CHOC STAR

Aldeburgh Food & Drink Festival

2008-09-30T23:14:00.007+01:00

I left London too late on Friday to get away with an easy journey. It took hours of snailing along to Blackheath along the A2 and then onto the A12 from the M25 - but once I'd shaken Ipswich free and had slid off at Melton I was back in the world I love. I spent my early years living by the sea here - a marsh-fringed, thinly glazed vast tract of coast with a light to it all of its own. Inland a bit lay the woods. They were where the magic happened as far as I was concerned, and now, though diminished brutally, they still call me in, rustling enticingly.

I drove through the woodland, barely a soul on the road and inhaled deeply that great pine needle fug. Through the villages; Rendlesham, Eyke, Sudbourne until I reached Orford and the red dirt track that leads to my uncle's house. Barely through the front door and I had his six kids throwing themselves at me, desperate for ice cream. We all trooped down the garden path and I doled out the sweet stuff and then went in for supper and a nice cold beer with my uncle and aunt.

I slept a sleep of cool serenity and didn't even object at having to haul myself out of bed to get to the food festival so early. It was beautiful out there. Hares dashed luxuriously along chilled, moist fields and the sun bore sideways. Some places are just special. Maybe it's to do with fond early memories, maybe it's the ley lines, but the enchantment I feel when I'm back in East Suffolk is enough to see me through day after day of London cacophony.

The festival was a real East Anglian affair. Loads of blonde women stalked around in their pink sweatshirts and jostling pearls, directing traders onto their pitches. Hersuit old men came blinking out of the woodwork, tashes twitching, tweeds a-billowing and tables groaned all around with local produce. I wonder if I've reached saturation point but I'm feeling increasingly immune to a lot of this fare. Maybe it's not the fare that's the problem but more the fetishisation of it. It's like we have to keep giving ourselves such whacking great slaps on the back for producing anything that's half decent. Like it's not part of our fabric but a whole other piece of clothing that we parade around in.

Still, Aspall cider was there so I was pretty happy and the English wine on offer was working out quite well for me as well. Once again we had a wonderful sunny weekend and what with the brass band, the smell of the BBQ and the river shimmering away it couldn't have been a nicer close to Choc Star's festival season.

Now is the time to step up the pace and start making some new waves....

Touring the Capital

2008-09-24T11:33:00.004+01:00

So the summer is coming to a close - just one more festival this weekend - and I am turning my thoughts back to the Tour. I need to be in London for the next few months and I want to take the opportunity to seek out some more supper safaris. There are so many opportunities! I'm always joking with the Romanian carwash guys, my mechanics, the dudes at the Jerk Centre about it. They may try and laugh it off but I'm going in - I'm going to work away at the London layer that tries to keep itself to itself. It's a very different beast to the rest of the country. It has its ways, its apparent hardness, its 'don't give a damn' gait - but I suspect there are soft patches and soft spots that chocolate will work wonders with.

So, if you'd like to take part in the Choc Star Tour (does London) - if you cook well or even if you don't, if you like chocolate , if you like new people - e-mail me (feedme@chocstar.co.uk) and let's put in a date! I promise to arrive bearing a wonderful Choc Star special dessert and I don't mind what we eat (as long as it's not tripe).

I already have offers in Camden, North Finchley, Shooters Hill...and a very fruity sounding Rocky Horror supper in Bromley. Yee-hah, can't wait to hit those streets!

Wake and bake

2008-09-22T16:44:00.006+01:00

I'm having such a lovely lazy day off. The last week has been mental, culminating in a four day Slow Food festival on the Southbank. Someone arranged for the weather to be consistently brilliant for the entire thing and the place was a throng of hungry grazers. I loved it. Sometimes you do gigs and they're just so gratifying - customer after customer seemingly thrilled and excited to be occupying the space in front of Jimmy's counter. Loads of 'ooohing' and 'aahhhing'. Lots of great feedback. People who seem genuinely interested in the Choc Star cause. It was hectic and hot and I couldn't seem to slice those brownies up fast enough or roll them truffles quick enough or make enough of the Venezuelan hot chocolate shots but I had several moments of thinking - and as Dolly would muse - "wow, what a way to to make a living!".

I was asked to give a couple of cooking demos at the stage. I'd observed a few others and decided that I definitely wouldn't be taking the serious route. I mounted that podium with all my kit on the first day and was astonished to find that my compere was a TV presenter from my childhood on Anglia Television. Patrick Anthony would read out the birthday cards accompanied by this fluffy puppet called BC. I would long for him to open up one of those huge cards and read out my name but it never happened. I mentioned this on stage and like to think that Patrick may have made a mental note to fix it for my next birthday....The terrine I prepared wouldn't play ball as I tried to turn it out. There was a collective holding in of breath from the audience and then huge, relieved applause when the slab of darkness slunk free from the tin.

