Marina O'Loughlin

Critics Top Ten

Fri, 05 Apr 2013 15:16:40 -0400

How nice. No. 3. Up there with the big boys like Giles and Jay. (Anyone who’s spoken to me in person over the last year will immediately recognise that last phrase and why I’m totally lolzing at it.)

Anyway, am delighted. And more so at one particular omission. Sense prevails.

The Vault, Vauxhall.

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 09:28:06 -0400

The Vault, Vauxhall. :

When this landed, it was amazing the number of people who didn’t clock the date. Metro was DELUGED with requests for the address, including from an astonishing number of people who fancied a job there. Manacling seems to be a far more popular pastime than I’d previously thought.

Was reminded of this while googling for pizzas near my flat. Right across the road, bold as brass on the map, is a ‘mistress and submission dungeon’. Who the hell knew? I wonder if it’s as popular as The Vault was.

21212 makes me like Embra again.

Sun, 10 Mar 2013 16:31:19 -0400

21212 makes me like Embra again. :

I hated Embra when I studied there. As a Glaswegian it was everything I fought against: constipated, Anglicised, can-I-say-presbyterian-pinched-catsarseface. Didn’t go for years, actually got The Fear at the thought of Waverly Station. Then Mr and Mrs Smith sent me to 21212 and, whaddya know, it’s a bloody great city if you’re not seventeen and a half.

ROVINJ: WHERE - BIZARRELY - RESTAURANTS DON’T REALLY...

Sun, 10 Mar 2013 16:04:13 -0400

ROVINJ: WHERE - BIZARRELY - RESTAURANTS DON’T REALLY MATTER

I’m not going to mince words here: I wouldn’t be in a tearing hurry to jump on Ryanair for Rovinj’s restaurants. But bear with me – even for someone as restaurant-obsessed as I am, there are many, many compensations.

I’d go back tomorrow for the beauty of the town, a tangle of medieval alleyways jutting out into glittering water; historically, Istria was a province of Venice and it shows. The dramatic sea and forests view from our balcony in the Hotel Monte Mulini (montemulinihotel.com) stains an extraordinary palette of colours as the sun sets. And the local produce – oh, my: seafood of pristine perfection, including renowned oysters from the Lim Fjord; a wealth of cheeses, especially sheep’s cheese from Pag where the animals graze on aromatic herbs. And three things for which I’d cross continents: the local wine, especially luscious Malvasijas and ripe muscats. Olive oils of verdant lusciousness. And white truffles.

But we haven’t quite got to that yet. On our first evening, we avoid the waterfront restaurants with their pizza menus helpfully translated into a dozen different languages – although we do come to love Rio Bar (Obala Alda Rismondo 13) with its original 50s signage, ranting local characters and 90p glasses of floral malvasija. We think we’re so clever when we find an exquisitely pretty and, more importantly, busy Al Gastaldo (Iza Kasarne 14) in an atmospheric cobbled backstreet. But it’s a fake truffle oil, bad salad, dire seafood mash-up of horror.

Fortunately, our new favourite place in the world is seconds away, wine bar Piassa Grande (Veli Trg 1) with its knowlegeable owners, sisters Dragana and Helena, and seemingly endless cellars of goodies: Roxanic SuperIstrian (think SuperTuscan), names-to-watch such as Clai and Poletti; sultry Istrian Prošek (not prosecco – be warned, but a thick sticky). There are native grappas of honey or mistletoe. All of which happily takes away Al Gastaldo’s bad taste.

A trip to little market in the centre of town is enlightening: when was the last time that a stall-holder chased after you, pressing wild mushrooms and dried beans into your hand because you asked if you could take a photograph? And then waved away any payment? We’re speechless. But we manage to stock up on blueberry wine, malvasija honey vinegar, toasted pumpkin-seed oil and garlands of chillies and garlic for a few kuna. There’s also the joy of another excellent wine bar: tiny, barrel-lined Grota (Vlasnik, Zuzic Igo) for a little pre-lunch sharpener and pungent Istrian pršut (prosciutto).

We’re learning that sticking to simple things is best. Lunch at an outdoor table at Puntulina (Sv. Križ 38) offers another scene of breath-catching gorgeousness. But almost as beautiful are raw scampi, dressed just in local oil and lemon, fondant-textured essence of the sea. Or anchovies in agrodolce, a sweet and sour nod to the Venetian heritage. Or ravioli, dressed in a rich, ripe sauce of local white truffles.

