La Boca, Belfast

Belfast really can be an excellent place to eat.

It is probably the best place in the world to eat if you like chicken and steak, because even the best places have these on the menu.

But that’s OK, because they need to please the people with the bucks to spend on eating out all the time. And these people seem to like steak.

Or chicken.

Or both, in a sort of meat cocktail.

Anyways, I’ve made my peace with that, and it makes me even more determined to try all the other things on the menu that show off what the chef can really do.

Or sometimes it just means I end up eating really good steak.

Anyway, the husband and I have tried Chinese, Thai, mexican and Indian offerings all over the city, with varying degrees of success, so we decided to use his birthday as an excuse to try La Boca, Belfast’s Argentinian offering.

We had been once before, for tapas, and throughly enjoyed them, so a table was book and a date was ON.

I must admit, the variety made it somewhat exciting and date-like. I even shook out my underwear and put on some slut-red lipstick.

I don’t quite know what came over me.

It won’t happen for another while, I am sure.

We got to the restaurant and it was all busy and buzzy and exciting and DIFFERENT. It sort of reminded me of some the restaurants I’ve eaten in while travelling, sort of ramshackle, but in a pretty way.

The busy thing might have come from the Belfast Telegraph diners, but we didn’t care, we were on a DATE. I was wearing SLUT-RED LIPSTICK. Mr p could barely believe his luck.

I looked at the menu and realised Argentinian was perhaps a little foolish if trying to avoid steak. It does take up quite a lot of the menu.

And it’s obviously Argentinian steak. In Belfast. The logic in the food miles is slightly beyond me, but perhaps it is super delicious or something.

Once I stopped being a pretentious wab and wised up a little, we ordered some food ( not steak) and some quite delicious Shiraz Malbec.

Well, my lips were slut-red already.

I figured a little red wine stainage would hardly matter.

Mr P, in a fit of hunger, asked for some bread. I would have got a starter, but the menu seemed to miss the point of a starter slightly, and everything was deep-fried. Or cheesy. Or both. In other words, something that was probably sufficient for the whole of your meal, rather than just a starter.

So nibbling on poor Mr P’s bread it was.

Much as the mood of the evening wanted it to be, that is not a euphemism.

Anyway, usually with the bread thing, there are a couple of different types, and here it was just one. I want to make a bad joke SO BADLY about getting some enormous fluffy baps in, but I shall refrain.

One type of bread it was then, and tasty, too. Which is a lot better than three types of mediocre bread, I suppose. As a result of my sourdough endeavours, I am a bit mystified by bread that is light and fluffy, and devour it and its multitude of additives immediately, so that it was I did.

For mains, I had lamb shank, with mushroom ragout and sweet potato.

It was fine.

That is not a good thing.

Well, it’s not a BAD thing per se, but that is quite literally all I can say about the food.

It was fine.

It didn’t taste bad, or tough, or off. It just taste ‘fine’. I tried seasoning a bit more, something I never do, but that just made it taste like slightly salty fine.

Mr P’s pork (FNAR FNAR!*) was OK.

(*Sorry if your mind isn’t in the GUTTER, if you don’t even know what SLUT-RED lipstick is and you are generally an upstanding member of the community. Just sorry.)

Again, not bad, or off, or anything, just ‘OK’.

And at nearly £15 quid for a main course, one really does hope for more than ‘OK’.

By the time we got to pudding, we were in full on time warp mode.

‘OK’ pancakes topped with swirls of cream and chocolate sauce and bits of stuff and things.

I was sort of rifling through it in search of a cocktail umbrella.

I nearly found one.

I paid up, took my (dangerously close to being old) husband and my slut-red lipstick into the night.

It was a good night.

Care of the slut-red lipstick, Mr P had a fab birthday.

It was a pleasant restaurant.

The food was OK.

Its just that maybe next time, we will stick with steak.

