Review: Noma, Copenhagen

Noma is all about ideas, playing with convention, with ingredients, with presentation. With an objective eye I would have to say that the results are not always conventionally delicious. Those more challenging dishes become delicious through the medium of a palate that is hungry for new experiences, possibly even slightly jaded by a thousand prior fine dining experiences that have all started to feel a bit similar. If you don’t like your food to challenge you, you may not like Noma. Luckily, I do. Doubly luckily, so does Maureen. I don’t think we’ve ever oo-ed and wow-ed and giggled so much at a meal. The giggling reached a crescendo when we tried to keep hold of madly twitching live shrimps in order to dip them in butter and pop them in our mouths. Slightly nervous giggling, I’d say.

I definitely came away from Noma with a refreshed palate. Along with that I came away with a whole bunch of new ideas, some general and some specific, for things I’d like to try out myself. Of course this happens now and again at various restaurants – Madeira jelly from The Crown at Whitebrook, for instance – but I don’t think I’ve ever left a meal with a whole easter basket full of them. Partly it’s the sheer originality at Noma, often combined with apparent simplicity. Partly it’s the charming way in which every dish is presented and explained in detail by the staff, a wonderfully multi-national team of highly engaging young people.

So, what ideas? How about fudge made with smoked bacon fat. I’ve been keeping my bacon fat for a while, but seldom using it. One of the petit fours at Noma was fudge made with smoked bone marrow instead of butter, served pressed into hollow pieces of bone. Funky, and damnably tasty if you like sweet things and meaty things. I really, really, REALLY wished they sold boxes of the stuff. Nevermind, I’ll do it myself. But rather than faff around with bone marrow I’m gonna see if smoky bacon fudge also rocks. Watch this space!

On a related note: smoking. No, I’m not going to start buying cancer sticks. But as one of the chefs explained, you just need to burn some hay in the bottom of a pan, put in a little steamer or some other basket to keep the food off the hay, add your foodstuff of choice and pop the lid on. Ten to twenty minutes, it’ll take some experimenting because things take on flavour at different rates. We were served a deliciously soft and wobbly smoked quail egg with the gently smoking hay still beneath it adding a gently pungent fug to the air. Time I smoked some fish… meat… cheese… fruit? I’m feeling in an experimental frame of mind after Noma. Watch this space.

Berry leather. One of the first amuse bouches was a piece of blackcurrant leather laid over a scrunchy, salty piece of extra-bubbly pork crackling and the combination was a real pleasure. Blackcurrant leather? Apparently you just take some strained juice, pour it into a shallow container as a thin layer and leave it to dry at room temperature. Whether it takes overnight or a little longer, you’ll end up with a thin piece of dark, powerfully tasting fruit leather that you could use to wrap all kinds of treats. Watch this space. Did I say that already?

Foraging! I’m definitely going to do some more. There’s a good bit of foraged produce appearing on British menus these days (and don’t tell anyone, but I have a sneaky suspicion that some of it is actually being cultivated to order which kinda makes a mockery but there you go) but it still tends to be odds and ends, usually of stuff like sea buckthorn that I’ve never knowingly found on a country ramble. Noma gave us dandelion and ground elder leaves, both things that I’ve got growing, entirely unintentionally, in the garden. There was foraged vegetation of some kind with almost every course, although I’ll probably struggle to find reindeer moss in the English countryside. It was a deliciously scrunchy snack though, deep fried with a sprinkle of cep powder. I’ll have to wait and see what I can forage up. Watch this space, again.

And despite my aversion to kitchen gadgets (I hand-whisked marshmallows – my arm looked like Popeye’s by the end of it) I’m almost definitely going to buy a juicer. We opted for the selection of fresh juices with our meal, rather than wine. It seemed in keeping with the innovative nature of the meal; we’d come all this way for

Rene’s wizardry, why accompany it with a load of French plonk that we’d pay a lot less for at a less lauded restaurant back home? And as we imagined all twenty courses could be challenging, it’d be a shame to have reached the happy-but-not-really-concentrating-anymore state that a wine pairing can induce in the later stages of a big meal.

As a result we were treated to the following combinations: cucumber and dill; apple and pine; celery and celeriac; carrot and juniper; beetroot and lingonberry; pear and verbena; elderflower. All were delicious, the pear and verbena stunningly so, and all demonstrated that you can match good food with something other than wine. Must I get started on fine restaurants with a fifty page wine list who can’t be buggered to offer any soft drinks beyond coke, lemonade and orange juice? Grrr. Rant for another day. Anyway, I’m definitely in the mood for juicing things and adding unexpected flavours. Watch this space for the results.

