Review: The Butchers Arms, Herefordshire

I’ve just enjoyed a belt-bursting and smile-inducing lunch at the Butchers Arms on the most miserably rainy day of the summer so far. There are few better pleasures on a rainy day than finding yourself somewhere cosy with good food.

This is the Butchers Arms, Woolhope, Herefordshire. Not to be confused with the Butchers Arms, Eldersfield, Gloucestershire, which is actually only a few miles away and has a similar enough telephone number that the two pubs apparently swap customers on a regular basis; “hello, we’ve got your table of four at 7:30 and they’ve decided to stay here”. Also not to be confused with the Butchers Arms, Preston Bagot, Warwickshire, which is a little further away in distance and about three decades away in gastronomy. Who couldn’t smile at a menu that still lists “parma ham and melon”, or “peeled tiger prawns on iceberg lettuce with marie rose sauce”? Mustn’t get distracted though, it’s Woolhope we’re at.

This is a real country pub in the middle of nowhere, with wooden beams so low that wads of spongy padding are taped in strategic places for the taller visitor, a roaring open fire (in June, lawks, what’s the world coming to when we need a fire in June!) and some marvellous beers on tap. My first moment of joy was in beholding the Hobson’s Mild. I’m surprised to find myself able to say without any hedging that it is my favourite beer in all the world, so the Butchers Arms was off to a flying start.

We shared three starters. Haggis fritters were great, with a batter so crunchy that it would probably still be found crunchy if a plate was dug up in an episode of Time Team in four hundred years. Smoked haddock custard with coronation sauce was luscious, like an amped-up

kedgeree with the rice left out. The real eye-opener was a salad of celery and apple with pigeon breast, served on big chicory leaves with an orange dressing. At first the tiny lunks of dark pigeon among the pastel-hued salad looked lost and I was skeptical. But the whole dish ate deliciously lightly with the little punch of dense, salty pigeon adding an impact to each mouthful that was unexpected and frankly brilliant.

My main course was beef brisket with veg, and I got exactly what I should expect at a proper pub; a generous portion of an extremely well-cooked specimen of brisket in a sweet and meaty braising gravy with plain veg cooked al dente. Maureen’s main was nettle arancini served on a mushroom sauce with asparagus and it was delicious in every way. One of the things I enjoyed most about our meal at the Butchers Arms was the originality of the menu; there was nothing in the way of “gastropub staples” about it, Stephen Bull is definitely a chef who doesn’t need to follow fads or formulae.

We couldn’t leave without pudding (although it turned out that with pudding on top of all the other generous portions we almost couldn’t leave). Bread and butter pudding made with brioche and marmalade was good, although I must admit to preferring it more browned. My choice was apple crumble posset. See? Did you ever hear of a posset that wasn’t lemon? Well, this was deliciously fresh and I could easily have had two. If only I hadn’t been so stuffed that I could barely manage the last mouthful.

To cut a long story short, if you find yourself in need of a good meal near Hereford then you should be making a bee-line for the Butchers Arms. Granted, rather a rambling bee-line down picturesque lanes. It’s one of those rare places that simply could not have any detractors. If you’re a fan of hearty plates of unfussy food with big flavours then that’s just what you’ll get, but someone who likes looking for uncommon combinations and simply gifted cooking will be in hog heaven too.

TripAdvisor gives me indigestion

On one level, TripAdvisor is a useful tool that has made the world a smaller and easier place to travel around. “Proper” travellers will grumble that it’s taken all the romance and adventure out of a journey to the far side of the world, but they’re welcome to not use it. I like to stay somewhere that other people agree offers clean rooms, friendly service, a sensible price and perhaps is unique or beautiful as a bonus.

But if I’m looking for a place to eat in a strange city? I wouldn’t touch TripAdvisor with a barge pole.

It seems that crowd sourcing works pretty well for identifying good accommodation, but not good dining. This is because people (approximately) agree what is good in a hotel, but tastes and preferences in dining out cover a huge spectrum.

Take The Chilli Pickle. It’s a brilliant restaurant in Brighton serving contemporary Indian cooking; colourful, inventive and singing with spice. It is undoubtedly one of the top five restaurants in the city but comes in a disappointing 28th on TripAdvisor. Checking some of the poor reviews reveals a pattern:

THIS ISN’T INDIAN FOOD! this is the worst Indian meal I’ve had in my life. food is served in a metal tray, metal glasses and jugs…

Gosh, you mean like they do in India? Or how about this gem from another reviewer:

call me old fashioned but when I go for a Indian I like to be served by Indians… the worse thing was not seeing anything on the menu that I recognised apart from the popadoms.