La Boca
6 Fountain St
Belfast, County Antrim BT1 5ED
028 9032 3087

http://www.labocabelfast.com/

Little Pink Adventures: Wild Honey

I am absolutely certain each and every one of you will be ENTHRALLED to know Mr. P and I had a marvellous time in London the weekend before last.

Well I say ‘we’, but I best be honest here. Our ‘marvellous time in London’ mostly revolved around food.

We discovered Ping Pong dim sum . Horribly inauthentic, trashy and an affront to the dim sum I discovered a long time ago in China.

I absolutely loved it.

So much so, we ate there twice.

We went to Borough market. Which made me realise JUST HOW GOOD St. George’s, here in wee tiny Belfast, actually is. Although it could almost certainly be improved by stalls selling mulled cider. Just saying.

We went to the Imperial war Museum. For an exhibition on food. During the war. Was actually incredibly fascinating, and the IWM had the good grace to fill the entrance hall with cars and gadgets to distarct from the fact we were focussing on food AGAIN.

But still, poor Mr. P.

He has his work cut out for him.

And then, on the Saturday night I insisted we found a restaurant that was all BUZZY and LONDON and NOT AVAILABLE IN NORTHERN IRELAND.

The latter part was relatively simple, given we, erm, weren’t in Northern Ireland. And London is so huge and full of people who want different things that, shock horror, its entirely possible to break even without having a steak-based and a chicken-based meal on your menu.

Although that criteria obviously wasn’t as important as I thought, because the menu had steak on.

Oh well.

I googled, and researched, and thought, and thought, and thought, and eventually decided on Wild Honey.

I’d heard of Arbutus, its sister restaurant a while ago, you see, and it always appealed because of the ‘reasonably priced’ thing.

Well, I am from Ballymena after all.

And well, although I might force Mr P to do these things, I’m not entirely comfortable to get in a plane and pay for a hotel room and pay 300 quid for a dinner that is just ‘OK’.

So getting in a plane, and paying for a hotel room for a dinner that was likely to cost around 100 quid seemed like a much better idea to me.

Plus, the fact they do all their wines by the carafe may of had just swayed me a TEENY TINY bit.

So Wild Honey it was. I don’t know why I didn’t just book Arbutus itself, but we all do erratic things sometimes.

On the day itself, at Belfast City Airport, I read Giles Coren’s review of the other member of this sisterhood of restaurants, Les Deux Salons.

I can’t link, because its behind a paywall.

But he liked it.

I kept randomly jabbing at the page in excitement, squealing at Mr. P took this as a good omen.

We had our fun in London town, we had a nap, and for the first time in a very long time, Mr P put on a REAL pair of shoes. Like, proper ones, not hiking boots. He shined them up and all! He shaved! He put on AFTERSHAVE. And for the first Saturday night since time begun, he didn’t have to bathe in Swarfega to remove car grease.

I’d come over all peculiar before we even left the hotel.

We jumped on the tube. Because yes, we are tourists. We get excited by things like that, and make people like Giles Coren ‘proper’ Londoners hate us beyond words. We took in the heady sights of Mayfair (WAGs, car garages and the Ritz hotel. Although he was in proper shoes, Mr P still had jeans on, so just the outside of that one). We marvelled at ‘London’ things, like places to plug in electric cars, and Boris bikes, and red phone boxes.

Before realising we have those at home.

And also realised it was zero degrees.

And proper shoes aren’t very warm.

Also, we were late.

So we made it to our destination in a fit of excitement, and ordered some cocktails. Which is one, very slight, criticism of the place. because you can eat at the bar, there isn’t actually anywhere to enjoy your cocktails except a through-fare to the door.

And, to be honest, if you are just in from the provinces for the night, and don’t do this sort of thing all the time, leads to you standing there, nervously talking to your husband like you are on a first date.

Although combine this with the fact you have a very nice hotel room and said husband is wearing proper shoes and aftershave and you might be onto something.