Look, I know none of these ideas are new and of course I’ve bumped into them before. Heck, I’ve got a copy of Richard Mabey’s “Food for Free” right here. But that was the real brilliance of our meal at Noma. It refreshed my culinary palate and got me all excited about discovering new tastes and the joy of experimentation. At Noma over twenty fascinating courses I may not have eaten any single dish to match the lazily obvious base pleasure of the pan-fried foie gras with cognac sauce I ate the previous night, but then again a ten-day trek in the Himalayas is hardly a walk in the park either. Which experience stays with you, though?

At £170 for the menu and £60 for the juices we’re definitely in Fat Duck territory, although bear in mind that any eating experience in Denmark is 20-30% more expensive than the equivalent back in Blighty.

For those who want a visual taste of our twenty course lunch, with notes, just click on the first photo of this gallery and stroll through…

Feasting on Denmark

Strange customs in exotic places: charging £1.80 for tap water! If the food at Fiskebaren hadn’t been fantastic we could never have forgiven them. The waitress who explained the charge didn’t blush, so I assumed it wasn’t unusual in Denmark and resisted the urge to snark. Reading around later, it certainly sounds like a common charge. Those crazy Danes, they’ll want money for napkin

hire next. How about wear-and-tear on cutlery?

We started our culinary odyssey back at Heathrow, where with an hour to kill and hungry for lunch we decided to try Gordo’s airport diner. Actually, it was pretty good and not over-priced given the captive audience; £12 for a couple of nice smoked salmon fishcakes with a blob of spicy mayo, a couple of quid more for a big chunk of cod with neat polenta “chips” and punchy aubergine salsa. The cod tasted a bit old. The staff were oddly reserved and seemed to have been brought in wholesale from a small Turkish village, and the cutlery was the tiniest I’ve ever been given to eat a meal with. On balance though, it’s one Gordon Ramsay establishment I might well go back to.

First meal in Denmark: a trendy spot called Fiskebaren, set incongruously in a working district of shipping

factors and meat packers. Distressed industrial interior, dramatically lit, comfy. This was seriously wow seafood. Raw razor clams with a herb cream on a crisp of sweet malted bread. Unctuous tuna tartar with frisky leaves. Big chunk of fried cod roe with pickled root veg, sparky vinaigrette and sticks of sweet herby waffle. Gorgeous cod tongue with perfect slow-roast salsify and jet black herb hollandaise. I would eat here every week.

Next evening: dinner on white linen at Broholm castle. Just a main course, mine being two slabs of perfectly pan-fried foie gras served with a splendid cognac sauce, delicious pickled mushrooms of a delicate woodland variety I didn’t recognise and some juicy green grapes to cut the richness. Maureen’s lamb was pretty good but

couldn’t compete. A night and a full four-course banquet here would be a wonderfully baronial treat, though they aren’t really embracing the new Nordic cuisine.

Third evening: well made sushi at a sharp little spot called Karma, startlingly empty on a Thursday evening given the quality of the rolls and snacks. Great tempura oysters, nommy spiced crispy salmon skin. I should explain that our lunch today was at Noma, so we were only filling up the gaps in the evening.

And on the fourth day we enjoyed a luncheon of smorrebrod at Aamann’s. We had very traditional smorrebrod in the little town of Faaborg a couple of days ago, so it was good to be able to contrast that with a more contemporary and thoughtfully sourced take on the classic Danish

open sandwich. Aamann’s does them veeeery well. I particularly loved the steak tartar, but their take on the more traditional pork pate gave me a better comparison; the quality of the pork and the care in the making was evident in taste, texture and overall deliciousness. If I worked in Copenhagen I would have lunch here every day.

Conclusions? Well, it’s immediately remarkable that we didn’t have one disappointing meal in Denmark. There might be some luck involved, but that’s over three lunches and three dinners. So there are a lot of good things to eat in Denmark even without considering the “world’s best restaurant” Noma. But in case you are considering it, that’ll be the next post…

Oh, and if you’re interested in the rest of my short break in Denmark (or indeed my year of travelling around-the-world) then check out Otter Adrift.

Ramsons, aka wild garlic

Wow, suddenly it is spring. There are lambs frollicking in the fields, daffodils nodding at the roadside, and wild garlic stinking up the riverbanks. Just a pity the daffodils aren’t edible. Hmm… in fact, they’re poisonous. “Poisoning most often occurs when people mistake the bulbs for onions.” Silly.