Ah yes, truffles. Steep, winding Motovun up high in the mountains is the heartland of truffle country. We peer over stone walls to the fungi-infested forests vertiginously far below. Locals tether their money-can’t-buy truffle hounds in compounds almost as big as their houses and every second shop and restaurant offers a myriad variations on the precious white tuber: in cheese, under oil, in honey, pastes and spreads and sauces.

We’re on our way to Zigante (restaurantzigante.com), the area’s most famous, formal truffle restaurant (Giancarlo Zigante found the world’s largest ever white truffle: a whopping, priceless 1.31kg), where visiting presidents and movie stars have elaborate, multi-course menus of ambitious, smoke-filled dome fancy-pantsness. We have a simpler menu, and are glad of it: particularly exquisite is their home-made pasta dressed in butter, a snowstorm of white truffle shaved on top. Some things don’t need embellishment.

I buy a little jar of white truffle paste from their shop; our new chum Bobo says it’s the best way: whole truffles don’t travel particularly well, and bottled ones simply leach all their flavour into the oil. It costs an absolute fortune but lasts for several meals of heady pungency. Once, I spread it on thickly buttered sourdough toast and think, ‘that’s it, I’ll die happy now.’ (Autumn is the time to gorge on this headiest of pleasures – book now, folks.)

By far the swankiest dinner we have is in our hotel, at its Wine Vault restaurant (winevault.com.hr). The food from celebrated chef Tomislav Gretićis complex and ambitious, but I’m bemused by the fact that beef comes from Argentina and seafood from Scotland. The wines, however – a series of eye-openers from the area: they stock over 550 Croatian labels, and there’s not a dud amongst the ones we try: from methode Champenoise Misal Prestige to complex and fruity Krauthaker Chardonnay Rosenberg to Lacrime grappa (meaning tears, which is what it’ll bring to your eyes).

So no, Rovinj isn’t going to blow you away with its molecular innovation, groundbreaking gastronomy or hipster buzz-foods. But it’s insanely pretty, its people delightful, and its produce remarkable. As Anthony Boudain enthused when he visited: ‘this is world-class food, world-class wine, world-class cheese’. And really, you can’t say fairer than that.

Rules. It Rules.

Sun, 24 Feb 2013 12:49:27 -0500

Rules. It Rules.:

I’m going to still be going to Rules when I’m 80 I-should-live-so-long. It’s one of the reasons I love it so much. Last time I went there was an Indie-pop guy staggering through the restaurant, fag attached to lower lip, on a regular trajectory to the smoking pavement outside. He got exactly the same courtesy and charm from the retainers (I can only think of them as such…) as the astrakhan-coated rich luvvies at the next table.

En plus, their cocktail bar upstairs is my secret hideaway. Proper drinks, proper service, looks like it has been around for ever, remarkable for something that was crafted out of bits of the old Savoy only recently. I carefully didn’t mention in the review but am happy to share with the three or four people who ever read this wee thing.

SUNSET OVER FORTS HILL When I have one of my regular bouts of...

Thu, 21 Feb 2013 13:35:50 -0500

SUNSET OVER FORTS HILL

When I have one of my regular bouts of going off Fannit - how the hell did I manage to wind up somewhere with such a paucity of decent restaurants? - something like this happens.

'Why do birds suddenly appear?' Entranced by Chez Elles

Tue, 19 Feb 2013 11:21:57 -0500

'Why do birds suddenly appear?' Entranced by Chez Elles:

I am honestly at a massive loss as to understand why the Guardian didn’t use photos of the Elles, Nadia and Lili, for this piece. So ridiculously lovely, so ridiculously French, they’re a gift to anyone with the slightest ability to snap. Hey ho.

Actually, I’m a bit unclear as to why so many restaurant photos are done devoid of people. Is it a rights thing? I’ve never come across a restaurant that doesn’t look better rammed with happy diners. But, as ever, what do I know?

Hold the Pulitzer - interview of me by Yugnich Gritkin

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 10:54:08 -0500

Hold the Pulitzer - interview of me by Yugnich Gritkin:

Yugnich is my favourite blogger, a man of wit and subtlety, of sophistication and razor-sharp palate. When he asked for an interview, how could I say no?

More on the thrill of the old

Wed, 02 Jan 2013 08:15:00 -0500

WHAT WERE THEY THINKING? And what did poor yellowtail sashimi do...

Wed, 10 Oct 2012 19:20:20 -0400

WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?

And what did poor yellowtail sashimi do to deserve this treatment?

