Recommendation numero uno: Hawksmoor, Seven Dials.

Hawksmoor- Seven Dials, is something a little different. Located in London’s ever cultured Covent Garden, the Hawksmoor debatably serves amongst other things, the tastiest steak in London. 

 

Although it lacks in interior glamour, its beauty lies in the robust menu, and the historical nostalgia, as the site itself is set in the basement of what was once, a brewery.

 

The layout is welcoming, with a much less ‘modern’ feel than other leading restaurants, but an abundance of charm, warmth and glorious smells of hearty food.

 

A variety of menu’s are served at this New York style restaurant, but it has a lunch menu to rival even the most established of restaurants.

 

To start why not try the Hand dived king scallop with champ, or perhaps Cumbrae Rock Oysters with Hawksmoor sausages.

 

Now for the main, if like me you’ll opt for steak, why not try the fillet with a stilton Hollandaise sauce. Or if you prefer a less meaty more 'American' main, the Lamb chops with creamed spinach and macaroni cheese?

 

If you have room for dessert, what about their popular Chocolate brownie with salted caramel ice cream or perhaps the Raspberry trifle, or both? 

 

I think you may be rolling out of this place.

 

A set (but somewhat restrictive) meal at the Hawksmoor with cost you around £20pp however, a typical meal for two, with wine and service will cost you approx £120.

 

Address: 11 Langley Street, London WC2H 9JG Nearest Tube : Covent Garden

I have an announcement to make...

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Alana

I love Christmas, but that has nothing to do with Christ.

Just a few days to go and unlike alot of you I am cool, calm and collected. Christmas shopping CHECK, Festive plans CHECK, New Year changes (at work, at home in head) CHECK, All future plans to save the world noted CHECK,  Bank balance low, Bugger.

Wellllllll, can’t have it all.

It’s Christmas, but neither ‘Christ’ or ‘mas’ play a particularly important role in this for me. I mean, I know it’s original purpose was in memory of the birth of Jesus Christ, giver of love and all things holy; but I seem to have lost my enthusiasm for divinity in my old age.

I was Christened a Catholic and I listened to Nonna’s stories of heaven and hell, of good and evil and I even learned the lords’ prayer. But I am a pessimist when it comes to religion and religious celebrations, lost in-between coverage of perverted priests, and the undeniable contradictions and manipulations ( This is not exclusive to Catholicism, either.) Admittedly, in my limited knowledge of Jesus and his teachings, I gather that all he really wanted was for people to act with integrity, honesty and courage. Which in theory, guides us all along the 'right' paths through life, always leading us to love. For this I respect HIM. Although I will save THAT conversation for another day.

Ultimately, I do not celebrate the birth of Christ at Christmas, and until a 'few' years ago all I cared about was presents under the tree, however un-palatable that may be for some - I am no charlatan.

Instead, I like many, choose to focus instead on Christmas as a time of giving; a time to share love and happiness with those we hold closest to our hearts. We give to those who have little, and spend time in nostalgic banter with family and friends, stuffing our faces and listening to naff christmas songs.

In our family, as with most things, food is of the essence; and it is not restricted to Turkey with stuffing. There is pasta e vongole, baccalà, insalata di baccalà, zeppole, then there’s roasted chestnuts, panetone, beef, chicken, lamb, stuffed peppers etc (not necessarily in this order) Rarely ever a turkey in sight actually.

Ah, Christmas. Don’t you love it? I must assume you’re nodding your heads in agreement.

I'm looking forward to strolling through London tonight on my walk home, lights glittering, people busily last minute shopping, and carol singers wailling along the snow-kissed streets.

Lets eat, drink and be merry…(or at least eat and drink.)

Merry Christmas (without the Christ or mass) x

Good Day vs Bad Day ft pigeon poo

After a somewhat blurry week filled with cancelled trains and snow, I wake feeling fresh and ready to go. And then I looked in the mirror.

Bad hair day, YES just what I wanted. Urgh.

After the initial shock of my bird-nest head, and a few hair pins later, I head out relatively un-phased.

Running down the stairs... (Queue annoying act number one.) *I let go of my phone*  My poor blackberry is going to die, or worse, get scratched. My battered phone finally stops at the bottom of the stairs, right on top of a chewing gum blob. Double urgh. WHY did I do that and WHY did someone spit out their gum on a carpet, despicable.

Hacked off, and dressed like the Michelin Man (bar my kitten heals) I pre-empt a bad day. My first step was actually a skid, by the way.

I arrive at the station, two minutes too late. My train has left, of course. Standing, waiting, freezing my face off I start to day dream.

Pigeons. They are everywhere. I stare at them, eyes glazed over in a feezing daze, feeling very sorry for their tiny round bodies, perched on the slim branches of the tree. A few of them try to perch on a ledge of the platform, but it’s been wired off, poor sods.

Then I visualize one of them flying over me and pooing on me (I’m sorry there’s no nice way of saying that.) “Imagine!” I sigh to myself.

PLOP.

My head is still tilted up mid daydream, and my eyes are still glazed over.

*Moment of realisation* Oh my f***ing god…are you SERIOUS?!

