Check out our new resident chef Tom Adams, kicking things off with his love of The Grill. His intensity on the subject is a little scary….

Now I am unsure if this fever, addiction, obsession, whatever term my friends have used to describe my grilling neurosis, is something shared by the cooking masses of England.

I do, however, know that it should be. Once the grill gets you, all other range burners, wise-crack ovens and sous-‘lets cook a pigeon breast for three weeks’-vide water baths suddenly seem in the microwave league of the kitchen.

Let me expand…

The grill, here, refers not to the barbeques of Homebase’s finest range of Aussie-style grilling machines that occupy half a good-sized garden, fail to be challenged by whole carcasses, and set about making bitter even the most sweet and proud of protein.

The grill in its truest form finds its flavour and heat not from gas or charcoal but from the most abundant and natural of sources: wood. Regardless of the all-important fuel issue, an issue I will happily give due attention to, grilling, as a cooking technique in general, is one that has a lot going for it: what other method allows for such a dark and intensely flavoured crusted steak that remains almost arrogantly rare in the centre? Few, very few.

As Harold McGee, in what must be the most important cooking book of the past few decades, his Encyclopedia of Kitchen Science, History and Culture, so states in regard to grilling as a technique: “This tremendous amount of heat is at once the great advantage and the principle challenge of grilling. It makes possible a rapid and thorough browning of the surface, and so produces intense flavours.”

I have all the respect in the world for McGee’s veritable bible of cooking and he hits the mark on the ‘intense flavour’ front but for Christ’s sake Harold, talk about the fuel!! To save a boring lecture on the associated pro’s and con’s of charcoal and burning wood the equation can be put simply:

Charcoal an adequate grilling fuel whose prime victims should really never go beyond the banger and, his close friend, the burger. I am not being a barbeque fascist, well maybe I am, but seriously, if one puts steak or delicate seafood to charcoal big bad bitterness stands ready to bite you.

Wood (Oak most suitably, but the woods of fruit-tree’s offer subtlety and excitement for those willing to go the distance) = think Arbroath Smokie’s-the haddocks greatest gift to mankind, think hot-smoked trout, think of the smoked Paprika’s of the Extremadura region “La Vera” in Spain, and the chorizo’s that make such incredible use of their smokey ‘X-factor’. It is this addictive nuance of smoke that the wood provides. Not a bitter and aggressive affair but one that takes an ingredient and adds to it. The wood cooks, but it also adds. Simple as that.

For the past few years Zeren and myself have spoken hushed whispers about forming a grill club for those friends and food affiliates who share our passion. The idea was conceived perhaps unsurprisingly on a visit to San Sebastian, a Mecca for anyone who gets even remotely aroused by food-its production, its cooking, and its exhibition.

Having staggered repeatedly through the cobbled streets of the city’s old quarter, home to a mind-numbing amount of Pintxos bars (the Basque equivalent to the tapas of Barcelona, Catalunya, and the rest of Spain in general), with a combination of gout, indigestion and Txacoli induced delirium we stumbled across a small and unassuming bar recommended highly by our Spanish friend we were with.

No menu existed, but for those in the know this bar offered a steak to end all steaks. When one thinks of the endless variety of spankingly fresh seafood on offer and the cured delicacies that owe their greatness to the black-hoofed pigs of the area, the idea of steak may sound shortsighted. I was doubtful but needlessly so.

Fore-rib, on the bone, seemingly hung for decades with a marbling so extensive that it resembled a river delta, or Birmingham’s road system perhaps. The raw product was insane but it was the attention given to the grill by our unseen chef that induced the real insanity. Crust? Check. Subtle smokiness? Check. Fat rendered with more smokiness? Check. A sweet aftertaste that still haunts me a year later? Check. “How the f**k has this happened?” I asked my friend. “wood and grill”. Nuff Said.

To cut this grill polemic short, we now hold grill clubs as much as is ecologically possible: a couple of simple half-drum-esque grills, no more extravagant than when the first homonids accidentally smashed two flints together over some assorted twigs, are fuelled with oak logs burnt down to a glowing white and orange and red stage: think molten lava dusted with icing sugar and your there.

Flames only lick from the drum as an afterthought and it should remain that way, although the rendered fat from your chosen beast will always offer its combustible drippings to the equation: not a problem, think of it as another avenue of aroma. Once the grill is in place, go nuts! Try and ween yourself from the banger, burger and chicken-wing combo that whilst offering tasty sustenance will do little to spark the intrigue and taste overload that the grill can offer.

