The Annual Harvest Of The Crawdaddys

Crayfish possess two pairs of
antennae and five pairs of legs,
and are fiercely territorial crustaceans.
Etiquette requires one to
first pinch upon the noble tail
and suck out the juices, before commencing
any decapitation, declawing or shell cracking.
Being a lazy eater, this is all a bit too much like hard work for me.
I’d be far happier with some tapas. Or a calzone.
But when in Scandinavia, in August,
one must don the paper hat and the paper bib
and play ball to the very best of one’s abilities.
So skoal to the late summer sunshine. And skoal to the Man in the Moon.
And always remember to remove the bowels before eating.
If nothing else, try and remember to remove the bowels.
Regardless of how sticky your fingers may be.

My First Proper Mexican Tasted Something Like This

We collected the car keys in Tarzana
on the third day of the new millennium
and drove West on the 101 towards the Pacific Coastal Highway.
It was a Bank Holiday. The first Monday of a still fresh decade.
My whole life had been spent waiting for this moment.
And the open road didn’t disappoint.
We parked the two-door electric-blue
Chevy Cavalier beside the Santa Barbara Wharf,
crossed the railway tracks, and followed
an ancient Chumash Indian trail towards
the foothills of the Santa Ynez mountains.
The early afternoon sun, hot on our necks,
we made it as far as the taquería on North Milpas Street.
It’s there, that my most Divine Visitation occurred.
I broke tortilla with The Tonsured Maize God that day.
It’s there that I first heard the howler monkeys,
calling to me from far away in The Valley Of Oaxaca.
My tastebuds awoke from their coma. My stomach was reborn.
On that day, the avocado tree became my personal lotus plant.
And I knew then what had to be done.
For the next 36 hours I drove blind on the blacktop.
Past the hot springs of San Luis Obispo.
Across the span of the Bixby Bridge at Big Sur.
All the way to the golden switchbacks of San Fransisco.

No Taste Like Home

I'm an old man. I like old man's pubs.
The Holly Bush in Hampstead is one such place.
Built in the 17th century and tucked away on the
outskirts of the King’s old hunting grounds,
she offers warm respite from windswept Dickensian evenings.
Her wood panelling all dusky and varnished.
Her ceilings of decorative pressed tin.
I seek succor in her crannies and in her nooks.
And in the taste of my Homeland
which she gracefully carries on tap.
Nut brown in colour, and still brewed
in a steam-powered pagoda-style tower
on the North side of the Cotswold Hills,
Old Hooky is a sacred beer, made from the
full-bodied and fermented blood of
Arcady’s Christ-like Lord Of The Hops.
To drink of it is to summon up an ancient
topography of gently rolling pastures and
rich red soil toiled upon since time immemorial.
I give my thanks to the yeast and to the mash tuns.
To the thatch and the checkered daffodil and the men of the Morris.
I raise my elbow and drink a flowing bowl
to arch-maltster John Harris and
the 9 billow maidens
in their comely white smocks.
For tonight we’ll merry-merry be.
For tonight we’ll merry-merry be.
For tonight we’ll merry-merry be.
Tomorrow, we’ll be sober.

Old Hooky voted "Best Beer In The World"

The Hook Norton Brewery

The Holly Bush in Olde Hampstead

CAMRA: The Campaign For Real Ale

With A Bit Of Heart

She’s never eaten dim sum before.
This is her very first time. Her debut.
The char siu buns are stacked
ontop of the scallop-and-shitake,
which sit ontop of the vegetable puffs,
with the sticky rice wrapped in
lotus leaf right at the bottom.
We watch together, as the jasmine tea
slowly unfurls itself in the clear hot water
like a flowering foetus from the Song Dynasty.
Over dessert, She tells me that her ex-boyfriend proposed
to her earlier this week. Somewhat out of the blue.
But she doesn’t tell me whether she said yes or not.

Jag Vill Ha Sex Please!

No April Fool's joke this. I’m here to break a record.
I’m here, in my favourite Scandinavian cafe,
to try and eat more hot dogs in one sitting
than anyone has ever dared to eat in here before.
Any excuse to wear my blue Björn Borg underpants.
Any excuse to wear my vintage 1986 Hummel football shirt.
Seriously, I’ve been in training. I’ve even employed a designated scorekeeper.
I've chosen the best seats in the house. I've removed my belt. The stage is set.
My favourite barista is on duty today, and she piles them high;
warm korv in a Vienna-type bread roll, with toasted onions,
ketchup, a healthy dash of remoulade and a squeeze of
nuclear-green sweet pickle relish on the top.
En, Två, Tre, Fyra, Fem and Sex.
It’s a messy business. Not for the fainthearted.
Turns out, the word “Sex” in Swedish can mean
both the digit 6 and, yes, also the act of making love.
It’s a Nordic double-entendre not lost on me.
The day is Wednesday. The time is 16:43 hours.
The receipt simply reads; Hot Dog Hot Dog
Hot Dog Hot Dog Hot Dog Hot Dog.

