By Andrea McVeigh
Both gin and south London are having a bit of a moment right now. The city’s skyline south of the river was transformed when The Shard was completed in 2012 and when it opened to the public earlier this year, tourists started traipsing over London Bridge to Southwark.
With gin, the rise in boutique and craft distillers has helped to make it the trendy tipple du jour, but its growing popularity also rests on the fact that the big brands have been busy sponsoring TV programmes, festivals and vintage club nights and increasing its visibility.
So when two trends collide, the result, in this case, is one of the best little drinking spots in London. The Saturday market at The Ropewalk at Maltby Street (www.maltby.st) in Bermondsey has been luring foodies away from Borough Market thanks to treats such as artisan chocolates and pulled pork brioches, seafood sliders and Monty’s Deli’s Jewish soul food.
With Union Jacks fluttering in the summer breeze and bunting hanging overhead, it’s the hipster in-the-know alternative to Borough Market’s mainstream touristy vibe.
If Maltby Street’s Ropewalk had an official drink, it would be Little Bird Gin. On Saturdays, 11am somehow doesn’t seem too early to be sitting at an outside table, sipping a gin cocktail from mix-and-match vintage glasses at Little Bird’s pop-up bar.
Sharp yet smooth, this London Dry Gin – among other things, a London Gin doesn’t contain artificial colouring – has been distilled in small batches in London using botanicals such as grapefruit and orange to give it a clean and more rounded taste.
The fun lasts until the gin runs out, and you can choose from cocktails such as the divine Early Bird Martini (Little Bird, Seville orange marmalade, orange liqueur) or the refreshing A Bird on the Field (gin, London Fields Hackney Hopster beer, honey & ginger).
As well as picking up a bottle to bring home with you, a few stalls down from Little Bird’s bar you can find the guys from Honourable Sausages and their gin & ginger snorkers, made from rare breed, free range pork and Little Bird.
By Andrea McVeigh
If necessity is the mother of invention, then freezing cold winters in Poland necessarily gave birth to mulled beer. Not wine (although there’s plenty of that too) but beer.
I’ve long been a fan of mulled or gluhwein, that staple of Christmas markets in northern European Medieval capitals. But hot beer was a new one to me. We discovered it in arty, cultural Kraków (also known as Cracow or Krakow) Poland’s second largest city after its capital, Warsaw, and located in the south of the country.
Hot beer, or grzane piwo as it’s called, is a staple of the Polish winter, something to not just delight tourists beating a path around the streets of the Old Town, but essential to the survival of its residents. It’s not just warm beer, of the sort served in British pubs in the 1970s, but mulled beer – a brew that has been heated and infused with cloves and cinnamon plus other spices and herbs such as nutmeg and either fresh ginger or ginger syrup, sweetened with honey or sugar. It’s considered good for you too – there are tracts dating back to the 17th century which enthuse about the healthy properties of a warm frothy tankard of the stuff.
While the barrel-shaped huts in the main square’s Christmas Market served mulled wine (the perfect accompaniment to a large pork knuckle or Polish dumpling, with the fresh air acting as a powerful aperitif) we found the beer in several restaurants including the Czech restaurant Ceska Chodba – yes, we went to Poland and, tempted by the rich roasted goose, ended up eating in a Czech restaurant.
Mulled beer turned out to be the perfect accompaniment to a festive winter goose, served with a mushroom and prune sauce along with nutty buckwheat groats (the Cerna Hora photo shows the brand of Czech beer that was served warm/mulled in the restaurant).
In Poland, prunes are big, as are plums – in popularity and ubiquity, if not necessarily size – and, for a nation that takes the time to mull its beer, it’s unsurprising that the Polish have thrown their considerable brewing expertise into creating a wide and varied selection of beers.
You can find beer with ginger (not, you will note, ginger beer, but actual beer with the addition of ginger), alongside the plum beer and honey beer which you can find in off-licences and liquor stores (you’ll recognise them from the giant Alkohole signs outside) as well as supermarkets.
The other hot alcoholic beverage we tried was mead (honey wine), which we found in a Medieval-themed restaurant – possibly making us the first people to get mead hangovers since 1485.
