Holidays: Whose Good Idea Was That Then?

Hello! Are you back at work? It's cold, isn't it? Right after the last post we jumped into an Addison Lee cab and made for Heathrow. Scrap and S were full of "beans", while I felt completely bloody awful. Sick, tired, full of cold and thick with late-December London booze-fuelled poison. I was looking forward to the 11-plus hour flight as it meant I could sit in a chair for hours drinking Lemsip. You're right, I really was a barrel of laughs. Anyway, that was Tuesday morning. By Wednesday morning we were at the hotel, just about the single best place ever. Instead of wind and rain and grey skies it was hot and bright and quiet and calm and the sun felt good on our mottled, milk-white skins. By tea-time we were enjoying a Singapore Sling and watching the sun - now a blood-red ball - dip down into the Andaman Sea. We looked at each other - quite a lot - either just smiling widely and wondering whether we really were here, or whether it was some sort of waking dream. In fact, thanks to the jetlag - we're still dealing with the return journey's dose - it actually was some sort of waking dream.



We'd be first to breakfast (at 6am) for fruit and noodle soup (sometimes fish ball, sometimes chicken, sometimes white ear mushroom) and coffee. To be to honest, we had noodle soup for breakfast every single day. I generally had a version of it for lunch and dinner too. We were also first to bed (at 9pm at the latest) after a couple of drinks and, possibly, a single delicious gasper on the balcony (although Thailand's policy of plastering it's cig packets with autopsy snaps did take the shine off the moment a little). We usually squeezed in a couple of hours nap in the afternoon too.



So the days began to take shape. We swam, had ten minutes in the sun and got back under the umbrella. Scrap met up with his pals at kid's club for an hour or two meaning S and I could actually read books and relax for the first time in four and a half years. I read Gomorrah and S read The Road Home. S even had to buy more books from the hotel gift shop. She described Second Chance as "by far the worst book I have ever read", but she read it all the same. I tried to work my way through David Simon's Homicide, but after the sharp brilliance of Roberto Saviano's book it seemed a bit ponderous and heavy. Scrap watched Wall-E and Scooby Doo Aloha. Best of all, we watched no telly and ate no cheese or wheat.

After a refreshing nap we drifted down to the beach for a swim or build a sandcastle or to just lie in the warm surf. S had a massage every single day. One afternoon she spent wrapped in something amazing at the spa and came back smelling of amazing oils. I got so lost in the moment I agreed to a pedicure (I can fully recommend the experience). We all got a little colour. The black bags under my eyes began to shrink (that might have been the Clinique products). We got used to never wearing more than swimming costumes. On Christmas Eve there was a party. It was interrupted by a huge downpour, but no one cared. Rain's warm and it feels nice on your head. I took the opportunity to slip back to the room for an unbrella, hoiking down two glasses of champagne on route. The Bangkok Symphony Orchestra played and there was a bizarre dance performance entitled "The Miracle Of Christmas". Santa came by to say hello. We drank wine for the first time in a week (it was horrible).



There was a little row of shops and restaurants outside the hotel where we bought drinks and snacks and had our lunch and got our laundry done (S got a bit obsessed with this service). I got a black pinstripe suit made by a lovely woman in an incense-perfumed tailors. I tried it on for the first time with my bare, brown feet poking out the bottom and liked it very much. We developed a taste for Nori Seaweed crisps and put lime juice on everything. In the evenings we ate steamed crab and the soda or tonic for your gin or vodka was served in its own tiny jug. This was, literally, the best holiday of all time. We came home to weather so cold it made our hair hurt.

Fabio starts school next week. I have "gone freelance". There is snow on the ground. It's always good to be home, but this morning we woke up and said to each other, "Wouldn't you like to be back at the Katathani?" and the answer was, "Yes. Quite a lot, actually."

The Most Alien Place On Earth...

... is, apparently, Socotra in the Indian Ocean. I stole the picture from here where, if you feel the urge, you'll find a great article about the island (I want to go now).

Landcroft House Is On Holiday

We're off - see you in a week!