Then I was rescued by the graffiti removal squad. Some little shit had tagged Jimmy while he was parked up overnight on the Southbank the week before. I spotted these dudes in their truck and pounced on them. They chuckled gamely and, without any fuss, bowled over to the van with a bucket and some special sollution and wiped that stain clean away. They even gave me some of the stuff in case it happened again while I reciprocated with a couple of chocolate ice creams.

Lord Mayor's Party went off!

2008-09-17T14:35:00.004+01:00

We got pretty well mobbed at the weekend - praise Jesus for the good weather...and the cold weather in the evening. We were caught a bit unawares. We don't know what to expect anymore and have to think pretty quick when the weather changes. Coffee Republic had a pop-up cafe behind us and I had to go and negotiate a milk deal with them. Over and over again we had to return to get more supplies for the hot chocs. As for the ice cream, we were run out of most flavours by Sunday arvo - with Rocky Road, Cookie & Cream and Mint Choc Chip sailing off first.

The brownies also were hard to keep still. People kept coming up to the van saying "I've read about these brownies/apparently they're the best there are/I've been dreaming of this moment". I have to say they were looking pretty special - almost glossy and so deep in colour. Extra Brut I like to call it - but with that unmistakable fudginess that brings you over all abandoned and joyous.

Plenty of new stocks in for this week though. From tomorrow (Thurs 18th) we'll be at the Slow Food Festival by the Royal Festival Hall on the Southbank. And we're going to be doing Venezuelan hot chocolate and truffles...and chocolate Guinness cupcakes. Yikes! Better go and get busy in that kitchen!

Thames Festival this weekend

2008-09-12T11:00:00.003+01:00

The Thames Festival was one of my favourite events of last summer. There was something so great about how it made you really feel part of the city. There were tourists, of course, but much more it felt like all of London coming out to promenade along the Southbank - just as they would have done 100 years ago. And when the fireworks went off on the Sunday night and I crawled along in Jimmy, I got a real kick at seeing everyone out in the street, heads facing the sky, all gazing in wonder at the electro fizz sharding all above.

Choc Star will be in the Jubilee Gardens this year, churning out that chocolate...not sure if it's going to be of the hot or cold variety right now but one thing you can be sure of is that it'll be tasty!

Yes! Yes! Yes!

2008-09-10T23:42:00.002+01:00

I'm so excited! I'm made up, tickled pink, touched by the Thriller from Manilla, chuffed. A real Tennessee Williams moment has taken hold of me today and once more I am blown away by the kindness of strangers.

The legendary Alex from right in the middle of England has rescued my buggered hard drive. We've been in talks since the tour began and, even though we never managed an actual visit, he has been following my progress...and decline. When I posted that the drive had been declared officially unsalvageable he strode into the shadows that had befallen me and gave me light and hope. "You do know that Macs are a pile of crap don't you?", he'd keep saying and I'd just keep on crossing my fingers.

Lord knows how he did it because all the others I took it to up and down Britain couldn't fix it, but the mighty barbecuing Alex has recovered all the pics - from Sussex through Berks., Bucks., Oxfordshire, Warwicksire, Northants., Suffolk, Essex, Norfolk, Lincs. and Yorkshire - and I am so grateful that I'm intending to drive old Jimmy up to his house to say thank you properly.

Thank you Alex you broiling genius!

Bestival: Brown stuff everywhere

2008-09-09T15:55:00.007+01:00

Bestival is the sunny festival, the last gasp of joy at the end of the summer. It's where people cavort in the woods and roll around on the grass. And it's colourful! This year it was all brown - we couldn't get away from it. A big, soupy, stanky danky city of mud...and we were on a hill. Spare a thought for the dressing up tent who got wiped out by a 15ft wide angry mudslide. And we were in Jimmy and boy, I've never been more relieved to be holed up in there. Whilst others fought their ways through the profligate rain and squelch we felt cocooned and surrounded by a more desirable kind of brown.

The freezer remained largely unopened for the weekend but those hot choc machines worked their little butts off. Floating Islands, Jazz It Ups and Jamaican hot chocolates fairly flew off the shelf and it was all we could do to get that milk steamed and that chocolate melted to feed the need.

