The "Chef" who made me cry: MPW Steakhouse & Grill, B'ham

Isn't it about time Marco-Pierre White got some good press? Given it seems now entirely fair play to give him a good shoe-ing, at least outside his own press releases, maybe it's time to redress that balance?

No, I'm kidding.....

In fairness I should point out here that this meal was a present: weekday lunchtime 2 courses, plus a glass of prosecco. This seems to be a big part of the turnover, there being a pre-printed menu to cover same, and signs all over advertising this as the perfect gift. Fair enough, as well as enabling me to see the outlay my friends had made. £80 it seems, more of which later.

This particular MPW Steakhouse & Grill occupies a wonderful room, high up in The Cube, the latest iteration within Birmingham's once-proud prestige Mailbox site. As you leave the lift and pass through the MPW gallery of moody black and white shots, scattered with his bons mots and quoted commentaries, suddenly you see where you are, a stonking panorama across the greater Birmingham area from ahigh. This makes it all seem worthwhile, spotting and ticking off all the buildings across the horizon. (And this could have been a table side view, for a fiver per head, ask your waiter, politely reminds the menu.) We didn't, accepting a table in sight of the open plan service area.

A brief respite to scan the menu, yes, 10% gratuity (optional) will be added, and the cost of various sundries explained. 3 choices of starter, 3 of main. We both elected for the chicken liver pate, having to ask for our Prosecco after it arrived. A chilled slab of perfectly adequate supermarket pate did little more than take the edge away of our appetites, the alleged sourdough toast unconvincing. But it's fine, it's a freebie. I chose one of the MPW commended and endorsed wines to aid and abet the fizz, never having been quite taken in by the Prosecco lobby, a chilean white Viognier. I liked it a lot. Proof that the concept of Vin de Patron works, if not inexpensively. Steak had to be my choice, given the name of the place, a 6 oz sirloin. I asked for medium rare, but they, apparently, only do pink or well-done. OK, pink it was, but this was a conceit I hadn't heard of before. Xu had the sea-bass, with extra spinach: sides came as extra, as did the pepper sauce I chose. So what sort of chips would I get, I wondered, what double/triple cooked wonders would these be? No such pomp, these were good old, I would guess, oven chips and sat alongside a smooth sculpted slice of pink-ish centred meat. I would imagine every piece of meat to be of exactly the same size and shape, but may be wrong. 3 cherry toms took guard as the thin jus displayed it's singular lack of pepper and washed to the edge of the plate. Sure, it tasted like steak and chips, even looking a passable facsimile thereof, but precious little credit to the kitchen or, it's onetime lauded namesake. Think some of the bottom end Berni's you frequented as a young and impoverished diner. I did too. They were better, constantly having to remind myself the good grace of my benefactor. The fish was good, I was told, although it fair to say I have eaten larger anchovies. Neither of us are big on puddings so had a peep, electing otherwise, likewise coffee.

Interestingly, when the bill came, the £80 price for a gift meal had shrunk to, I think £39, as the amount allowed for and the amount the 10% (optional) service charge was based upon, alongside the extra veg, sauce and wine. I hope I have this wrong, but don't suppose I will ever know. Suspicious this may be the sort of gaff where staff may not attract their own tips, again I may be wrong, I elected to leave a tenner separately, this roughly equating the expected amount.

The chef who made me cry? A big sign branded MPW as the "chef who made Gordon Ramsay cry", is displayed high on the wall. Given now even Gordon is becoming a distant memory in the culinary zeitgeist, times changing, I wonder who is crying now, apart from all the way to the bank.

Ain't Nothing Finer Than.........

........Tom's Diner?

Um, well, no, not really.

So who is Tom and what is his Diner? And, as I wretchedly discover, after thinking up my clever and witty title, it isn't even Tom's Diner, it's Tom's Kitchen. Tom is Tom Aikens, a michelin starred chef, with his eponymous restaurant in London having a star since 2004, although he had earlier been in charge of the kitchen at Pied a Terre, winning 2 stars, at the time the youngest recipient thereof. (Wiki brutally then reminds us he was fired from same for branding the hand of a trainee with a palette knife. How Birmingham!))

So why is is newly opened Kitchen in Birmingham's Mailbox, so far from his restaurant? (Ho and indeed ho, I know, but it was funnier in my head than the page....) This is his 3rd, I think, iteration in a small chain of 'brasserie-style' outlets and the first outside London. I went there last week with a couple of chums.

