Banqueting at Bangna Bacco's and pondering the Baritone of the Bandersnatch

The respect and admiration for the cuisine of Italy is apparent across the world. The wide range of styles, ingredients and flavours provides gentle bridges for people coming from more isolated gastronomic environments. Italian restaurants are a dime a dozen, the challenge is finding a genuinely good one. But, as with any restaurant, I find it a tall order to judge a restaurant as a whole purely based on your meager selections on a single dining experience. People are quick to pass judgement, good or bad, even if based on a single experience at a single point in time. We are back in Bangkok now and Bacco's are nice mid-level Italian restaurants, with the branch near Thonglor having a more boisterous family style atmosphere and the one in the Bangna area emulating a more adult and intimate setting with stylish dim lighting and cozy covered tables. 

There are a few dishes on my”frequent retrieval” shelf of sensory food porn for recreational use. This truffle soup is one of the well thumbed entries. It's a creamy soup that is simultaneously bold and delicate. The smokey tones of truffle are evenly dispersed in the rich creamy and offset by sharper twinges of sweet and salty. This is a definite must for any fans of the funghi. Deep and broad, the multifaceted flavour and all-encompassing aroma swallows your entire being and reverberates through your very soul, burning sultry scars of orgasmic sensory delight like warm bath on a cold winter's day. Or the delicious voice of Benedict Cumberbatch - lol :) xx. And suddenly I've completely lost my train of thought... 

Nothing quite as indulgent as carb on carb action. Whoever decided on smushing soft floofy spuds into their pasta dough was a bloody genius. Gnocchi, for those innocent souls that have yet to encounter it, are little pasta dumplings that usually (not all the time, as I have been told) include fresh potatoes in their mix. It is one of my favourite pasta options, so it was easy for me to decide on this gnocchi and pesto dish for the evening (these little dumplings may appear small but they are dense and very filling so I prefer having them accompanied with a lighter fresher sauce). These gnocchi were made in house. The appearance was nice enough, generously portioned and vibrant and appetising. Sadly, I felt they were a bit too squishy. The flavour, although pleasant, felt diluted and lost as each bite seemed to melt into nothing. Bacco usually satisfies my cravings for Italian without  breaking a sweat but on this particular occasion I was left wanting more. Alas, having been raised by a mother obsessed with not wasting food, I could not abandon my plate for another order. That's just mean. It wasn't bad, just not up to par with some of the other creations I've sampled from their kitchens. And the mome raths outgrabe...

Over-ordering English Indian Takeaway Treats

Ah the delightfully spiced concoctions of Southern Asia. One of the reasons I return the UK is to seek out their national cuisine, Indian food. As with any national food, there is a wide range of regional styles and delicacies. The one in question here is the mystical realm of the British Indian takeaway. As you should know very well by now, I value comfort. Perhaps it's my often suppressed sociopathic tendencies that lead me to feel such successive stresses in daily life and consequently seek the soft warmth of a humble and satisfying meal. Perhaps I just encounter one too many stupid people per day and the frustration just makes me want to bite things. Whatever it is, every one needs some sort of relief – or indeed stimulation – to alter the otherwise linear course of their existence. 

What better way to escape than to curl up under a fluffy duvet and await the nice delivery man's arrival at the door with a smorgasbord of piping hot ready-to-eat delicacies from the exotic reaches of the not-so-far East. Indian takeaway – the salvation of those with un-stocked pantries and zero motivation to step back outside into the world for a meal in a more social setting. 

So one lazy night whilst I was residing on my not-so-little brother's floor, we decided to indulge and over order from one of his new favourite internet-order-enabled Indian takeaways, Pukka Tiffin in Chertsey. Our initial order plan would probably have fed the entire street with leftovers for the next day. We are easily excited by the promise of mouthwatering magic food that appears at your door. After some vaguely sensible order slashing, we decided on the Chicken 65, Tandoori Chicken, Aubergine Masala, Gurkha's Revenge, Keralayan Fish Curry, Fish Masala, Mushroom Rice, Lemon Rice, Garlic Naan and Lychee Lassis (is that the plural for lassi?) – which I think were changed to Mango Lassis due to unavailability. Just the thought is making me salivate again. Damn my addiction to food porn. The total added up to about fifty quid. For three people, seventeen sterling each for a massive supper with plenty leftover for another meal the next day plus the added comfort of having to do naught but sit on out lazy arses playing video games? Yes please. 

