A good lunch

(Written 1/10/2013. My very good friend, Doctor Chris, emigrated to India some twenty-five years ago. He returns every year to renew his visa and visit his pals. He's a non-executive Director of the Blue Elephant and La Porte Des Indes restaurant chains, and I'm lucky enough to get regular invitations to dine with him at one or other of their London sites.)

To London with Dr Chris today, so that he could pick up his yearly dividend from his part-ownership of the Blue Elephant group http://www.blueelephant.com/

 

Last year, we ate at the new Blue Elephant near Clapham Junction, so this time he'd decided we'd lunch at La Porte Des Indes, close to Marble Arch - http://www.laportedesindes.com/london/

 

We were clearly expected, as the Group Executive Chef was waiting for us in Reception, ready to escort us to the bar. With a couple of pints of Kingfisher in front of us, he briefed Chris on the current state of work on the latest addition to the franchise, La Porte Des Indes Dubai, scheduled to open on December 1st.

 

From there, he handed us over to his wife, the Group Managing Director. She took Chris through developments announced at the last AGM, the profit expectations for the year ahead, then collected the menus we'd been handed and asked if we'd let her order the food - "Let me put a selection together for you. You'll be wanting a bottle of wine?" Yes, a bottle of the house white would be a good idea.

 

This shortly arrived, together with an "amuse-bouche", a tiny pastry containing tilapia and mashed potato, with a fruit chutney and a green herb sauce. Gracious, what a taste explosion it was, an initial blast of spice that threatened to be overpowering but disappeared in seconds, followed by a sweet fruitiness combined with creamy mint. And if I thought that was a remarkable demonstration of the chef's subtle arts, it was as nothing compared to what followed.

 

A large dish of starters was placed before us - a couple of enormous tandoori-roasted prawns, fully eight inches long, two lamb kebabs, two cheesy herbed and spiced concoctions piled on individual biscuits, briefly-grilled scallops in a saffron sauce and a couple of lamb chops marinaded in yoghurt and spices. To accompany the dish, a garlic and shallot naan, and four chutneys, mango, mint, assorted fruit and chilli. The last we were warned to treat carefully, as it was very spicy.

 

The Managing Director popped back to introduce our waitress for lunch, the newly appointed Restaurant Manager. "She'll look after you, now, how's the wine?" In response to Chris' questions about who chooses the house wine (which was very good indeed - but at £28 a bottle it ought to be), it seems that the wine buyer left a few years ago, but not before forging excellent relations with several vineyards that continue to supply the Group. The house white comes from Austria, and apparently the wine-maker's Alsace is even better. Hearing that the "Alsace" is actually a blend of four Alsacian wines, including Gervurztraminer, I ventured that such a wine, with its flinty background, would probably go exceptionally well with spicy food.

 

Recognising a knowledgable dipsomaniac, S said "Oh, then you must try a glass!" Turning to our waitress, she said that there was quite a lot of an open bottle remaining in the kitchen, and to be a dear and fetch it. Thus it was that our wine bill was augmented by most of a £39 bottle. And, gosh, it was good.

 

Folks, you might enjoy a glance at the wine list - http://www.laportedesindes.com/london/indian-restaurant-menu/wines/?level1=35 Please don't take issue with me over the prices, La Porte Des Indes aims itself squarely at the top ten percentile of diners, and prices reflect that.

 

Telling us to get cracking with the lamb chops, as they go a little glutinous when cooling, she left us - but not before saying "As I ordered the food.... you're my guests. There'll be no bill. Enjoy your meal!"

 

Resisting the urge to order three more bottles of wine and a flask of Jack Daniels, I went for my lamb chop. Now, I know some people like their lamb on the pink side... but I would have never been so daring as to serve lamb as pink as this. The centre of the chop was, I swear, raw. And yet... the sixteen chefs who work at La Porte Des Indes are masters, and I trust them. So, into the mouth, chew.... and crikey, so meltingly delicious! All I can say is that they must have absolutely top meat suppliers.

 

The (fully cooked) tandoori prawns were spiced with care, the cheesy/herby/biscuity thing was another mouthfilling riot of flavour, and the lamb kebabs were dense parcels of meaty goodness. The naan had just enough garlic so that you knew it was there, but not so much that it dominated the finely-shredded shallots, and the chutneys added several more dimensions to the starters. The warning regarding the chilli chutney was timely - more than a smear would have been volcanic. I got the firm impression that it would have burst into flames if I'd simply looked at it the wrong way.