Possibly the oddest presentation I’ve ever encountered in an equally odd restaurant. If I didn’t have this as proof I’d be inclined to suppose I’d dreamed it after a surfeit of vacherin.

I was clearly so taken aback that I videoed instead of snapping. But hey - it kind of deserves it.

A G HENDY HOME STORE: A MOMENT OUT OF TIME

Mon, 24 Sep 2012 03:07:00 -0400

A G HENDY HOME STORE: A MOMENT OUT OF TIME:

I really should put more actual work up here - it’s not like the paper version doesn’t get recycled along with everything else. This is my fourth for The Guardian and I’ve managed to survive the commenters thus far. Although I’m still quivering that it might just be honeymoon period.

I went to Alistair Hendy’s extraordinary set-up with talons sharpened, fully expecting to find it utterly ridiculous and fully pretentious. Instead, I came out bewitched. He really has created something quite extraordinary. My only disappointment is that staff don’t wear those brown coats a la Open All Hours.

GILES AND ME SITTING IN A TREE

Thu, 20 Sep 2012 10:22:00 -0400

GILES AND ME SITTING IN A TREE:

This is only viewable if you have a Times subs, so it’s really for my own benefit. Huge fan of Giles and have always had a laugh with him on the rare occasions we’ve met, so our to-and-fro on the Twit took me by total surprise. All I fancied was a little pleasing Sunday eve argy-bargy about Italian food and… POW. Anyway, fabulous lunch, excellent company, hilarious review. All good.

POSTCARD FROM BANGKOK

Fri, 14 Sep 2012 07:58:16 -0400

POSTCARD FROM BANGKOK:

My travel articles for Olive mag don’t appear online as such (they have an iPad app, so I guess that’s why). I’m not sure they’d be entirely happy about this being reproduced in its entirety for this random website (thank you for finding, @davidsim) but boy, it’s really made me want to go back to this most thrilling of cities. Or Tor Kor Market: one of the best food places on the planet.

MY MUM’S SHORTBREAD, AKA THE BEST SHORTBREAD IN THE...

Sun, 19 Aug 2012 04:58:00 -0400

MY MUM’S SHORTBREAD, AKA THE BEST SHORTBREAD IN THE WORLD

Shortbread is curious stuff: simple, so simple - just three or four ingredients, no equipment required other than a wooden spoon and a bowl - but it can be properly ambrosial. As this is. It’s the result of a basic trick (substituting some of the flour for cornflour) and happy accident (running out of regular sugar and using soft golden caster sugar instead). It may be simple, but it’s a thing of utter beauty, so crisp, so buttery, so perfectly… short: a cup of tea was never so finely accessorised.

Sm Med

100gms 250gms plain flour

50gms 125gms corn flour

50gms 125gms raw golden caster sugar

100gms 250gms butter (room temperature)

Pre heat oven to 150c

First of all, beat the butter in a bowl with a wooden spoon to soften it, then beat in the sugar, followed by the sifted flour and cornflour. Work the ingredients together with the spoon, pressing them to the side of the bowl, then finish off with your hands until you have a smooth mixture that doesn’t leave any bits in the bowl.

Next transfer the dough to a flat, lightly floured surface, and roll it out lightly to a round (giving it quarter turns as you roll) about the same diameter as the tin, then transfer the round to the tin. Lightly press the mixture evenly into the tin right up to the fluted edges (to make sure that it is even you can give it a final roll with a small glass tumbler). Finally, you must prick the shortbread all over with a fork – or it will rise up in the centre while it’s baking. I also press the tines of the fork all round the edges for pure dead fanciness.

Bake the shortbread for 60-70 minutes on the centre shelf of the oven – it should have turned pale gold and feel firm in the centre. If you make it thick - which I like very much - it can need up to two hours at a low heat to avoid a claggy centre.

Remove it from the oven and, using a palette knife, mark out the surface into 12 wedges. Leave it to cool in the tin, then, when it’s cold, cut it into wedges. Dredge with the golden caster sugar and store in an airtight polythene box or tin.

BABY STEPS - ONE OF MY FIRST EVER

Wed, 15 Aug 2012 12:20:48 -0400

BABY STEPS - ONE OF MY FIRST EVER:

A tweeter called @Mulia sent me this from 2000. Dear gawd, I can only hope I’ve improved since then. Still, joys of a newbie: it used to take me about half an hour to write these; now it takes bloody days.

ST MORITZ – THE GRAND FROMAGE OF ALPINE KITSCH Latest in a...