Yes, and when I go for fish and chips I like to be served by a fisherman. The common thread in a whole bunch of reviews is people visiting the Chilli Pickle in the hope of a good ol’ Ruby Murray and being thrown by uncomfortably authentic food.

The opposite problem is worse; very average or truly dire places bubbling to the top of the pile due to the overenthusiastic reviews of those for whom Frankie & Benny’s is the gold standard of deliciousness. I find this a lot travelling, especially in towns without much tourist infrastructure. Most reviews would be from backpackers (I’m inferring) and many times we followed rave reviews squealing about “the bestest meal I’ve ever had ever” or “their pizzas are the best in the world and I eat pizza all the time” only to find ourselves staring at a miserable plate of tourist-oriented crap and wishing we’d chosen a restaurant using the time-honoured principle of go-where-the-locals-are-eating. If this is your idea of the best pizza in the world then I’d suggest that up until now what you’ve actually been eating is pizza boxes.

But of course, I’m a raging foodie and I’d always prefer to sit on a bench in a back alley and eat a bowl of spicy fish-head curry with dubious things floating in it than sit in an air-conditioned tourist trap eating spaghetti bolognese as interpreted by a chef who has only ever seen a photo of it in the Bumper Book of Food Tourists Like. So my own rave review of a little local joint might just as easily lead a hapless family of four from Basingstoke to a horrible dining experience where nothing seems remotely edible. They’d give the place a 1 on TripAdvisor, no question.

And thus TripAdvisor averages everything out and you’re left with no certainty that the Top 10 restaurants in Santiago actually represents anything like the top ten restaurants in Santiago.

One man’s meat is another man’s poison and you only have to read the comments below any online article about any aspect of dining out to discover how polarised people’s views are on what makes a “good” restaurant. The pretentious-and-overpriced-gimme-a-big-plate-of-tasty-food brigade are never going to review in the same way as the happy-to-pay-through-the-nose-for-independent-and-authentic brigade. That’s my brigade, by the way. Correct me if I’m wrong, but people simply don’t get so polarised over hotels. Everyone has their own price-point but beyond that, a comfy room, friendly service, good breakfast and a bit of character seems to be the generally agreed formula for a place to stay.

Personally, I find food guides and blogs to be a much better source of restaurant recommendations. The guides are professional and their editors are going to be taking account of the style of food, the price bracket, and putting the restaurant into context against hundreds of others. The food blogger is only writing a food blog because he or she has a genuine interest and passion for food, so no matter which brigade they’re in I’m going to be willing to trust their opinion. Certainly a lot more than the averaged-out opinion of a whole crowd of individuals who may be giving a bitter 1 because some clerical oversight meant that their booking couldn’t be honoured, or giving an over-rated 5 because they all had a great and tipsy night out on gran’s birthday.

Cod flaps, luverly cod flaps

I’m a big fan of the recent revival in unusual and old-fashioned cuts of meat. Some of my favourite recipes are slow braised oxtail in mustard, wine braised lamb shanks or sticky slow-cooked pig cheeks. One thing bugs me though. Food writers who alongside their recipes lazily reiterate a view no longer true; that these cuts are not only delicious but also cheap as chips. It’s basic supply and demand; as they become trendy these oddities cease to be quite such a giveaway. Considering the amount of bone in a pack of oxtail or a couple of lamb shanks, these meats don’t look any cheaper to me than a nice rump steak, pound for pound. The same is true in the world of fish: ever since coley started appearing on menus and we realised that it isn’t only good for cats and dogs, the price has nudged up ever closer to haddock. Where are those of us with an adventurous palate and an eye for a bargain to look now?

And so we come to cod flaps. Which I’d never heard of before yesterday, but are nevertheless hard not to laugh at. I can’t even find much on the internet about them. That surprised me. The really eye-catching surprise was the price, almost a quarter of the price of cod fillet. Yes, not “25% off” but “25% of”. So I bought a load, and we had them for supper last night and lunch today.

For supper I made a quick Thai-flavoured stir fry with garlic, ginger, chilli, spring onion, lime leaf, fish sauce and lime juice. Good flavour, and the texture of the fish was pretty much as I’d expect from cod, perhaps a little more fatty but certainly holding together and enjoying the dousing in sweet/sour/hot flavours. As an aside (and as a side) I also did a celeriac som tam, another very good though more strongly flavoured swap-in when you can’t get green papaya for your Thai salad.

For lunch today I whizzed up some quick tartare sauce (for which I must thank Delia) and then breaded the last of the flaps in maize meal (aka polenta) for shallow frying and serving with buttered Jersey royals and beans. This was fairly perfect, the flaps being just the right thickness for shallow frying and their slight fattiness keeping them moist in their crisp coating. I commend this as the perfect use for cod flaps.

Go forth to your fishmonger and demand your flaps today!