New hot dog eating champions at the Scandinavian Kitchen

See how hot dogs are made...

Joey Chestnut sets a new world record

Talking All That Taco De Harina

We were sitting at the window seat
of the Tex-Mex, my friend and me, and I was explaining
to her the simple secret behind an authentic burrito.
About how the rice and the pinto beans and
the sour cream and the guaca-mole and the salsa
should all be folded-up inside the soft flour tortilla,
and not simply served on the side like salad garnish.
And how the knife and the fork really only added insult to injury.
And we were sitting there, deciding whether or not
there was time to finish up here, wipe our lips
and grab one more amaretto sour each before
the long tube ride home, when a hairy face
appeared on the other side of the glass, looking in.
The hairy face was instantly familiar to us, for it belonged
to a headlining anti-folk singer, who’d just spent the evening
crooning and strumming and wiggling his zitzit tassels for us
from up upon the wooden stage of a nearby Anglican church.
I tried to warn him. Honestly I did. I stepped right outside
onto the pavement there, and I tried my best to warn him off.
And yes, I tried my best to warn his American band-mates too.
I apologized on behalf of myself and all my fellow citizens.
I explained that things were slowly changing.
That the message was slowly getting through.
But that yes, for the most part, the majority of wannabe taquerías
in this godforsaken sad little desperado shanty-town city of mine,
were still unfortunately run by the kind of chef de plúnges
who wouldn’t know a decent cochinita pibil if it were to suddenly
turn around and bite them on their güero-coloured gabacho asses.
But of course, in the end, it wasn’t anything they hadn’t heard before.
And I could see the burning hunger all around their eyes.
And I knew they hadn't eaten properly since the flight.
And so, we left them there, beneath the stars, guitars in hands,
knowing that ultimately it had to be their decision. And their decision alone.
We stopped at the first bar we came to, my friend and me,
and we ordered our amaretto sours. One each. For the road.
Made with fresh egg white, with a maraschino cherry on the top.
As if we had any kind of choice in the matter.


Video for the Herman Dune single ‘1-2-3 Apple Tree’

The Curious Case Of Sunday February Eighth

It’s just this side of midnight
when I climb into bed, alone,
and reach across to extinguish the side-light.
I can still smell her cigarette smoke in my hair.
I can still taste the cinnamon chewing stick on my gums.
On the cinema screen, I can still see the film unwinding.
Bradley Pitt is ageing in reverse; thanks to the prosthetics and the VFX.
We’re buying popcorn. We’re walking past the Royal Opera House.
We’re standing outside the Mexican restaurant in the rain.
Across the table in the coffeehouse, I can’t be sure,
but there’s a moment of stillness, when it feels like
she wants to lean across, cup my face in her hands,
and kiss me, slowly, whilst keeping her eyes closed.
Just like I want to lean across and slowly kiss her too.
I'm walking across Regent’s Park counting surviving snowmen.
I'm making breakfast still wearing last night’s nail-varnish.
I'm waking up, alone, 68 years after Francis Scott Fitzgerald
died from a heart attack, in the living-room
of his mistress's first floor apartment,
whilst waiting for the doctor to arrive.
Head still hazy from the blended Scotch whiskey.
The jazz age no more than a fading tubercolic memory.

'The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button' by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Fikamusikkonsert-In-The-Fields

One of the many things I love about
our Swedish cousins, is the fact that they’ve
a word in their lexicon which roughly means
“to meet-up with friends and drink some coffee”.
And that word is fika. Some fika. To fika. It’s fika time!
Now strictly speaking, a fika isn’t really a fika without
the accompaniment of something sweet on the side.
A cinnamon roll perhaps. Or a saffron bun.
Or, in tonight’s case at least, a low-key gig
in a church dedicated to the patron saint of outcasts.
Better known by the pseudonym Loney Dear,
Emil Svanängen is a multimember home-recording
one-man-band phenomenon, who appears
very much at ease up on the pulpit this evening.
For whilst other Scandinavians of his age were out
meeting girls, drinking snaps and smoking herring,
Emil was in his parent’s basement in the city of Jönköping,
armed with a minidisk microphone, various instruments and his PC.
In a recent interview, Emil described his albums as being a bit like cakes.
The kind of cake this brings to mind
is a traditional Swedish Prinsesstårta;
multi-layered and dusted with sugar.
A light green falsetto exterior giving way
to a rich swollen centre of whipped
percussion and butterfat handclaps.
If he doesn’t hook you with the spiraling glockenspiel
in ‘I Am John’, he’ll no doubt ensnare you instead with
the whistling refrain that underpins ‘I Was Only Going Out’
or the singalong section which enhances ‘The Meter Marks OK’.
Your sweet-tooth smile widening with each new overdub.
Outside, afterwards, fika-time over for another day,
we lean against the gravestones for a while
and suck on cold beers whilst a steward
sweeps-up cigarette butts at our feet.
Loney Dear has a plane to Boston Massachusetts to catch in the morning
I’ve got a radiator that needs bleeding.