Piri Piri Starfish

I am reading this new cookery book instead of doing my stinky VAT return. It's about the food of Portugal (which I hold in high regard) and in this particular recipe, the writer's talking about a lovely small town where Rob and I once had an idyllic holiday, halfway up a mountain, surrounded by lemon groves (though the villa was owned by a hairy nudist so I didn't like sitting on the chairs). I really could eat these prawns for my lunch now. Though I'd settle for the whisky.

Prawns with Piri Piri, Whisky and Lemon by Tessa Kiros
Tavira is a wonderfully sleepy, ancient town in Portugal's south. I ate this one night in a small restaurant there and it was so lovely that I asked the lady how she made it. This makes a perfect starter before a main course of grilled fish.
400g raw prawns
1 tbsp olive oil
50g butter
2 small bay leaves
2 garlic cloves, chopped
1 tbsp chopped parsley
ground piri piri
1/2 tsp sweet paprika
3 - 4 tbsp whisky
juice of 1 small lemon, plus extra lemons to serve

Remove the heads from the prawns but leave the shells on the bodies, make a shallow cut down the back of each one so they take in the flavour of the sauce and de-vein them. Rinse and pat dry.

Heat the oil and half the butter in a large non-stick saucepan until very hot and sizzling. Thrown in the prawns and bay leaves gradually, trying not to lose the heat, so the prawns get crusty and golden. Toss the pan and season with coarse salt and pepper. When the prawns are nicely golden on bth sides, add the garlic, parsley and as much piri piri as you like, the paprika and the last of the butter.

Toss until you can smell the garlic, then add the whisky. When it's been absorbed, add the lemon juice and toss it all together. Let it bubble for a moment, then use a slotted spoon to lift the prawns onto a plate.

Add about 4 tablespoons of water to the pan and let it bubble up to thicken the sauce. Remove for the heat, return the prawns to the pan and toss through the sauce. Serve with some bread for the sauce and a lemon wedge or two.

It's Called "Work", Apparently

Silvana's gone to Pamplona for some jolly-up job for Delicious. She sent this this morning. Looks nightmarish, doesn't it?

Wood-fired Sparrows

At the very far end of Torre Del Lago, just across the square from Lake Massaciuccoli, sits a fantastic restaurant called Da Cecco. My family used to holiday in the region through the 60s, 70s and 80s and a selection of us, plus some friends, gathered there this weekend for my cousin Joanna's 30th birthday. After a hairy journey with my 74 year-old Dad insisting on driving our enormous hire-car (my sister in the back seat quaking while I shouted 'too close!' and 'change gear!' and 'bike!!'), we arrived at dusk just as the mist was gathering over the lake and the first glasses of Prosecco were getting lined up on the bar.

Twenty eight of us in all, sat round a long table and ate nine courses over a five hour period. After the first hour it all got a bit hazy but I can remember that there was antipasti, crostini (the restaurant's signature dish and secret recipe), two pasta courses, two meat courses and that it was one the best meals I've probably ever had (hic).
On the long table next to ours, a group of real Italians were celebrating a birthday too, but one of their thirty nine courses was being spit-roast over the log fire at the end of the room. The chef marinated baby sparrows in seasoned oil and threaded them onto a very long spike with some bay leaves, lardo and the odd little chunk of Tuscan bread. Uncle Gino says baby sparrows like that are usually eaten whole as the bones are so soft. Mmmmm.

Hang On, This Record Is Good Too...

The Autumn Defense: Feel You Now (Broken Horse, 2007)
I know you don't spell "defence" like that, but these people are from Chicago and they don't know how to spell there. Anyway, this record is fantastic, lushly produced and full of hugely lovable pieces of what is best described as melodic soft rock. To be honest, it makes me wish I had some Bread albums. There are - at least - another five tracks as good (or, if you prefer, bad) as this on the album. I think it's great, but you probably worked that out for yourself already.

Bonus Chicago Fact: Silvana and I went to Chicago once. We had a Chicago "pizza pie" in what was recommended as the best "pizza pie" place in the city. It was revolting.

Venice

Summary:
Ice cream, The Lido, pizza, Prosecco, boats, bridges, steps, lots of people, Peggy Guggenheim, siesta, sunshine, skint

Click here to see our pictures

Venetian Whirl

We're off to Venice tomorrow for a few days and need some good recommendations on where to eat and what to see. Anyone?