 

The wreckage of the first course was cleared away, and then the main course(s) began to arrive. It took three deliveries to the table! By this time, Chris and I had worked out that La Porte Des Indes was doing its very best to show off. There was a pork vindaloo, a dry chilli beef dish, a banana-leaf roasted fillet of cod encased in a caramelised barbecue sauce, spinach cooked with paneer, saffron rice with slivers of nuts, pomegranite raita, green mint sauce and a cheese-filled naan. Everything was exceptional - the cod was cooked to perfection, the pomegranite raita was a revelation, who knew that pomegranite worked so well with yoghurt? - but I have to mention the vindaloo in particular.

 

Fearless Babba is no wimp when it comes to the chilli. In Indonesia he ate gado-gado (oh, look it up) at napalm strength and followed it with a curious fruit salad smothered in a peanut sauce apparently conjured from Satan's own blast furnace. Heat does not bother our boy. No, it is the bitterness of the chilli that spoils the taste of the food he chooses, and that is why his preferred curry strength is "Madras". The vindaloo, the tindaloo, the phal is a step too far... or so I thought.

 

Unquestionably, the pork vindaloo was spicy, spicier than I would choose. And yet, it was politely spicy, building the warm embers so slowly that I hardly noticed when the chimney caught fire. Long-roasted pork enlivened by weapons-strength Goan red chillies, garlic and malt vinegar, oh, man, I loved it. And not a trace of bitterness.

 

Sated beyond imagining, Chris and I sank back and contemplated the empty bottle of white wine. "Another?" he suggested... and someone claiming to be me replied "Um... actually, I think I'm too full." At which, our waitress mentioned that house white was a) available by the glass, b) that nothing would make her life more complete than fetching us two of same and c) we might just as well, as dessert would be a minute or so in arriving. So we did.

 

Dessert, which arrived in a trice, consisted of a pistachio yoghurt, a chocolate mousse in a dried banana leaf parcel and a mango ice-cream complete with chunks of mango. All were sublime.

 

It was suggested that we might prefer to take coffee in the bar - "And a couple of large brandies!" Chris insisted - so, thanking our waitress/Restaurant Manager profusely for the truly fantastic lunch we'd enjoyed, we sank into the comfortable sofas next door, where the Executive Chef dropped in to check that we'd had a good time and that his chefs had properly shown off the finest that La Porte Des Indes could offer. As a couple of goldfish bowls filled with an inch or two of Courvoisier and fitted with stems so that they could masquerade as glasses were placed on the table, we showered him with praise.

 

No question, it was one of the very finest meals I have ever had. Long will it live in my memory.

 

I'd write more, of Dr Chris and I venturing down the Thames to Greenwich, our return, the three large Italian brandies at Carluccio's... but it's getting late. (And I was pissed.)

Barclaycard advert

(Written 7/2/2010. And to remind you of the advert, see this first:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zo4LaXcERnA )

I'm much impressed by the latest Barclaycard advert, folks, which, if I understand it correctly, seeks to persuade me to build a customised roller-coaster ride between my house and place of work, financed with their credit card. While I must admit that it would be a most exhilarating way of commuting, and certainly much more green than using the Jag, I believe I may have spotted a tiny flaw in their recommendation.

Aha - you're thinking it's the cost, aren't you? Well, if the banking crisis has taught me anything (and I believe it has) it was that the loss of confidence was caused by people not borrowing enough. Or not paying enough back. One of the two, anyway. Well, a huge capital project like this will certainly require huge borrowing, and if we all get behind this initiative, I believe we can "kick start" the economy, as we masters of finance refer to it. I often get lovely letters from Barclaycard, explaining how their credit card rates are very low, and suggesting that I have an exotic holiday or buy some luxury white good, then pay for it later, so I imagine I'll be able to keep to their repayment schedule.

Now, I wouldn't be surprised if you're also thinking "Hang on - Babba regularly blows up computers, his kitchen tap has been dripping for six years and he's on first name terms with every AA patrol person in the UK. He is not, even on a good day, mechanically minded. As for mechanically handed, he is a walking disaster area. If he tries to put together a roller coaster, it'll end up going through someone's window. And bursting into flames for no explainable reason." I do not blame you for this thought, but I would point out that I have assembled flat-pack furniture in the past with some success.