Loney Dear play live on Band Busking Dotcom

The Sublime Society Of All Day Breakfasts

East of the City walls and north of the Thames,
within earshot of the chiming of Saint Mary-le-Bow’s bells
is where you’ll find the E. Pellicci greasy spoon eaterie.
Constructed out of mother-of-pearl buttons
on the original site of the Stone of Brutus,
they’ve been frying things in pigfat here for over a century.
At an elbow-room-only corner seat sit The Kray Twins;
eating liver and onion sandwiches whilst reading the gutter press.
‘Brown Bread’ Freddie Foreman is tucking into his pie and mash.
Tony and Chris Lambrianou are happily sharing a raspberry ripple.
The custard-coloured vintage Vitrolite panelling.
The Art-Deco wholegrain mustard marquetry.
The laminate wood tables. The framed family portraits.
The caged raven, beneath the counter, with its wings neatly clipped.
So long as E. Pellicci is safe, so long shall London flourish.

eggbaconchipsandbeans blog

'Classic Cafes: The Book' by Adrian Maddox

Elstree’s First Human Hungry-Man Dinner

That’s me. The Mafiya wiseguy
being slowly cooked alive in the
industrial-sized microwave on Stage 5.
The prize jamook with the rose tattooed on his chest.
I’ve been working hard on my dentalization.
Placing the consonants at the back of the front teeth.
Keeping the tongue thick and forward.
Making the L-sounds dark and heavy.
Giving the H-sounds plenty of air.
If in doubt, pout. If in doubt,
push the lips forward and think
good strong Russkaya thoughts.
Think Gorky Park. Think Vladivostok.
Think Astrakhan Oblast.
Think Sputnik 2 and Vostok 1.
Think Chechnya, Bolshevik and Stolichnaya.
I must’ve missed that day at actor’s school
when we worked on how best to simulate
having your internal organs
dielectrically superheated from the inside
by a constant stream of non-ionizing radiation.
But this much I know for certain; they forgot
to prick my skin before tossing me in here.
Think Glavnoe Upravlenie Ispravitelno-trudovykh LAGerej.
Think Komityet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosty.
Think Constantin Sergeyevich Stanislavski.
An average human body is between 60 and 70% water.
That’s well over half a person’s total bodyweight.
My black polyester suit is clearly Dry-Clean only.
It’s gonna be one helluva problem getting all the viscera out.

Official 'Kick-Ass' Website

'Kick-Ass' is a real-life superhero

Pease Porridge Thursday (Citation Required)

King Eric XIV of Sweden was
a warmongerer and a peasant-fucker.
Amongst many other things.
He was also certifiably insane,
which is why he was dethroned
and then imprisoned
before being murdered in 1577.
The murder weapon was a bowl
of peasoup, flavoured with arsenic,
and eaten with a silver spoon.
Ever since then, as a mark of respect
for this crazy-assed, bloodthirsty,
something-of-a-Renaissance-Man sonuvabitch,
it's become traditional for The Swedes
to eat peasoup each and every Thursday.
Not a cold Gazpacho or a spicy Menudo.
Not a Mulligatawny or a Cock-A-Leekie.
Thick, hearty, nutritious peasoup. With pork to taste.
Thou ancient, free and mountainous peasoup of The North.
From Norrbotten County to Gotland to the Öresund Strait.
Best served with a dollop of brown mustard.
Best followed by thin pancakes, lingonberry jam
and a cheeky snifter of hot sweet liqueur Punsch.

A traditional Swedish ärtsoppa recipe

Hey You Gung Fat Choi!

First in the cycle of the Chinese Zodiac,
The Year of the Rat occurs once every 12 years.
Today’s celebrations include spectacular
dragon and lion dances around the streets
and firework displays in Leicester Square.
But for me, it’s all about the bubble tea.
If you’re wondering about the frogspawn
sitting at the bottom of the cup, we call those
little beauties the "pearls", or the “black boba”.
They’re made from tapioca starch.
And they’re the best bit. Trust me on this.
And may all the blessings
and delights
of this new rat year be yours.

