Little Acorns

I was perfect...

So we came, we cooked and we conquered. And whilst it would be cocksure to start doling out tips on how to run a supper club at this stage, after the inauguration of the very first Food Urchin Supper Club last Friday night at the Brentwood Theatre, I think I can safely give just two little tidbits of advice. The first would be that working a 22 hour shift prior to the event isn't really conducive when it comes to productivity. Or personal sanity for that matter. By my reckoning I got about 6 hours sleep over a 48 hour period and at one point in the afternoon, when I was loading the car up with pots of soup, prepared vegetables, homemade bread etc etc, I definitely had a Black Swan moment. A mirror hangs in our hallway and I swear that on more than one occasion my doppelganger was pulling faces and flicking v's as I rushed past. I tried to catch the slaphead out but he was far too cute for his own good. Sleep deprivation eh? What a killer. And I could have killed Bugs Bunny when I was chopping the carrots, I am sure that pesky wabbit kept swiping them.

Secondly, never ever put boiled potatoes in a food processor unless you plan on doing some decorating and need to hang wall paper. In the run up to the supper club when I was trying out different recipes, I become hooked on Simon Hopkinson's Olive Oil Mashed Potatoes although it's quite rich so I tinkered about with the recipe until I was happy. However, the constant and great thing about Hopkinson's recipe was his suggestion to use a food processor with the paddle attachment as this always produced a beautiful, silky smooth pomme puree. When you use a couple of spuds at a time, enough to feed say 2 people. But when you up the multiples to cater for 24 people, suddenly your food processor's capabilities get stretched somewhat. Frustrated at the time it was taking, I thought 'sod this, let's try it with the blade'. And hey presto, I got instant glue. So let this be a warning to you, whip potatoes in a frenzy and those starches will create an adhesive so strong you will be able to paste a boiler suit to a big yellow board, get into it and flip the board over the precipice of a twenty story tall building. And survive. So yes I had to do some more bloody potatoes.

But by and large the whole caboodle went off really well. Although we didn't have a kitchen as such, it is pretty amazing what you can pull together with some planning and preparation (albeit slightly delrious towards the end). Mise en place was definitely the key there. As for our guests, a healthy blend of family, friends and complete strangers, they looked and sounded like they enjoyed themselves. I know that the notion of walking in through a theatre, going backstage, past dressing rooms and up to an acting studio that's been transformed into a restaurant was certainly different for everyone. And I don't think that they were expecting the cook to come out and deliver a rant about inanimate kitchen objects either but given the surroundings I thought that a little light entertainment was in order. The best and most pleasing sign was that all the plates came back clean. OK, bar the odd lump of gristle from an ox cheek here and there but come on, I was talking to Oliver Reed when I was trimming those up earlier in the day (so funny...). There's bound to be more thrills and spills along the way but for the first time out, it wasn't all that bad. Little acorns as they say. The next one will be at Food Urchin Mansions on March 19th with only 16 places going so please get in soon if you're interested (email: foodurchin@yahoo.co.uk) we'll be releasing the menu shortly.

In the meantime I'd like to thank Mark and David at the Brentwood Theatre for accomodating us and Mrs FU, Craigwah, Caron and Papa Urchin (even if you did steal my thunder again with your puds) for everything else.

Makeshift kitchen

Props from the house and IKEA

Tables set

'Veronica' takes centre stage

Lights, action....

Papa Urchin's puds (Tunsian Orange Cake and Chocolate and Apricot Tart)

Food Urchin Meets The Manchester Egg

It was a cold, cold night in London town. Too cold for some. Commuters scatter the icy streets, muffled, swathed and haunched over like brass monkeys with a lot to lose. But not the Food Urchin. No. He simply stands there, outside Moorgate tube station, resolute. The elements cannot waver him for his heart beats strong, keeping him warm. And plus he is wearing a trinca hat from BHS, that keeps him warm too. They look ridiculous on some people. But not the Food Urchin. He looks cool. Too cool for school.