HIGHLIGHTS: Roni Size getting the slightly dejected crowd buzzing again on Sunday afternoon, the skiffle band in the Polka tent playing Ring of Fire to a delighted, chanting crowd, the outfits that the Choc Star team kept changing into, the chick pea curry at Vicente's stall (it tasted like real food!), John, my high-heeled wellies, Winehouse's gorgeous sailor boy back up singer belting out Killing Me Softly on Saturday night.

Bestival this weekend!

2008-09-02T15:39:00.003+01:00

The time has come to leave the mainland and trundle Jimmy's perky derriere over to the Isle of Wight. We were going to take the gazebo but decided, in the end, that Jimmy and Bestival just belong together and who am I to try and keep them apart?

I just checked out the website and got such a thrill to see the van in cartoon form, all tucked in between Fruit Sticks and toasted sarnies (check it out under Practical Info...although I'd hardly put Choc Star under the practical banner, but I guess everyone needs to know where to access the choc stop).

See you there ravers!

Festibelly

2008-08-28T09:32:00.008+01:00

It's your last chance to come and get a piece of the chocolate pie at Covent Garden - only two more days to go...I'm imagining quite a lot more hot chocs than cold chocs today - it's horrif. Makes you want to bolt for somewhere succulent. Good job being in Jimmy is like a little neon dream world.

This weekend we're in Hampshire for Festibelly, a tiny little festival that we're very excited about. Then comes Bestival where the Choc Star team has decided to contort the '20,000 Freaks Under The Sea' theme and git real freaky. Watch out!

Phoebe's wedding in the 'burbs

2008-08-28T09:31:00.004+01:00

My cousin Phoebe got married to her long term boyfriend, Dom, at the weekend. He's a massive chocolate fan and has been a big advocate of the Choc Star cause since the beginning. They insisted that only the choc-mobile would do as dessert. Knowing how our family is I suggested also laying on a large supply of chocolate martini shots - they really got things jumping. Everyone kept insisting that I let the waiters run the show so I could enjoy the party but there was no way I was going to let that bunch of pubescents loose in Jimmy - I enlisted the help of Belli and Bendy inside and had Beps set up a bar on Gennie from the Box out back. Before long the marquee was depleted and the van was fairly rocking with activity....as ever the Choc Star magic did the trick and I actually kinda liked having access to all the backstage gossip with the caterers.

Covent Garden Night Market

2008-08-14T08:41:00.003+01:00

It's a beautiful morning - rain is predicted but our milkshakes are protected by domed lids and the white chocolate and macademia nut cookies are in little wet weather bags, so come and knock yerselves out!

We'll be on the west side of the Piazza from midday-10pm, spinning out the old Choc Star charm (and some nice edibles too) and will be making it our home every Thursday and Friday during August.

See you in the Garden.

Big Chill

2008-08-06T23:40:00.004+01:00

Camp Bestival

2008-08-06T23:39:00.002+01:00

A nice mellow festival, beautiful weather, lots of customers - all you need really to succeed...but somehow it doesn't always work like this so this was a nice surprise. I met this author called Henry Hemming who's written two books that strike a chord with me. I tracked him down backstage and drilled him for info on getting published. Thick skin is the key, that and terrier like determination - the writing skill doesn't get a look in without these. I'm off to develop tougher skin...

99 Red Balloons

2008-08-06T22:49:00.005+01:00

It's one of my favourite ever pop songs, along with I Want To Break Free and Love is a Stranger (Eurythmics) and I hope to jiminy that I can enjoy it in some way this weekend at the Bristol Balloon Fiesta. I have no idea what to expect - it's not like other festivals where you sort of know your audience but there are half a million of them over the four days so surely some will come knocking for some choc?!

So I'm giving myself a hard time because there's been nothing happening here for ages. But honestly, there's no frickin' time. I put the tour on pause about a month ago in order to do a few private gigs and get into the festival spirit and now it's August. Last weekend was Big Chill and Standon Calling, before that Camp Bestival and Lovebox and before that my most favourite ever (bit like the pop songs but better) - this mesmerising set-up in Norfolk which I'm not allowed to name, what I can say though is that it managed to mimic the effects of phenylethylamine in chocolate and reproduce the feeling of falling in love. We came away from that weekend with our hearts bursting. Christ, it sounds so bloody cheesy but straight up, this festival gave us what a festival should give and all the extra-curricular BS didn't turn up once.