Churros Con Chocolate

One of the best things Spain has to offer is without doubt, Churros paired with thick hot chocolate for dunking and drinking.
It was on the last day of our mini-holiday and a fairly early Sunday morning when we finally came across a proper Churreria on a dusty B-road. It had the lightest, crispiest and softest churros ever, ever, being made on the spot. A large spiral one and two glasses of chocolate was more than we three could manage and just three euros. So glad we didn't go home without tasting them.
In case you're wondering, on the last night, our holiday-neighbours had a party and their daughters got hold of Scrap and he emerged quite a while later complete with glittery lip gloss, fluffy hair clip and that pink nail varnish you can see in the picture. And very pretty he looked too.
Here's a recipe

Katz's Deli

So on our last day, Robert went off to do his interview and I trotted about on Fifth Avenue looking for a gift for Jackie's new baby daughter. We met up again and set off for NY's oldest deli Katz's (thanks for recommendation Dis). It's been there since 1888 and is positioned in the Lower East Side which is not the nicest part of town.

Anyway, it's quite a joint. It's jam-packed with locals who all know the drill - one ticket per person, left side for service, right side to queue at the bar, give ticket to cashier on way out. We chose a soup each (Rob the chicken noodle and me the chicken matzo ball) then shared a giant pastrami on rye with pickles. It was fantastic.



Unfortunately, I lost my ticket which turned out to be almost a criminal offence with a fine of $50, in the end, the server told me to leave him a good tip on the table and he'd see what he could do. I left $10 and he slipped me the dodgy ticket and we were allowed to leave. Go there, it's amazing but don't let go of your ticket.

Otto

Last summer I read - and very much enjoyed - Heat by Bill Buford, the story of the former New Yorker literary editor's adventures as a "kitchen bitch" at Babbo, the hugely successful restaurant owned and run by The Ginger-Haired Wild Man of New York chefery, Mario Batali. Towards the end of the book, after many months spent being burnt, exhausted and delighted in equal measures, Buford moves to Italy to learn about butchery and pasta making. Meanwhile, Batali dreams up Otto, one of a string of restaurants he now has in New York. As far as I can remember, Buford suggested that the smart money said an up-scale, local pizza place just wouldn't work. Well, the smart money was wrong.

We arrived at 7:28 for a 7:30 booking and were wafted through an enormous crowd to our table. The place was packed and a scrum was forming at the desk. We ordered quickly - the seafood anti-pasti selection ($21), one pizza lardo and one anchovy pizza.

The wine took a while to arrive and the anti-pasti was vey average, but the pizzas were incredibly good - thin and crunchy bottomed. And then we chose two ice creams - Olive oil with Maldon sea-salt and Sweetcorn. Both were fantastic, actually, y'know, exciting, which is not something you often get to say about ice cream.

Great prosecco grappa too. Hic.

Grand Central Station Oyster Bar & Restaurant

Have you ever been to Grand Central Station? It's really, really bloody grand! The terminal houses a fantastic food market, lots of shops and a bustling dining concourse. I've always wanted to eat at the oyster bar and I wasn't at all disappointed. Yeah, I know, I'm easily pleased. But it was great and so, so much cheaper than you'd expect. The menu is changed daily and today they had over 30 different oysters, loads of fresh fish as well as pan roasts and fish from their own smokehouse. We tried The Grand Central Oyster Platter, New England Clam Chowder and the Deep Fried Oysters. With a glass of fizz each the bill was just $64! Sorry about the pictures - it's so dark today!

The adidas Store

So we finally made it through the rain - and there has been a tremendous amount of rain since about 7am - and reached the adidas originals store on Wooster. We went on the subway - a first for me, despite this being my fourth time here - and, thanks to Silvana's excellent map-reading skills, it was the quickest, simplest thing imaginable.

We spent about half an hour wandering around in near silence at this trefoil'd temple to the shoe before deciding on the following: some Superstar Wides, Superstar Skates and - heaven's above! - a hooded top for me; Superstar Skates and Superstar 1's (in the incredible Memphis Grizzlies colourway above) for S and a pair of pure white shelltoes for Scrap. A quick trip to American Eagle Outfitters - aka Gapacrombie - for a pair of jeans (20 quid, squire) and it was back on the subway to Grand Central Station for bivalves and booze.

