper that just instantly vanished into nothing on your tongue and then a hit of sourness from the sherbet or in this case, a hit of salt form the parmesan. The only good thing about it was crispy ginger slices on top. I’ll definitely be having a go at those myself.

As I said, the Icelanders are proud of their mountain lambs, and so they should be. Small, sturdy, hairy and curly horned, they taste bloomin fantastic. The dish consisted of a juicy fillet with green peas, garlic confit, parsnip and thyme. If your creative imagination can photoshop that picture then you must marvel at how perfectly that fillet is cooked. Imagine your knife slicing through the juicy cut and then melting in your mouth like a dream.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, there’s (nearly) always room for cheese. I was pretty full by this point but I soldiered on regardless (oh, the trauma). Unfortunately, I had consumed a large amount of wine too by the sixth course and I cannot for the life of me remember the names of these traditional Icelandic cheeses. I’m pretty sure that the holey one is a cow’s milk cheese and the other two were akin to brie and camembert in style but I am open to suggestions.

To finish the meal, a skyr crème brûlée with strawberries and vanilla. This was not very successful. I’m not sure if it was the yoghurt that didn’t work but the brûlée had a strange, grainy texture and a very thin and unsatisfying crust. For me, there needs to be a cracking moment when you plunge the spoon through the caramelised sugar and into the vanilla scented cream below. Perhaps a slightly misguided attempt at adapting a classic French dessert using an Icelandic ingredient. The skyr itself is a fantastic product – I would have been happy with a bowl of skyr with fruit.

Although not perfect, the meals had some fantastic elements and I think that keeping it traditional really gives an exciting introduction to a new country. For me though, it’s always the little meals, the impromptu snacks and lunches that really open your eyes to a new way of life so that’s coming next.

Last but not least, I would like to thank Farida of Farida’s Azerbaijani Cookbook for passing on the Yum-Yum blog award to Food Stories. I am very flattered Farida. You know I am a big fan of your blog. You can see all my awards on my, ‘Show Me Some Love!’ page. I’ll pass the award onto anyone who enjoys reading Food Stories. Not because I am lazy but because I have tried and failed to choose…