I astonished an ex-partner some years ago when I put together two wardrobes and a floor to ceiling wall unit in an afternoon. I'll allow that part of her astonishment was due to her expecting the nest of tables shown on the pack, but that need not detain us.

The point is, I know which end of a screwdriver is the business end. A doctor once explained it to me, as part of a stern lecture that can be best summarised as "There are no user-serviceable parts inside your lung." So, you see, I now know which end to lean on when trying to shift a recalcitrant screw.

I shall buy a socket set - partly because if I go into a tool shop and ask for one, I'll know what it is when they hand it to me. I'll also take professional advice on how to use it from the NHS drop-in centre up the road.

Some welding will probably be needed, which might have been a problem, had not my mechanic (who can speak technically-challenged very well) once explained that "It's basically glueing metal together, that's all you need to know, chum". A few large tins of Evo-Stick, then, should suffice.

The supports? Oh, I can hear you now, you think the supports will be the problem, don't you? And yet, some friends will remember the unfeasably large tent that I used to bring to Cropredy. Believe me, if anyone knows how to rig a set of guy ropes, it is your correspondent. Supports, I assure you, will not be a problem. Especially if they are colour-coded with electrical tape like the supports of the tent were.

And if you think I'll be refusing professional help, you're wrong. I shall engage someone to paint the car properly, because I can't draw a lightning flash to save my life.

In all, then, I see no overall problems with the project, beyond the tiny flaw that sadly, makes it impossible. You haven't spotted it, have you? I don't blame you, it's clearly eluded Barclaycard, and it would probably fox most engineers. I'll tell you.

Friends... what happens if it's raining?

Yes, you'd get to work with your clothes all damp. And your hair all of a fright. And the spreadsheets in your briefcase would be a bit runny, so that all your co-workers would giggle when you handed them in to the boss, especially when you said "Sorry, sir... the dog wee'd on them", and some sneak shouted out "Make him do them again, sir!"

See, if I worked for Barclaycard, I could have told them that their roller-coaster commuting scheme was doomed from the outset. In fact, I may write to them and offer to advise on future advertising campaigns, because only complete thickos will buy into this one.

Meanwhile, I shall be putting my money into the American Express underground Ghost Train package, which promises to be just as exhilarating, but less weather-dependent. The giant drill and compass will be delivered next week, and all I have to do is remember to take a left turn at Albuquerque.

"The Day The Immigrants Left"

(Written 25/2/2010)

Did anyone else see this interesting and entertaining documentary tonight? It was set in Wisbech, where unemployment is 40% above the national average and there are a fair few immigrants around.

It started with a few vox pops repeating the same boneheaded nonsense you hear quite a lot - "There's no jobs, because the immigrants have taken them all", "I feel like a stranger in my own country" - all the usual botty water.

So the BBC arranged for several local businesses to give one or two of their foreign staff a couple of days off, and advertised for local people to fill in for them. They managed to identify twelve potential workers, and off we went.

It didn't start well, to be blunt. Of the three people who were taken on at the local potato factory, two arrived half an hour late and the third called in sick. I should say, texted in sick. At midnight, and the thrust of his text was "Just got in. I'm feeling really sick" which rather revealed the cause of the illness. The other two, deprived of their team member, were then inducted and set to work packing bags of potatos, assisted by one of the experienced foreign workers. "His name's Yuri..." "Oh, well, that's me buggered, then... oi'll call him Bill" was the response of one of the locals, who clearly did not speak any foreign language and wasn't about to start now. Having been told that it might be more appropriate if he called Yuri by his actual name, the team started work, putting twelve bags of potatos in trays and loading them on a large trolley.

Within hours, they'd stopped a production line. A quality controller had found that, while the team may have had many hidden talents, counting up to twelve wasn't one of them. So their line was stopped while they rechecked all the trays they'd loaded. "Call him Bill" wasn't happy that he and the other local had been singled out for criticism, "'Cos there was three of us on the team. I mean, it might not be our fault, there was three of us..." he muttered, glowering darkly in the direction of Yuri.

At the Indian restaurant, things started well. The four sent to work there all arrived and were shown how to make basic curries, chop onions, take orders and so on. They all seemed pretty keen, one going so far as to say "Well, I've learned something today!" with a satisfied grin. And so, the foreign four were told to take the next couple of days off and the locals prepared to get their hands spicy on the morrow.