Dean and Deluca

We woke up early to a dark and very rainy day. With any idea of a walk in Central Park scrapped, we headed into Soho for Dean and Deluca on the corner of Broadway and Prince Street. After I'd finished stroking the kitchenware and expensive metal cylinders of tea and spices we stood by the window and enjoyed a coffee and jam donut. Next to a hung-over-looking Pete Tong. Isn't it a small world! We didn't say hello but ran off through the rain and round the corner to the Adidas Store.

Air India

Robert switched his fancy flight to come cheap and cheerful Air India with me. And it was great! Loads of leg room, nice fabric, really courteous service, generous drinks with spicy lentil snacks and chicken curry for lunch and we landed early! In house entertainment let it down a bit - wobbly and fuzzy but exciting Bollywood thriller with double agents, look-alike-imposters and beautiful women singing and dancing. Didn't quite manage to follow the plot but still, very enjoyable.

In the Hotel now - very swish, very gay (feels like I'm in Ugly Betty) and right in the middle of Manhattan. Tiny little room but super-stylish and with super-fast internet connection for the laptop which will help as we have to try and stay awake for at least 5 hours. Martinis I think....

Actually, We Did Like To Be Beside The Seaside

So, after a fairly torturous morning - I was in the boiler shop at 8:12am - we piled everything we own (well, that's what it looked like) into the car and thrashed it down to Winchelsea for the weekend. We ate lunch on route so we could all go straight to bed for a bit when we got to The New Inn. Two hours later, we were as good as new and made for Rye Harbour where The Scrap raced his Like-A-Bike up the long, long path to the wild and windy seafront. We chucked stones in the water and tried to stop our ears from freezing. Thick black clouds hung over half the sky with the rest of it blue or grey. Rain would appear from nowhere, then disappear into bright sunshine. The sky was endlessly fascinating. However, by the harbour the cloud cover made it look like night was falling, so we raced over to Camber to see some sand and make a few turtles just before sunset. The British seaside in the off season is brilliant.

By 6:15 our window table in the Inn had a pint of Guinness, a JD and Coke and a plate of Suffolk ham, free range egg and handcut (by Mr Beefeater of PotatoCorps Frozen Carb-Delivery Systems) chips. Scrap scoffed the lot, asked the barmaid for "a glass of wine, please" - he got apple juice - wolfed his chocolate ice cream and was ready for bed. With him tucked up we returned to the bar for more Guinness, more JD, some wine, an excellent steak and a great piece of plaice. We were full and happy and ready to pass out. It was 8:25pm.

At nine our old friends Jane and Bruce - who have a cottage nearby came over and we got a very welcome second wind. Jane brought us bags of presents and a parcel of delicious muffins she'd just baked. This morning breakfast wasn't served until 8:30 and Scrap wakes up at 6, so we were very grateful to have those muffins to keep him quiet. We were downstairs by 8:31 and the boiled eggs and soldiers soon followed.

We took the scenic route back to London stopping for fantastic scones, clotted cream and jam at the De La Warr Pavillion, chucked a few more stones in the sea, searched in vain for some cockles or winkles then piled back into the world's filthiest car and made for home.



Next week I'm going to buy The Good Pub Guide so we can do this more often. A lot more often, hopefully.

Nice To Sea View, To Sea View, Nice

So, it's the last day of the Christmas holiday today. It's been great in a way I couldn't really have planned. Mucking about featured highly. I feel like it's been a long time since I had a protracted bout of mucking around.

Anyhow, we went to Whitstable which is great if you're old like us - or tiny like Scrap - but clearly absolute rubbish if you're under 23 and convinced you''ll never be so boring and close to death as to find eating oysters interesting.

It was incredibly cold. We wrapped up as well as we could, but ten minutes of running about the shore line and half an hour's walk up and down the front was all we could manage. We jumped into the car with red faces, runny noses and blue lips. Fabio spent most of the return journey telling me not to wake him up. Which, of course, I wasn't likely to as he wasn't actually asleep.

Goodbye 2006. Hello 2007.