Sun, 12 Aug 2012 10:42:00 -0400

ST MORITZ – THE GRAND FROMAGE OF ALPINE KITSCH

Latest in a series of adventures in the oldie underbelly of London. Over many years of infesting Soho, how many times must I have walked past St Moritz without venturing in? Me especially, whose desert island food would probably be cheese? (Oh, and bread. And sausage. All the major food groups.)

The time has come. Past the dark wooded exterior into the, er, dark wooded interior, a kitsch explosion of Alpine scenes, cowbells of various sizes from tiny to improbable, wooden beams and sticky, plastic-padded menus. A couple of unsmiling girl servers and a middle-aged couple – plonked directly beside us so they can cheerily join in our conversation – are the only occupants of the otherwise empty restaurant. Which, it has to be said, is on the whiffy side. I’m hoping it’s just the cheese.

The all-Austrian winelist is a surprise, but everything else is exactly how you’d imagine. Pink, spammy sausage served with slices of waxy potato and Gruyère in a thin, mustardy mayo; raclette, melted at the moment of ordering from an elaborate device but served as an uninspiring pool of melted cheese on a smeary plate.

Then the fondue. Sure, you can order the likes of grilled veal escalope or pork fillet with Calvados and caramelised apple or beef strogonoff, but we’re here for the cheese: the classic Nuechateloise of Emmental and Gruyère, bubbling in its petrol-fuelled burner, plop, plop, plop, like lava. It’s an intimidatingly vast cauldron-full, with a basket of cubed French bread and nothing else for dunking. Somehow, I and the infuriatingly slender pal manage to get to the bottom of it, scraping the rust-coloured burnt bits at the last. We also order vast, squidge-centred rosti potatoes; these, with a dollop of the fondue spooned over, must be the unhealthiest thing currently served in the capital. Delicious? Hell, yes.

We skip puddings. ‘We could always have cheese,’ says the pal, insanely. That night, we both have tortured, sweat-ridden dreams. As the pal puts it the next day, ‘The cheese hardened into a plug, at what, in body terms, might be considered midtown, and stayed with me all day, despite all efforts to dislodge it later.’ This isn’t a once-a-week kind of thing, more like once a year. But as far as old-school is concerned, St Moritz is an utterly first class Proustian fondez-vous.

ANYTHING TO DO WITH VEGETARIANISM HAS A STRANGE EFFECT

Fri, 29 Jun 2012 13:46:00 -0400

ANYTHING TO DO WITH VEGETARIANISM HAS A STRANGE EFFECT:

I figured I was going to get lambasted by humourless veggies for my deliberate digs in this review of the rather excellent Gate in Islington. But instead it was the carnivores! I can’t imagine the opprobrium I’d have been in for had I hated the place.

I tell myself off for my shallow preconceptions. But hey, it doesn’t stop the readership feeling the need to do the same. *sigh*

"IS THIS THE WORST RESTAURANT REVIEW EVER?"

Mon, 14 May 2012 08:09:56 -0400

"IS THIS THE WORST RESTAURANT REVIEW EVER?":

… asked The Guardian’s Media Monkey. I do think they could have phrased it better.

I was reminded of this by the move of legendary west London Thai, Blue Elephant, to Saran Rom’s outrageous premises. I’ve occasionally been moved to wonder what happened to all that expensive carved mahogany and now have the answer: it has just been sitting there, gathering dust.

They never did contact me to get their money, by the way.

MY LOVE LETTER TO SOHO

Tue, 08 May 2012 11:36:23 -0400

MY LOVE LETTER TO SOHO:

Another one I didn’t realise was online - from ES Food Mag, a song of love to the area of London that has seduced me most since I first landed all those years ago.

When Fay Maschler commissioned me to write the piece, she recommended West End Girls by Barbara Tate* about the ‘models’ who lived up those rickety staircases in Soho’s seediest heyday. It’s great.

* http://www.amazon.co.uk/West-End-Girls-Barbara-Tate/dp/1409116069

FORAGING - WALK AWAY FROM THE WEEDS

Mon, 30 Apr 2012 12:09:01 -0400

FORAGING - WALK AWAY FROM THE WEEDS:

Didn’t realise this was online. Read it back and still agree with it. Sure, there’s a place for foraged foodstuffs - Ben Spalding, ex Roganic (v much looking forward to what he does next, real talent), used his finds judiciously and with a real eye to deliciousness - but too often, they’re done with a cackhandedness that makes you think only of pondscum.

Anyway, here it is. And the trend trundles on.