Planet of the Grapes

The first wine dinner I ever went to was at Bombay’s Indigo restaurant. Chef Rahul Akerkar’s food was sublime, but what I mostly took away from that experience was: “snob fest”. There is only one word that describes the ponciness that surrounds most wine events in India – contrived (and poncy, I suppose). My lovely friend Rajeev Samant and Sula are doing a lot to change that but…

Now in London, I’ve experienced less ceremony around wine. It’s easy and accessible and one is allowed lecture-free dislike of something they have tasted. One of the first fun wine events was when my friends Matt & Erica invited me to their annual blind tasting party. As the only Indian guest I offered to bring an Indian wine. And so began my search for Sula in London. I looked far and wide and many unhelpful wine stores later experienced the relief (and subsequent joy) of meeting Matt and Marc at Planet of the Grapes.

Our relationship began five years ago and they have remained my most generous educators in all things wine… reminding me to always, always have fun above everything else. And to not always choose a wine by its price.

I recently visited their Bow Lane bar for an Etienne Guigal tasting, and Stef the Chef had food to match. For all the vintages of wine I have ever drunk, I cannot speak to you in “wine notes”. I cannot speak of barrels, oak, nose, nor ear. And so, what I have here is the scene each sip evoked:

On Arrival : Cotes du Rhone Blanc, 2011 (canapés)
Utter dread. I was the only person who had come to this shindig on my own. This usually isn’t a problem, except on this occasion it turned out that every one of the 20+ diners knew each other. There is only so much bag-adjusting, floor-staring, pretend-phone-talking one can do. Consequently I hated the bready canapés and the wine.

First Course: St. Joseph, Blanc, 2009 (filo wrapped Pollock, courgette, piquillo peppers)
I was seated with a smaller group of strangers to deal with. Fortunately they turned out to be fun and funny. With the first sip of this wine I felt myself relax into this meal. It tasted of honey, and summer afternoons on a hammock. The starter was a burst of flavours at first bite. Wow – those juicy peppers!

Second Course: Crozes-Hermitage Rouge, 2007 (potted Welsh-black oxtail)
The oxtail is among the most flavoursome cuts of beef (and inexpensive too). Stef’s potted oxtail was nearly half a day in the making and caused major oohing and aahing at my table. I wasn’t a fan and the wine reminded me of eating mud as a child (not the fun memories but the after effects of having been found out). Both the food and the wine left me wishing for a second starter. I did love the tarragon and fennel salad it came with, but the next course could not come soon enough.

Third Course: Côte-Rôtie Brune et Blonde, 2005 (char-grilled onglet steak, potato gratin, braised Swiss chard)
NOW we’re talking! Stef originally wanted this course to be some kind of game. Unfortunately it was too early in the year for that and so he prepared a classic onglet steak as, in his words, “a savage feast”. This cut of beef sits quite close to the liver and kidneys, and so has a musky offal tang to it. Drinking the wine was like flirting at the Candlelight Club. Or in Paris. This entire course was rich, flavourful, and very sexy.

Cheese Course: Chateau D’Ampuis, Côte-Rôtie, 2001
I was in heaven. No… better. I was kissing my favourite boyfriend in front of a fireplace in Le Portetta in Courchevel. I couldn’t tell you what cheese was served, and frankly, I didn’t care. The absolute joy that came in this glass was all consuming.

Back on Earth, the gentleman from Guigal guided the entire evening with anecdotes and tasting notes. While I didn’t quite enjoy that part of the evening I realised soon enough that I didn’t have to. Even though the Planet of the Grapes has an extremely serious selection of wines, it also has a wonderful sense of humour about itself. Enough to put even the reluctant novice at ease.

As the evening wound itself down I found myself not wanting to leave this crowd. Funny how that happened. I guess all it took was for me to allow myself to have some fun. To choose not to feel intimidated. To trust that my good friends at Planet of the Grapes would have never asked me to something they didn’t think I would enjoy.

I didn’t really want the biscotti from the tasting menu, and so I charmed two other Planetarians, Beans and Fabio, into bringing me dessert instead. I ended the evening with Stef’s handmade peach sorbet and white chocolate ice cream. I ended the evening feeling like a five-year old girl doing jumping jacks in her pyjamas.

Joy.
-p

Cafe Zoe. Bombay changing?