Chicken 65 was the osusume number one super sparkling recommendation from my dekke otouto (big little brother). He had me at lime. I'm a sucker for citrus. We were obviously craving copious portions of protein with the double orders of chicken and fish. Even through our vigorous screening process of filtering out unnecessary orders we settled on both a Chicken 65 and the more common takeaway staple of tandoori chicken. It would give us the chance to conduct a comprehensive comparative analysis of the two varieties of grilled poultry. Yes. Not just being greedy bastards, I swear. The plethora of spices that adorned both portions naturally had similarities, but they still remained unique in their own respects. 

That's the glory of good Indian cuisine which I adore. That ability to harness the subtleties of hundreds of flavours and meld them into one sensationally titillating cohesive culinary experience that does not overwhelm all of your senses and make you blind for a day. In regards to the Chicken 65, I would describe this as an Indian variation of honey-lemon chicken. The citrus flavours are quite apparent, but not in an alarming manner. I find some dishes that advertise the promise of tart lemony tantalisation for your tongue fail to deliver. or indeed rape your tonsils and leave you gagging for a glass of water. The balance of spices and citrus in this chicken was beautifully infused into the succulent flesh and provided plenty of excitement for my ever eager taste buds. The smokey depth from seasonings and the tandoor preparation was apparent in both, with the basic tandoori chicken emanating a stronger barbecued savoury fragrance and the 65 providing a brighter sharp splash of refreshment. 

I adore aubergines. I get ecstatic about eggplants when I see them on the menu. From baba ganoush to grilled miso, the soft and juicy flesh of a nice fat eggplant in any style is hard to resist. The sponge-like qualities of the pale vegetable is perfect for absorbing and mellowing out flavours. The delicate custard texture adds a creaminess on your palette but the fibers create just enough structure to retain its structural integrity even when submersed in a rich curry sauce. Sensational saucy dish but I would recommend caution for those with a fear of the squishy. 

You can have so much fun when ordering from an Indian takeaway menu, especially because  there is so much variety in the components of your meal. My carbohydrate choice for the evening was the mushroom rice. I have a fungal fetish. Also, who doesn't feel a flash of excitement when the fluffy foliage of rainbow pilau rice sits sparkling on a platter in front of your face? Steamy and soft, the long grains hold their succinct shapes but unify in a magnificent flurry of delicate flavour in every mouthful you take. The generous sliced button mushrooms add that extra umami punch and lends a hand in calming and aspirating the stronger flavours of the rich curries for a fuller prolonged experience. 

It's always a pleasure to order fish from a restaurant or takeaway. I find the convenience of the already filleted and mostly boneless slabs of seafood so deliciously convenient. The Keralayan fish curry consists of fried cod chunks covered in a copious coating of piquant curry. With plenty of spices to last you till next Tuesday, the potentially tumultuous menagerie are tamed by the coconut milk base and reawakened by the tart tang of tamarind. The delicate white cod pieces are shielded by their deep fried casing which allows the flaky white flesh within to stay as such despite the fervent surroundings. It is a pleasant dish, quenching my craving for both a juicy stimulating sauce and a nice hefty bite of lean protein.

This last order was made out of curiosity more than an actual craving for any of its features in particular. Gurkha's Revenge. Is that a challenge? Consider it accepted, sir. This particular curry is advertised as a dangerously spicy entity that should only be approached by professional fire eaters in hazmat suits. With such potential volcanic heat, we decided on lamb as the sacrificial meat of choice as it is far stronger in texture and flavour than its companions. Perhaps it would appease the curry gods and they would not burn us from the inside out. We were excited. The excitement continued when we lifted the lid and gazed upon the whole dried chili nestled menacingly atop the fiery red sea of sauce. Our forks penetrated the glossy crimson surface and eased into what we could only assume was a morsel of mutton. We retracted our prongs with the samples firmly attached and braced ourselves. After a final glance towards each other with looks telling of the mutual respect, fear and courage we shared in the face of the imminent torture we were about to inflict upon ourselves, we lifted our forks and bit down. 

Nothing. Nothing? Perhaps it was a delayed heat. We proceeded with caution. There were definitely some strong tastes coming through, but I think we were too distracted by the overwhelming anticipation of Scovillian suicide to concentrate on the subtle qualities of the sauce. It was not hot. This wasn't just coming from two palettes that were raised in the fiery kitchens of Thailand. No. It was not hot. In terms of pure heat, it was on par with Keralayan curry providing only a faint susurration on the Scoville scale. A bit of a tingle but definitely not the roller coaster ride we were expecting. A sharp sourness was strongest presence in the dish. After forgetting about indulging in our masochistic tendencies, the lamb and the sauce was reasonably enjoyable, although it may have been a touch too tart. It was quite nice as leftover lunch the next day. Gurkha's Revenge was indeed a dish best served cold.