Wild garlic, or ramsons, are perfectly edible, and there’s nothing that makes me feel like spring is sprung more than the taste and whiff of it. You can find it growing on moist slopes, always fairly near a stream or river and usually in woodland, and pretty much anywhere in the country. If you’re in any doubt that you’ve found the right plant, just crush a leaf. The stink of garlicky-chivey perfume is unmistakeable.

So, how to enjoy wild garlic? Eggs and butter are a great start, they both work wonders with the perfumed leaves. Oh, and wild garlic is one of those herbs whose flavour is killed by cooking, so it usually goes in pretty much at the end of a dish.

The very, very, very best way to welcome spring is simply to make scrambled eggs and add chopped wild garlic leaves when the eggs are nearly finished. There is no better expression of the lively green flavour, and trust me I’ve tried a few ideas. You want roughly one leaf per egg, fairly roughly chopped, and I won’t insult your cooking skills by reminding you that scrambled eggs require no milk or cream, just a bit of butter, and should be cooked really slowly and scrambled with a wooden spoon.

Wild garlic omelette: same idea, just make an omelette instead and try including some cheese.

Oh. Here’s a luverly thing: wild garlic salsa verde. Chop up a bunch of ramsons leaves quite finely, pour on a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. Toast a small handful of pine nuts and crush them roughly, finely chop a large teaspoon of capers, add a half teaspoon of dijon mustard, salt and black pepper. This is brilliant with lamb chops, or as a pesto in pasta.

And my fourth idea of the day for wild garlic is a simple pasta dish for two. Slice up a big leek and gently saute in 50/50 butter and olive oil, seasoning it with plenty of salt and black pepper. You want to cook it until it is completely soft, but don’t let any of it catch and brown. Coincidentally this takes about as long as boiling a pan of spaghetti, which you should also do. Now, add a handful of chopped wild garlic leaves to the leeks and a handful of grated pecorino. Dump this into the drained spaghetti along with a big knob of butter and another glug of olive oil, mix together and serve into warmed bowls with another good grind of black pepper.

The white star-shaped flowers of the ramsons are just as edible as the leaves and taste a little milder, so you can make the pasta (or any other ramsons dish) look really spiffy by simply sprinkling a few flowers on top before serving.

But to recap, if you only pick one tiny bunch of ramsons this year, go for the scrambled eggs.

Review: The New Inn, Baschurch

We rolled to the New Inn for Sunday lunch in a bit of a funk. Big meal out on Saturday night, rather too much wine, and then the stupid clocks went forward so lunch at 12:30 was going to feel more like 11:30. Given that we didn’t stumble home until midnight on Saturday, groaning like a pack of wolves who have just devoured a whole herd of caribou, we weren’t the most vivacious quartet on what was a truly gorgeous Sunday morning. Bountiful sunlight, thou art offensive to my tender head and squinty eyes! Begone!

Turned out that a leisurely lunch stretching out three courses of excellent cooking over three hours was just about the ticket.

The New Inn is a cheerful place, all the old wood beams scrubbed up to a natural oaken hue with tables and chairs to match. There’s a lot given over to dining, but it remains a proper village pub too with room to swing a pint and outside tables where beer and sun were being soaked up by the locals. We were served by a friendly and helpful band of young ladies, who ignored our occasional vacant stares and blinky gazes.

The food cut through my funk big-time. First up we got a perfect scotch egg: vivid yellow and runny yolk, oinkingly porky sausage meat with a serious punch of lemon and thyme. Moving onto the proper starter, plated on slate, a trio of battered balls of chewy slow-cooked ham hock sat on a swipe of shiny mustard mayonnaise. There was nothing subtle about this dish, a good hit of mustard and the sticky cream of the mayo mashing in the mouth with scrunchy batter and salty ham. Woke me up.

I almost never order chicken, but this morning my head, body and tummy were calling out for something soothing. Although breast, it had been roasted properly to keep juice and flavour intact. Kale and mash were good, as was the jus, but it was the sweetcorn puree that lifted the whole dish. Sweetcorn is so badly underused as an ingredient.

All this is irrelevant, because Maureen’s burger came along and knocked my socks off. Massive. Lamb and beef, absolutely blue in the middle, and laced rather raunchily with blue cheese and truffle. I’ll probably dream about it tonight, and not the kind of dreams I’d ever

tell anyone about. Did I say it was massive? It was huge. Maureen roped off the area and began excavations, but eventually I had to come in and help (oh, hardship). The triple-cooked chips were also maddeningly good.

I should note that Tim and Vanessa were also making contented noises about the roast beef and the smoked haddock, and the nibbles I tried were groovy indeed.