By Andrea McVeigh
Guinness goes with Irish stew; coffee goes with croissants and red wine goes with steak. But what should you drink when you’re chowing down on crocodile, ostrich and ox testicles? Dawa, as it turns out, the national cocktail of Kenya.
Vegetarians, look away now…
We were in the world-famous Carnivore restaurant in Kenya’s capital, Nairobi (there’s one in Johannesburg too). Open since 1980, it’s renowned for its speciality meats – whole joints of lamb, pork, beef, ribs, sausages, chicken and kidneys roasted on traditional Masai swords over huge charcoal pits.
It’s a moveable feast, with waiters coming to your table to slice off morsels of whatever takes your fancy – they only stop when you finally admit defeat and lower the Carnivore flag on your table. But despite the fleshy feast that it’s famous for, Carnivore does a pretty great vegetarian menu too.
Some might balk at the idea of crocodile, ox balls and ostrich, but it’s these exotic meats that tickle many tastebuds and prove to be the big draw. It’s not a habit that’s exclusive to Africa either. In north America, Rocky Mountain Oysters are bull calf testicles, usually deep-fried and served with a dipping sauce. In Spain, Argentina and some parts of Mexico, they’re given the slang name of huevos de toro (bull’s eggs). But no such euphemisms exist at Carnivore, where they’re on the menu as plain old ox balls.
So what do ox testicles taste like? They have a texture like pâté and taste just a little bit salty; exactly as you would expect, had you ever given the matter any thought.
As for the famous ‘tastes like chicken’ sobriquet, that rests with crocodile. What does crocodile taste like? A sort of fishy, almost citrussy, chicken-like meat actually.
A cold Kenyan Tusker beer goes down well with pretty much anything, but the speciality at Carnivore is the Dawa cocktail (its name translates as medicine or ‘magic potion’ in Swahili). Based on the Brazilian Caipirinha and subsequently introduced into Kenya and adapted, it’s ‘Hakuna Matata’ (the Swahili phrase for ‘there are no worries’) in a glass.
Recipes vary slightly, in terms of measures and quantities, but they’re all based around the same ingredients.
DAWA COCKTAIL RECIPE:
vodka (one or two shots depending on how strong you like your cocktails)
two lime quarters unpeeled
a teaspoon of sugar
Pour the vodka, honey and sugar into a whisky glass and add the lime quarters and crushed ice. Use a muddler or honey stick to crush all the ingredients together really well. The key is to mush the ingredients together as much as possible and swirl the mixture until the honey has blended well too.
By Patric Baird
What do you do when you arrive on Easter Island, having flown for almost 24 hours from the UK? Have a lie down? Head straight for the iconic statues which are featured all around the island? Or, as I did, go into town for a much anticipated lunchtime cocktail, namely Chile’s national alcoholic beverage, a pisco sour.
Actually there’s some dispute as to whether Chile or its neighbour Peru have ownership of this sub-tropical tipple; they do it differently anyway, with the Peruvian version containing egg white, sugar syrup and angostura bitters, whereas the Chilean version is a simpler mix of the spirit pisco, sugar and lime (or lemon) juice.
To confuse things even further, both countries have their own version of the spirit itself, although maybe only an expert could distinguish the subtle nuances in taste between each of the South American country’s offering. There’s no denying that Chile has the best bottle – one of the country’s biggest manufacturer is Capel and their Pisco Reservado comes in a black glass bottle, shaped like one of Easter Island’s statues.
So what is pisco and why the odd name? It’s basically a brandy made from grapes, much like its Greek cousin, grappa, sweet tasting and ranging in colour between almost clear to a dark yellow hue, depending on the quality and strength of the liquor. Some say the name comes from the Peruvian town of Pisco (probably the most likely explanation), but Chile disputes this (not surprisingly), claiming that the word pisco is of Quechua origin and means ‘bird’.
There’s another school of thought which suggests the word pisco means a clay pot, so make your own mind up on that one. More importantly, how does it taste? On its own, not much to write home about but, when turned into a pisco sour, it has a unique and delicious taste and, as it turned out, the perfect pairing for that other South American staple, ceviche.