First impressions good. Large opening plan room with a bar off-centre to banquettes on the right, more formal tabling to the left and in front. Whitstable beers on tap a plus, wetting my whistle with the IPA to pass my early arrival. In fact, the bar area was so relaxing, full party complete, we stayed chatting there for a full half-hour after our official table time. Our apology was met with an appreciation that we we clearly having such a good time that to disturb us would have been cruel. During this time I had seen the chalked up mission statement , a treatise on the brand's devotion to the quality of suppliers, principally the importance of well-sourced eggs and their provenance. (Is that what is called a binding agreement?)

To a table and the de-rigeur prolonged monologue around the specials and other such information. The menu mirrored more a pub with pretentious than perhaps a brasserie, but maybe that is what pubs are becoming. I had an endive salad with blue cheese and walnuts, which was glorious, my chums the crab cake, somewhat small I thought, but fine. Resisting the fish and chips, which would have been too pub altogether, I followed with a chorizo and corn risotto from the specials board. Again, tasted good and was of a decent texture, although I prefer chorizo chunkier in this sort of dish.  On confirming with me what a pollock was, that is what my friends both had, enjoying it rather more than my endeavours to find a way to bring in a rhyme to this part of the review: what did you both have and what did you think of it? The compulsorily thrice cooked chips were to die for, even at about 30p per chip. The 2 of us drinking had a serviceable Merlot and we declined the puds. All in all, a good experience. Until the bill. 197 quids!!! 2 rounds of drinks, starters and mains, the aforementioned chips, some beans'n'broccoli sides and a mid-range wine. Possibly twice my guesstimate and expectation and I'm not a skinflint food wise. Well, not that much, and I wasn't even paying upfront. Good food and pleasant surroundings for sure, but this was no fine-dining. Ouch. Pity really, as it gives a bit of a lift to the otherwise wilting Mailbox, retreating, as it has, from the grandeur of it's heyday to the current rotating spiral of short term leases and brash chains, barely a notch or 2 above those in cheaper parts of town.

By way contrast, we followed on to the bar in Harvey Nicks. Who knew? That Friday night, presumably very few others, sharing the space with a single handful of punters. "Harvey Nichols don't really go in much for promotion", said the helpful barman. Beyond expressing my latter realisation that 2 martinis after a meal to be a foolhardy decision, very little to say. If you are a cocktail man, and I'm not, it's terrific.

As an afterthought, here is a Tom's Diner I would frequent:

Mickey does Albert: Kiwanuka'd in style.

Make no bones about it, Michael Kiwanuka is one hell of a talented fella, his 'Love and Hate' being certainly my album of last year. Even this bunch of motley curmudgeons agreed with me, well, to a point, give or take a a death or 3. And it's one that had me running into the house, on first listen in the car. "Listen to this", I gasped, "just listen!" So we did. Again and again and again.

"When's he on tour?", she said.

So here we are in London, lording it up in the choir seats at the Royal Albert Hall, using the excuse to  spend a few days in Greenwich around the gig.

Support band Clean Cut Kid were on first, seemingly a next big thing, with their well-reviewed album released the very same day of this show, so they were celebrating. Uncertain whether they were gifted with traditional support band muddy sound, because it was, or whether the songs were just dull, I am afraid we were drinking wine in the bar after 3 songs. (Singer has a fabulous beard tho'.)

Choir seats are a thing. I hadn't realised on booking that these were behind the stage, more fool me, but I would choose them again, certainly compared to previous RAH experiences, way up in the gods and higher. Excellent view, albeit of the back of the band, but great for a nerd like me, the keyboard and drums being in prime sight. Even watching the set-up was a delight, working out what and who would be where. Backing singers stage? Tick. String section? Tick. 5 keyboards forming 3 sides of a square? Tick. 2 drum kits, one conventional, one the full bongos plus set-up. Tick again. Excitement and anticipation building bigtime.

No secret how the show starts, youtube and similar have given that game away long ago, that mattering little. This was real and we were here. So it was houselights down, stage lights still down, the slow build of keyboards gradually swelling in the darkness. The string section joined in and then, a cheer announcing a silhouette being handed his guitar, for it was Michael, the Gilmouresque opening motif raising further cheers. I was, of course, weeping, by now. Step by step, band member by band member, instrument by instrument joined in, and it was utterly rapturous. Cold Little Heart.

