So, the Coronation.

Opinion is divided.

To many, a celebration of everything that is good about Britain. To me, a farcical waste of taxpayers’ money to place a shiny hat on the head of a multi-billionaire, emblematic of everything wrong with the entrenched privilege of an archaic and divisive class system which has inevitably led to this country’s terminal decline.

Yup. I’ll get off that fence.

My wife has warned me to keep politics away from here. Although as she has also just sent me a text message hoping I ‘don’t choke on a scallop’ it’s probably not the thing that makes her angriest.

Everyone alive at the time appears to remember where they were for the Queen’s coronation. It was our (happier) JFK moment. I don’t think you have to be a rabid republican to think Chas’s bash might be remembered slightly differently. Personally, I drove up to Manchester on the Thursday, meaning I missed my kids’ school Coronation concert, which I would probably only have spoilt by scowling.

As ever on my travels, I hit up the marvellous @frivoliteabakes (well worth a follow) for another NW lunch recommendation after the brilliance of Burnt Truffle last month. She came up with a number of options, but did suggest if I wanted to head slightly further afield, The Parkers Arms near Clitheroe was well worth a trip. Well, I had a whole day, a car and a national Game of Thrones re-enactment to avoid, so off I toddled.

Speaking of which, this is a ridiculously pretty, not to say magnificent location. You could easily see Penny Mordaunt in her cosplay Lannister costume, riding over a ridge of the Forest of Bowland on a mighty charger and causing all sorts of middle-aged men to make their excuses and retire surreptitiously to the gents.

Secondly, it would be harder to find a warmer welcome anywhere. Abundantly cheery host AJ greeted me like an old friend, called me Al (you do the bloody song) and ushered me straight to a delightful table by the open fire (#winning,) while enquiring if my wife would be joining me (sore point.) At which point I was brought a bowl of salted potato skins just because the chef felt like it. I tweeted @frivoliteabakes. This was going to be good.

I was not disappointed. This wasn’t just good, it was about as close to perfection as lunch could be. It is no surprise they have won Estrella’s ‘Best Gastropub’ Award and I was about to find out why. A three course menu at £50 is not cheap, but then neither is it expensive for food this brilliant.

I started with a couple of oysters just because they were there, even though there’s no ’r’ in the month. They made a beautiful amuse bouche, with a fine mignonette sauce of punchy pickled shallots. And then to the starter. Six beautiful, juicy scallops, cooked to perfection (and just the right size to avoid choking on,) the garlic butter sauce mopped up with a homemade sourdough so good it was like cake. I often find the roe on a scallop off-putting, a little fishy and unpleasant, but here they were an integral part of an exceptional whole.

Speaking of magnificent, my main course of grilled Morecambe Bay brill may well be the best piece of fish I have ever eaten. I’ve run out of superlatives. Served on the bone, with a wedge of lemon, it was simply perfection. Alongside this were gorgeous crushed smoked jersey royals and asparagus cooked with a few wild garlic leaves – a little touch of genius from a chef who clearly knows when and when not to gild the lily (royalists take note.)

I thought I wanted the dark chocolate pot for pudding, but was persuaded to try the iced rhubarb parfait with white chocolate and roasted rhubarb because it was local and ‘simply the best’. I’m not going to say what I thought of this pudding. I’m just going to let you know that at one point I let out such an audible moan of pleasure, the table next to me turned round. And then grinned, knowingly.

A properly ballsy coffee rounded things off nicely alongside the remnants of the sparkling rhubarb cordial I’d enjoyed throughout. By this point the lunchtime rush had subsided (pretty sure booking is essential,) and I asked AJ if he minded me sitting by the fire a little longer to do some work. I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere til he kicks me out. Which I’m sure he will do with almighty charm.

If you really want to know what’s best about Britain, personally I would suggest making the trip to Clitheroe for lunch is a far preferable option to camping out on the Mall for three days, just to catch sight of a man in stolen jewellery waving at you from a gold coach. Everything good about our country can be found here – stunning countryside, genuine warmth and simply breathtaking food.

Next time, I will definitely be bringing my wife, if only because after reading this, I imagine the divorce courts will quite rightly beckon if I don’t. And speaking of courts, at least from now on I will definitely be able to remember where I was for King Charles III’s Coronation.

May ‘23

Liverpool is great. No need to list its massively outsized contribution to popular culture here, but it is worth saying at this moment it definitely has one of the most exciting comedy clubs in the UK, if not the world, in the shape of Hot Water, which is why I find myself here for Grand National weekend at the same time as a quite ludicrous amount of drunk people in suits, frocks and fascinators. Having checked out of my Air BnB bright and early this morning, a mere ten hours before showtime, I was in need of something to fill the day. Frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to stick the car in a multi-storey and spend all day traipsing round the city centre avoiding well-refreshed race-goers in the sort of weather you pray for in April – bright sunshine masquerading as an optimistic prelude to the Great British Summer™️. Let’s face it, we could all do with a little optimism at the moment. I did have a horse running in the National, thanks to a sweepstake at the club last night, but having read in the paper this morning that ‘A Wave of the Sea’ was ‘as unlikely winner as there was in the whole field’ I decided I needed to find my positivity elsewhere.

So, after a smuggery inducing trip to the gym, I took myself off to the beach. Well, the Wirral, to be exact, where I had been alerted to the presence of a bistro called ‘Burnt Truffle’ which is just the sort of name that wants to make you eat somewhere and I’m very glad I did. After a quick trip under the Mersey and a drive through Birkenhead, I presented myself at the restaurant at the appointed time only to find they didn’t have my reservation. They did, however, have a table, and I chanced my arm on sitting outside on one of those afternoons when every time you think it might get a little chilly, the cloud clears and all is well with the world.