The Japanese don’t have a monopoly on raw fish, although ceviche, which is found in most coastal regions of the continent, as well as in Central America and as far west as Polynesia, is usually ‘cooked’ by marinating the raw seafood in a mixture of citrus juice, chilli and seasonings. Each region has its own particular style, with mainland Chile and Easter Island favouring fillets of halibut, or the native and delightfully-named Patagonian toothfish, marinated in lime or grapefruit juice, flavoured with garlic, red chilli peppers, mint and coriander. Combined with a refreshing pisco sour, the zing of a well-made ceviche proved to be the perfect antidote to seemingly incurable jet lag and was by far the best thing about Easter Island – until I got my first glimpse of those amazing statues, that is.
We’d had Bellinis before, but never in Venice, home of Harry’s Bar, the place where the cocktail was invented. We didn’t really have the money to afford Harry’s Bar prices, but then we couldn’t afford not to either.
Giuseppe Cipriani, founder of Harry’s Bar, first created this sweet, bubbly mix of peach puree and sparkling wine (traditionally Prosecco – which, in sparkling wine terms is to Italy what Cava is to Spain) sometime between 1934 and 1948 we were told. The dates are a bit vague, but then maybe he celebrated his invention with a 14-year Bellini bender?
Inside the bar – where Ernest Hemmingway used to hang out, as did Bogart and Bacall – it’s all butterscotch hues and polished wood, elegantly faded, like many of its customers.
Star-struck, we spotted the actor Kenneth Branagh, born in Belfast, our home city. If it’s good enough for Hamlet…
The Bellinis were delightful, but set up behind the bar in a production line ready to be topped off by the fizz, so we didn’t feel particularly special or decadent. But then, the bar is on the tourist trail, and it’s hard to recreate the allure of 1930s Italy for 21st century backpackers and weekend wanderers.
Tourists are often told to avoid Venice in the summer, when it’s not so much a case of see Venice and die, as smell Venice and die, as the heat added to stale water in the canals is said to create a signature aroma. It’s a hotly debated topic, with some saying its reeky reputation is a thing of the past, now that the canals have been cleaned up.
Our reason for choosing winter over summer isn’t to do with odour at all, but with ambience.
In winter there’s a eerie mist that settles over the canals and on our gondola ride (expensive, but when in Rome…or Venice, and all that) we found ourselves enveloped in an atmospheric haze.
Earlier that winter we’d stuck a pin in a map and come December 31 we found ourselves in St Mark’s Square for some very noisy impromptu fireworks amid a throng of tourists and locals chanting the countdown to the New Year.
Strolling back to our B&B at 2am we had the inevitable munchies, brought on by cheap Prosecco and an over-exuberance when it came to jumping up and down hugging strangers at the stroke of midnight. We needed food. So did everyone else it seemed.
The narrow cobbled alleys fanning out from St Mark’s Square boasted one sole open late-night bakery offering takeaway snacks, its lights drawing the revellers like ravenous moths to a particularly bountiful culinary flame.
We queued – and queued and queued – until we counted out the remains of our Euros and handed them over, to be presented with one of the best meals of our lives – mozzarella and sliced tomatoes, with ham and lettuce, on fresh white focaccia bread. Few things before or after have tasted so good.
Sometimes it’s not what you eat, it’s also when and where you eat it that counts.
The classic Bellini cocktail recipe:
2 parts dry sparkling wine (usually Prosecco)
1 part fresh peach purée
Pour the puree into a chilled flute and slowly top with sparkling wine.
Got (camel) milk?
By Andrea McVeigh
“We are on a mission; what is our mission?” said my tour guide, Asad.
“Mission impossible?” I volunteered.
“No, it’s not impossible, this is possible, just tricky. Let’s go,” Asad urged as we drew up outside Sharjah’s central souk. “Let’s find a camel.”
We didn’t need to find a camel, just a supermarket. We were on the hunt for camel milk.