There are some things I just don’t get. I don’t get the Indian man’s obsession with adjusting his balls in public. I don’t get the RJs on Bombay radio. And I just don’t get restaurants that hide average food and poor service behind free Wi-Fi and cool interiors.

The last time I was in Bombay, the city was going gaga over celebrity spotting at Hakkasan, and Table remained non-five star restaurant of choice. This time round there was a new name I ran into everywhere. Cafe Zoe. Bombay waxed eloquent about how cool it is. How NYC the vibe is. How much they loved hanging out there. A “really lovely girl”, some expat, and the former chef of one of Bombay’s hottest restaurants have come together and the city was in love with a new restaurant all over again.

Instead of hiding its mill ancestry, Café Zoe celebrates it. Even though slightly reminiscent of the look that The Bowling Co. created 13 years ago, Café Zoe’s design is definitely cool. The furniture is simple, there is a decent bar against one wall and sofas against another. What I liked a lot about this restaurant was the tons of natural light that streams in through the skylights. Oh, and the loo is pretty cool too.

I’m afraid that is all I really liked about Café Zoe.

As a single diner, I was seated at the bar. I usually prefer this, but their bar stools are not high enough and I spent my entire meal adjusting and readjusting myself to try and eat my meal comfortably. In between swatting flies that swarmed the bar. I started with a Fresh Black Grape Caipiroska (Rs. 450). Really well priced, but was sickly sweet and I couldn’t taste the alcohol. I waited twenty minutes for the first of my bar snacks to arrive – Roast Veg Arancini (Rs. 210) served with an unfortunate tomato sauce. I dare you to say it tastes of anything other than a tart gujju pizza sauce. The arancini on its own is nicely cheesy but under-salted; this is probably deliberate given the way the tomato sauce assaults your taste buds. Many minutes later my other snack, Pulled Pork Brioche (Rs. 285), arrives. I did away with the cucumber slice it came with, wiped away the excess mustard that killed all other flavours and then went on to semi-enjoy this dish.

The best dish I ordered was the Truffle Capellini (Rs. 550). Exactly what it says on the menu. No fuss and all flavour.

Just when I was getting ready to forgive the flies, poor flavours, haphazard service and multiple requests for the Wi-Fi code going unanswered, it all came crashing down with the dessert. First they misplaced my order, then the Panna Cotta (Rs. 150) arrives and tastes of smelly custard, and then the Americano (Rs. 75) arrives in a smelly cup.

Spend 10 minutes here and it is plain as day why people flock to Café Zoe. The pretty ones – film maker, ad guy turned hot actor turned activist turned actor, society food columnist, fashion store owner – feel like they have come to a members-only private club; and the wannabe pretty ones… well, they just wanna be part of this private club. Neither care about the average food, the abundant flies, or the appalling service. All they care about is the “vibe”.

I go to restaurants for one of two reasons: great food, great service. Ideally both, but definitely one. Everything else is gravy. Everyone I knew used to want this too. When did this change? Why have (supposedly) fewer options given way to an acceptance of mediocrity? Does the mediocrity stop at our resturants? When did Bombay go soft?

-p

Butterflies, just in time for summer

This guy in my office would love everyone to believe he is a serial dater. Day after day he comes in with stories about X from Essex, Y the waitress and Z the hot one. I think he thinks we believe him. When this first started I had no reason not to believe him. I mean, I wouldn’t know how to make time to meet three different dates in the same week, let alone keep track of their lives, jokes and names. But then, that’s just me. This guy is bright, looks alright, can be charming when he chooses, knows a good restaurant, and… is a guy I guess. But as the weeks went on his stories about this supposed quest for love stopped ringing true. I guess what killed it for me was that he can never talk about the excitement jitters that usually precede the prospect of a new something-something.

You can fake a lot of stuff – you can’t fake the feeling of butterflies in your stomach. Everyone probably has their own version of butterflies. For me, I know I am excited about a date when I change outfits at least three times before I meet him. I know he likes me when he doesn’t notice that I have repeated myself – five times. I know I like him when I let him order for the two of us. I know the date is going well when my toes curl as the butterflies finally settle.

I had a toe curling experience recently. No, not on a date – but this came a very, very close second.

I strayed into London’s eclectic East end. Breakfast at the Albion Deli, haircut at Jones & Payne, and then for the highlight of my weekend: lunch at Bistrot Bruno Loubet. Finally!