A set mainly derived from Love and Hate, with only a couple of songs from 2012's 'Home Again', everything went from strength to strength, totally denying his naysayers. "All gets a bit boring after first 3 tracks......" Utter bollocks. Indeed, those earlier songs showed their core strengths of composition, with the allowances of the more acute interpretation this band could offer against the worthy but dull recorded versions. An early highlight was 'Black Man in a White World', which made perhaps more sense than on the record, benefitting from an extended work out, showcasing the excellence of the dual drum section. With perhaps maybe only a smattering of black faces in the audience, the lyric was never more apt, for reasons I don't fully understand. How can a singer of such soul have such a bleached demographic?

Another highlight was a cover: the Avett Brothers' 'I'm Getting Ready'. Featuring just Kiwanuka on acoustic guitar and his bassist, this was a revelation. Already known for his recorded covers of Townes Van Zandt, this exemplified the folk and country hues on his palette, minding me of Richie Havens. Indeed, Havens seems far more potent a reference than the more frequent comparisons with Marvin Gaye, especially if you factor in the undoubted guitar competencies. Back to the full band, and the songs kept coming, with concern as to what could possibly left in reserve. All to soon and it was the final song, 'Fathers Child', also benefitting from a drawn out fade, musician by musician leaving the stage, until (I think) Paul Butler was, as the show began, alone over his keyboards, the plaintive electric piano motif on repeat , slower and slower, until the inevitable pin drop.

Of course there was an encore, a respectable delay belying the certainty, the title track of his first
album segueing into the title track of his second, the sudden realisation that this had not yet been played, so superlative already were those that had. The repeated chorale vocals went on forever, a high amongst highs. Perfection, countered by apology for knowing no further material. Nonsense, this was exactly enough. Little over an hour, plus encores but we were satiated.

He's playing Symphony Hall, Birmingham, in October. There aren't many tickets left. I know, because I bought a couple on Friday night, at midnight.

A Night Out at Bentley's Oyster Bar

I like my fruits de mer do I, as does the missus, a recent aim being to eat our way around the platters of the world. (A bit like the, o my sides, seafood diet.) In truth we only hatched this plan as we sat outside the restaurant in their heated tent and supped a sauvignon and a pinot, buoyed with excitement for the food ahead. Dead posh it looked too, what with the top-hatted doorman sirring and madaming us welcome. Inside? Bit cramped, to be fair, a line of tiny 2 seater tables on one side, bar seating on the other. Fair enough, what is says on the tin, and it's all about the food, innit? So, in we squeezed and loosened our stays. Menu? Easy, we had looked online earlier, definitely the Royal Platter: oysters, prawns, langoustines, crab and lobbie. Bottle of Entre Deux Mers? I should coco. A brief look to the side, clocking our neighbour eating a steak was of some concern, but not for long.

Our platter arrives, a single tier rather than the high rise developments beloved of the french, the crushed ice and obligatory seaweed a comforting bed for the feast. With 3 natives and 3 pacific, we had to barter for our favourite oyster; personally I prefer the smoother tasting and more rugged looking  ones to the rounder, tougher ones. I had 1 of the former and 2 of the latter, gent that I am. (Note I have carefully avoided making myself look more foolish than you know by remembering which name applies to which type.) On to the prawns, 5 tucked in at the top. Are they deliberately provoking marital discord here or what, especially with 3 langoustines lurking beneath? Do the math(s). Regardless, let me report the former were the sweetest and softest I have ever tasted, the latter nearly as such, beaten by the whoppers we had in Paris a month ago. A delightfully dressed crab needed bread, strangely absent thus far. I think an oversight, it arriving swift enough on prompting, with both butter and a mysterious  gloop, maybe seaweed or samphire infused butter, available. Fabulous bread, interesting spread. The crab? Stunning, with the melt of brown accentuating the fibrous strands of white. If the wine had been anywhere within reach, I would have toasted this crustacean. Sadly it was over the other side of the room, on a window sill, it being the sort of gaff where you cannot be trusted to drink at your own pace. Hey ho. Realising we had been eating at such speed that conversation was impossible, now came the pinnacle, requiring my by now standard litany of never really quite "getting" lobster. I know, daft, isn't it, but it is the truth. I have never been convinced as to the price and promise of these oversized shrimps. Had never been. Barely dipped into its boiling bath, this was an exquisite morsel, the flesh the texture of a ripe avocado, just a whisper ahead of being soggy. Like an ointment in the mouth, it melted with a release of a flavour I now suddenly got. Yup, can do this again, methinks. A brief whimsy about a cheeseboard was swiftly dismissed by the reality of our distended bellies, not to say the prices. Cheeses came individually, each at the price of a selection elsewhere. So, having retrieved our wine, and craved permission to keep it with us we slowly reflected and digested on our repast.