Sharjah – one of the United Arab Emirates’ seven emirate states and a neighbour of Dubai – is a dry country which means the sale of alcohol is forbidden. Non-alcoholic cocktails are abundant, and very well-received in the dry Arabian heat, but I wanted to try something I couldn’t get at home. And camel milk wasn’t anything I could find in my local branch of Tesco.
Our mission had been joked about and talked about the previous day. It was proving more difficult than Asad expected. Sod’s law was proving that when you go to look for something you can’t actually find it. The first supermarket we tried only had deliveries of it twice a week, and the day we arrived wasn’t one of them.
Eventually though, Asad turned up at my hotel with two plastic bottles of Camelicious camel milk. And I don’t think he had to resort to milking a camel for them either.
It looked like milk, but this wasn’t like the semi-skimmed liquid I was used to. It’s less fatty than cow’s milk, so it’s popular among people with high cholesterol and on a health kick.
The lower fat content also gives it a taste and consistency a bit like skimmed milk, but with a strong aftertaste – not exactly bitter, but sharp.
I drank it, but I couldn’t get the image of camel udder out of my mind – not exactly the most pleasant of pictures. I drank, not so much with gusto, but out of politeness. So what does it taste like? Some say it’s mildly salty, but I didn’t get that, just a sharp aftertaste a bit like the stronger brands of soy milk.
I didn’t hate it, but I don’t know if I’d have it again. But if it’s good enough to have sustained the Bedouin nomads for thousands of years, who am I to start getting the, er, hump in a taste test?
So could it prove popular in Europe or America? Every few years the Press run stories that suggest it could be the newest superfood – high in potassium, iron and zinc as well as vitamins C and B, and low in cholesterol.
Camel milk chocolate is also being produced in the UAE. So move over Daisy – Humphrey the camel could soon be taking your place on supermarket shelves.
But why stop at chocolate? Camel milk ice cream, milkshakes, smoothies, yogurts, cheese and butter could all benefit from the Camelicious treatment.
Now who’s for a cuppa? One hump or two?
by Patric Baird
Whoever suggested that eating on the move was bad for you would probably make an exception for the diners in a revolving restaurant – what could be more relaxing and enjoyable than watching an ever-changing panorama while eating dinner?
I’m a big fan of the revolving restaurant, almost to the extent of choosing a holiday destination based on whether there’s a revolving restaurant, or at very least a tall building with public access to a 360 degrees viewing platform – there’s no better way of getting a feel for a place than going high above its trees and buildings.
Indeed, it was recently announced that the restaurant at London’s BT Tower would be reopened after 40 years, in honour of the 2012 Olympics, but will apparently remain in a fixed position, possibly due to the mechanism becoming inoperable due to lack of use.
The Germans invented the concept in the late 1950s at a time when they were building a lot of television signal transmitting towers, with the Florianturm in Dortmund being the first fully functional example.
The first rotating eatery in the United States was the La Ronde restaurant, located at the Ala Moana shopping centre in Honolulu, opened in 1961, but quickly losing its unique status to the restaurant at Seattle’s Space Needle.
An important pre-requisite for a revolving restaurant is that it offers a good view – there’s no point building one in the middle of the desert, or in a dreary, featureless town.
My first experience of the spinning-while-dining concept was at eastern Berlin’s Fernsehturm, a wonderfully space-age building constructed in the mid-sixties and offering fabulous views over the once-divided city – I imagined it must have been difficult for diners before the wall came down, literally seeing how the other half lived in the decadent western part of the city, whilst tucking in to a plate of turnips or whatever else was on the Fernsehturm’s Soviet-era menu.
Whilst in Asia – where most of the world’s revolving restaurants are now located – an evening visit to Kuala Lumpur’s revolving restaurant at the Minara telecommunications tower was quite spectacular, both for the fine buffet of local delicacies and the added bonus of an almost biblical, tropical thunderstorm kicking off half way through dinner.
A very different dining experience took place at Reykjavik’s Perlan restaurant – located only on the fifth floor, on top of the city’s landmark hot water storage tank system, the views are not exactly stunning but then Iceland doesn’t boast too many skyscrapers.
I would have been able to see more were it not for my eyes watering, no doubt caused by the prices they were charging for the food and drinks – but then where else can you eat something as sublime as sea hen with cloudberry sauce?