Quality Food Served All Day

The New Piccadilly Café Is a Soho institution.
They broke the mould after they built this place.
She’s a true landmark. The last of her kind.
A veritable Tasmanian Tiger amongst Pret A Mangers.
The Rosie Lee is stewed. The rice pudding is from a can.
The mashed potato is instant and the lasagne comes with chips.
It's true, the medieval cusine won’t be winning any Michelin stars,
but that's all part of The New Piccadilly’s charm.
That and the pink enamel espresso-maker.
That and the Festival Of Britain inspired formica table-tops.
That and the well-loved Thonet chairs
and and the horseshoe-shaped menu board.
All originals. Not a reproduction amongst them.
I know I've been neglecting her of late, but I have my reasons.
I've had other old-school eateries to frequent:
huevos rancheros and freshly-squeezed OJ to order at
Keedy's Fountain & Grill on Highway 111, Palm Desert,
a 10-inch stretch chili dog to stand in line for
at Pink's stand on the corner of Melrose and La Brea.
When The New Piccadilly closes her doors tomorrow evening
and the red neon “EATS’ sign is extinguished for the last time,
Mr. Lorenzo, the padrone of this Cathedral Of Caffs,
has vowed to take a sledgehammer to the place.
He wants to smash apart the antique
fixtures-and-fittings with his own two hands.
He’s worked at the counter-top here his entire adult life.
For some 50 years or more. So who can really blame him?
It’s very much his royal prerogative.
Amongst the many regulars in their widow’s weeds
is a girl I had an infatuation with back in the Springtime of 1997.
She always had a thing for older men. Older men than me.
She was sweet 19 when we first met, and would prove
to be a something of a template for what was to follow.
She wasn’t the last precocious little upstart
I fell for, oh-no, but she was certainly the first.
Sent down as a warning which I failed to heed.
She joins me in my booth and orders a cup of hot coffee.
Her hair no longer bottle blonde. Her wonky smile still intact.
Since last we met, she’s been training to be a shaman.
She's spent time in the Amazon rainforest
with the Cofán Indians of Santa Rosa de Guamuez.
Journeying to grand cities past and future.
Witnessing the primordial origins of humankind.
Developing both her Inner and Outer Raindow.
She finishes her hot coffee and orders a bowl of peach melba.
For the final time of asking.

Today's Special: New Piccadilly (Short Film)

The Principal Ingredient Of Bramble Jam Being...

For this seasonal recipe you will require:
1 Hampstead Heath (all ripe unto harvest).
1 delightful female friend from Brontë country.
1 kg of blackberries.
350g of eating apples.
A selection of sterilized jam jars.
Some dihydrogen monoxide.
And sugar. Lots of sugar. Mainly sugar infact.
Bring to boil, and simmer
(stirring occasionally)
until setting point is reached.
Skim, pot, cover and wait until morning.
Best before Michaelmas eve.

Who Says Romance Is Dead?

There's just me,
Northern Ireland's most famous
moustache-sporting
Manchester United supporting UNICEF ambassador
and the IFTA award-winning hair stylist
(responsible for Bono Vox's 1984 mullet);
seated at a corner table
in a modern trattoria style eaterie,
located in a former wine merchant's cellar
just across from the current seat of the Irish parliament.
I recommend the apricot and pannetone
bread-and-butter pudding with pistachio biscotti ice-cream.

Happy Singles Awareness Day

Cultivating A Samson Complex

If Samson had been
a supporting-actor in a BBC police drama
and marooned in Dublin for the weekend,
instead of some biblical hero of the Israelites
famed for wrestling lions
and slaying armies with naught but donkey's jawbones,
maybe he would've consoled himself
over the loss of his seven locks of hair
by ordering a chilli cheese dog and a hot slice of pie
in a themed American diner at the posh end of town.
Maybe they wouldn't have
put his eyes out and placed him in chains?
Maybe I should buy myself a wig?

Drinking Flat Root Beer For Breakfast

Drinking flat root beer for breakfast
tastes, to my tongue at least,
like purest decadence in liquid form.
If you can imagine such a thing?
Surely something this divine
must have its darker consequences.
And indeed, a friend of mine
recently laid claim that it contains
a secret carcinogenic ingredient.
Notoriously difficult to obtain
on this side of the wide Atlantic gap,
they drink the stuff by the bucketload in
Park City Utah and in San Luis Obispo
and along the boardwalk at Coney Island.
Of course, there are those who would say that
drinking flat root beer for breakfast
tastes more like out-of-date
cough medicine mixed with cyanide.
It's clearly something which divides opinion.
One's things for certain though,
drinking flat root beer for breakfast
is something which should never be done alone.

The American Soda Company

The Best Hot Dogs In All Sweden

A little local knowledge can go a long long way...
You won't find this
little puppy
in any of your goddamned guide-books!