Tragically, sickness once again visited... only one returned. Two down with food poisoning, one with a sick girlfriend that he'd had to take to hospital, so the survivor was set to waiting duties. Which he found somewhat difficult - "How am I supposed to know how to spell dansak?" (Just a guess, but by reading the menu, perhaps?)

The hopeful waiter had to take a couple of fag breaks during his shift simply to keep his nerve. It didn't work, half way through the shift he handed in his notice.

Over at the asparagus farm, which the Angel of Death had forgotten to visit, they had a full complement of three locals, who were being told how to harvest the crop - "If the stalk is this high, cut it and put it in your basket." For each kilo harvested, they would earn 38p. Off went the foreigns, darting thither and yon, while the locals went a little slower. "Blimey", one said peering into the middle distance, "He's at the end of the row already." A darting dot, hundreds of yards away, confirmed his observation.

After an hour or two, the field supervisor (foreign) had clearly had enough, and came over to offer some tactful advice, viz, "You have to work faster". Now, there are several ways to respond to such advice, taking it being the most obvious one. The local had a slightly less effective response - "I'm taking a break!", he bellowed, walking away from his clearly baffled supervisor. Sitting against the back of a 4x4 and smoking a roll-up, he explained to the camera "I had to walk away, otherwise I'd have lamped him" - a turn of phrase that would have baffled his supervisor even more.

At the final workplace, a local carpenter was set to work erecting plasterboard in a house. At the end of the day, the boss brought one of his foreign workers round to inspect the work in progress. Several deficiencies were noted, which didn't go down well - "He criticised me to my face, while I was there!" was the outraged yelp of the local tradesman. "OK, wait until I've gone... but while I was there!" I imagine his school reports probably contained the note "Does not respond to criticism well."

Some of the encounters ended well, though. The two chaps at the potato factory did much better on their second day. Their superviser told them that they could apply for a job there anytime. The carpenter was taken on for the rest of the job, and had a few weeks employment. Oh, and the waiter, having handed in his notice, was sat down, offered a menu and told to order anything he wanted, on the house.

The Asparagus Three had picked so little that the farmer had to cough up £50 just to make their pay up to minimum wage.

Amongst all this, Evan Davis made a few telling points - like when an area experiences a large number of immigrants, local services need time to catch up, and there is some truth when people say that they can't get a doctors appointment because the surgery is full of foreigns. It's not, but when a towns population swells, each surgery has to cope with more people, and there are only so many appointments available. Same goes for other services, like housing, dentists and the like.

He also talked to the jolliest school Head I've ever seen, in an infants school where tinies who spoke not one word of English had to be accommodated, sometimes at short order - "The family lands at Heathrow on Wednesday night and we get the children on Thursday morning". Evan suggested that this might adversely affect the education of the local children, at which she bristled like a badger. "NO! Never! If anything, local children gain from it!" To illustrate her point, the cameras went into a classroom, where all the children were being taught what I remember as "describing words". "I am 'happy'" said a teacher, pointing to a smiley face. "How are you?", pointing to a child. "I am happy", replied the grinning kid. They're all learning a language...

Davis also went to the local Jobcentre, where he looked at the vacancies for unskilled labour. There were a few, although the pay was minimum wage and the jobs were not terribly nice. Not all the opportunities had been stolen by the immigrants, then.

On a superficial level, it would be very easy to sneer at the jobless boneheads of Wisbech. Indeed, I hope you've had an entertaining minute or so while I've done so. The fact is, though, that signing off from benefits to take advantage of a short-term contract to harvest a crop, or renovate a house, then signing on again is difficult, and can bring serious cashflow problems. Coin operated electricity meters don't understand "I'll get the giro next week", or "I have to work a week before I get paid." Nor do supermarkets, and if you have children to feed and keep warm, a stable income is vital, even if it's benefit based.

It's also a fact that cheap labour keeps many industries in business, and if such a pool were not available, they'd either go under or bring in more automation. The asparagus farmer made it plain - if he couldn't get people willing to work very quickly for 38p a kilo, he couldn't turn a profit. As for the potato factory manager, he could buy robots that could count to twelve, but people were cheaper. In both cases, it seems that the jobs that immigrants "stole" only exist because the immigrants are available.

In the coming election, I'm hoping to hear how politicians who rage against immigration intend to re-can these worms.