Just saying.

Anyway, we were seated, at tables a tiny bit too close together. Which would have been a criticism, except there was a full table between us and our neighbours either side, so it was fine.

If you have paid for a very nice hotel room, and your husband is wearing real shoes, and aftershave, you might want to sit closer to him than your neighbour.

Although we did get to play footsie.

Like we were on a first date.

Maybe this restaurant really is ONTO something here.

Just saying.

And then, there was the food.

Absolutely spot on.

I had smoked eel, with chicken wings and sweet and sour turnips to begin. This wasn’t a lesson in learning to like fish, it was a MASTERCLASS. the fish was smokey, with being overpowered, and the sweetness of the turnip made it a beautiful plateful of food.

And it was a plateful of food at Wild Honey.

Nicely presented, but real portions for real people who actually enjoy eating, rather than posing with tiny little pieces of ‘things’.

I enjoy that, too, but last weekend was about the aftershave, and the shoes, and the footsie, so there was something about ‘proper’ food that made it all rather intimate.

I had veal for mains, a hulking chunk of meat cooked to perfection, with some lovely, garlicky beans alongside, and served atop a bed of sweet onions.

Onions so delicious they deserve that favoured word of the food writer, UNCTUOUS. There, I said it on this blog. Does that make me a proper food writer?

UNCTUOUS.

Definitely a proper writer now.

Except I had to check the spelling, so maybe not.

Mr P had pork belly and snails, to start, which produced a beautifully rich tiny forkful. There was a smear of carrot puree, which managed to do that amazing thing excellent chefs do, where, while tasting absolutely out of this world, actually only tasted of carrot.

Amazing.

When we asked, the waiter, coyly said something about ‘chef’s secrets’, which I really rather liked, rather than this newfangled trend of touring the kitchen and pretending you can do it at home. Proper acknowledgement of skill, and I liked it.

Then he had cod with mussels and bergamot for mains, again a tasty tiny forkful.

Tiny forkful, because that was all he let me taste.

I would have sulked, but then I remembered the shoes.

And the aftershave.

And the lack of Swarfega.

And the hotel room.

I feasted on cheese for pudding, and himself had carrot cake with amazing coffee ice-cream, and some sort of amazing candied carrots. Clearly Chef has a way with carrots. Fnar fnar.

The cheese was all from La Fromagerie, and a delight. I was also pleased to note it was served with real bread. I learnt to enjoy cheese in France, you see, where you generally get bread, and so I generally prefer it to Artisan charcoal crackers or whatever.

All in a beautiful meal, which I loved. Properly cooked, honest food in an intimate setting. The waiter took a cocktail off the bill simply because Mr P DIDN’T LIKE it, which I found slightly amazing. The service was attentive, but left us to our footsie, and our first date feeling, and marvelling about being in LONDON. They also didn’t flinch went we asked for tap water, and extra bread, and how exactely ‘Viognier’ is pronounced.

DELICIOUS is how its pronounced, say I.

For three courses for two, with wine, my cocktail, and coffees, it was £140.

Add the shoes, and the aftershave, and the very nice hotel room, and Mr P might argue it was the best £140 he has ever spent.

Wild Honey
12 St. George Street
London W1S 2FB
020 7758 9160

Flapping my little wings

This week, the Little Pink kitchen is getting pinker.

Well, until this points, it has sort of been bare plaster with one thin coat of paint I did this one time, fully expecting to do coat two THE VERY NEXT DAY.

That was six months ago.

So Mr. P and I have done the most grown-up, domestic, mortgage-owning thing we have ever done in our lives and taken a week off work. To, ya know, ‘sort out the house’.

Goodness, that sounds smug.

But it does mean the Little Pink kitchen is becoming, well, you know…..pink?

Middleton Pink to be precise.