I reluctantly look down at my right arm. PIGEON POO! I actually have bird poo on my arm. Did I just make that happen, on some telepathic level? I just had this coat dry cleaned. RAGE.  Triple urgh.

Definitely a bad day. Definitely annoyed. Definitely have to get a seat on train.

Lunch was nice, dim sum always puts a smile on my face. Not unlike being in a sweet shop really, so many food choices + so much time = happy Alana.

On my way back to work I get a call regarding a visit to a “winter wonderland”. Ice skating, circus shows, hog roast, and hot chocolate. OK, slowly but surely, today is getting better.

THEN I remember my Nonni are back from Italia and I’m going to see them after work, *HUGE SMILE*. Short term gains involve Italian cakes, gifts and loads of cheese. Long term gains involve Nonna’s cooking, ‘C’è posto per te’, (for those not in-the-know this is an epic show on Italian telly) loads of Sunday dinners aka my weight in pasta, cheese and salami and much, much more.

Things look up, momentarily.

Then I get a message. My partner in food-related-crime at the office, who is not mildly as proper as her name may suggest (Charlotte Middlehurst) is leaving.

Charlotte is half Portuguese and half English. She's a crazy hybrid like me, and I love her. I love her for introducing me to decent sushi, (e.g. not Wasabi or Yo Sushi) for her quirky manner, and because she gets it. And more surprisingly, she gets me. (To your right is a picture she sent me today, it made my morning, and this is why I love her.)

Alas she is leaving me, she’s going to Shanghi. On the upside, she’ll be writing for Timeout magazine. Genius. Whilst I am exited for her, I am heartbroken, but perk up as I realise I have yet another pal to visit abroad.

Shanghi, Sri Lanka, Australia and Malawi to name but a few. Imagine how much I will get to see, do and eat.

B.L.E.S.S.E.D

I arrive at the grandparents, after my Nonno jumped out from behind the door at me like a playful kid and Nonna had shouted at me for being on a diet (I am not.)  I am greeted with bags upon bags of food; Cheeses, salami, porcini mushrooms, chocolates...you name it, I had it.

After a couple of hours of village updates and general ramblings like, "You look skinny" and "Do you want to eat, yes come on", I Buckle and stop a little longer to eat some gorgonzola and prociutto, with a big hunk of freah bread. Once the pasta is prepared and ready-to-go in an oven friendly dish, I'm cheerfully packed off back to my little flat, down the road from my big fat family.

Emosh day. Watch this space, and my waistline.

The Clink: London’s most exclusive restaurant

The Clink is arguably the nation's most exclusive restaurant, boasting reviews and interest from food critics and chef's alike. Most recently from Charles Campion, who described the food as “sublime”.

Built inside HMP Highdown in Surrey, The Clink was devised as a final training ground for it's students of NVQ level catering, and helping them gain practical experience and exposure to the catering industry.

Creator and tutor, Chef Alberto Crisci MBE, devised the project to tackle to problem of reoffending and to promote the issue of rehabilitation. Chef Crisci is the catering manager at Highdown Prison, Surrey, where he has worked for 15 years. Alongside the running and production of The Clink, Crisci continues to manage Catering within the prison.

Previously he worked and trained at the prestigious Mirabelle Restaurant in London, and is the Winner of the Butler Trust and BBC Radio Four Food and Farming Awards.

In 2009 he received an MBE for his services to the catering industry. It was Chef Crisci’s dynamic and determined approach to rehabilitation which propelled Her Majesty’s Prison Service in to highlighting the significance of rehabilitation, and agreeing to build The Clink.

When it comes to the inmates, his attitude is not biased, he looks at the whole project as an opportunity to better and change inmates attitudes and lives.

“Once the inmates comes to prison, that is their punishment; it could be your son. If it was your son, would you prefer that he was banged up and beaten and treated with disrespect?

"As far as I am concerned his punishment is he is in prison, he has to do what he is told and that is it.

"Bare in mind some of these people have no-one, so when they come out they have nothing no job, no family, no job and no qualifications the likelihood is that they will come back.

“It is a very short term view to say get in them in bang them up, treat them badly and they’ll never come back. If they have no other choice, no means of supporting themselves and nobody will give them a job, the chances are they will definitely come back,” says Crisci.

His ideas began when he introduced City & Guilds NVQ training, which he is now able to accompany with experience in a professional and highly accredited restaurant.

The idea is, by providing inmates with this kind of opportunity, it will dramatically increase if not secure their chances of gaining employment upon release. In the mean time, inmates gain self-respect as they are offered an opportunity to change their lives.

When I attended The Clink it was the most surreal experience of my life, and the most humbling.

The food produced was exquisite and so was the service. It was quite overwhelming to think that these men, who cheerfully and professionally prepared and served my meal would be locked up in a cell by night.

There is nothing that can prepare you for it, it is as if you step in to another world from the moment you pass through security, high wired fences, massive concrete blocks. Then, The Clink door is opened, and the world changes again.

Am I in Mayfair? NO, I'm in a prison.

Chef Crisci is also a supporter of locally produced food, and backs local producers by using in house produce. Seasonal vegetables are also grown by inmates are used regularly in the menu.