For a start I was able to amble over there, cross-country from my mum's house, which was a great way to arrive. Then we got set up and the shennanigans began - all sorts of people carousing. Big smiles, no dodgy London-in-wellies posturing, all bound up in a mutual trust that everyone is on the same page as far as having a damn good time is concerned. It actually reminded me a bit of raving BITD in that blissed-out, ego-shed, almost innocent way. Last weekend was more of a contrast at the Big Chill. Don't get me wrong, it's a nice festival in many ways but from a trader's point of view the cynicism just reaked.

So here's the thing, a culture of rack it and stack it prevails amongst the food traders. Churn that low-grade food out, give it a nice name with an exotic twist and then jack up the price. Call it Organic (even if it isn't), call it Vegetarian (and then cook in lard), bang on about Farm-Reared then hop off to Bookers for 40 to a pack of frozen value burgers when the stocks run out. That's how you make money at festivals. But if you are trying to do something well then you can sit and spin - plenty of others waiting in the wings if you can't stump up the exorbitant pitch fee. It's no different really to the high street but it just tries to make out that it's not like the real world, which is why it stinks so bad.

Anyway, I'll get some pics of these shindigs up soon - and some more suppers too. And I need to start getting the next phase of the tour off the ground...I'm thinking of taking it to lands afar. Imagine!?

Woah!

2008-07-23T20:47:00.001+01:00

It's roasting. I'm back in London and it's a baking heat that blurs up from the street below. Brixton is in full swing - cars drive past with plunging base that sets off all the car alarms. Kids play basketball over the road and the smell of jerk is everywhere. I went to market yesterday and couldn't take my eyes off all the sartorial flair. It's as if I've been in a hayloft for the past three months for how agog I am amidst the yams and trotters.

I am overdue on several blogs...and I still don't feel as though the tour is finished. I'm going to bring the festis into it and see about some future moves. I had hoped to slot in my adventures in Lincs., Leeds and Brighouse once I had the pics restored from my damaged hard drive..but have received the sad news that they are unrecoverable. Gutted. All those wonderful images - of the Lincolnshire coast (gorgeous), the Wolds, the shock of bleak industry in Scunthorpe and Goole, raving in Leeds and serving ice cream to Buddhists - and ice cream wars in Hyde Park. And then the wonderful evening with Jayne and Chris in Brighouse where we drank the house dry and which culminated in the hangover from hell the next morning and the breakage of my laptop.

I shall just have to draw on my powers of description and write the posts sans pics.

More soon...

On the brink

2008-07-10T23:06:00.002+01:00

Tomorrow is my first festival of the summer. I'm up in Norfolk and heading over there tomorrow. I haven't even finished writing my West country blog entries. People keep asking if my tour's over now but I quash this scandalous talk. No, it's just on a pause, I say, while I take care of a few non-tour related concerns. The truth is that, though I've seen the most wonderful chunk of Britain (and eaten a huge great chunk of food) I'm not done. Not by a long shot. Well I haven't even been to Wales for a start and...what about abroad?? I'm going to sit on this for a while; mull it over and cook up some schemes. I want more of what the Choc Star tour gave me - more great languid voyages of wonder and delight, more new people to meet and countryside to explore.

I look back on the tour (so far) and am bristling with excitement at the distance I've travelled and the sequence of places I've dipped into. Often I got frustrated at not being able to stop longer and would yearn to stay, only to swiftly forget once I hit the road once more. It's addictive this nomadic state. It quells my restlessness. Yet within it is suspended an impulse I have to stay still and go nowhere - to embed myself in a whole new place.

London? London. I eye it with uncertainty. I'm interested in trying it back on again and seeing how it fits. But for now I just pray that the rain pisses off and let's the festivals be - the quagmires and deep, squelchy trenches still cry fresh in my mind. Forecast for the next three days: Heavy Showers...

Supper # 41 - Kingsdown, Bristol

2008-07-03T23:18:00.006+01:00

I left Welham and headed north to Bristol for a much anticipated dinner with Elly. Elly owns a great little place called the Pear Cafe which I've been dying to investigate. I curved along the deep Somerset lanes, through Bruton, round the one-way system, through Bruton, round the one-way system...through Bruton. Bollocks - stuck in a kind of warped Chevy Chase renactment. I could not get on the road to Bristol - I tried everything, every possible option but it wouldn't take me where I needed to go. I nearly had a seizure. Until that point I had felt pretty relaxed about the lack of sat-nav and pretty pleased with myself for always managing to find my way - but I thought I might pass out with fury in Bruton.