It would have been rude not to squeeze in pudding. I squeezed in a lemon posset, which was delicious and always a favourite – rich, tangy and light all at once. Rather niftily served with scrunchy gingernuts and a little slurp of sweet-tart homemade lemonade. Pannacotta was pronounced good, rhubarb ice cream was noted for being good but a little too delicate in the rhubarb flavour.

The New Inn is right at the top end of pub dining for me, from the menu choices to the plating. Everything was delicious and the bill jolly reasonable – £25 each for three hours of relaxed gastronomic entertainment, though admittedly we didn’t have much wine!


‘Cos I’m conscientious I have to say that chef Marcus knew we were coming, on account of the wonders of Twitter.

A gourmet and his gout

I explained to my new doctor that I have gout, have had it since I was 32, and am taking medication for it. He expressed surprise at my age (late thirties), asked if I ate a lot of fatty foods (no, and at 10 stone I’m hardly hefty), and then suggested I should certainly be

avoiding cheese, port and red meat. All of which is wrong, wrong, wrong. Looks like even in the medical profession gout is a poorly understood condition.

But still, can’t complain. What could be better confirmation of one’s status as a top-notch gourmet than to get gout in your early thirties? Instant foodie kudos! Clearly I must dine out every night on pheasant and lamprey washed down with bumpers of old port, to be so afflicted.

The truth, as always, is a bit more complicated. For starters, it’s largely a genetic ailment so having got the relevant gene from my grandad (a martyr to ‘is gout) I was always likely to develop it. And while a rich diet is definitely going to exacerbate the condition, the usual suspects my doctor trotted out are not necessarily guilty. Port is no different from any alcohol, and alcohol is only a problem if you let it dehydrate you. Cheese and fat don’t contribute noticeably to gout, and there’s some evidence that dairy products are slightly beneficial. It’s a case of guilt by association: the fat old bloaters who suffer from gout in Victorian

novels are always devouring the whole cheeseboard and hogging the port bottle. But it’s more likely to be the rich venison gravy or the half-dozen langoustines that did for ’em.

So, what is a gout attack?

It’s a form of arthritis, and often described as the most painful form. The most common joint attacked is the big toe. Pathetic, eh? What kind of man can’t live with a bit of pain in his toe? Imagine a little gnome with a sledgehammer trotting along beside you and smashing your big toe whenever you set your foot down. That’s the first three days. There was too much pain to sleep until I got my foot out from under the sheet. Yep, the touch of a cotton sheet felt like the gnome was using my toe as an anvil for beating out a ploughshare. This is after dosing myself with potent prescription painkillers. After those first few days it’s simply a case of gradual recovery over about a month, by which time I could walk without much of a noticeable limp.

Gout is triggered by an unhealthy build-up of purines in the body, which end up crystallising in distant joints such as the big toe. Purines are typically generated from processing certain kinds of protein-rich food; hence shellfish, offal, meat on the bone and rich stocks are just about the worst possible foods for a gout sufferer (this table gives more detail,

and the whole website is a mine of valuable information on the disease). The other major factor is hydration: purines are flushed from the body via liver functions, so if you get dehydrated then they’re much more likely to start crystallising.

So the perfect hypothetical recipe for a gout attack might be… going to a wedding on a Saturday, drinking far too much wine and no water in the evening, having nothing more than a coffee with a meaty cooked breakfast on Sunday and then going out for a four-course lunch involving scallops and pheasant. Silly me. By Sunday evening a tell-tale tingling throb had begun in my toe. This was going to be my third bout of gout and worst yet. It was at this point that I started reading about the subject in depth.

It became apparent that there are two choices for defeating gout; change your diet or take drugs for the rest of your life.

You change your diet to minimise purine intake. This means: say goodbye to all seafood, avoid any gravies or meat on the bone, don’t even glance at offal and make sure that you drink lots of water with alcohol in moderate amounts. Chicken is your friend, so are veggies and starches. This sounded terrible. What kind of a gourmand would I be if I couldn’t eat oysters, lobster, kidneys, liver, monkfish or enjoy a nice rich beef jus? GIVE ME DRUGS!

The drug you have to take for the rest of your life is called allopurinol, and it is blessedly free of (known) side effects. It does have one kicker: when you first start taking it, the purines that are released when it gets to work may trigger one final gout attack. “One for the road” sort of thing. Lovely.

So, three years later and I’ve had no more trouble with gout. I pick whatever I like off the menu and still drink the odd snifter of port. The modern gourmet doesn’t have to be a martyr to his diet. But I’m lucky; my gout is minor compared to what some sufferers go through.