Chronicling the Courageous Character of Clotted Cream

Some people fear it, others covet it. It is as rich in history and tradition as it is in controversy and calories. The dairy devil presents an air of soft mildness but fears none and stands sturdy on its own solid feet. It has ripped through the crumbs of many a scone and clung like an iron sloth to the back of countless butter knives. The delicate yet treacherous terror of the tea room, I present to you, clotted cream. 

Cream is a common word used in the contemporary languages of today. Whipped cream, ice cream, shower cream, hand cream.  The list goes on. Most conjure up sensations of softness, fluffiness, things that are light and airy and sweet and gentle and moisturising in nature. Not the case for the clotted cream. If all the palatable powers of milk were boiled down into a thick viscus syrup and then encased in the deepest bowels of the Earth to be forged into a solid diamond of epic dairy divinity, that jewel would be clotted cream. 

This cousin of cream concoctions is more solid than liquid. The pale white of milk has given way to a rich gold tinted beige epitomising the colour that is cream. Straight from the tub, it has the grain of frozen ice cream and the sticky viscosity of ice cream that has been slightly thawed. Once agitated, the consistency softens to a few steps harder than a refrigerated honey with less drip and more pull. This stuff will hold its shape at room temperature. Butter will melt and liquify the more you move back and forth over a piece of toast or a split scone slipping easily off the knife and soaking into the crumb of your edible platform. You will most likely have to fight clotted cream and sacrifice the beauty of your baked good if it is your first time dealing with this dairy product. But it is worth it. 

It has the essential velvet creaminess that all good milk produce should have, but amplified into this luscious creme de la creme of creams. Whipped and poured creams have their uses, but they are so easily lost beneath the stronger flavours of whatever they have been paired with. Clotted cream is what you want if you want to taste what dairy is, what milk is, the reason why those gorgeous globules have been floating around in that opaque colloid. Clotted cream has all the delightful silky dairy flavours intensified in a sturdy body that sits with its head held high atop your scone supporting the fruity conserves you have dribbled over it. I encourage you to indulge, but in moderation, or you will end up like me... 

Monks and Mussels in a Dark Dungeon of Delicious Delights

Belgo is a well-known chain of Belgian restaurants in London and the one that I have frequented through the years is Belgo Centraal in Covent Garden. Tucked away between the cobblestone streets, this quirky dungeon-like basement bistro is brimming with epicurean delights. They are most famous for their mussels which are prepared in a variety of ways and presented to patrons in polished pots by waiters clad in monk-like robes of the middle ages. 

They don't just serve mouthwatering mollusks. On this occasion, along with a pot of provenÇal moules, I ordered the spaghetti with roast artichokes and vegetables in carrot sauce. The portion was generous and I had to marvel at the massive size of the asparagus spears that perched upon my pasta. I was most curious about the carrot sauce, which is what motivated me to order the meal in the first place. It was light, as advertised, and carried the faint sweetness and orange tint of the tapered root. The roasted vegetables were nice and chunky which always makes me happy as it enables you to experience a range of texture and flavour within the same bite of the same vegetable. You get the softer sweeter epidermis of the cooked ingredient followed by the cleaner milder essential fragrances that are locked away inside, which is particularly prevalent with the multi-layered artichoke pieces. It was both fun (copious culinary components to play with!) and satisfying (nice hefty mound of al dente pasta) to eat and the dish complemented the saucy mussels very nicely. 

Floudering around a Rocking Plaice to Perch your Soles

When someone is asked to name a signature British dish, what do they usually say? Bangers and mash, toad in the hole, bubble and squeak? More often than not, one answer will trump all others: fish and chips. First time tourist, born and bred local or pub crawler, you are bound to have bite of this British classic when you are in merry England. Some are good, some are bad, some are cheap, some attempt to go gourmet. Salt or ketchup or vinegar, whatever your condiment of choice is, most people are open to munching down on this meal, even those that tend not to like seafood. Hurrah for chippies and their perpetual peddling of plumping provisions! 

We walked down to a well-known chippy near Covent Garden that advertises itself as being the oldest existing chippy in London. The quaintly named Rock and Sole Plaice (get it?) is a standard small and simple shop with a few tables that sprawl out on to the sidewalk. They have freshly fried fillets of cod, haddock, plaice and a few others that have faded from my feeble memory and of course, plenty of chips. Chips meaning real chips. Chunky cuts of deep fried potato. None of that anorexic shoestring nonsense.

I ordered haddock and chips. Service is quick there, as it should be in any plaice (get it?) whose primary means of cooking is a deep fryer (ever thought about the irony of that? I'm more likely to be fat and slow if i frequent fried food franchises but cheap chippies and chippy-like chains have to provide my food fast... and often skinny...shoestrings and such). 