Crispy cod flaps with tartare sauce (serves 2)

4 cod flaps (2 for light lunch)
4-5 tbsp maize meal (polenta)
1 egg
salt and pepper
For the tartare sauce:
1 large egg
½ tsp sea salt
1 small garlic clove, peeled
½ tsp English mustard powder
1 dessert spoon lemon juice
4 cornichons
1 tbsp rinsed & drained capers
1 tbsp flat-leaf parsley
ground black pepper
  1. Make the tartare sauce to Delia’s recipe: put egg, mustard, salt and garlic in a food processor and hit start. Drizzle the oil in sloooowly until it’s all combined into a thick sauce. Add the other ingredients and pulse until they’re all chopped up. You’ll have way too much, but it’ll keep in a jar in the fridge for a week.
  2. Beat an egg, season well with salt and pepper. Pour some medium-grained maize meal out onto a plate.
  3. Dip your flaps (tee-hee) into the egg and then into the maize meal, turning them over a few times until thoroughly coated
  4. Now get a layer of vegetable oil up to a high heat in a big frying pan and shallow fry the flaps for a couple of minutes on each side
  5. Serve with tartare sauce, a sprig of parsley and a squeeze of lemon juice. Buttered Jersey royals and some green beans make a good accompaniment.

Review: Min Jiang, Kensington

For me Chinese has always been the ugly duckling of cuisines. It is spoken of as one of the three great originating cuisines of the world; French, Persian and Chinese. But my experiences of Chinese food in Britain have typically ranged from jolly tasty to utterly dire, with no hint of the snowy white swan that might one day arise from the chunks of chicken breast in various sauces (or from “pork in jam” either, a friend’s name for sweet and sour pork). Surely someone out there is doing to Chinese cuisine what places like Benares or the Cinnamon Club have done to Indian?

Touted as the best Chinese restaurant in London, I was keen to see whether Min Jiang was that swan.

It certainly has a fantastic setting. The Royal Garden Hotel might look like a monstrous and uncaring brutal edifice squatting at the end of Kensington High Street, but once through the doors and up ten flights in the lift we are greeted by a beautiful dining room with stunning views over Hyde Park towards the Royal Albert Hall and far beyond. Service was friendly but a little bipolar; waiters hovering to whip our plates away as soon as the last mouthful of starters were eaten, but the post-mains conversation gradually switching to “do you think we should ask someone for a dessert menu?” I couldn’t decide whether they wanted the table back or wanted to keep us all night. Nothing to ruin the meal though, unless you’re in a real hurry.

Our starters were the high point for me. I enjoyed my preserved zhachoi in spicy XO sauce. This included the revelation that zhachoi is a kind of vegetable, possible related to kohlrabi, which has a wonderful taste and texture when preserved and thinly sliced. The XO sauce it was braised in had a deepy savoury and very spicy taste. Crunchy deep-fried soft shell crab with crispy curry leaves worked well, as did the classic crispy fried squid with chilli and garlic. The fourth starter, of lotus root in a punchy sichuan sauce, was also great. Plating and presentation was typical of all my previous experiences of Chinese, however: there was some stuff, and it was on a plate.

We had pre-ordered a course of “famous” crispy duck, and it was certainly a more elegant variation on the fibrous sticky oily goodness beloved of Chinese restaurants throughout the land. However, I’m not sure if the elegance was a huge improvement, as the delicacy of the duck was rather beaten into submission by the strong hoi sin sauce. The alternative condiments of sweet garlic puree with pickled radish worked better.

The main course included a delicious plate of hot, smoky sichuan roast chicken. Delicate Dover sole served with various mushrooms of quite distinct textures was pleasant but lacked any flavour to call its own. There was a splendid specimen of pork and jam, in the form of nine neat cubes of braised belly covered in a smooth sweet-and-sour sauce that was abundantly richer and better balanced than the typical fayre. For my taste the white fat was still far too prevalent in the belly, but I’m aware that this is a more classically Chinese way of enjoying fat. The final dish divided us a little; I felt that sweet, simple scallops were being unfairly punished in a stickily spicy bean curd sauce that would have paired much more happily with deep-fried tofu or something, anything else. Tim declared it his favourite dish.

Desserts, and here once more Min Jiang is certainly applauded for sticking to authenticity. “Eight Treasure Tea” was indeed a bowl of dark and somewhat bitter fermented tea with eight different preserved fruits and nuts lurking below the surface; fascinating, and certainly challenging to a western palate. My soya pudding, somewhat like a

delicate pannacotta, was less startling and was very good indeed in a pond of warm ginger consomme with sticky bits of flavoursome osmanthus flowers on top. Mango cream with sago pearls and pomelo was light, refreshing and sharp in taste while black sesame dumplings were chock full of that lovely dark, nutty black sesame flavour.