Sitting down with a nice, punchy coffee, I was rather taken by the three course bistro menu for £25. This was mainly because it contained good things to eat, but also to defy the predictions of my less than sympathetic wife, whose eyes audibly rolled as we spoke on the phone (between childrens’ screams,) and I insisted I wasn’t going to go à la carte. Despite the temptations of a whole plaice with new potato salad and caper butter, I plumped for the crispy pork fritters to start which turned out to be an excellent idea, even if it was just the one fritter, which wasn’t. A deliciously crisp crumb surrounding fatty, unctuous porkiness, pumped up with mustard seeds, a delicate celeriac remoulade and a caramelized apple sauce that gave it just the perfect hint of Sunday lunch. I ate it in abut thirty seconds flat, but they were thirty particularly enjoyable seconds.

Main course was a toss-up between tagliatelle with venison ragu and crispy seitan – a kind of all-gluten concoction that when explained by the lovely Claire, my charming waitress, sounded a lot more tempting than the words ‘meat-substitute’ ever could. However, I’d already gone crispy and there was just something deeply enticing about the pasta, which really was comfort in a bowl when it arrived, with a side order of perfectly charred broccoli in lemon, olive oil and sea salt which I obviously had to order to ward off scurvy

For dessert I would normally go a brûlée but that felt a bit uninspiring today for some reason and upon hearing the mint-choc sundae was made with homemade ice cream, I opted in that direction. This proved to be another great decision as the ice cream had a broken up chocolate brownie and piped whipping cream on top of it and was a thoroughly acceptable way to polish off a really rather smashing lunch. A smashing lunch with impeccable service which I would add was something of a snip at £42 all in.

As I still had another five hours til showtime and the sun appeared to be gaining in confidence, I was further delighted to discover I was a mere five minutes from Thurstaston beach, where, from a little grassy knoll, I am presently sat tapping this out surrounded by nature, sand, happy, but luckily mostly distant voices and an enormously self-satisfied feeling of contentment. On days like this, I really do have the best job in the world. Bring on the summer I say.

Although first of course, it’s time to entertain a town that have just been at the races. Moods can change very quickly in my business, much like the weather. Some things, however, remain a constant, and having eaten at Burnt Truffle, I imagine it is one of them. It certainly represents a far more reliable wave of the sea than the one running in the 5:15 at Aintree.



April ‘23

John Lennon was wrong. ‘Life’ isn’t what happens while you’re busy making other plans. Kids are. It was ok for him – Julian and Sean were 12 years apart. If they’d been five and three he’d never have got round to writing ‘Imagine,’ and if he had it would just have been a plea for silence.

I’m not asking for sympathy. My wife and are in the same boat as most parents of little ones, now looking with bemused awe at those who have decided to extend their brood from two to three because there’s no way we would. Indeed, to that end, I spent last Monday having a gentlemen rearrange my nether piping to prevent such an occurence in a manner which could best be described as impertinent, at worst as f**king agony.

All you can expect/fervently hope/pray for is the odd bout of respite. Of course they are the most wonderful things in our world, but as any parent will tell you, they’re also the most demanding, exasperating and exhausting. You dream of a break. And so we had planned one. A few weeks back, my brother and sister-in-law had agreed to come to the house for the weekend, while we had booked a couple of nights at a hotel in Stratford-upon-Avon, tickets to the RSC and a restaurant reservation.

Of course, on the Tuesday night, my daughter presented herself in our bedroom, told us she had ‘an itchy spot’ and sure enough, the hotel was unbooked, the restaurant cancelled and the tickets refunded. She was home from school with chicken pox for a week, before half term kicked in. Eventually they both went back to school. Then my son got it. If this was a text I would be putting a scream emoji right here.

Fast forward a month or two, the in-laws can spare us one night, as can the hotel, there’s no play at the theatre and any idea of a romantic getaway has been somewhat undermined by the fact a very bad man has cauterised both my testicles. That didn’t matter. We had to go.

Apart from the chance to spend a glorious seventeen hour break with my better half, the one real advantage of all this was that the restaurant I had originally failed to book for our aborted first trip was now available. And the lack of anything else to do in Stratford-upon-Avon that night meant we had time to do the tasting menu. Such stuff as dreams are made on.

The Woodsman is part of the Hotel Indigo in the middle of town, set inside one of those wooden-beamed Tudor buildings one feels almost certain you could sell to the right sort of American. All kinds of twisty boughs, open fires and a kind of olde-worlde real ale vibe that would be oppressive if it wasn’t so comforting. I even thought the stuffed deer in the dog basket by the fire was alive for goodness sake. But the restaurant itself was a genuinely handsome affair which felt both modern and in keeping with its surroundings. Not only was it pleasingly spacious, I think it may have won an award before we started for the comfiest restaurant chairs I have ever had the pleasure of sitting in.

The website describes it as a ‘truly British restaurant’ and what only a few short years ago might have been seen as the apotheosis of rudeness is in fact a ringing endorsement of a really lovely place to have dinner. My only criticism is not really a criticism – a tasting menu often feels more like a chance for a chef to show off, almost a ‘concept’ in itself. Here, it seemed more like a good way to try all the dishes on the menu we quite liked the look of.

Two really superb breads with a creamy saltless and nuttier caramelised butter got us off to a winning start, before an amuse bouche of chicken parfait in a small choux bun which, to be honest felt it was there more because there should be an amused bouche on a tasting menu than because it needed to be. It was fine. But what The Woodsman does really well are good flavours and top ingredients neatly presented with a simplicity that belies the skill on display.

Dishes came thick and fast, as you would hope – a nicely dressed and crunchy Jerusalem artichoke salad spiked with pickled mushroom, endive followed by a delightful little square of porkbelly punched up with crackling, apple celeriac and smoked eel.