The fillet was generous and encased in a golden brown batter that had a real crunch in its bite. Battering through the barrier of batter revealed a thick slab of succulent white fish flesh. The batter was crisp, and although pack a hefty crunch, was still light and did not weigh down and dull the delicate flavour of the fish meat. The chips were similar in terms of internal structure: crisp coating protecting a moist and fluffy core. The house made tartare sauce was scrumptious but they provide a decent array of condiments for diners to choose from including staples like salt and malt vinegar.

In addition to various fish fillets, the shop also has other humble traditional offerings like spotted dick and steak and kidney pie, which we couldn't help but order. The pie was surprisingly satisfying and well made. Of course, the massive platter of fish and chips was more than filling alone, we wanted to sample the savoury pocket size pastries we spotted in the display case. 

The sturdy little bugger was bigger than I expected. Still a single serve portion, it seemed ever so slightly bigger than other little pies. It held its shape beautifully, round and upright like a mighty colosseum, but still cute and relatively petite. The filling was well seasoned and had just the right viscosity and ratios of ingredients to accompany the flaky pastry crust. Kidney and steak... wee-bull... mmm pie... 

Stewing in Throngs of Tumultuous Tourists

It is no secret that I adore food that comforts. I am not referring to spray cheese, triple decker burgers, chips or ice cream. When I use the term comfort food, I refer to flavour, texture, history (not just in the worldly sense, but your history as an individual with personal experiences regardless of how old you are), food that conjures up a sense of tradition (again, how ever long-established that may be for you) and familiarity (in a good way!), taking you to that warm safe cosy place in your subconscious where your senses breathe a welcome sigh of relief and you forget all the troubles of the day for the time being. That is what I feel comfort food is, a private culinary refuge through the doors of your taste buds and olfactory senses. 

For me, nothing can get more comforting than a good hearty stew. The textures of the individual components of each stew can vary from carrots with a smooth bite, soft fluffy chunks of potato, tender juicy meat, soft succulent cabbage to the fluid broth that cradles everything in its warm embrace. But the beauty of a slow cooked stew is that all theses textures meld together in one pot within a single broth so that the once isolated flavours and textures are forever bound together in a harmonious household of gastronomic wonder. They may maintain their unique characteristics but they have joined hands in a united accord to stand together for the greater good of the stew. 

This particular encounter came on a day out with my parents in London. We had been walking for a while in central London and were caught in the overflowing throngs of the city's omnipresent tourists. We needed an escape, fast. The next restaurant in our sight was a Garfunkel's. We thought. We dove in. The horror. Every table was packed with cameras, shopping bags, maps, water bottles and foreign multi-accented conversation. Tourists had already invaded the diner. But we weathered the unrelenting xeno-storm and wedged ourselves into a tiny table in front of a till. I needed a way out. One look at the menu and I knew I had one. Irish stew. Overpriced? Yes. Quality? Not that great. But it still did the job. The lamb was tender but lacked the depth of flavour a quality piece of meat carries with it. The pear barley provided the sustenance I required to fight of the flocks of foreigners (I know, I'm not an Anglo-Saxon but I don't consider myself a tourist in the typical sense when I am in the UK). Pearl barley is so fun to eat. Soft and slippery but with an oat-like bite and substantial density like an oversized grain of rice. Also, even though it is great as soaking up other flavours, it never loses its own fragrance of sweet grain. Despite being mass produced from a run of the mill family restaurant chain, the stew was still  a stew, hearty through and through, delivering the smoky delicious depth that one should always encounter when diving into a bowl of satisfying stew.

Ruby Red Rasberries Caught In Suspension

Does jelly have a bad reputation? I'm not sure anymore. I think at one point people seemed to think that gelatin based desserts were a cheap and sugary cop out for a sweet finish to a meal. Perhaps the ridged mountain mould of translucent jiggly red stuff is a bit dated. Truffle terrines, champagne jelly and mango caviar are just some examples of the culinary hydrocolloid at work in our contemporary cuisine. I will still love jelly as a dessert. It is light, soothing, sweet, refreshing whilst retaining that satisfying bite and sensual slippery jiggle that makes it so easy to eat. On a tea break at Marks and Spencer with Mummy dearest, I couldn't help but pick out a petite pot of ruby red raspberry jelly. I think the colour and fruit appeals to people of all ages: if you're a child with no teeth, an adult wanting a treat, if you're a granny with no teeth, it's all good! And who can resist those fat whole red raspberries suspended in their original form in a sea of delicate but supportive and sweet bovine based extracts? Healthy stuff caught in suspension!