Which was when the fun started. By now our neighbours had changed, replaced by 2 large european matrons of indeterminate age, one of whom had a voice that made Peggy Mount's seem a whisper. Bellowing in first french and then german, she invaded every inch of what little space we had. With a vacancy on the other side of us, we shifted bottoms across to that empty table, explaining this to the next couple down as we slid alongside them, to their amusement and then their horror, as the foghorn upped her game another notch. Clearly our action was outwith  protocol, our waiter coming over to chastise us for this unscripted move. It may be that someone was awaiting this, possibly a favourite table, he suggested. (See picture above? Nope, don't buy it.) And we were not "nice" to do this, despite our explanation, mimed and otherwise. Maybe he couldn't hear us above the din, but he let us stay, albeit reluctantly, his grievance obvious on his sleeve. Not even when another couple came in, ate their bread and left, again on account of the bilingual monologue to their side. Because we were now seen as not "nice", I confess to behaving in type. No bread, distant wine and a ticking off did not seem worth the discretionary 12.5%, so this was crossed out on our bill, together with a handwritten explanation. All credit to our waiter, he accepted this without comment, putting the diminished amount through the machine. Indeed, this seemed almost too well practised, making me rue any previous awful experience anywhere else, all those biting my lips and paying those discretions in full, my only recourse and revenge being a mental note never to darken such doors again. (So thank you, Bentley's for unleashing a loosening of my upper lip.)

So today, in the cold light of day, do I feel bad? With hindsight, no. Yes, the food was as first-class as either of us have had of this sort, but the room was overcrowded and customers squeezed in, with a palpable sense of maximising turnover. That left a taste that was decidedly not as "nice" as the shellfish. Would we go again? Maybe for lunch, if it were the only place in town. But it isn't and we already have a pact to visit all the others.


Addendum: Spellcheck update of the day- when typing Entre Deux, be careful, as Merseyside is the challenging sounding preference offered. That'll be the wine of Port Sunlight I guess, or Brasso as it is better known. (Did Lever Bros make Brasso?)

It's been a while......

OK, so whats a couple of years between friends but, ya know, getting a bit constrained by my usual channels, love 'em as I do, so maybe now is the now, the time is of the see-ee-ee-son. (You need explanation? Shame on you!)
That's all I have to say for the moment.........
Will I still scribble here?
a-night-out-with-the-saw-doctors
songs-from-movies-expresso-bongo.html
http://www.covermesongs.com/2017/03/cover-classics-scratch-my-back.html
Heck, I hope so......
(Why didn't that last one go blue?)

A Night Out with: Fairport Convention

Where: Lichfield Cathedral
When: 30.1.15

Well, I'll be! Given I had previously told myself  enough was enough, drawn by the lure of the venue I found myself back at a Fairport gig. Bear in mind that this is the band I sold my teenage soul to, catching umpteen performances, several Cropredys and far too many records, between 1975 and, I think, 2008 or 9, before deciding they had become a covers band for themselves, leaving a front row seat at Town Hall, Birmingham, on a winter tour, at the interval. Expecting little tonight, I received a lot.

I have sung the praises of the Cathedral venue before, from the drinking of beer on consecrated ground, to the ambience and acoustics. I cannot say it too loud or too often, this is what these buildings are for.

First on was Kevin Dempsey, veteran guitarist of Whippersnapper yore, together with Rosie Carson, a young Ohio fiddler, with a pure stroke on said instrument and a pleasing voice. Think an english folk tradition Chip Taylor and Carrie Rodrigues. Dempsey, 73, was the first to pass comment as to the age of the audience, dedicating a song to a celebration of youth. Obviating the need for a gap, their last song brought on, eventually, all of Fairport Convention, with, as the duo stepped down, a seamless segue into Sir Patrick Spens.