I’d polished off my Cornish skate wing with roast cauliflower, romanescu and brown shrimp while my wife was still struggling with hers as it rather fell apart – possibly due to some mysterious mistake in the fish butchery – but both tasted marvellous. My highlight was the next dish – fallow deer with hazelnut, pear and roast parsnip with a bolognaise of its own neck and grated dark chocolate. Not only was this exactly the sort of venison dish that makes you want to head into the woods to grapple your own dinner to the ground, it also seemed designed to match the rather lovely Los Haroldas Malbec I’d just ordered.

A delightfully light white chocolate tartlette with blood orange granita and a little spike of tarragon was exactly the sort of palate cleanser the little choux bun probably didn’t get on with at school, and a perfect prelude to a superb disc of vanilla rice pudding with rhubarb and ginger beer – my wife’s favourite dish and a close second for me. I’d moved on to a glass of white Rioja by this point, which they didn’t charge me for as I’d asked for a small and they bought a large, which makes it pretty hard to think of a better way to describe just how much I liked the service. It’s worth giving a shout out here for how seamlessly they handled my wife’s request to avoid alcohol in her food. Some restaurants seem to view this as an imposition, here it was clearly just viewed as a preference.

All told, the bill came in just shy of £200 which is certainly not cheap, until you consider we hadn’t had to pay for babysitters, theatre tickets or one more night at the hotel. We toddled happily back to our hotel (OK, I limped,) for a filthy night of pure, unbridled sleep. I’m sure I could find some appropriate Shakespearean quote to sign off with, but as we didn’t get to the theatre that somehow feels inappropriate. Perhaps I should end where I began by misquoting another great English bard. I thought I might go with ‘Whatever Gets You Through The Night’, but in the end, as we all know, happiness is a warm…meal.

March ‘23

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I bloody love a good Italian. This was the reason I tried to get into Giovanni’s yesterday, slap bang in the middle of Cardiff with an awning proclaiming itself ‘The Longest Established Family Run Restaurant in Wales’. 1983 still seems relatively recent to me, but that is simply showing my age. Unfortunately they were incredibly busy, but happily that led to two further events – a truly superb lunch round the corner at Asador 44, and the chance to try again today.

I was already having, it has to be said, a very good weekend. Christmas shows at The Glee Club in Cardiff have been excellent – by which I mean not too Christmassy. I have taken in a couple of decent runs around the picturesque Bute Park, done some light shopping, written a little blog and watched quite a lot of World Cup football. Obviously I miss my children and my wife hates me, but that is a cross I will have to bear. Especially as she is really going to hate the next bit.

If any country in the world was put in charge of food for everyone else, I would always vote for Italy (although America can do the sandwiches.) There is a something about the Italian joy in feeding, and eating, and a reverence for ingredients bordering on the quasi-religious. Having popped my head in yesterday, I knew that was exactly what I was going to get at Giovanni’s. The photos on the wall reminded me of Corelli’s in Battersea (now sadly under new management,) the menu of a pared down Bar Napoli in Edinburgh, (which anyone who has ever done the Edinburgh Festival knows is high praise indeed,) and the seating of a rush hour tube. If only I could get a table.

Luckily, they squeezed me in. And when I say squeezed, I really mean like a sardine, or should that be Sardinian? I was squashed into a corner by the kitchen entrance, on a table that had to be physically moved away from the wall so I could get into it, with my head in the dessert fridge and my elbows neatly placed in my neighbour’s lasagne. And you know what? I minded not a jot (although she may have.)

As a creature of habit, I often have set meals I go for to establish the credentials of a certain type of restaurant – the pho in a Vietnamese or tom yum in a Thai – and my go to Italian order is very simple: minestrone soup and a carbonara. In the immortal words of The Breakfast Club ‘all the food groups are represented’.

My soup was excellent. I could almost feel myself glowing from vegetable heartiness. A couple of slices of warm bread were perfect for mopping up the dregs. I have two criticisms. I would have like more of it. For £7.95 a half full bowl felt a little parsimonious. I liked it, and I wanted more of it. My second criticism is almost criminal for an Italian restaurant. They had no carbonara.

You will be unsurprised to learn that a food tedium receptacle like myself has an almost fascistic approach to certain menu items (hey, when in Rome…) Carbonara is one of them. Garlic, pancetta, egg, parmesan, black pepper, pasta (and a little of the water.) THERE WILL BE NO CREAM. OR MUSHROOMS. Giovanni’s however, had no carbonara. So what I went for instead was Specialita’ di Giovanni – a completely different pasta dish containing ham and mushrooms in a creamy wine sauce. As it was not carbonara, this was acceptable. My god it was good. Piping hot pasta in a perfectly reduced sauce almost, but not quite over seasoned. Just quintessential Italian comfort food, washed down with one of those perfectly sized bottles of Pellegrino that is not so small you have to order two or so big you waterlog yourself.

The speed with which I finished this off attracted the attention of the couple sitting next to me, which is unsurprising as I was sitting in one of their laps. This is where Giovanni’s really came into its own. They were a mother and daughter from Mumbles treating themselves to a day out in Cardiff. The mum had been rhapsodising about her lamb shank since I had sat down. We had already gone through the bingo card of descriptions – “cut through it like butter,” “falls off the bone” etc when she said something I thought was just wonderful – “I love it here. It’s always SO good. Every time I come to Cardiff I just want to eat here.” Any place that can warm the heart as much as the stomach is to be treasured. We had a lovely chat about her Labrador, her daughter’s work as a consultant rheumatologist, the parlous state of the NHS and the perils of winter golf. We only paused for me to hoover up a tiramisu which I had to have as it had been sat in the fridge next to me looking needy for the past half hour. It was excellent – even if I was by now very glad I’d managed to fit in a run before lunch as, like all the best tiramisu, it was basically a slab of cream in search of a disguise.