My most recent experience of a revolving restaurant took place at the rather unlikely destination of a Marriott hotel, near Muscle Shoals in Alabama.
It was most notable for the fantastic food, probably the best I have been served at an abnormal altitude, although the after dark views of a fairly sparsely-populated area suggested that a daytime visit might have been more rewarding.
Other memorable, but slightly less successful forays into finding the perfect revolving restaurants included a trip to Prague’s Zizkov Tower, unfairly voted the second-ugliest structure in the world by VirtualTourist in 2010.
Although the dining experience was a stationary one, the journey to the outskirts of the city on a snowy winter’s day was atmospheric and memorable and the tower itself was one of the most unusual buildings I have ever seen, not only for its unique futuristic shape, but for the bizarre sculptures of babies crawling up the tower’s walls, added by artist David Cerny in 2001.
The city of Rotterdam missed a bit of a trick with its Euromast – an imposing structure, but with a disappointingly-stationary viewing platform half-way up (complete with a brasserie and several hotel-style suites which are apparently popular with honeymooners), as well as a rotating capsule which ascends to the top of the tower, offering excellent views of the city.
Unfortunately the other attached eatery – much like Larry Sanders’ sidekick Hank Kingsley’s ‘Look-Around Cafe’ – was on the ground floor but, unlike Hank’s ill-conceived project, it doesn’t actually revolve.
However, the biggest disappointment of all was Bratislava’s Kamzik television tower where a much-anticipated visit to the 70m tall Veza revolving restaurant ended abruptly with a hastily-scrawled note on the entrance which read “Closed for lunch”.
By Andrea McVeigh
“Trust me, it’s what the locals drink,” said my friend Sean, as he ordered us two Pisang Ambon with orange juice – a staple in Dutch bars in much the same way we’d drink vodka and orange in the UK and Ireland.
Amsterdam may be famous for its doobie-tooting tourists and space cake- selling coffee shops, but we’d staggered along to a gay bar near Dam Square, fuelled not on cannabis but on alcohol alone.
Don’t ask me exactly where the bar was or what it was called. We may not have been on the wacky baccy but, as they say, if you can remember Amsterdam then you weren’t really there.
Sean worked in the airline industry and benefited from the perks of the job, in this case a fridge full of the mini champagne bottles usually served to business class passengers, which we drank on the tram from his apartment into the city centre.
It wasn’t quite a case of ‘I liked it so much I bought the company’, but I did buy a bottle of Pisang Ambon to bring home from the trip. And I’ve been drinking it ever since, even creating my own cocktail around it – the Sans Souci.
This banana-flavour Dutch liqueur (pisang is Indonesian/Malay for banana while Ambon is the name of a former Dutch colony) is also bright green, so there’s no mistaking it, even when mixed with OJ.
As for what best offers sustenance after a boozy night out in Amsterdam’s gay bars, I’d discovered Dutch street food years ago as a child, on a family holiday to stay with an aunt who lived in Den Haag/The Hague. My eyes were opened to the most exotic use of potatoes I’d ever come across – patat met (with) mayonnaise, served in a sturdy paper cone. A CONE!
These tasty fat chips – patat frites – come topped with a dollop of creamy yellowy mayonnaise, best eaten with your fingers or the little coloured plastic pronged forks provided, on a late summer evening as the crepuscular chill that signifies night-time slowly advances. Back in the late 1970s, my family, struggling with the Dutch language, dispensed with the ‘met’ and took a liking to our ‘patat mayonnaise’.
Most cultures, I later learnt, have their own way of doing chips.
The Americans have skinny, salty French Fries. The Scottish, in particular those in Edinburgh – arguably only those in Edinburgh – favour the flavour of chips with salt and sauce (a mix of brown sauce and vinegar). In Ireland and the rest of the UK and it’s chips with salt and vinegar.
In Holland, you can opt for ‘patat zonder (fries without) mayonnaise’ but really, what sort of patat-hating, anti-gourmand would skip the mayo?