Unfortunately, the bedroom is also becoming blue-er (‘Borrowed Light’, if you will), the ceilings are becoming whiter (‘Pointing’. I mean, who comes up with this stuff?) and the hallway, landing and stairs are becoming cream.

Just cream.

No fancy names there.

Which is a very good thing, because I’ve gone a bit stroppy about it all, to be honest.

I really don’t like painting.

Especially for three solid days.

Dull is not the word.

And, no joke, I’m getting some sort of RSI in my right thumb.

Great!

Anyway, The Mothership sensed my mood, I fear. Mothers are good at that sort of thing, and cheered me up with WINE and PIZZA and TIRAMISU.

She brought Mr. P and I to Little Wing Pizzeria.

And I love her for it.

Because, well, I do love Little Wing.

Its a simple sort of place, with a few starters, a whole lot of pizza, and a couple of pasta dishes.

While I’m sure the pasta stuff is fine, why on earth would you come to a restaurant with the most impressive pizza oven I have ever seen, and the ORDER PASTA?

This is crazy talk, people.

So pizza we had, this time. I had, and to be honest, I was a little bit disappointed.

It lacked the pizazz of all the other pizzas I’ve ever had there.

That is a lot of Zs in one sentence. I like it.

It had parma ham, and rocket, and I suspect it was the quality of the ingredients that let the pizza down. The parma ham didn’t have that cured ‘bite’ it is supposed to, and the rocket was nowhere NEAR peppery enough.

This saddens me a bit, because the shop screams quality, from the fittings, to the loos, to the well chosen wine list. Every single ingredient they use, to me, should scream quality, too.

Maybe Belfast people don’t care much for proper parma ham, and are happy enough to eat something tasting like it came out of a supermarket packet, but I am not one of those people.

Still, all the other pizza-eaters with me were delighted, and I dutifully tasted them all to find excellent toppings: mushrooms baked with rosemary and garlic, salty anchovies, spinach, pancetta.

Mr P even has pizza for pudding: pizza, with nutella and ice-cream.

It was pretty amazing.

Things with nutella usually are.

And then, there was the tiramisu.

It needs a line of its own.

Tiramisu.

Layers of marscapone, coffee, marsala and sponge.

Tiramisu.

Believe me when I say Tiramisu is A Very Good Thing.

And that Little Wing do A Very Good Version.

Come to momma, oh lovely dessert.

Tiramisu.

Tiramisu.

Sorry, I don’t know what came over me there.

So Little Wing Pizzeria, a lovely little place to grab a pizza, for not a whole pile of money. They have branches in Ballyhackamore (LONG LIVE THE EAST! Hoorah!), the Lisburn Road, Ann Street in the city centre, an are soon to open in Bangor I believe.

I just hope that next time, the ingredients are up to scratch.

Failing that I shall just eat an entire Tiramisu for my dinner.

Or order a pizza with a different topping.

A whole Tiramisu, though?
That would be terrible.

Wouldn’t it?

Little Wing Pizza
Locations across Belfast
http://www.littlewingpizzeria.com/
028 9024 7000

The one without the pictures

I have committed a heinous blogging crime.

No, I didn’t start a blog that is so self-absorbed anybody unfortunate enough to stumble up it wants to stick pins in their eyes.

Well, maybe they do, but I choose to ignore it. *whistles innocently*

Neither did a write a really dull post about a restaurant.

You know the ones: “We went to a fish restaurant. But I don’t like fish. So I had a steak. It was OK.” and that is literally THE WHOLE OF THE REVIEW.

Neither did I blog incessantly for three days, and then never be seen again.

No.

I did something MUCH worse.

I went for lunch WITHOUT A CAMERA.

The shiny 5d got left at home. As did the little IXUS.

Not even my MOBILE PHONE was to be seen.

I’m sensing the disappointed head shaking.

I’m sorry.

Blame Mr P’s Aunt. She offered lunch. i expected a standard little morsel somewhere pleasant.