And that was that. Both our bills arrived at the same time, and although Giovanni’s is not cheap – £36 including service – neither should it be for an experience like that. I said a happy goodbye to my new friends as they toddled off for a spa and I rolled back to my hotel to watch a bit more football before heading off for my last gig of the weekend.

So, in terms of the great Spanish Italian Cardiff match up previewed in my last blog, it was very much a one all draw. Of course, Wales and Spain were both knocked out of the World Cup early and Italy didn’t even qualify. England quarter final was that evening. Given the luck I had had over the last three days, I knew something had to change and I wasn’t in the least surprised to see us dumped unceremoniously out of the competition by the French. But hey, it was a hell of a weekend until then.

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Dec 2022

I know bad reviews are much more interesting to read so I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you in advance by saying I have just had a properly magnificent lunch. From venue to service to food to value for money I would be reaching for word ‘perfection’ were it not for one mildly disappointing glass of Rioja.

I find myself in Cardiff again, and asked my resident expert on the West Country, (yes I know it is A Country, west,) Mark Olver for tips. Last time he pointed me back to the reliably excellent Potted Pig, and this time he sent me to Asador 44 and as I arrived outside, I realised he’d sent me here before as well. I seemed to remember an excellent lunch which I hadn’t written about, which is, as far as I’m concerned, a winning combination.

And so it proved. Despite having no reservation, I was pointed to a bar table in the corner of a happily buzzing restaurant. This is as good an indication of the ambience as anything else – bad busy restaurants can feel hectic and edgy. Here, everything was conducted with a calm, friendly efficiency that only enhanced the experience.

In the interests of my wallet I decided to go for the set lunch, (mains on the à la carte generally hovering around the lower twentiest) as two courses seemed a relative snip at £19. Only a choice of two starters, but when the spicy Iberian pork rilette with pepinillo are as good as this, that really doesn’t matter. This was just an epic starter, even if it wasn’t going to win any aesthetic awards. A slab of beautifully smoky, slightly spiky rillette was slapped on the plate next to the almost mellow-yet-acidic kick of pepinillo – chopped gherkins to you and me, but with a comforting warmth that set off the lightly spiced meat to perfection. It was advertised with sourdough, which I would normally appreciate, but today came with a seeded cracker whose brittle shards added a hugely pleasing textural element. I don’t always love rillette. These disappeared in seconds.

I decided to go for simplicity in the main course. A lot of the beef they use at Asador is ex-dairy cow, which sacrifices a little tenderness for flavour. Apparently the rump steak I had for lunch is the only exception to this, but its hard to think of a better description. If the other steaks can beat this perfectly charred piece of meat for depth of flavour I may well have to drop in tomorrow to try them out. Olive oil chips were excellent, and a bowl of hispi cabbage with shards of (more) iberico were so deeply satisfying I would have been perfectly happy if I’d just eaten a large bowl of them. I don’t normally drink at lunchtime when I’m working, but when in Spain…and I ordered a small glass of a 2019 Rioja which was perfectly pleasant, but with a slight tannin aftertaste I wasn’t wholly on board with.

After all this it would have been rude not to have pudding and frankly, thank god I did. Everything so far had been perfect, but relatively unshowy, just beautifully put together ingredients treated lovingly. My rhubarb parfait was something else. Proper fireworks. Everything about this dessert was precise and complimentary, including little dabs of raspberry curd on the parfait and a white chocolate ganache so toffilly (is that a word? It is now,) delicious I suspect it should be illegal. The perfect combination of tart and sweet, it even perked up the last of the Rioja which, very unhappily for an Englishman, left me absolutely nothing to complain about.

With a glass of sparkling water, and a 10% service charge that I would probably have increased if it hadn’t already been included, lunch came to £41. This was, frankly, a steal. I cannot recommend this place any more. I really do want to go back tomorrow. But they also have a sister restaurant that does tapas. There is also Cardiff’s oldest Italian which I couldn’t get a table at earlier and looks like the sort of throwback trattoria I thoroughly enjoy getting myself around. Mark tells me it’s excellent. I’m sure it is, but it is really going to have to go some to beat its Spanish mate up the road.

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Dec 2022

In a word, phwoaar.

I’ve stayed in Manchester so many times over the years it often feels like a second home comedically. The city itself is always pulsing with life and possibilities, and it’s no wonder it holds such a central role in British culture and sport, not to mention what I will quaintly refer to as my record collection. Inevitably you gather a collection of favourite haunts and, in my case, eateries.

Manchester has often been singled out as lacking in the culinary department when you consider how much of a renaissance it has had in other areas over the thirty years since, funnily enough, ‘I Am The Resurrection’. This feels as though it has genuinely changed over the past decade as every kind of pop up, niche cuisine hostelry, fine dining establishment and bespoke burger joint has opened up, especially around the Northern Quarter which is where I usually stay when I’m in town.

Personally, I have a special affection for Vietnamese food in general, and the national dish, pho, in particular. There is a blog on here called Pholympics which I initially intended to be an updated list of all the phos I had, but it somehow became abandoned, possibly after a rather good one in Hamburg which I failed to write up and, like so many projects, it dwindled to a quiet halt. One of the few great joys of the last few years in the UK is you can now guarantee you’re within spitting distance of a decent noodle soup almost everywhere, and Manchester really seems to have taken off in this regard. A firm favourite is I am Pho just behind Piccadilly Gardens which is a very functional underground room seemly run by teenagers who do an excellent version (as you would hope from the name) and I went down there for my fix only yesterday.