Guests of The clink are limited to invite only, and it is arguably London’s most exclusive restaurant, with a menu to rival Michelin star chef’s, a service that is next to none, and an exclusivity which contends London’s finest dining venues.

The Clink encourages attendance of prospective employers within the catering industry and beyond and The Clink also receives support from numerous foundations, charities, businesses, organizations and individuals.

The restaurant opened in May 2009, as a non-profit business and all funds received go back into The Clink Charity. It is a project which opens minds and which changes everything; not least the future of our society. The Clink is an extraordinary innovation and gift to British society.

NB: Inmates who are able to apply to work at The Clink are strictly limited, and inmates with a violent history are not given these privileges. For more information visit http://www.theclinkonline.com/

Big Fat Greek 18th

We arrive at 'Galu', in Surrey. Champagne is served in the privately hired restaurant, as the room fills with family and friends. My brother is enjoying the champers a little too much.

“Hello, you are looking well, ” says my dad, to a man he recognizes.

“Yes, we’re lucky, we’re good looking b******s,” replies this man.

And so the night begins…

The atmosphere is buzzing, Mediterranean glamour exudes everywhere. I spot a yaya in leopard print; a gentle reminder that F.A.B.U.L.O.U.S. isn’t just a word. I’m definitely in the right place. I can’t help but smile at this point. (Hopefully no one saw me.)

How refreshing. Not least because there is an abundance of animal print .

I’m so glad I'm sporting a shiny dress and fur (it isn’t real, relax) coat.

Tables are ordered tactfully into different groups. I sit down drink in hand, and start to make conversation with other guests on my table. I meet a girl whose life has been so similar to my own it’s no longer uncanny, it's just scary. She's smart and gorgeous, naturally.

“How do you know Andreas?” and “You look Greek!” are the opening lines.

"Xekina Mia Psaroboula" is playing, as the mezze is served.

We all begin to stuff our *delicate* faces. Wow, normally I eat all the pies alone.

*EYESLIGHTUP* Calamari are served then meats, fruit, cake & Greek sweets…by now I’m bulging, so I attempt to wash it down with a glass of wine, or two.

It doesn’t work, I just feel my cheeks getting redder and my smiles getting sloppy.

The Greek dancing ensues, and I have to admit I wanted to join in, but I didn't want to spoil the seriousness of those arm moves. Then out of nowhere, Mama and Papa start dancing ‘Greek style’ without knowing the moves, I'm encouraging them obviously.

After an indulgent few hours, which made my high school leaving ball at the queen stand seem like the set of sesame street, the cab has arrived in a less than cindarella-esque manner, and we leave.

Good bye little-peice-of-Greece, hello stuffed vine leaves and the gym. URGH.

Doris, the little blue car

I have this friend and she has this car; her name is 'Doris' (Dot), the car that is. My girls have a thing about naming their cars, I suppose it makes them feel more significant in our lives when we look back at all the times we ‘drove here and there’, and went to see ‘this or that…’

Honey and Ethol, are other members of the car family. But Doris is probably my favorite; we’ve been through a lot together. Namely getting lost and running out of petrol in random places, usually when you really need to NOT get lost and run out of petrol. Like on the motorway on the way to Cardiff, or, parked uphill far away from home and money, or during midnight cruises through central London gawping at the Harrods display windows, whilst being chased by crazy mice. We've even been mistaken for 'doggers' in the past, while enjoying a great view and our favorite chip-shop chips.

Yes, Doris has a few stories to tell.

Most recently, she accompanied us to the countryside looking for a wildlife reserve in the woods, at night. Yes, that’s right in-the-woods-at-night. Good idea why not, right? WRONG!

It went a bit like this…

Pal: “I want to look for this place I have work experience at next week, I’ve got the tom-tom, will you come with me?”

Me: “OK.”

Driving…chatting…we arrive at a side road off the motorway somewhere. The road is bumpy. Bumpy is an understatement. There are ditches either side of the car. Pitch black. *please see above picture*

“What are those, wait is that, are they? SH*T, we’re driving past a cemetery!” *shiver*

We’re getting scared at the idea that by some coincidence the tires are going to burst, and we are blatantly going to re-live some demented horror film, if we don’t GET-OUT-OF-HERE.

Alas, we see lights up ahead. It looks like a lorry, one of those massive ones they have in America…in all the (moment of realisation) HORROR FILMS! *S.C.R.E.A.M*

SCREECH! We’re really getting scared now, what was that? Over-grown branches are clawing at our Doris. We find the place. Mission accomplished. We start heading back.

BANG! “What is that under the car,” said my anxiety inducing friend. So, she gets out and looks underneath, it’s a MASSIVE branch wedged under the car.

ARE –YOU-SERIOUS. We can’t move, and another car is coming to block us in from some other random country lane. I jump out, lift, wedge, push and pull ( Because if I don’t a crazy Freddie-esque man is going to charge out of the bushes any second) until it is out. Back in the car, we head off.

Too much excitement for a school night. Poor Dot. We love Doris, she's so much more than a little blue car. Where would we have been without her these past few years? BORED, I expect.