I have been meaning to eat here since my boss couldn’t stop raving about it nearly 9 months ago. Things happen only when they are meant to, and this Saturday is exactly when this meal was meant to happen. I first visited the hotel that hosts this bistro a few days ago when the charming General Manager Jason Catifeoglou showed me around the Zetter Townhouse (which I have to come back to for many, many cocktails).

The restaurant was quiet. (Apparently, Saturdays are unpredictable.) If I wasn’t travelling on a happy cloud that day I may have reconsidered this option and walked over to the buzzing Modern Pantry next door. But it’s a lovely, bright room, and I got a table by the window that also looked into the kitchen – my favourite kind of table. This is what I ordered:

I started with the foie gras daily special (£9) – I broke my 3-year rule of no foie gras because I wanted to see what kind of magic this chef from the South of France could create. It was pitch perfect. Next came a second starter: beetroot ravioli, rocket salad, fried breadcrumbs and Parmesan (£7.50) – I hate beetroot, love ravioli; this dish is an absolute winner. I finally understand what the “sweetness of beetroot” means.

  

A quiet restaurant means that the chef has a few minutes to drink his apple juice at your table. It will come as no surprise that I have a soft spot for chefs – I would rather spend my day talking to a chef and how he created something than… than, well, anything else really. And Bruno Loubet is amongst the more disarming ones. His stories of regulars at the bistro, how recipes from his cookbooks have been blatantly plagiarised by several, how the new restaurant in Central London is coming along, and cycling to work everyday, made this meal even more memorable.

I then ordered another daily special for my main. My boss in New York never orders the specials. He doesn’t do it because he doesn’t think the chefs have enough time to perfect the recipe. I suppose that makes sense – but when I see a crab special (£18), I can’t not order it.

For my main I had a crab linguine with curry oil. This dish arrived looking like summer in a bowl, and biting this pasta off the fork may be one of the most sensuous things I have tasted in my life. This dish made my toes curl – every single bite made my toes curl.

That’s almost as good as being on a good date.

-p

p.s. Not even the disastrous buffalo milk pannacotta with watermelon and pineapple salad (£6) could ruin my memories of this meal.

Perfect

They call Buenos Aires the ‘Paris of the South’. Just like Kerala is the ‘Venice of the East’. Why can’t Buenos Aires just be Buenos Aires? A few weeks ago I wrote about expectations. When something is called the Paris of the South – I expect Paris! Is it then uncool to admit that I didn’t think the city was all that? Probably. Reality did not live up to expectations; did I miss out? Definitely.

I’ve had several Tables for ONE during my visit to Argentina. I could have written from an asado, but steak didn’t inspire any words. I could have also written from the tango cafés of Caminito, but honestly, I did not want words to ruin that experience for me. But when I wander into the stunning Park Hyatt Palacio Duhau I feel the familiarity seep in. The terrace of Los Salones del Piano Nobile is crowded with strangers; the sun begs me to order a sparkling rosé; and I choose my first non-Argentine meal on my last day in the country.

Starbucks represents everything I hate (and grudgingly love) about globalisation. When I sit in a café in Palermo (the Soho of South America, I guess) I want a local brew with dulce de leche.  I do not want to order a vente Mocha with one shot, iced, caramel sauce on the top and bottom, no whip, light on the ice, and 7 pumps of peppermint syrup and have them know how to make it! That said, I also find great comfort in global brands when I find myself in dodgy neighbourhoods in foreign cities. If Starbucks is here then someone knows about this place. This is familiar. I am safe.

There are some things you can rely on no matter where you go.

• Women will stop at their reflection. Even in the middle of a jungle in torrential rain.
• A Latino will compliment a woman, no matter what size she comes in.
• Tourist attractions will serve bad junk food.
• A Park Hyatt knows how to poach an egg.

My appetiser of lettuce hearts and poached eggs with mustard vinaigrette (ARG $55) was inspirational. The butternut squash soup (ARG $46) that followed, even better. I sat on the terrace for many hours thinking about how perfect this day turned out. I was meant to join a tour but instead started with breakfast at a real, local café; spent the morning watching tango dancers weave their way around the streets of Caminito; and then wandered through plush Recoleta until I found myself on this terrace.

We wait so long for perfection. The perfect rainbow. The perfect man. The perfect city. How often have you missed out on something as you wait for perfection? Or someone?

-p