Slightly nearer my hotel is the rather more jazzy Nam, which I visited on a previous stay and found mildly disappointing – a bit mouth and no trousers and a little dear for what it offered. None of these problems affected Viet Shack, which is literally so close to the hotel it might as well be part of it, but, with all due respect to the Travelodge franchise, is literally on another continent when it comes to food.

I had been once before and had a perfect pho and summer rolls (my default order when no morning glory is available,) but this time resolved to be a little more adventurous. It was more than worth it. Famished from a morning run and no breakfast I was warmly welcomed through the doors at 12pm to a fairly quiet restaurant, all a bit funky hipster and wooden tables and metal chairs. There’s a lot of that about in Manchester.

Somewhat surprisingly for a girl of Asian ethnicity working in a Vietnamese restaurant, my delightfully friendly waitress said she didn’t like spicy food, and warned me the charred cauliflower was a bit pokey. Apparently the crispy aubergine was a little easier on the palate, especially if you had it with the peanut sauce, so we decided to meet in the middle and I ordered both, alongside a plate of Nâm Xào – mixed mushrooms on steamed rice. If that sounds a little prosaic it was anything but. The cauliflower, with a good colour but still a perfect al denté texture, was dotted with chillis on a bed of crushed avocado. It was stunning – a little spicy, but nothing for a man who has braved a Norwegian Som Tum. This was staggeringly good cooking – a perfect blend of tastes, textures and temperatures, and actually beautifully offset by the aubergine. This came in crispy chunks, again with the odd chilli, but more importantly a perfect, smooth, unctuous peanut sauce, so good I ordered another small dish of it as the original portion was a little parsimonious.

The Nâm Xáo contained slightly less fireworks but was no less enjoyable. Thick slices of various Asian mushrooms, like a slippery but deeply satisfying veggie fillet steak in an oyster mushroom glaze, packing some serious umami on a bed of steamed rice with a crunchy salad alongside. Delicious.  At this point another waitress tried to take the remnants of my peanut sauce away, but I held on to it like a small child with a favourite toy as I wanted to use some of my remaining rice to mop up the last few slicks. As I did so, I actually heard myself audibly whispering the word ‘Magnificent!’

God I’m getting old.

By this time, what had been a fairly quiet restaurant was suddenly packed to the seams, and I heard my waitress apologise to another table that their food might e half an hour. They didn’t complain, and having just finished mine, I could rather smugly agree they were right. I paid the outstandingly good value £22 bill (including impeccable service) and walked out past an ever expanding queue of punters clearly keen to enjoy the good times as much as I just had.

There is a well known phrase, often employed by Mancunians, that on a certain day, god created Manchester. A quick google leads me to conclude there is some confusion over whether this was on the sixth, seventh, or maybe even eighth day. What is perfectly clear however, is that it may have taken a little time, but she has now also created an absolutely outstanding Vietnamese restaurant.



October 2022

I have just realised this is my second blog in a row to feature Oldham’s finest export, but he is one of my best friends, MC’d my wedding, and frankly I can’t think of better company to travel in. I’ve been all over the world with Mick Ferry, including trips throughout the Middle East, Hong Kong, Cyprus and now Norway. I can also unequivocally say £28 is the most we have ever spent on two beers, but that’s Oslo airport for you.

We were in the wonderful, welcoming and not inexpensive country of Ibsen, A-Ha and Haaland for a couple of days to perform for what turned out to be quite the international crowd. Norwegian audiences have in my experience always been largely made up of those working in the Oil and Gas industry. They have now clearly made so much money then can employ a selection of musicians, therapists, graphic designers, carpenters and dental technicians from Germany, the UK, Eritrea, Australia and the US (and that was just the front row in Haugesund,) to improve their lives. There used to be far more Scots around, seemingly determined to negate their ill-deserved reputation for stinginess, but they seemed in short supply on this visit. Maybe £14 a beer really did get to them.

We enjoyed a lovely first gig at the Festiviteten Theatre in Haugesund whose lobby I have played many times, and one day hope to be allowed to perform in the actual auditorium. Afterwards we headed to a bar where the beer was being positively given away at around £8 a pint, while a local musician murdered some Bon Jovi, before repairing to another bar playing some of our favourite high energy disco pop. The night finished with a bloke seemingly having a fight with himself on the stairs which we stepped around just before the police arrived, providing us with a nostalgic throwback to that time we accidentally got involved in a punch up outside Oldham’s only gay bar after Mick’s 50th. Good times.

The next morning we took the absurdly scenic coach and ferry trip across the fjord to Stavanger and The Comedy Box, helmed by the marvellous Mr Kjetel Melkevik. Upon arrival at the Comfort Hotel (which did pretty much what it said on the side,) we fancied a bite to eat before the show. Unfortunately, the hotel didn’t do dinner, we were both hungry and there was a decent looking Thai across the street so we grabbed our credit cards and, with a certain amount of trepidation, crossed the road and the Rubicon of paying for our own meal in Norway.

Daran Thai isn’t going to win any awards for decor. It was functional, with a few of the minor flourishes one can expect from a regional Thai, like the small bowl of plastic flowers on the table – but the food was anything but.

My suspicions we might be up for something rather good came when our waitress offered us a choice between ‘Norwegian’ and ‘Thai’ spicing. I am genuinely sincere in my appreciation of Norway, but I think even they would admit they are not universally recognised as a culinary superpower, as evidenced by our hotel buffet the night before featuring a decent carrot soup, slightly weird potato fishcakes and more carrots and potatoes in an unspecified gravy. Big flavours are not really their thing, unless they’re pickled. There is not a lot of chilli in Norwegian cooking.