The Food Urchin is waiting for his crew, as usual they are late. He looks at his watch, shakes his head and sighs. When you head out with the Food Urchin, it doesn't pay to be late. People are slacking, losing respect, heads will roll. The Babe from Burma finally turns up, says "Hi" but she's engrossed in her Blackberry, work stuff apparently. The Food Urchin simply tuts, see no respect. They wait for another 5 minutes or so and eventually the new kid on the block arrives, The Macaron Kid. This is the first time the Food Urchin has met him. He sniffs at the offer of a handshake and fixes the Macaron Kid with a steely glare before saying "I hear you're pretty handy with a whisk". The Macaron Kid raises an eyebrow and responds with "you better believe it". The Food Urchin smiles and thinks to himself 'cocky, arrogant, a little too self-assured maybe but yeah this fella has got spunk, I like that in a man.'

It's time to move, off the busy lit thoroughfare of Moorgate and into the dark, seedy back streets heading towards Shoreditch. As he strides down the eerie alleyways, cloaked in shadow, the Food Urchin senses nerves, trepidation behind him. He turns and reassures his crew that he knows exactly where they are going. The Food Urchin is a Londoner born and bred and knows these mean streets like the back of his hand. The shivering pair nod and begin to apologise for their lack of faith. The Food Urchin holds his hand up for he is also a humble man, turns and carries on walking. Keeping the iPhone he has cradled in his hand out of view. Before long, the Food Urchin realises they've taken a wrong turn, facking GPS. But the others need not know.

After some negotiation and back tracking, the Food Urchin gang find their destination, the Griffin, a den of iniquity, full of ragtag Nathan Barleys and other new meeja types. As the gang enters through Victorian glazed doors, the bar suddenly falls silent and all eyes focus towards them. The Food Urchin steps forward and takes off his trinca revealing that signature, shiny dome and fiercely eyeballs everyone back. Be it recognition or folklore, the room palpably quivers with fear. "Yeah, you guessed it, I'm the facking Food Urchin, anyone got a problem with that?" The silence continues but then slowly and surely the hubbub resumes. The Hoxton crowd are used to nutters walking in off the street. The Food Urchin leads the gang through the melee of drinkers and so-called thinkers and spots them, sat around a table in the corner of the room. The people they are here to meet. The other crew, The Boys from The North.

Alliances has been uneasy in the past so to break the ice, the Food Urchin walks right up to the table, extends his hand and shouts "ey oop chuck, how do? it's sweating cobbs in here, yeah sound". The Boys from The North, who are a marginally better looking version of the Happy Mondays, stare back with pained frowns. Ben Cahoona, leader of The Boys, in particular doesn't look happy. Slowly he stands up from his stool and walks over. Ben glowers as he approaches and when finally nose to nose, he spits "What are you going on about you prat?" But the Food Urchin doesn't falter. He knows to show weakness at this stage of proceedings would be catastrophic so he stands his ground and is grateful for deciding to wear black underwear that day. You could cut the tension in the air with a plastic spoon. Ben then cracks a shit eating grin and embraces the Food Urchin like a long lost brother. It's a beautiful moment and collectively the Griffin breathes a huge sigh of relief.

Drinks are ordered and both crews settle down to high jinks, bonhomie and conversation about Satan's Shit. Over several shots of tequila, the Food Urchin regales the first time he met Ben Cahoona and the boys back in the summer. The various houses of the food mafia had convened at the Ramada Piccadilly in Manchester to try and iron out some differences, heal old wounds and discuss the future and the Food Urchin was there to reprazent the Brotherhood of Bloggers. "Ha, that social media workshop you led Ben was well bitching man, we well had that Matthew Fort against the ropes innit" bellows the Food Urchin, clicking his fingers, rocking back and forth, laughing like a crazed hyena. Ben just sniffs, looks into his glass and mutters something about the after show party. Something about the embarrassment of watching Lloyd Grossman rock out like your Dad at a wedding reception.