In the end I found my way to Elly and her friend who hooked me up to his house in the most convoluted example yet of pumping power to Jimmy's interior - it really was beyond the call of duty and I felt honoured. With Jimmy all hoisted up and harnessed in, off to Elly's flat we strolled, stopping on the way to pick up some delicious wine and pudding ingredients. It was kind of the first time on the whole trip where I was just hanging out in a city with a friend in a regular sort of place...like being at home.

Glastonbury was going on just down the road and as I prepped the pud and Elly added final touches to her Lebanese extravaganza I cursed myself for not being by Jigga's side. I love him. I love his rhymes, his flow, his hustle and his swagger - and I knew he'd entertain the acoustic evangelists down in Pilton. My yearning subsided quickly when Elly produced a fabulous bottle of manzanilla she'd been saving for the occasion - she's a huge great shez-head and I am always keen to see what kind of style she'll introduce me to next. We snacked on cobnuts and marinated zucchini, quaffed iced sherry and chatted...and Hov did his thing on the telly. I continued to drink - in a way that spoke of being in the comfort of my own home - while Elly worked magic in the little kitchen.

WHO CAME: Elly and I

WHAT WE ATE: Roasted aubergine salad salad with saffron yoghurt, chargrilled asparagus, zucchini and haloumi salad with slow roasted tomatoes, roast beetroot, baby spinach, sunflower seed and chervil salad with maple dressing, flatbread with za'tar (sesame, thyme and sumac), fatoush and brown rice tabouleh. Phew! It really was a tour de force and I loved it. I can't get enough of all this delving in and layering up - it's so much more sensuous than an austere piece of 'art' on a plate. I fancy that a medieval style of eating may suit me rather well and who cares about meat when there's this much to make the table groan?

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Well once the sherry had been drunk and then the delicious chardonnay and the amaretto - and a few rollies had passed my lips and given me a light-headed sensation, what we spoke about suddenly seems a little unclear.

THE PUD: So I threw together a chilled chocolate, amaretto, orange and almond terrine. After the Bruton debacle it seemed the best option and besides, I knew Elly would be able to slither cheeky little slices off that old rascal for many days to come afterwards. It's one pud that I never get bored of - how could you? It's not leaden and encumbering, nor overly rich. It's just a cool slice of brown gold dust that fills your heart with niceness and winks at you from the freezer whenever you happen to be passing by.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: I forgot to get a pic. Like I said, it was a heavy night.

Supper # 40 - Shepton Montague, Somerset

2008-07-03T00:15:00.007+01:00

The rain won't stop. It throws down all it has with a kind of glib defiance. I drop my mum at Tiverton Parkway station after a huge lunch and a long, atmospheric walk round her boss' garden. We both agree that it's the most incredible private garden we've ever roamed - even the woodland is landscaped. I'm sad to say goodbye to my mum, I wanted it to be gorgeous weather while she toured with me. I wanted to louche about for longer with her - it's all gone so quickly. Off she goes and on I go - a quick stop-off at Willie's for some more chocolate and a bit of banter and then over to Somerset.

The rain makes me want to curl up and get my cosy on. I don't want to be with strangers tonight so I call and invite myself to uncle Jules' and aunt Di's. A more welcoming response would be hard - the warm wishes of encouragement floweth right through my Sony Ericsson and I attack the journey with gusto. I feel reassured that I'll be amongst family. I wonder if I didn't have the option - which I seem to have had a lot of in the West country - I'd miss it? Perhaps we lean into that which we know will catch us. Yet free-falling is one of my favourite things to do. Maybe I'm just not much of a wet weather free-faller....

So anyway, I arrive back at J&D's in the mid-afternoon. Diana is at work and Jules is running a multi-faceted operation in the kitchen. He's just got hold of the Ottolenghi cookbook and is devouring it in a most hands-on manner. We hang out a while and I offer to decorate the salmon. I realise that I've cooked nothing but chocolate on this entire safari - not a morsel of savoury fare has been fashioned by me so I take to the salmon with vigor, creating for him a translucent ruby coat of sliced tomatoes. I even make eyebrows. It's all very Robert Carrier.

Jules hands the kitchen over to me and I get to work on a sunken chocolate souffle. As it cooks the guests arrive; endless horsey couples from this village or that. Champagne is served in the drawing room, Kettle Chips passed around, the air is awash with the smell of perfume. I'm a recoiler of small talk and am starting to feel a bit like a stuck record:

"I'm having a big, chocolatey adventure in my choc-mobile". / "I look for people to give me supper and then make them a chocolate pudding in return". / "No I don't sleep in the van". / "No I don't have SatNav". / "Yes, I have piled on the pounds and am starting to feel pretty uncomfortable - maybe a more expansive seatbelt is in order".....