We ended up in BERT’s JAZZ BAR. Remember, the Jazz Bar?

It was so absolutely lovely. You are just going to have to trust me on this one. I’ll certainly be back, and next time, the camera is coming too.

PROMISE.

I had a steak sandwich, that I ordered rare, and, in a shock manoeuvre IT ACTUALLY CAME RARE.

The meat was so meltingly good, I just sort of had to suck it a bit to get a chunk of meat, which is a refreshing chance from the usual steak sandwich experience.

The usual steak sandwich experience seems to revolve mostly around chewing,

And then chewing some more.

And then picking the chewed bits out of your teeth.

The sandwich was on thick, toasted white bread, tomato and a few leaves, and beurre cafe de paris. That means capers and mustard and shallots and YUM, for those who are interested. There was a nicely dressed salad on the side, but the salad came with a gripe of mine.

It was on a ruddy NAPKIN.

WHY DO THIS?! The salad STICKS to the napkin and then you end up with NAPKIN FLAVOURED SALAD. Please, stop it with the napkin. Even if it is embossed with your logo.

No need.

The lovely Aunt of Mr P had pate, with lovely sourdough and even lovelier plum chutney. Wasn’t even an errant napkin or anything.

My second gripe is about the wine. I really didn’t want to have a grip about the wine, because the house wine comes from the Languedoc, a subject currently very close to my heart.

It’s just that the cheapest wine is TWENTY ONE POUNDS a bottle. Its lovely, and worth the money, but definitely pushes this place into the realm of the posh lunch.

Which is a shame, because the food is very good value. I think my sandwich was a tenner, and you can get a bowl of soup for three pounds.

It’s similar to the champagne experience, with the afternoon tea.

And if you want a cocktail, its upwards of eight shiny pound coins,

Which is a lot of money.

Sort it out, Mr. Merchant.

Gripes over, the expensive wine was beautiful. And sitting on the terrace at a table laid with starched napkins and a proper table-cloth allowed this LIttle Pink Dreamer to feel like one of the beautiful people, all continental and cool and long of limb.

The coffee with which we finished lunch was super, and came with that sense of occasion that hotels surround simple things with: lumps of sugar, art deco pot, pouring the coffee from a height.

The Little Pink Dreamer loved it. I pretended it happens every time I drink coffee.

What, you mean it doesn’t round your way? That you might bung it in the cafetière and gulp it from a mug?

Tut. Tut.

Bert’s Jazz Bar.

Injects a little glamour into the day, alongside some lovely food.

Just don’t expect to drink the bar dry without re-mortgaging.

And for goodness sake bring your camera. OK?

The Brunch bunch

This one time, in the Little Pink Kitchen, I blogged about brunch.

I love brunch, its my favourite (well, one of them). Even if I don’t waft around the kitchen, looking coy in an oversized shirt,

For one thing, I married a man a wee bit smaller than myself, so THAT ain’t going to happen.

Secondly, I never waft anywhere first thing in the morning. I mostly fall down the stairs and mutter things under my breath until the coffee is made. Nothing RUDE. Nothing even SPECIFIC. I just mutter THINGS.

Oh dear, am mad old lady. I shall end up living in a shoe and feeding pigeons, won’t I?

Hopefully not, actually, because I also like getting up and going out for brunch.

Its one of those things in life, like drinking out of a martini glass and being more specific than ‘red’ with my wine order that makes me feel like a proper grown up who lives in a proper big city where there are BARS and CLUBS and BRUNCH.

I’ve been living in the city nearly 2 years, and the novelty still hasn’t worn off.

I think it might be a little escapism on my part. Escape from the dullsville job and the mortgage payments.

Although I guess regular readers might sniff a theme with the whole ‘escapism’ thing I do.

The Merchant Hotel, where I went for my birthday, has a new jazz bar as part of its extension. They do proper Sunday Brunch, apparently, and I absolutely cannot wait for the next time I am celebrating something, because I shall demand that Mr P take me there immediately.