The Food Urchin then decides that it's time to get down to business and asks to see the merchandise. It's time to see the Manchester Egg. Fervent glances are made around the room and a crumpled brown paper bag is produced from a coat pocket and placed on the table. At first there is concern amongst the Boys that the goods have been damaged in transit, coming down on the train. The Babe from Burma and the Macaron Kid look equally concerned that they're about to eat something that has just been produced from someones pocket. In a brown paper bag. The Food Urchin isn't worried however, he eats from other people's pockets all the time. Luckily four eggs are deemed to be in good condition and Ben proceeds to give a sales pitch so smooth and slick that you almost believe that he's sold this shit thousands of times before. The Food Urchin begins to tug uncomfortably on his collar but thankfully the presentation is short. The plans for this alternative scotch egg are quite lofty, to make it a familiar feature in pubs and bars across the land. To make the Manchester Egg a pub snack unrivalled. The Food Urchin thinks for a minute and then asks, "so how are you going to spread the word?" Ben simply replies, "I'm going to open source the recipe, what do you think?" The Food Urchin nods sagely for a moment, stroking his chin before offering a piece of his wisdom. "I tell you what, why don't you just give the recipe away?" Silence descends again and tumbleweed rolls across the pub floor.

Uncomfortable coughs are made before someone pipes up and suggests the Food Urchin and his crew try the egg. The Food Urchin claps his hands. "Now we're talking!" But then another stumbling block becomes apparent. The Boys from The North have forgotten to bring a knife to the party. Which is fair enough. One of the decrees made at the Summit in the summer was that at meets, gangs should leave all utensils at home. Even spatulas with heat resistant silicone. Ben goes to the bar to ask for the lemon knife but the barman refuses and who could blame him but then the Food Urchin remembers that he's carrying. After fishing around in his rucksack, he is able to produce a small paring knife with a flourish. Except the others, including his own crew, watch agog and shake their heads in disapproval. "What? I used this when I went mushroom picking a couple of months ago. S'ok I don't carry all the time, tsk." Some people.

Finally the Manchester Eggs are sliced up for photographising and consumption and the Food Urchin digs in first, the others know to wait their turn. Hierarchy is important. Always eat after the top dog has taken his share. The egg takes the Food Urchin by surprise. This is the dude who once ate 10 scotch eggs in one sitting so he knows his stuff but the Food Urchin has never encountered this particular kind before. Crispy, crunchy textures. Rich, pulsating blood sausage. And the somewhat alien tang of the egg. What is that? Just what is that tang? Then sweat starts to seep through his crown. For the Food Urchin this is the sure fire signal that he's eaten something vinegary. Like Smiths Square Crisps. Or pickled onions. Or pickled eggs even. The penny drops."Hey you've used pickled eggs! Wow! That's really different! Wow, cor, hey, hey you guys, he's made these with pickled eggs!" The Babe from Burma and the Macaron Kid roll their eyes at the Food Urchin's vigourous pointing as if this was something they didn't already know. Still they nod in agreement confirming that this is an unexpectedly good snack.

Regaining his composure, the Food Urchin straightens up and wipes his hands and takes a slug of beer. "How many can you ship?" he barks, taking command of the situation. When it comes down to business, the Food Urchin knows how to lay it on and impose his authority. "Er well, like I said, you can make these at home, I'll pass the recipe on", Ben counters. Without skipping a beat the Food Urchin snarls,"Listen sunshine I'm not in the habit of getting my hands dirty in the kitchen, I leave that to the missus, you know what I mean? Now can you get me 2000 by next week?" Ben seems confused. "What you want to sell them? Well yeah that's fine because I want to promote the Manchester Egg, you know put it on the map as a regional delicacy. And like I said the recipe will be open to all and sundry. I just need to make sure you're making them right so what I like to do is come down and taste them, you know give 'em a stamp of approval."

At this point the Food Urchin goes totally Bob Hoskins.

"Listen you facking muppet, I ain't facking interested in what the recipe is or ain't or facking what. You just get me my facking eggs, down 'ere and on facking time. Is that alright treacle? Am I facking crystal? Right you two herberts, we gotta get moving. Some speccy fridge freezer in Islington is going to sell us some E's. Or summink like that. Ladies, it's been a privilage but you can all fack off now"

And with that the Food Urchin storms out of the pub. Despite the mumurs of dissent and subsequent apologies from inside, the Food Urchin stands outside in the freezing cold air, grinning to himself. This is how the shit goes down in the world of food and this is how the Food Urchin keeps it real. Real on the mean streets of London town.