I love it, so, perhaps slight over confidently, went for ‘Thai but not insane’, while Mick went for a more measured ‘medium’. We got what we asked for, more or less. A bowl of breaded prawns with sweet chilli sauce were perfection, the very epitome of what the phrase ‘fat and juicy’ was invented for. My chicken fried rice was also exemplary – a wonderful example of an international staple cooked with real skill and perfect ingredients. Mick’s vegetable rice was a similar plate of complete comfort,. The fireworks were in the other dishes.

Som Tum is one of my favourite salads – a stunning combination of all that is best in Thai food. The four tastes of Thailand are meant to be salty, spicy, sour and sweet, to which I say prawn, chilli, lime and papaya and Som Tum says ‘bring it on’. The one caveat is that this particular example, whilst utterly delicious, and replete with the very welcome adition of some Thai pork scratchings, had really gone for the non-Norwegian spicing and Mick sat opposite watching in bemusement as I gently exploded. However , it would appear sitting opposite a snotty comedian with tears streaming down his face in no way detracted from his chicken massaman curry. This was a far less hysterical dish, but none the worse for it, with a depth of flavour that led Mick – a man whose own expertise in running up a banging curry I can personally vouch for – to proclaim it the finest he had ever had.

With a sparkling water for me and a Singha for Mick, the whole meal came to £98, which is far from cheap, if not quite as eye-watering as my salad. After a lovely couple of shows we headed off for another drink in town, where we realised perhaps the extra portion of rice that came with the curry had been a mistake as it prevented a £11 pint of Guinness and a £12 Kwak having any discernible affect whatsoever. That was probably no bad thing as we had to be up early to get to the airport where I rejected my usual purchase of a snow globe for my wife on the perfectly reasonable grounds £20 is a hell of a lot of money to spend on something she already has.

Norway was, as always, a simply gorgeous place to visit, and one that makes you consider anew all those statistics about how high standards of living are in Scandinavia. I mean, it’s almost as good as the UK. All they really need now is a new Prime Minister to tank the Krone.



October 2022

I have spent over a year of my life at The Edinburgh Festival. That is both a reflection of the number of times I have performed up here and how most perfomers feel as they enter the last week of another Fringe. There are far too many memories to unpack, good bad and indifferent. For me, the good will always outweigh the bad, which is quite possibly why I keep coming back, although why it is also becoming harder and harder to justify the experience to my wife.

One of my favourite years was 2013 as I had a successful show that I had not expended too much emotional energy on – not only did I come up with the stated intention of simply having fun, I made money and played to decent audiences, which was in stark contrast to 2012. I was also living with two of my best friends, Mick Ferry and Hal Cruttenden, who would go on to be MC and Best Man at my wedding a year later (the speeches were ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️.)

Our original flat was an absolute disaster, with rat traps under a leaking sink and so unfit for purpose Mick took one look at it, (while Hal stood screaming on a kitchen chair,) and demanded we were rehoused immediately. I missed all this drama and arrived the next day to a perfectly acceptable alternative and Hal’s pulse rate heading back towards ‘resting,’ or as close as it ever gets. If you ever need an estate agent to be ‘spoken’ to, could I recommend alumni of Counthill Comprehensive, Oldham over St Paul’s every time.

As a result of our enforced relocation, we also received some money back and decided to spend it on a slap up dinner at Fisher’s, which remains one of my favourite meals of all time. I wrote about it here. So good was it that when my girlfriend came up, it was the first place I took her to. I am contractually obliged to point out that this was also one of my favourite meals of all time.

Fast forward almost ten years and that former girlfriend and I had booked a babysitter and determined to try and forge a date night out of the Edinburgh madness. Unfortunately, thanks to my own lack of organisational capabilities, Fishers couldn’t fit us in at a suitable time. So I asked Jo Caulfield, wonderful comic, friend and Leith resident if she had any other recommendations. She suggested The Shore Bar & Restaurant, which happens to be in the building next to Fishers and owned by them. So, a pretty reasonable alternative.

It is a beautiful space – wood panelled throughout, with a vast mirror at one end of the bar to create the illusion of a much bigger room, and slightly more formal seating in a dining room off to the right. The whole place has a vaguely Gallic feel – no bad thing in my book – and I found myself tempted by the advertised Jazz Sunday lunch, which is no mean feat for anyone who knows my opinions about eating to music. A relatively brisk menu of solid fish and meat dishes was presented and I prepared for some serious cooking.

I really wanted to love The Shore, so it’s a pity I think we caught them on a slightly Monday night. So much was perfect, and I know Ms Caulfield to have excellent taste in everything except husbands (I’m going for a drink with him later,) but there were a couple of issues. My wife’s scallops with a burnt apple puree were excellent, but the accompanying greens contained pancetta that could really have benefitted from crisping up. I realise this sounds picky, but as she pointed out, there were a couple of lumps of what was essentially unrendered fat in there, and they were not particularly pleasant to eat. My spiced calamari were thoroughly workmanlike, with a decent, if not overly punchy smoked chilli mayonnaise. There was absolutely nothing wrong with them, but actually, the star of the show was a beautifully dressed side salad, zinging with freshness and crunch.

For main course, my wife had the fish pie with more of the exemplary salad. Frankly, if a restaurant of this calibre can’t get their fish pie right, we would have been in real trouble, but they did and we weren’t. I always feel bouillabaisse, though, should be a slightly decadent delight, a murky sauce holding bags of flavour and all kinds of fishy morsels within. Don’t get me wrong, this had some very good things in it – some beautiful sea trout, a few mussels, three pleasingly plump king prawns and the absolute highlight, a delicious piece of creamy crab toast. But the sauce, which I always feel should have the not-quite-but-almost-gritty consistency of a good soup de poissons felt a little underpowered and thin. It was in no sense a bad dish, it just didn’t wow me like a bouillabaisse should. I was also still quite hungry after eating it, so ordered bread to mop up the rest of the sauce – it may not have been the best I’ve had, but I certainly wasn’t going to waste it.