For some unknown reason, in my family we were unable to get our Celtic tongues around zonder, and took to calling it ‘patat nee (no) mayonnaise’, on the grounds that nee even sounded a bit like no. The Dutch, being kind, generous, civilised people, ignored our crude and sloppy translations and luckily recognised fellow-potato lovers, and served us anyway.
As for my own Pisang Ambom cocktail creation, it was named after a street my husband and I used to live in when we were still boyfriend and girlfriend: the exotically-named (for Northern Ireland) Sans Souci Park.
Translated, sans souci means ‘without care’, or carefree; so the cocktail is perfectly named considering it was thrown together without much care, based on what alcohol was close to hand at the time. However, the results, even if I do say so myself – and I do – are delicious. And after a few Sans Soucis we do feel decidedly carefree.
It came about, like all the best concoctions I think, by raiding the drinks cupboard and pouring in varying measures of whatever we had that looked vaguely suitable. The result, in my humble opinion, was a triumph that we still drink, and serve up to friends at parties, to this day.
I’m not a stickler for recipes and so the rules are there to be broken. Below you’ll find my favourite combination of ingredients, but feel free to substitute at will – I sometimes add lychee liqueur if we have any in the house.
Andrea’s signature cocktail: the SANS SOUCI
one shot of Pisang Ambon
one shot peach schnapps
one shot malibu
one shot vodka
one shot lychee liqueur (optional)
orange juice to flavour
Serve in any glass you want (I favour a long, tall straight glass with a straw and ice cubes). Drink. Enjoy.
One of our favourite tipples is Frangelico – the Italian hazelnut liqueur that comes in a bottle shaped like a monk’s habit, with a rope belt around his waist (a nice touch, although we’ve never found a way to recycle it, preferring instead to use it to make mini catapults).
We drink it as an apéritif, a digestif, a main course in its own right, a treat, a sympathy drink – let’s just say we could easily drink a whole bottle, one genteel liqueur glass at a time.
Its silky texture and rich nutty taste make it perfectly palatable to sup neat as an alternative to Bailey’s, in a shot glass with a single ice cube to chill, or in coffee as an after-dinner drink.
The bottle boasts that the 20% vol. drink is made from wild hazelnuts, herbs and berries although the list of ingredients states sugar, alcohol, hazelnut extract, caramel E150d and a mysterious ‘flavourings’. The website offers this: “A number of natural extracts – including cocoa and vanilla – are blended with the hazelnut infusion and hazelnut distillate to create the Frangelico concentrate.”
On World in a Glass’s travels we’ve come across an excellent Frangelico-based cocktail, which perfectly highlights its comfort-giving qualities, and adapted a mocktail to suit our own libationary tendencies.
On a recent Azamara cruise we discovered one of the ship’s speciality cocktails, a Passion Ice Creamy – Frangelico and creme de cacao dark mixed with ice cream. Practically a dessert in a glass.
Earlier this year, staying in the Spice Island Beach Resort on the Caribbean island of Grenada, we ended each evening with one of its speciality Run Down mocktails (blended seamoss, coconut cream, banana and nutmeg) to which we added a shot of Frangelico. Total sleep-inducing loveliness and the perfect post-meal relaxant (although in the Caribbean they say mineral-rich seamoss is an aphrodisiac).
We’ve since found online recipes for making an alcohol-free seamoss (also called Irish moss or carrageen) drink, as well as an online shop which sells Caribbean products to the UK and Europe, but we made life easy for ourselves by picking up a bottle on leaving Maurice Bishop International Airport.
The Spice Island’s signature drink, which is offered to each guest on sweaty, travel-harassed arrival from the airport, is the deliciously crisp and fruity, and very, very welcome, Spice Island Classic – a subtle combination of champagne and sorrel syrup (not the herb, but rather the extract of a flower from the Hibiscus family). But we think the Run Down with added Frangelico (A Tipsy Run Down? A Run Down and Out?) could give it a run for its signature status.
The Frangelico website has its own list of cocktail recipes including the Nutty Irishman (Frangelico and Carolans Irish Cream). Let’s just say, hailing from the Emerald Isle as we do, we’ve certainly met a few of those in our time.