It’s the type of place where I can probably have BRUNCH AND A COCKTAIL AT THE SAME TIME.

Also it’s called ‘Bert’s Jazz Bar’, and Mr P can I could do our Bert and Ernie impressions ALL MORNING LONG.

*implodes with excitement*

This IS actually very exciting dear readers, because Belfast is pretty mean on the brunch front, especially on a Sunday.

And who doesn’t love Bert & Ernie? Except, perhaps, our fellow diners should we keep the charade up for any length of time.

Which is a very real and scary possibility. We are a HOOT to be around. They would want to be our friends. Instantly.

Because the glossy, shiny, fashionable types I’m sure are found at a jazz brunch LOVE the Bert and Ernie. Yup.

Until the great morning comes where I shall bother to shower before brunch, where I shall get dressed up and have cocktails and brunch at the same time, I shall probably keep going to our local brunch joint because it is marvellous and I love it.

Bennetts on Belmont have cheerfully being serving Mr P and I various types of egg creations since we bought our house, and it is a mere stroll away.

They don’t even seem to mind that I barely brush my teeth, let alone my hair.

Pretentious food types might be a bit sniffy about the lack of authenticity; eggs Benedict are served with smoked salmon and on a bagel, french toast is made using baguette, but everything is really delicious.

And aforementioned pretentious types should probably get their heads out of their London-based bottoms, because Belfast, much as I adore the place, doesn’t offer much in the way of decent brunch. It’s either an Ulster fry or the occasional American place doing pancakes badly, and I do good pancakes myself, so why would I bother? I also suspect that most cities around the UK are the same.

Bennetts do a really very good job of offering the perfect, if slight irreverent, antidote to this, doing a simple menu really well. A full Ulster fry, smoked fish with poached eggs, roast mushrooms and tomato, porridge the lot. And the inauthentic eggs Benedict are very, very tasty, I’ll have you know.

Attention to detail is beyond what the budget should allow; if you order something that comes with leaves, you get a decent amount of salad, that has been dressed before it reaches the plate, rather than a single leaf of limp lettuce with a drizzle of some old salad cream on or something. Or COLESLAW *shudder*

The coffee flows freely, the papers are to hand (even if, like me, you only really read the Style and food supplements. Oops.), and the waiting staff are really rather perky given the fact they are working on a Sunday morning.

Bennetts, the city brunch option for those of us who can’t cope with more than yoga pants on a Sunday morning. Which I reckon is a LOT of people.

Bennetts on Belmont
4 Belmont Road
Belfast BT4 2AN
028 9065 6590
Brunch served until 2pm on Sundays

A serving of Humble Pie

Last week it was the mother-in-law’s birthday, and it was decreed we would go to Made in Belfast for dinner.

Actually, it wasn’t decreed at all, my mother-in-law is a very good egg. Instead, she chose a decent restaurant that she enjoys going to, and suggested we join her, as one is supposed to do on one’s birthday.

To be honest, until that night I was never really sure of where I stood on Made In Belfast. They pride themselves on things like posh fish finger sandwiches, and pies, and serving things in enamel ware, and going retro, and mad interiors, and all sorts.

And there was a big, big part of me that thought it was all hype, and they were somehow TRICKING us all into paying a tenner for a pie, and then got away with it, because of the mad interiors, and all.

That was until the birthday, that was.

For a start, there wasn’t even pie on the menu (apart from the humble kind).

The interior really is funky. It’s properly eclectic, with random bit of wallpaper and mismatched furniture, and spray painted lampshades and probably a million and one other things I didn’t pay any attention to. They also have a pink Smeg fridge, and we all know how badly I want one of those.

Pink….Shiny….Fridge….