What felt like a slightly off night for the kitchen was compounded by a tarte au citron packed with a powerfully, lemony filling, but on a pastry that was far too thick in places and a brownie that while tasty, felt more floury than squidgy, which, as we all know, is just not quite right.

It was a good date night. We were child free for a few hours for a start. We had eaten some nice things. But there were a coupe of bits we were not so keen on, and when the bill took ten minutes to arrive I must admit I started doing that face which meant my wife started doing that face. Service otherwise had been great, and I don’t think a bill of £90 for a decent meal for two was anything other than reasonable.

Look. I know we’re in the middle of a cost of living crisis. There are more important things than flabby pancetta, a thin sauce and a floury brownie. I am hugely lucky I can go for a meal at all, let alone to a great restaurant with the mother of my children during a break from a month’s professional showing off. I would go back to The Shore in a heartbeat, I just happen to think we hit a bit of an off night, and as someone who has been coming to the Fringe for longer than I care to remember, I know we can all have those. In fact, I had one yesterday, and my audience appeared far less impressed with me than I was with The Shore. But in a town of reviewers, unfortunately The Shore was  ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ the night we went when we really hoped for ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️. I look forward to another night, when I’m certain it will be every bit as good as the speeches at my wedding, Mick’s way with landlords and Hal’s impression of a fifties housewife.

August 2022

I first ate at The Potted Pig on 13 Dec 2019 on the recommendation of the UK’s foremost warm-up artiste and bon viveur Mark Olver. Some of you may recall that was the day after a deeply traumatic event which ushered in the worst administration in British political history. If you can’t remember, I admire your ability to forget, or disavow your refusal to accept. Having stayed up late with a bottle of wine that grew more miserable with every glass, a slight hangover was abated with a superb mushroom dashi and some of the best roast pork I had ever eaten, but the trauma was clearly still too much for me to sit down and write about it when Britain had just elected the most unsuitable candidate to the highest office in the land with a quite overwhelming majority.

It’s quite something to realise now how much more trauma was to come. Considerably less meals in restaurants for one thing, although some of you might quite reasonably consider that to be one of the less horrific consequences of a global pandemic. One constant has of course been the crashing awfulness of that unsuitable candidate who has, in the well worn phrase, set himself very low standards he consistently failed to achieve. So it was, if not with a spring in my step, certainly a palpable sense of relief that I walked into Cardiff town centre to reacquaint myself with The Potted Pig in late July 2022, even if I knew I had a long afternoon ahead of me, reworking the Edinburgh Fringe show whose entire line of attack had been fundamentally altered by the enforced resignation of the Potted Prig a couple of weeks earlier.

The restaurant is in an underground vault that could be deemed oppressive if it didn’t feel like you have been admitted to a rather exclusive and comfortable bunker. On the day I was there, possibly a little too exclusive, which was a shame as it is always good to see good places busy. Still, we are all struggling at the moment – a fact possibly not unconnected with those in charge of the country.

Luckily, those in charge of the restaurant were doing a considerably better job. Kat, my chatty and enthusiastic waitress was on hand to bring me a very reasonable martini and talk me through what was an extremely tempting, if not inexpensive menu. It was also one of those relatively rare examples of a menu from which I wanted to order more or less everything, which might have made my choice of main course all the more surprising. She also informed me the restaurant was on its third head chef since my last visit, but luckily, change of leadership has clearly not meant declining standards. I wish I could say the same about Liz Truss.

To start, I had the smoked chicken, pancetta and spinach risotto topped with a delightful chicken skin scratching, for which I have only one criticism – it was a bit titchy. Mainly because it tasted so very good. It was also served on of those wide bowl-like dishes whose only actual area to fit food into is a small indent in the middle of the plate the size of half a boiled egg. I don’t like them. I find them difficult to eat out of, and in this case, I would suggest there wasn’t quite enough space to fit in as much risotto perfection as I would have preferred.

But still, it was a starter and set me up very well for what was an outstanding main course. I don’t often go for the vegetarian option, although I do regularly feel sympathy for vegetarians that the word ‘option’ remains resolutely singular on the vast majority of menus. It’s less an ‘option’ than a stipulation if you don’t eat meat. However, in this case, a number of factors pushed me towards a quite superb beetroot and truffle terrine. Firstly, to be honest, the price. Wages everywhere are stagnant, but they have been positively comatose on the comedy circuit for over a decade, and, as we all know, the cost of everything else has rocketed. Justifying £30 on a main course when you’re away working has become not just hard, but practically impossible to justify. The second reason is that I have grown some beetroot in my garden this year, and my, er ‘invention’ of the butter addled confit beetroot means I am planning to grow little else next year. This was an absolute delight, a wonderful contrast of textures with the soft earthiness of the sliced beetroot within and the crisped without, all offset by deeply pungent and satisfying notes of truffle. A perfect fricassee of greens alongside meant that I felt my lunch had also done me as much good as my run round Cardiff Bay that morning (were it not for the martini,) and at £18 it represented pretty good value for money too.

Desserts looked very tempting, but also veering towards the more overtly sugary end of the market, and for some reason my sweet tooth had deserted me for the day. Instead, in what is again a relatively unusual move for me, I opted for a selection of Welsh cheeses that were not only delicious, they also had the benefit of making me feel like a proper grown up. Maybe Boris Johnson should try some.

All in, with impeccable service, the bill came to £56, which is a lot to spend on a working lunch, but I justified the expense by driving off to a thoroughly hilarious, tiny and charming festival in Herefordshire called ‘Rock the Barn’ before returning to the joys of The Glee Club in Cardiff for the evening.