...so I talk to the kids about school and years out and...the tour. On the sofa my grandmother holds court. Dressed in one of her Chinese silk kaftans, her silver hair chignoned expertly, she holds her glass as if she might look somehow incomplete without it. The guests sit reverentially, listening in as she talks of days gone by - of business trips to Egypt, Colombia, Manila, New Orleans. Dinner is ready and we all file through to the dining room, the table laid beautifully, fresh flowers everywhere.

WHO CAME: Jules, Di, one of their kids (Emily), Grandjane, three couples.

WHAT WE ATE: For starters a salad of samphire, green beans, sesame and tarragon - vivid green, glossy and summery. Next the aforementioned enrobed salmon, bright yellow Bearnaise sauce, baked endive stuffed with gruyere and prosciutto and royal potato salad, studded with quails egg and smothered in salsa verde - my favourite thing in the whole world. The fish is pale and super fresh. I can taste its insistent upriver journey working onto my tongue. We drink Puligny-Montrachet and '97 Pauillac.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: I sit opposite a caddish looking guy - very Jilly Cooper and, to complete the picture, am intrigued to discover that he is 'Master of the Hunt'. We dance along the delicate rope of convincing one another that we're not out to get the other. I wouldn't dream of criticising the Master's antics, besides, I'm distracted at the thought of the sunken souffle. Sunk? To go down it must go up and this poor mite simply rigamortosed in overbearing heat. Clamped tight and unyielding it sits next door awaiting an ordinary reception.

THE PUD: Luckily there are strawberries and raspberries and great, voluptuous folds of whipped cream to disguise my lacklustre offering. It passes without remark. Any positive on the S.S. I silently dismiss. I tell myself it was the oven's fault.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: I help Emily wash up while the rest of the party carries on drinking. Cigarette smoke wafts through, intermingling with the perfume, the wine and the smell of delicious food. It smells like a good time and yet it seems surprising to have the fag smell in there. How quickly we adjust - and how few homes I've been in on this trip where any smoking has occurred.

Bed is cool and reassuring and I sleep as heavily as usual.

Supper # 39 - Wellington, Devon

2008-07-03T00:14:00.010+01:00

Sorry - this post is no longer for public consumption.

Weston Super (night)Mare

2008-06-30T17:29:00.005+01:00

It just doesn't have quite the same retro appeal as my beloved Morecambe. My mum had joined me for a couple of days and we headed over there from Nailsea (after a fun night of boozing it up with the delightful Sue and Trev from Foresters). We'd heard that there were more charity shops in Weston than anywhere else in the UK. My mum's ears pricked up and that wild look took over her face: TAT! Off we trailed, along a particularly dreary part of the tour - along suburban lanes bereft of intrigue or funk - and into town.

There is the distasteful whiff of inertia about the place. It's as if there was a choice between sentience and coma and everyone in Weston chose the latter. The shop keepers can barely be bothered to look up, the waitress seemed joyless and those poor old donkeys...

I even discovered a 'farm shop' that haunted me it was so horrif. I tried my best to rescue some bags of grated cheese from their ambient, mould-inducing stupor but nobody in the shop seemed to care. I left in a hurry, past confused samplers wondering why I didn't want to taste the smudged bits of lemon cake. We pushed on out of there with relief.

Chocolate tasting - Clevedon Pier, North Somerset

2008-06-28T13:11:00.007+01:00

I did a chocolate tasting last week at the most beautiful place I've ever had the pleasure to talk on this fine subject. Clevedon Pier is a Victorian fantasy - 200 yards of gappy planks marching out to a deathly looking sea miles below. The good people of Foresters turned out in their dozens to squeeze into the tiny little capsule at the end of the pier. We tried raw beans, roasted nibs, 100% pure, Venezuelan truffles, champagne truffles, 70%, milk and then finished off with a tray of chocolate martini shots. And then another tray...and another. By the time it was time to traverse back to the mainland we were all hugging and kissing each other like old friends.

This place flicked my switches and I'd return in a heartbeat.

Supper # 38 - Molland, Devon

2008-06-28T13:10:00.005+01:00

Molland is really old fashioned. It lies up towards Exmoor coming away from South Molton; a small cluster of houses all looking like they're ready to drop into the road from their high up positions on the bank. As I drive along I lament my lack of horn - you can't see a thing and putting the chimes on is hardly much of a warning blast. If anything it confuses people and they look around, unsure of where the amplified music box sound is wafting in from. I curl around the corners, past the village pub and the tight group of teenagers hanging around on the side of the road and pull up to the Dart's farmhouse. They've said I can plug Jimmy in with their Red Devon bulls while I stay with my uncle Marius down the hill.