This 1970 vintage song, performed solidly and faithfully, was going to be the last bit of old for the rest of the first half. A volley of songs from, and, starting with the title track from Myths and Heroes, then ensued. And it was good. Songs written by, amongst others, the now faithful coterie of "new" member, Chris Leslie (18 years), Ralph McTell and Anna Ryder, with Simon Nicol playing more electric guitar than has been his wont, with the rest of the band kicking considerably more ass than has been present for, well, ages. Similarly, either by sticking within his comfort range, or by having relaxed his larynx since I last saw him, Simon Nicol has largely stopped the excruciating gurning as he had searched for notes no longer present. Peggy has ditched his creepy Uncle Sex persona and just plays, effortlessly and consummately, with an odd ukelele bass particularly drawing the eye. Ric Sanders, unchanged, remains the gyrating, slightly irritating fiddler but Chris Leslie doesn't touch a fiddle throughout, swapping between mandolin, guitar, whistle and harmonica, both the latter new to me, and, he told me afterwards, the harmonica new to this tour. Gerry Conway, commented upon in a recent article I had read as being more played by his drums than playing, was and seemed well in control, and was. for the first time for me, seeming to be a worthy replacement for the long gone Dave Mattacks.

An interval and into a 2nd half of what I expected to be : here's some old, having instead to make do with a bevy of further songs from the new album, and a salvo from the last one, he Festival Bell, dated 2011. My attention remained held. Eventually we were gifted with Crazy Man Michael, and the re-arranged version of Farewell, Farewell, each originally from Liege and Lief, thus leaving a gap of 41 years between the old and the newer songs played, with nothing in between. To close, well, it had to be, Matty Groves, a fairly straight version, albeit with Leslie-led banjo. Encore? Need you ask, with Dempsey, Coulson and Anna Ryder, lurking backstage, all dragged on as well, the inevitable Meet on the Ledge, with the inevitable tears that song sends to my eyes.

As always, and part of the key to their enduring following, the band came out back for signing and chats. I was left with a distinct feeling of they having given themselves a kick up the arse since last seen. Having previously said no more of them, Cropredy distinctly beckons. Here's the title track of the pending LP:

If food be the music of love, eat up!!

I had the boy up over for some of the festive, his pop-up at the Sun & 13 Cantons having finished, and some pretty damn fine food we all enjoyed, but, no pressure, I somehow felt I should at least make some offering in return. Very much a one-pot potentate, I hereby offer you 3 courses for idiots, or, at least, by an idiot.

1. The Retro Christmas Paste:
Ingredients: 2  packs of chicken livers, slab of butter, mushrooms to taste, peppercorns, tarragon and a glug of noilly prat.
I commend the fresh rather than frozen livers, as they do not then need a frantic micro to soften ahead of their molten butter bath, add shrooms and scissor cut tarragon, finally sloshing in the vermouth. Transfer to a deeper pan and whizz with a hand held blender. (This avoids the murder in a petshop splatters up the wall, that still mock me for that foolishness)
Into a bowl and pour over some more melted butter, for, largely, effect.
My best yet this year, the tarragon and vermouth being a big improvement on either port or brandy, against all odds.

2. Ham in Guinness:
Ham, Guinness, onions, carrots, celery, mustard, cranberry sauce.
A first for me, incited by all these trends for boiling up your meat in coke, Dr Peppers, 7-up and lord knows what else. Interweb was down so I couldn't see if anyone had perfected or patented this one before, or indeed, find a generic template to follow. O, well, so ham,  a gammon actually, straight out of the plastic into a big pan and in go 4 tins of of Liffey juice, nearly enough to cover, needing me to liberate 2 bottles of stout from my Bath Ales stash and add them to the brew. The veg went in for ballast and a good 4 hour simmer ensued, steaming up windows, glasses and tempers.
Oven smacked on to 150 and I liberated the unravelling ham onto a rack, before coating with wholegrain and english in equal measure, with some leftover cranberry sauce for either concealment or congealment. An hour at this heat and then cooling down overnight remarkably gave a stonkingly fibrous and kosher looking ham. (Kosher ham?)
Duly  torn apart by all and sundry with relish. Or, actually, without relish, as there was more than enough on the outside. Deffo one for next year.

3. Talisker custard:
Custard, Talisker.
A reprise from Skye several autums ago, with little to explain. The custard can be from a carton, the waitrose one being especially good, and the Talisker needn't even be Talisker, but seems and sounds so much better if it is. Heat and mix, in any order.
Jobs a good'un.