An Example: last week hearts (venison, chicken and duck) found their way onto the grill via skewers, lightly grilled marrow (removed from the bone) was given added texture whilst its richness multiplied through its apparent fondness for the grill. Brindisa’s chorizo made the starting line-up as per usual, quails were spatchcocked in homage to the Turkish grills of East London and of course the forerib (good but never will San Sebastian finds a worthy adversary).

Once the taste has made its impression and the balls get bigger then get cheffy; stuff hearts with marrow and parsley, see what happens with roes, brains and sweetbreads above the grill, or, in an attempt to re-create the grilltopia of Bittor Arguinzoniz’sExtebarri just south of Bilboa, carefully introduce oysters, langoustines, and eels to the smokey party.

There may be a few failures (chicken livers-they need butter. Grills and butter hate each other. Stay away.) but more often than not, when the best raw produce is faced with a wood-fuelled grill given religious preparation (remember the molten lava dusted with icing sugar stage) the taste aftershocks will leave even the most humble Sunday barbeque boy re-thinking his operation. Fact.

Top Feeds where the grill gets given its due:

Extebarri, Axpe near Atxondo, Spain: 094 658 30 42

www.asadoretxebarri.com

www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/sep/13/best-place-to-eat-barbecue

Mangal Ocakbasi Restaurant, 10 Arcola Street, off Stoke Newington Road London E8 2DJ: 020 7275 8981.

www.mangal1.com/index.htm

Buen Ayre, Broadway Market, Hackney, London, E8 4QJ: 020 7275 9900.

www.buenayre.co.uk

Go to these places, get inspired, and no doubt the right kind of barbeque neurosis will find you.

The Beasts, the Birds, and their Bits that particularly appreciate the grill

Fore-rib of Beef (keep it on the bone at all costs! Render the fat and be prepared to push it to the edge of the grill wrapped in foil to gently finish him off after initial crusting.)

Butterfly shoulder of Lamb (screams for a caper-heavy salsa-verde after a good grilling)

Pork Belly (Confit your belly then finish it off on the grill. Think ‘pulled-pork’ on a whole new level.)

Hearts (all shapes and sizes but they must be beatingly fresh for maximum enjoyment. Thin strips of venison heart are a serious treat. Try stuffing the smaller hearts.)

Spatchcock Chicken, Quail, Guinea Fowl (try and stick with lighter fleshed birds. Duck does not seem to appreciate his time on the grill as much as chicken) al la the ‘chicken shacks’ in Portugal’s Algarve and the Turkish grill houses (‘ocakbasis’) of London’s East-End. Find the best dried mole chilli’s:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poblano

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pasilla

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mulato_pepper and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chipotle - blend them up with garlic, some more of that smoked paprika and add some olive oil for a birdy rub capable of inducing trance like states of unrivalled satisfaction.

Brindisa’s holy grail cooking Chorizo’s were made to be grilled so don’t f**k about with frying pans here. León picante cooking chorizos, made with perfectly hot pimentón, are a personal favourite but most things found on their shelves will cause nervous excitement.

Brindisa
Borough Market. 8 Southwark Street, London, SE1 1TL. www.brindisashops.com/products/meats/chorizo_cooking/

Start with these then move to pastures more daring and soon those fruit trees in the garden might start to get a wee bit nervous…

Mangal Bites Back.

Try not to be too liberal with the BYO policy of Mangal…reviews might fall head-achingly short.

You might have heard about it, many have. If you have not then the first part of what has now become a two-part review, is unlikely to do much to inspire a traverse of London into the East-End and the small road in Dalston that houses the spearhead of London’s Turkish food scene. I’ll try my best.

BYO’s are a truly beautiful thing; a breath of fresh ‘anti-corkage’ air in a city increasingly obsessed with the Cru-Classé of their wine-list and painfully fascist in their approach to corkage as a result. I appreciate the fact that restaurant profit margin revolves heavily around their turnover of wine, but wine, in restaurants most pressingly, remains the juice of the gentry, and unnecessarily so in my view. Can restaurants please take a step back, put the sterling to one side, and let the diner enjoy some guilt-free tipsiness:

“Can I book a table for two please? And would it be okay to bring a special bottle with me for the occasion?”

“Certainly Sir. I’m afraid we charge £40 corkage….” Prolonged silence. “Are you still there Sir?”…

“Sorry, yes I am here, I just momentarily choked on a cork, I’ll be there at 8pm and I’ll probably just order from the list, which is sh*t by the way.” Fascist pig.

Mangal Ocakbasi, on Arcola Street in Dalston, is not one of these places. For licensing reasons, though I would like to remain romantically convinced it’s down to a Samaritan ethos, it is a restaurant where food is eaten and enjoyed as it should be. No tablecloths, no silver, no ‘I must be a good restaurant because I have a Hirst on the wall’, no Riedel stemware, no wine list, no corkage, and thus, no French sommelier. In short, Mangal is a place where you sit without the proverbial rod up your arse and, as such, this is a place I like.