The Manchester Egg

Don't fack with the Food Urchin

(photo's courtesy of Meemalee's Kitchen)

A Night In The Life Of The Food Urchin

So another humdrum day finally turns into night and it's time to release the shackles of the print monkey. It's time to clock off, it's time to nip into the loo to get changed, it's probably time for a quick spanish shower too but most importantly, it's time for the Food Urchin to come out and play. Sayonara suckers, it's business time!

The Food Urchin makes his way to Covent Garden for the first stop of the evening, Rules and cocktails. First he's got to wait for a compadre, so just hangs on the street corner, nice and loose. The crowds swarm around him, pausing to look and he knows what they're thinking. Who's that cool cat? He's got razor sharp style, think boho-chic meets Man at C&A. He's got the square jaw and funky frames. He got no hair but he don't care. Yeah baby, he knows he's money.

Patrick soon arrives, jeans fashionably baggy around the rear and they waltz into Old England, upstairs to the bar and find that the Dude, another compadre, has secured a table. High fives all round, seats taken, fingers snapped, the waiter appears. "3 Screaming Vikings!". Brian comes over and wants to know how the trio know about his new cocktail which isn't even on the list yet. Poker faced, the Food Urchin tells him they have their sources and to "just make me a bloody cocktail Brian!". The others suck in the air fast, Brian bows and turns, shaken but not stirred and the Food Urchin calmly nods before opening his mouth, throwing a peanut up in air. It bounces off his glasses. He still manages to look cool though with a nonchalant shrug. The drinks come swiftly. Then the Babe from Burma swans in, she's late but hey, aren't they always. She orders a Black Mojito which comes just as quick. The gang indulge in a little light conversation before draining their glasses. It's soon time to move and the Food Urchin is back out on the streets, the streets of London town.

Second destination is The House of St Barnabas on Greek Street, which from the outside looks like one of those private members clubs that's for members only. The Food Urchin leads the pack and goes up to the doorman. The doorman doesn't recognise him, he must be new in this city. So not to cause a fuss, the Food Urchin takes a note from his pocket and slips it discreetly into Mr Universe's hand before pushing past. The doorman looks down at his palm, confused that he's holding a receipt from Tescos. Ha, the Food Urchin pulls that Jedi mind trick shit all the time. The group then walk up some stairs and slink into a room where the others are waiting. The Food Urchin recognises some faces, it's the usual babes, Tiffany, Livvy, Miffy and Squiffy. The girls from Saucy PR and Phaidon are there too. Waiters mill about dispensing champagne and canapes from silver trays and mirrors. It's a beautiful scene with beautiful people, Gilbert and George look down from the wall approvingly or at least they seem to be, you can never tell with those two.

As a waiter skims past, the Food Urchin grabs a glass and a gorgeous looking morsel, he takes a bite and raises his eyebrows. "Damn these salt and pepper beef skewers are good!" he shouts to no-one in particular. And so he takes another, this time its tuna tataki with radish, apple and mustard and his eyes roll with pleasure. He spies a steak tartare drive-by so makes another snatch and bang, it's in the mouth, melting away. The Food Urchin then feels a tap on the shoulder and he turns to face Laura, one of the Saucy girls. "This is Lyndy Redding of Absolute Taste, these are her canapes we're enjoying this evening". The Food Urchin shakes her hand and makes lots of approving murmuring noises with pointing gestures to his pursed lips and bulging cheeks.There is a brief awkward pause but the Food Urchin swallows down hard and coolness resumes. Laura then says, "Here is your copy of the book by the way, sorry we didn't get it to you before this evening" And the Food Urchin thinks book? What book? But as she passes the hefty tome over, he suddenly remembers, ah yes Coco. With so many launches, so many events, it's hard to keep track but no matter, the Food Urchin switches on and pulls out the file from his cerebral database. OK, read that as a piece of paper kept in his jacket pocket. He smiles, takes the book and casually wanders over to a corner of the room.