Anyway, once I managed to drag myself away from staring at the big shiny fridge of loveliness, I looked at the menu, and to be honest I was a bit disappointed. No pie, but Chicken and chips? I don’t care that it has a honey and lavender glaze, its chicken and chips for goodness sake. Same with the burger and chips. And the fish and chips. And the scampi and chips. And the mussels, with, erm, bread.

Then my eye was drawn to the outdoor bred pork chop, with chorizo cream and glazed carrots. It was calling to me. It was like someone had actually THOUGHT ABOUT THE MENU. Like it was filled with things that people actually want to eat, but with one or two choices to keep pretentious food wabs people like myself happy.

It really was lovely, too. Potatoes and cream usually are, generally. And I’m on Operation Flat Stomach (I have a bikini to get into in exactly a month) so I’ve rather limited myself recently. add chorizo to the mix and you have a heady concoction of deliciousness.

The pork was simply cooked, and because of its upbringing? heritage? wonderful outdoor based lifestyle? this was a wise choice, because it really allowed to flavour of the meat to shine.

The sweetness of the carrots finished the whole lot off beautifully., and they even put it on a normal plate, so I couldn’t whine about style over substance.

And then I tasted the chicken. And the fish. And the chips. And the scampi. And something involving mushrooms. For research purposes, obviously. If you are precious about your own food, never invite me for dinner with you, that’s all I’m saying.

It all became clear why these things are consistently on the menu at Made In Belfast. They are on the menu because they taste RUDDY BRILLIANT.

All were simple, unassuming dishes, but really wonderfully executed. Everybody was hoovering up the food in front of them, and the in-laws used to own a chip shop, so are generally tricky to please when it comes to things with chips.

No puddings were necessary after the amount of meat and chips and cream we had all consumed. I shunned coffee and had an Elderflower Collins so delicious I wish I’d ordered one when I’d arrived. Because then I could have had two. Next time…

The only slight downside is the service. On the whole, it’s very good, but lacks confidence. We bought the mother in law a bottle of champagne (Tattinger, which is always nice to see) as a surprise, and it sort of arrived at the table apologetically, rather than with the finesse a bottle of champagne deserves.

Aside from that minor gripe, the whole experience was a total surprise to me. After my starter of humble pie, I discovered that there really is substance behind the funky presentation and upside-down lampshades in Made In Belfast. It’s a Belfast restaurant, and the people of this city still like simple, honest food. The team here manage to carry that off without being boring, or stodgy, or pretentious, and I salute them for it.

Made In Belfast
4 Wellington Street
Belfast BT1 6HT
028 9024 6712
http://www.madeinbelfastni.com/
 

A posh tea

I love love love afternoon tea. Tea. And cake. And smily waiters in stripey shirts. Whats not to love?

Mostly, it fufills my fantasisies of being a lady what lunches. who drinks champagne on a whim, who doesn’t have an ever so slightly quivering bank account.

Thankfully, for my birthday, Mr P indulged this fantasy, and took me to The Merchant Hotel, Belfast. It was quite marvellous, and I really cannot wait to go back, take a few hours out of life and forget about the world and the problems it brings…

*wistful sigh*

First up, there was tea. I had Earl Grey, fact fans. Lovely, lovely loose leaf tea with a proper strainer and everything. Marvellous.

There would have been champagne, but it is THIRTEEN POUNDS A GLASS. I still have that quivering bank account, remember? So alas, I stuck with tea. Lovely lovely tea.

There were sandwiches. Salmon, chicken, egg mayo. ham. The filling/bread ratio was spot on, I thought, although egg mayo didn’t go that well with the sweetish bread it was contained in. Different bread or more seasoning, or both, and they have a total winner.

On the other hand, the ham was out of this world, done French-style with a decent spread of butter and mustard. Yum.

Next we had scones of sweetness and joy. And sweet they were too, different from the soda-bread style mid-morning scones that tend to dominate here in Belfast, and quite marvellous with it. A lovely little size, perfectly sweet, and speckled with juicy sultanas. Excellent.