Having queued for as long as you have to (no booking here) with the smells of grilling Adana kebab, the pinnacle of skewered minced lamb, and quail filtering down the line, you enter to see what the Turks, apart from Delights, rugs and war, do best: the grill. The grill lines half the restaurant, a beast of a creation, itself full of various beasts, a cooking workhorse, the Nissan Navarra of the cooking world.

So, you’re halfway into the restaurant and you already feel like an extra in Arabian Nights: hustle, bustle, smoke, fire, foreign smells, slight arousal, noise, heat, sweat, and some over-worked Turk pushing past laden with indecipherable meat: I’m happy, sweaty but happy. The only problem is the sight of everything that you may potentially be eating on arrival does not translate into menu security. “Where has that thing that looked really good on the grill got to on this piece of laminated paper?” Fortunately for the diner, very little on the menu fails.

Now, this is the part where I tell you exactly what to eat, avoid and then order again. But therein the problem lies… I was celebrating: Zeren, myself and four other friends were in party mode and for some unexplained reason I thought a magnum was an appropriate measure (the others all brought bottles). I got excited, arrogant maybe, and abused the BYO. Lesson learnt. I can tell you that the lamb Adana and quails are exceptional. The flat-bread that greets you at the table makes a great mopper for the olive-oil rich hummous-one that sticks both fingers up at the miserable ‘chickpea minus tahini’ effort that a certain unnamed supermarket will offer you. On from that it is a tasty blur. From a receipt found in my pocket the next morning I can tell you that the meal came to about £15 a head.

In many ways, this short drunken story has a moral. There are very few places in London where you can cut loose, celebrate, eat well with friends, leave stuffed, happy, and ready to party with a £15 bill in your pocket. I rewind to my imaginary conversation with Restaurant De La Corkage:

“Certainly Sir. I’m afraid we charge £40 corkage….” Prolonged silence. “Are you still there Sir…?”

“Sorry, yes I am here, I just momentarily choked on a cork, I won’t be there at 8pm; I’ll be at Mangal in Dalston, enjoying my food, my company and my wine.” “Oh, and by the way, its going to cost me f**k all.”

The very nice front-of-house at Mangal might not enjoy a review hailing their treasured restaurant as a house of fun rather than food but they should be..they should be very proud of it indeed.

I will return, I may keep myself in check, I’m thinking Riesling to help on that front, and I will try to review from something closer to the textbook: sharp, concise, and sober. But I probably won’t have as much fun.

The restaurants sticking their necks on the line to provide wine for the masses:

Zucca in Bermondsey is fast making a name for itself as the St John for the Italian tongue thanks to Sam Harris’ bottomless passion and skill regarding all things Italian. Few recognise the wine list. Sam knows his sh*t: a wine list holding the breadth of offerings from Tenuta dell’Ornellaia and Sassicaia is always a good place to start at prices cheaper than anywhere in London. The wine list is constantly evolving so go eat and drink, return a few weeks later and there will probably be something new to try. Great food, great wine. Simple. (183 Bermondsey Street, London SE1 3TQ, 0207 378 6809.)

Frontline Club Restaurant Sources all its produce from within 100 miles of its location in Paddington. The wine list, put together by wine-guru Malcolm Gluck, echoes the attention to value, humbleness and provenance in the menu…and then some. £10 flat charge added to every bottle of wine is music to the ears of every wine lover in London. So that means a £30 bottle from a wine merchant will cost you £40…patronising mathematics from me but I just need to get the point across. No 300% mark-ups. Never. Combined with Veal Sweetbreads with asparagus and caper dressing and I don’t really know why I’m writing this and not booking a table for tonight. (13 Norfolk Place, London W2 1QJ, 020 7479 8960.)

Bob Bob Ricard is an unusually good experience. American diner meets underground bourgeois Moscovite hangout is not something one finds everyday of the week. The wine list however has none of the confusion of the restaurant that it finds itself a part of. It is extensive, varied and insane value. Throughout the wine list, without fear, there are notes that inform the diner of the price of the wines at other established London eateries and the difference is remarkable. Romanee-Conti Echezeaux 1996 (not something ordered by many) at £483 compared to £1600 at Alain Ducasse. They have Cheval Blanc, Vega Sicilia, Sassicaia, Guigal, Gaja, Shafer, Beaucastel, D’Yquem, all at comparatively great prices. (1 Upper James Street, London, W1F 9DF, 020 3145 1000.)