Top shelf stuff

The Food Urchin's first impression is that this a seriously big book. Heavy, weighty, powerful. But when you've got 10 world leading masters choosing 100 contemporary chefs, it's hardly going to be a pamphlet is it. Ha! The Food Urchin chuckles to himself, shakes his head and grabs another glass of champagne. All the bad boys are there. Ramsay, Adria, Henderson and erm some other really influential big guns that the Food Urchin has heard of, somewhere. In turn they've picked the creme de la creme, the young cats that are up and coming, the next big thing, the new kids on the block. The Food Urchin isn't surprised at some of the inclusions. Hell it reads like his little black book at times but still the Food Urchin approves of the biographies, the recipes and the beautiful photography. It all looks pretty sexy, horny even. The Food Urchin finds himself pawing the pages, getting hot under the collar as he flicks through, eyes widening, sweat collecting on his upper lip. Oh man, the food, it's all about the gorgeous food. Oh my god yes, yes, yes! He then looks up and finds Lyndy staring at him. "Hey Lyndy baby, did you know you're in here?" he shouts pointing but she just turns and runs out of the room. Maybe she doesn't, the Food Urchin says to himself. He looks back at the book one more time, it's going to look the absolute money on his coffee table he thinks. Or someone else's, Christmas is just around the corner after all. And then he stashes the food porn away in his rucksack like a dirty little secret because it's time to go. Yeah it's time to get the party started.

Don't you know who I am?

To celebrate the birth of this beautiful baby called Coco, the Food Urchin and gang are visiting three restaurants for three separate courses to sample the culinary delights of three different chefs. A gourmet gallop in other words. Some of the guys are in total awe at the prospect, chatting excitedly as they board the sleek mini-bus that will ferry them around town but the Food Urchin takes it in his stride. He dines out like this all the time. The common thread is that all of these chefs have been chosen by Mr Ramsay, he who no sell no gin no more, for their excellence and innovation. So first up is a visit to Gordo's very own Maze to meet his protégé Jason Atherton and check out his delectable delights for the first course. On arrival, the Food Urchin is slightly peeved to find yet another door man that doesn't recognise him so he steams right in and throws his rucksack at the front of house who are notoriously sniffy. The gang move through the heaving throng of suits and heels and find their table. Within seconds, glasses are charged and after a short interlude, the starter is placed in front of us which is Cornish Red Mullet with Cuttlefish Tagliatelle, Squid Paint and Asparagus. The Food Urchin thinks this looks gooood and moves to attack with knife and fork but then gets rudely interrupted. Whassiss you are pouring on the plate Mr Waiter? Rabbit RAGU! Fish and bunny wabbits! Are you mad?!! Still the Food Urchin is not one to lose his cool so calmly sits back whilst Mr Waiter finishes his business and tucks back in. The combination is an interesting one, ponders the Food Urchin, wonderful individual flavours but game and fish combined still leaves him perplexed. Unfortunately Jason is too busy for interrogation but no problems, the Food Urchin will call him on his mobile at a later date to ask him "what the hell did you think you were doing?". Glasses are drained and the posse are out of Maze like a shot off to the next destination.

Before the bunny wabbit arrived

For main course, the Foodie Fun Bus whizzes through the streets to the InterContinental where Theo Randall has set up camp offering London a taste of exquisite Italian cuisine. As the Food Urchin walks into the main hotel reception area, the flashes start to bounce off his shiny head and he thinks, ah this is more like it. Sometimes you have to just work with the paparazzi, in this case a girl from Intercontinental's own PR department but give them an inch and they'll take a mile so the Food Urchin restricts the impromptu shoot to just a few dozen shots and poses outside the entrance. Blinking and rubbing his eyes, the Food Urchin then manages to stumble into the wide open space of Theo's restaurant and is immediately soothed by it's calm and intimate atmosphere. The table is situated in view of the kitchen and Theo can be seen working with relaxed intent, utterly absorbed in what he's doing. So much so that he doesn't see the Food Urchin waving at him. The gang are seated again, wine is poured, delicious focaccia is brought, everybody chills. Theo pops out of the kitchen to give the gang an introduction to the main course which is Cornish Monkfish with Prosciutto, Artichokes, Capers, Parsley and Roseval Potatoes. He tells us that his fishermen south of the Tamar take extra care when fishing for monkfish. Commercially trawled monkfish will drown in the net and essentially cook in the salty brine of the sea. Our monkfish have been caught by handline and kept alive for just that bit longer before meeting their maker. The Food Urchin is impressed and when the plate comes, he dives in. The fish is fantastic, almost meaty in texture and supremely succulent. Working with the other flavours, the dish is an education in achieving tastebud nirvana with just simple, quality ingredients. The Food Urchin particularly enjoyed the artichokes although they do have the propensity to give him wind. Which he keeps quiet from the rest.