I then had the pleasure of driving home without the doom of a Tory election victory hanging over proceedings, before heading off to Edinburgh to give Boris Johnson the roasting his calamitous Premiership so clearly deserves. I suppose it’s also a small consolation to reflect that The Potted Pig would probably have done an even better job of it than I ever could.

July 2022

So here we are again on another weekend away, driving myself across the country and my long-suffering wife apoplectic as she wrangles two toddlers while I treat myself to a rather nice lunch. Sorry.

To be fair, I was in a similar state of incandescence last night, after the inability of Travelodge to provide a postcode on the correct carriageway of the M6 meant it took me an hour and ten minutes to get to a hotel three miles from my gig. The confirmation email also warned of imminent roadworks in April 2020, so god knows who’s going to break it to them about Covid, let alone monkey pox. Ideally, one of the advantages of a child-free evening should be a chance to get to bed reasonably early rather than furiously clutching a mug of whisky two hours after you intended to be asleep. Funnily enough, the single malt in question was a birthday gift from my good friend Nick Revell, an excellent little number named ‘Singleton’ which is I imagine what I may well be when my wife reads this.

As I’m gigging in Glossop and Saddleworth tonight, I once again asked on Twitter for lunch recommendations, and just like last month, @frivoliteabakes came to my rescue. In fact, she could be said to have excelled herself. Well worth a foodie follow. So I jumped in the car and headed off through the Peak District to Buxton, or to be more accurate, Little Hucklow. Or, to be really picky, The Blind Bull – a Twelfth Century Inn nestling down the bottom of the sort of left turn which makes you think they cannot be serious. When you get here, however, it quickly becomes very clear they are.

The drive itself was stunning, and the glorious countryside provides the perfect backdrop to what I’m delighted to report was an equally stunning lunch. Look away now, Emily. I was placed in a cosy little corner table in thoroughly tastefully refurbished surroundings – all stone floors and wood, open fireplaces and good prints on the wall – exactly how you imagine a medieval publican might redecorate his place if he’d had access to a decent interior designer. As my gig is still five hours away, I’m still sat here, but considering a walk through the beer garden and out on to the rolling hills in a while to shift a little of the treacle tart I’ve just polished off, of which more later.

As it is genuinely hard to think of a more picturesque destination for lunch, I’m also at a loss to think of a menu I’ve had more trouble choosing from. I wanted almost all of it. Bless my waitress who patiently took me through most of it twice while I ummed and ahhed and was generally useless. I was sorely tempted by the raw roast beef with fermented chilli and shrimp dressing – indeed I’m actually salivating writing this and cursing myself for not having it, but that would have meant foregoing the asparagus with crispy egg and pickled shallot I had instead. This came in a vivid green lovage sauce and may well be the nicest thing I’ve put in my mouth since lockdown. Breaking open the egg to allow the yolk to ooze out into it provided a masterstroke of creamy richness, and I genuinely failed to display any shame whatsoever in using the teaspoon from the (excellent) coffee I’d ordered on arrival to spoon up all the sauce that remained. Leaving anything on the plate would have been a greater sin. 

I was a bit more prosaic with my main course, much as I wanted the stone bass with clams and sea herbs, but as it’s a Sunday I decided to go for a roast – pork belly with black pudding. Everything on the plate was served piping hot and almost entirely to perfection. Deeply satisfying green shards of cabbage, definitive roasties, parsnips, and meltingly delicious pork with a slick homemade apple sauce. By this point I was actively looking for problems, as if I wasn’t sure anything should be this good. So here goes with my damming critique – of the six inches of crackling around the pork, three hadn’t crisped up. Take THAT Blind Bull. I even found myself wondering if the Yorkshire pudding might have been left a minute or two too long in the oven, but then decided that was actually the ideal treatment for retaining its structure when mopping up a faultless gravy. When you’re clutching at straws like this you know you might as well surrender yourself to the fact you’re in exceptionally good hands.

I needed a bit of a break after this, to the extent I put the exceptionally patient waitress through her paces once more because I wanted everything on the dessert menu too. Eventually I settled on a treacle tart, as much to compare with the one I had at The Pig & Whistle last month as anything else. That had been more than serviceable, but this, with all due respect, rather blew it out of the water. The addition of a quenelle of orange and vanilla ice cream was a masterful floral counterpoint to the deeply sugary hit of the tart and showed exactly the same lightens of touch with flavours as the lovage sauce had with my starter. Added to which, while the Pig & Whistle’s tart was a fairly solid item, once you broke this open, the filling oozed out on to the plate, mixing deliciously with the ice cream. They really know how to give good ooze at The Blind Bull.

I would tell you how much this all came to but I can’t, partly because I haven’t asked for the bill yet, but mainly because my wife will be reading. Put it like this, I don’t expect to have much change from the forty guineas I am probably expected to pay with once Boris Johnson has pursued his monstrously stupid project of taking us back to Imperial measures and presumably the 1950s in a(nother) failed bid to distract from his own crapulence. Personally, on this evidence, I am very happy to go back to the Twelfth century. I really cannot fault my lunch and service was exemplary too – including welcome little touches like the unbidden pint glass of water when I sat down that would be regarded as normality in Europe, but which are therefore generally regarded as a sign of weakness in England by those who will never be happy until the glass has a crown on it. But let’s be honest; those people are never going to be happy.

I too struggle with happiness between my bouts of rage at this government and the vagaries of the Travelodge booking system, but some things really are a pleasure to be savoured, and The Blind Bull is very much one of them. To describe it as exactly ‘en route’ between my gigs is probably pushing things a little geographically, but it is most definitely worth a detour all of its own if you are ever in the area. I certainly plan to come back, to try the rest of the menu, if nothing else. I cannot wait. Just don’t tell my wife.

May 2022