I, of course, relished the chance to devour as much jam and cream and amazingness as humanly possible.

Then, the piece de resistance; the cakes. We had lemon and raspberry jellies, which were rather the showstoppers from a visual point of view. I protested about raspberries not being in season for approximately three nanoseconds before devouring the whole lot up. And having some more tea (LOOK AT THE SHINY POT. I WANT ONE).

Plain macaroons were there, too. Much is being made of macaroons in the food world at the minute, and I don’t quite get all the fuss. Yes, they are pretty. Yes, they are tasty. But, like cupcakes, they are hardly revolutionary. These tasted goooooood though, so I had to eat my words along with my macaroon. Some more tea helped wash it down (yes, I take milk in Earl Grey. Deal with it).

And lastly, the highlight of the whole lot in terms of taste. A piece of sponge cake, topped with coffee mousse, and dipped in white chocolate. My taste buds died and went to taste bud heaven for a little while. It was delicious.

What can I say?

Yes, its expensive (but you do get all the leftovers boxed up to take home)

Yes, its unnecessary (but so many things are)

Yes, it’s totally worth it. Lets do it sometime, OK? I promise I won’t show pictures like this online if you choose to be my next dining companion*.

*crosses fingers behind back

The Marchant Hotel
35-39 Waring Street
Belfast BT1 2DY
Phone: 028 9023 4888

For lazy Friday afternoons

The Lee Garden chinese restaurant on Botanic Avenue is a bit of a Mr & Mrs P favourite. The food is fab, and bears some kind of resemblance to what I ate in actual China, there is a nice waiter who talk about motorbikes with Mr P, the food is fab and, oh, the food is fab. Did I mention that already?

The picture above was taken at Mr P’s 30th birthday dinner last month, but we aren’t here to talk about that, we are here to talk about this….

Dim Sum. Glorious, glorious Dim Sum. The good stuff is always a bit of a rarity here in sunny Belfast. A few eateries make an occassional offering of pre-packed frozen ‘dumplings’ as a starter, but I nearly passed out with joy when I discovered Lee Garden do dim sum lunches, handmade by their in-house specialist chef. I was even more excited when I saw the place full of Chinese nationals. Always a good sign, in my book.

So, when mid-week days off happily, collide, Mr P and I decamp to one of the table beside the big glass window, order a steaming pot of green tea and gorge ourselves silly.

This time round we had lovely spare ribs in a super garlicky sauce. Appearances can be deceptive, because they were delicious. Beautifully seasoned, well-cooked, and unbelievably tasty, they are on our ‘favourites’ list.

We also had rice noodle rolls, with beef. The filling was gorgeous, but there was a bit too much of the flabby rice noodles, which started to taste a little claggy after a while.

Crispy duck spring rolls are another regular choice chez P. The pastry is crisp and freshly cooked, the duck filling tasty and the accompanying hoi sin sauce bringing a lovely sweetness to the dish.

Roast pork rolls are a favourite of Mr P, and remind me of the tall oil barrel that was brought into the playground at break times during my teaching days in China. The doughy bun is a lovely house for the sweet pork within.

The final selection, dear readers, are the holy grail of dumplings for me.

One little mouthful brings me back to enduring an English lesson stern bankers on a Saturday morning, simply because they always rewarded my efforts with the most fantastic lunches.

One day, when I asked about dumplings, instead of our usual 5 star hotel restaurant, they led me down a darkened alley to a dingy cafe. I was precariously balanced on a plastic stool and presented with a basket of these. It was love at first bite.

On the menu at Lee Garden, they are described as ‘Shanghai style Pork Dumplings’, and I urge you dear reader, to go forth and eat. If you need a friend, I’m more than happy to come along. I’m nice like that.

Lee Garden Restaurant
14-18 Botanic Avenue
Belfast
BT7 1JQ
Phone: 028 90 278 882

Dim Sum lunch served 12 – 5pm