Theo Randall at the InterContinental

Cornish Monkfish with Prosciutto, Artichokes, Capers, Parsley and Roseval Potatoes

Plates and glasses are soon empty and again it is time to go. Theo comes out again for handshakes and back slaps and the Food Urchin spots a perfect photo opportunity, sidling up for a bromance shot, the pair throw their arms over each others' shoulders. But then everybody piles in unannounced. That's the problem when you go out with the beautiful people, they're all scared of missing out on something. The Food Urchin, too cool for school, as always takes in his stride and flashes his Blue Steel. Patrick, who took the picture, moves in on Theo wanting a shot for his own "private" collection but the chef wises up and signals for security. The gang all run out, slightly unsteady on their feet, crashing into each other and it's back on the bus.

The beautiful people

Patrick and Theo before security were called

Last stop of the night is Launceston Place on the sleepy byways of W8 for dessert, coffees and cognac. The main man Tristan Welch awaits and as the posse enter, it's kisses, high fives and elaborate street handshakes. Tristan is charm personified and the Food Urchin has to pause for a moment, thinking that he could have just met his nemesis in the coolness department. However, he soon shakes off this absurd suggestion and saunters into main dining room, tripping over the leg of a chair. The swaying party is seated and an equally charming sommelier called Mickey comes out and pours out some Jurançon, Domaine Cauhape, 2004. It is pure ambrosia nectar without being too cloying or sweet. Some members of the gang are now starting to get boisterous, arguing that others are getting more wine than others, swopping glasses. It's the usual shenanigan's when it comes to this time of night, the Food Urchin just laughs again and leans his head back not noticing the candle behind him. Luckily he doesn't have that much hair to singe. Small palate cleansers appear consisting of a Raspberry Jelly and Lemon Sorbet topped with a Black Pepper Tuile which refreshes the mouth and nasal passages. And then dessert comes out. No really that should be desserts plural. No actually that should be a smorgasbord of dessert. No balls to that, lets just say it's bacchanalian feast of sugar, cream, fruit and chocolate with an overdose of indulgence. The beautiful people are momentarily silenced but then it turns into a free-for-all with spoons clashing and scraping over the slate presentation plates. The details are fuzzy by now but the Food Urchin favoured the Tarte Tatin and Banana Sticky Toffee Pudding although the Raspberry Ripple Ice Cream and Rice Pudding Soufflé were also pretty damn good. In fact, the dessert is so money, it doesn't even know it.

Tristan and the ladies

Raspberry Jelly and Lemon Sorbet topped with a Black Pepper Tuile

The behemoth of desserts

It's nearly 11PM and time to leave yet things start to get delirious as Tristan comes back out for a chat and to see the beautiful people off. It soon becomes apparent that he and the Food Urchin have a lot more in common than just good looks. The chef it seems has twins and has heard that the Food Urchin has also sired the same. It's funny how people pick these things up through the grapevine, like gossip columns in the glossies the Food Urchin thinks but Tristan refutes this and states that he's read the bald man's blog. That's how he knows the Food Urchin has twins. At this point the thin veneer nearly comes crashing down, revealing the sham that the Food Urchin is just an ordinary joe who has bagged, food wise, one of the best nights of his life. Luckily, he's got big cojones and manages to keep up the pretence by casually saying "yeah, twins man, word of advice, always remember you've got two of them when you go shopping", shakes Tristan's hand and dashes out of the door.

Ordinarily, the Food Urchin would have his driver waiting outside to speed him home to leafy Essex but after an evening of such opulence, he decides to slum it and use public transport. It keeps him real, keeps him grounded. As he sits and stares out of the window, with his head pressed to the glass, woozy and breathing hard because he had to run, yes run to catch the vomit comet, the last train home, the Food Urchin has time to reflect on the evening's revelries. And he thinks to himself.


You are a jammy bugger FU.


Big thanks go to Sauce Communications and Phaidon and not to mention the beautiful people for making the evening such fun, you know who you are.