I arrive to hoots of delight from Mrs Dart and her daughter and get ushered into their huge, slightly retro kitchen. "You must be hungry", they say and bring out pineapple cake, carrot cake, still-warm quiche - and a large pot of clotted cream to dollop onto anything I fancy. Tea is poured and I get chowing, unable to resist almost anything anymore. It just all tastes so good and how often in London does one get offered cake as part of the daily, domestic routine? Not I and I'ma get mine while I can - before I know it I'm going to be back in that gym surrounded by slightly demonic individuals and craving such things as cake with clotted cream.

The Darts prepare great greedy lunches for the local shoot. A dozen or so men will come tromping down in their plus-fours and tweeds, chomping at the bit to blast those pheasants to the ground. Apparently it's now becoming trendy for city boys to come and have a pop. I suppose it's part of the rolling-around-in-the-mud-together in the woods impulse; a quick flight from the concrete to indulge the primal. Heck, I'd do it just for the big lunch at the end. They make all their pastry from scratch, cook their own cream, rear their own beef and grow all the veg in the garden. Heaven.

Uncle Mal turns up and can't turn down the cake either. We munch and chat and then settle Jimmy in and head off down the hill.

THE SET UP: My uncle and aunt have been given this house by my aunt's older sister. Sort of given it...it's complicated. Anyway, Marius comes down here all the time from London for work. The house has been part of the Molland estate for centuries, you can practically smell the goat shed. It's brilliant and wonderfully far from civilisation.

Marius goes into the house swinging a cloth bag full of shop-bought goodies: Lincolnshire sausages, bagged lettuce, packaged veg and I am quietly surprised. Normally it's a lot more rustic and there's a hare hanging about somewhere or a partridge laying ready to be plucked. Needn't have worried though as the window of opportunity for a hearty - some might say challenging - supper soon presents itself when we discover that the fridge/freezer has been turned off. Off we troop to the stone back room to investigate the damage. We sniff and dunk and prodd and soon have an 'in' and an 'out' tray: out with the gassy grapefruit juice, the defrosted dog food and the filthy melted ice, in with the defrosted pheasant, the lamb stew and the sliced brown bread.

It really does bond you when you're not sure whether what you're about to eat is going to make you both ill or not, but in my family it's almost a test of strength to see who's constitution can withstand the least likely of offerings. In no time at all the pheasant is perched atop a piece of dripping-slathered bread and roasting in the oven for another time and the lamb stew is bubbling innocently away on the hob, veg roasts in the oven and zucchini softens in a pan.

WHAT WE ATE: Defrosted borscht given an artistic flourish of scissored chives start the ball rolling. Tastes like the earth. As earthy as anything I've had in a long time. Soon enough we're onto the main thrust of the meal - the defrosted lamb stew. There it sits, surrounded by jewel-like veg: zucchini sauteed with tomatoes and oregano, peppers and squash from the roasting pan, streaked with rosemary, chunky discs of carrot - it's quite a sight to behold. We tuck in, our wine glasses at the ready should anything untoward start to occur in our stomachs...all fine we proceed with gusto.

Next we enjoy some salad, reassuringly clean and perky and fresh from the bag. Some camembert accompanies it along with...oh, what's this? The pheasant is out of the oven and it's fatty bed is being touted around as a possible partner to all this clean-cut fare. "It might be a bit greasy" warns Marius, which means that it's going to be so far beyond greasy I probably shouldn't. But, heck, I do and am soon transferring it onto his plate where it'll receive a much better reception.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Intrigue and suspicion over previous ancestor's misdemeanors, my grandparents and their barny when my grandmother discovered my grandfather had bought a house without telling her, Marius tells me about being sent out of London as a boy to stay on a farm in Cornwall and what a thrill it was for a King Arthur loving kid, more family disection. We get the map out a lot. I love going over maps - especially with people that really understand them. We gaze over Lincolnshire and its vast tracts of unadulterated farmland. We revel in the possibilities of the ancient kingdom of Arkenfeld. We slap each other on the back and pour more wine.