So, is Min Jiang a swan? Not for me. Yes, I enjoyed probably the best and most interesting Chinese meal I’ve eaten in Britain. But they’ve still done next-to-nothing with plating and presentation; each dish is just some stuff, on a plate. At a French bistro I can get some delicious French stuff, on a plate, for £20 a head three courses. Or I can spend £60+ per head to enjoy high French cuisine with eye-catching and inspiring presentation. Min Jiang cost £70 per head without wine, and for that I’m looking for Chinese cuisine to be taken to that next level. This isn’t a friendly neighbourhood restaurant doing good authentic cooking, this is a fine dining room with a price tag to match. I expect more.

I have to admit, though, the view from the table does almost make up the difference. Almost.

Soufflé essentials

It is so often said that soufflés are challenging, precarious concoctions that will collapse pathetically like your dreams of a place on Masterchef if you so much as look at them funny. They’re not! I’ve never had a problem with them, sweet or savoury. It’s not as though I learned from a pro, or spent weeks perfecting my recipe, I just started doing them. It might have been a Delia book I referred to first time, but it’s so long ago I can’t remember.

So right here, with no formal training and absolutely no reason for you to trust me, I present my essential guide to doing a soufflé

It’s really quite simple
Take three eggs. Separate the whites and yolks. Whisk the whites until the froth forms stiff peaks, then whisk in a dessert spoon of caster sugar for another minute to make them shiny and sweet*. Beat

the yolks together with whatever you’re using for flavour and with enough sugar to make it sweet (maybe 2 dessert spoons). The whites make it rise and be fluffy, the yolks provide richness and flavour. So mix the two halves back together, put them in ramekins, and bake in the oven for 12-15 minutes at 170C. You know when they’re finished because they stop rising and the tops go a nice brown.

That’s it, really. Everything else is just useful tips, and warnings against what might go wrong.

Danger, Will Robinson!
So, what might go wrong? There must be a reason why soufflés are supposed to be scary.

First of all, your mixing bowl has to be clean and free of grease (or any fat) otherwise you won’t be able to whisk your whites into stiff peaks. This is also true if any yolk at all gets into the whites. Start again.

Beware of adding too much stuff to the yolks! In your quest for novelty and flavour (“wouldn’t it be nice if people found pieces of strawberry right through their soufflé?”) you will add too much wetness or acidity to the yolk mix and the whole thing will be a

flop. I’d say no more than 2 tbsp of stuff added to the yolks. You can always put some flavour in the bottom of the ramekin.

The way to recombine the whites and yolks is this: take 1 tbsp of the fluffy whites and mix it fairly well into the yolks. This sacrificial spoonful will lose most of its precious air, but will loosen up the yolk mix. Now add the rest of the whites and fold them in, do not beat or mix vigorously. It is much, much, much better to have a somewhat unmixed soufflé than to lose all the air in the whites by mixing too well.

Don’t disturb them while they rise. There is no need at all to touch the oven for the first 10 minutes. After that, if you suspect they’re done then you could have a quick peek. A nicely nutty brown is fine, especially if half a minute’s observation through the glass doesn’t show any more rising going on.

Ramekin tips
If a soufflé tastes good, I really don’t care if it has a lumpy top and has flopped sideways out of the ramekin. But if you want supermodel-perfect soufflés then I would do as follows:

  • Butter the sides of your ramekin and pour caster sugar in, swirling it around to make a coating. The soufflé will “climb” up this rough texture, and the little bit of sweetness at the edges is also nice when eating.
  • Slightly overfill the ramekin with mixture, then swipe a palette knife across the top. You should get a nice flat-topped soufflé now.
  • Run your little fingertip just around the inside of the ramekin rim, making a little groove. This helps prevent any of the soufflé edge from catching on the ramekin and rising unevenly.

Go forth and soufflé
Apart from a bowl of ice cream, there really are few quicker and easier desserts. We finished dinner the other night. I put the oven on to 170C, split three eggs into two bowls. Into the yolks I grated the zest of a lemon, added 2 dessertspoons of sugar and 2 dessertspoons of limoncello and a splash of lemon juice. I whisked the whites to stiff peaks, then whisked in a dessertspoon of sugar, mixed them back into the yolks, poured the mixture into four ramekins (with sugared sides). Into the oven, 12 minutes, out popped four nice lemony soufflés Probably 20 minutes start to finish. Stick a dollop of vanilla ice cream in the top when you eat ’em.

Your turn.

* – I’ve just read that a good pinch of cream of tartar will help stabilise whisked egg whites, something I must try next time. But, as I say, I’ve never had a flop without any help from tartar.