THE PUD: Venezuelan truffles and whiskey from the Co-Op. I bite mine tenderly, Mal tosses them back like popcorn. They're only just set and so perfectly supple. I love the way the cocoa powder acts as a serious case for the dreaminess within.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: Marius marches round the house pulling back bed covers, investigating what lies beneath - not that different to the inspection of the fridge in fact. Eventually we find a bed that I can sleep in, complete with sheets, pillow cases and blanket. One more discussion on the history of the house and where things have been put in/taken out and off I trot clutching (embarrassingly) OK!, full of pics of Wayne and Colleen having a right old knees-up.

Supper # 37 - Wadebridge, Cornwall (again)

2008-06-28T13:07:00.004+01:00

I returned to Wadebridge and the open arms of Rose & Ben. I was spaced out after a day of 5am champagne drinking, sunrise paddling, very choppy non-mackerel fishing, almost hurling, gritty fish & chips eating, convulsed seagull watching and then a fill-up of Jimmy's tank - always alarming of late. I had called in en route to visit some more old Sixties muckers of my mum's which was, as we like to say in our family, very emotional. By the time I got back to the fold it felt like coming home.

There was Ben rotating clay dishes and shredding coconut, popping corks and sharpening knives. We gathered round the kitchen table once more and carried on gas-bagging as if it had been months. What is it about some people where just being around them causes thoughts to domino through your brain so? Like no effort at all is required.

I was desperate to watch the football. So was Ben. Rose had to make do with Scrabulous as she can't stand it. Italy-Spain - what a decision. We always back Italy in our family out of respect for the old days up the mountain in Montelaterone, but Spain just threw down so much more convincingly. As Italy stood strong and sturdy but with little fire Spain raged around the pitch, powerful and hot...especially that guapo, Casillas. MMmmmm!

Anyway, back to the grub. A slavish day in the pan had reduced cubes of spiced lamb down to yielding, easy-going little nuggets; all dark in colour and deep of flavour. Calcutta chickpeas with coconut shavings and comforting daal were cleaned and cooled by a cucumber raita. Ben had invented a flatbread which came out of the oven a bit crispier than he'd hoped - didn't bother me, I just loaded it up with all the goodness of the rest of the plate and crunched right through that sucker.

Lager, curry, football, la-la-la-la! and followed by a sleep that threatened never to end...

Padstow turns it on

2008-06-28T13:03:00.003+01:00

Crawling out of bed in the dark reminds me of going to catch a flight. It's exciting and I fairly bounced up and at 'em when Adrian woke me. No tea for this chick - get me to the beach and that chilled champagne! We drove quickly along the lanes, trying to make it to St George's Well before 5.08am and the shard of dawn that would surely greet us...or would it be horizontal rain? The dingy morning brooded overhead, giving little away. I grabbed my shades from my bag just in case and down we marched to join the party, headed up by David of Bin Two; wine shop par excellence of Padstow.

Coolboxes bulged with iced champers, paper bags brimmed with boxes of duck eggs, bacon was being parted and placed on the grill and activity was all very hive like. I met all sorts of fun individuals - Padstow stalwarts imparting tails of rollicking good parties and magical sounding houses. I sipped on. Sometimes allowing a spot of Tropicana to enter my glass but generally going a pelo. We ate strawberries and cream, barbecued bread, played with the dogs, louched about, rain came in fits but by 7 the sun charged through the clouds and gave us a heck of a gorgeous day.

Later we went mackerel fishing (organised by super host Adrian). I declined motion-sickness pills on the grounds that I should have better sea legs than anyone, given my time on yachts. After an hour or so I was ready to hurl great Bucks-fizzy chunks and pined for the tourist thronged streets of Padstow. We returned, fish-less and opted for Rick Stein's Fish & Chips instead. I went for grilled mackerel with a battered oyster chaser. Delish. Even though seconds before my mouth made contact with it there was a hug gust of wind that sprinkled dock grit on all the food in our pavement picnic. It didn't effect my enjoyment - might even have given the whole thing a touch more authenticity.

We finished up and set off to leave, but not before witnessing one of the most revolting things I've ever forced myself to absorb. This huge great seagull came sweeping past the crowds, over the dock and nose-dived perilously close to me. He had his eyes on half a giant sausage roll abandoned by one of the kids. Off he went with his beak wrapped round the bounty. All his crew came squawking over, desperate for a bit of twos-up. No way yer bastards, he seemed to say as he threw his head back and swallowed the thing whole. He stood there for a few moments, his white neck bulging with this meaty lump. It stuck out like a goitre; a great writhing, living goitre that he gurgitated down until it was gone from sight; no doubt landing amongst all manner of other horrors in the pit of his trash-compacting gut. Gross.