Barbecoa brings proper American BBQ to London

I've read that smell is actually the most powerful sense when it comes to triggering memories. It was a claim I could well believe last night, as I walked into the new restaurant Barbacoa and was plunged instantly back to my middle American roots. The unusually warm Thanksgiving when we smoked the turkey in the Weber kettle on the back deck; flipping hundreds of burgers with Craig Jackson at the alumni center BBQ the night before graduation; the first time I tasted Mike Bruneel's ribs; the team building dinner at Southfork Ranch soon after I moved to Texas. All that and more, triggered by that distinctive, blended aroma of meat, smoke and tomato-based sauce with hints of sugar and spice.

That intoxicating perfume is a rare one in Europe and, honestly, even in America once you get to the coasts. It's certainly a scent I've never picked up in London until now.

Barbecoa is a joint venture between British celebrity chef Jamie Oliver and American BBQ guru Adam Perry Lang. The latter, much celebrated for bringing proper BBQ to New York City, has now gone trans-Atlantic and I'd guess the menu is mostly his. Pulled pork, baby back ribs, jalapeno cornbread, rubs, marinades, sauces, baked cheesecake. You could be anywhere in a meandering line from Texas through Memphis, St. Louis, Kansas City and Chicago. Look up from the menu though, and you're nowhere but London. And quite a posh bit of town at that. Barbecoa occupies a corner of the recently completed One New Change complex; its double-height glass walls looking straight onto the back of the newly cleaned St. Paul's cathedral. It's a stunning view and the designers have wisely decided not to compete with it, keeping the interiors modern, clean and understated.

The most interesting thing to look at here, once you get past the gorgeous view outside, is the massive kitchen around which the restaurant wraps. Food magazine-worthy displays of huge cuts of meat are almost as fascinating as the grills themselves ... vast tables of glowing coals with grills that can be raised or lowered by big metal wheels to get just the right temperature. (Should I ever win the lottery, I'm buying one of those.)

My meal mostly lived up to expectation. I started with the baby back ribs, which were just slightly overcooked and a bit too over-spiced, but certainly the best I've had in London. But the pulled pork was the stuff of final meal fantasies. Tender meat falling to shreds, slathered with a well balanced sauce, served in an American-sized mound beside the best jalapeno cornbread I've had since leaving Texas. Add some excellent slaw with the right combination of crunch, sweetness and tartness, and a pot of slow baked beans that had clearly been doctored, as is right and proper, with brown sugar and a few spices, and, frankly, I was transported back to the fourth of July. My only culinary complaint was a small and overly-fussy beer selection. I wanted a Bud ... yes, not great beer, but it's fantastic with BBQ ... and would have been delighted with a Sam Adams. But the selection was boutique, British and unknown to me. I stuck with the Malbec.

My companions didn't have quite the same experience, but then they didn't have smells and tastes triggering a lifetime of happy memories. The rib eye for two across the table was an exquisitely displayed fan of medium rare slices around a massive bone filled with rich marrow, which later gave our spaniel some intense hours of joy. Piers was probably least impressed, finding his pork belly to be just average in taste and rather small compared to the other main courses.

Had the service been better, Barbacoa would have vaulted instantly onto my Top 10 list. But here, sadly, the place leaves a lot to be desired. We had a table booked for 8:30. We arrived at 7:40 and settled into the bar, not expecting to be seated early but certainly thinking we'd get a decent table, on time. Instead, we finally sat down half an hour late in what's arguably one of the worst tables in the place, well away from both nice views (St. Paul's and the kitchen) and near the door. It then took a further 20 minutes to order. Starving, when told that starters would take 15 to 20 minutes, we opted for some bread. At £1 a slice this is a pricey extra, but it's served beautifully and features four distinctly different types. We would have enjoyed it more if it hadn't come at almost the same time as the starters, leaving us feeling that we'd wasted our money. Mains followed promptly, but then there was another long delay before being asked if we wanted dessert or coffee, taking orders (we only opted for the caffeine) and finally getting the bill. We didn't emerge until 11:30, meaning we didn't get home until 1am. Far too late for a school night, and well past expectations for an 8:30 table.

I have no doubt that I'll be back to Barbecoa. In fact, given that its front door is less than 200 yards from my London office, it will be hard to keep me away. But I'll be booking well in advance, for a table at 7:00.

The cook-on-demand birthday brings experimentation and very fine wine home

Back in my agency days, when I had a small team who all worked in the same place, I instituted a bake-on-demand policy for birthdays. You give me any cake recipe or flavour combo you want, I'll produce it for lunchtime celebrations. It was great for team morale, and it gave me the excuse to try interesting recipes.

My days of baking as management strategy have long gone, but I adapted the concept yesterday for my fiance's birthday. One of his presents: Hand me your dream menu and I'll produce it.

This ran the risk of my being hoisted on my own culinary petard, as the boy loves French cuisine, I rarely cook it and a multiple-course extravaganza could have featured items that kept me in the kitchen for days. Fortunately, he opted for simpler fare, combining both Danish and English classics. As with the cakes, the process gave me a chance to experiment and, in this case, to firm up some options for our regular dinner party rotation.

We started with two types of canapes: potato pancakes and crawfish tails. The first is a recipe from Trina Hahnemann's Nordic cookbook, my tutorial for delivering the flavours of my partner's youth. I think I have this dish almost perfected now: Neat circles of shredded potato mixed with onion, nutmeg, egg and oatmeal, topped with roasted beetroot salad, creme fraiche with chives and a generous dollop of lumpfish caviar. My only criticism is portion control. Even when attempting to work small, these ended up starter- rather than canape-sized, opening a meal where I cooked ... and we ate ... far too much. Guess I was taking an Italian approach to a Northern European menu. Beside the pancakes were little spoons of crawfish tails in a bisque made by boiling down the discarded shells and bodies in beer, then adding butter and cream. I had only intended the bisque as a sauce so made just a tiny bit of it, but think it probably deserves to be a soup on its own, with the tails used as garnish.

From one set of circles to the next. His first course request was scallops with black pudding, probably one of the most common early round Masterchef dishes but one neither of us had ever tried. I was happy with the ease, look and taste of the recipe. Rings of granny smith apples cooked in butter and a bit of sugar until they start to soften on the bottom, then disks of black pudding quickly fried in the sweet apple juices, then the scallops fried in the thickening glaze in the pan. I didn't get the proportions right here, either, and went overboard on the black pudding, which should have been about a quarter rather than half an inch thick. I'd also have to work on the presentation before it gets on the dinner party rota. But onto that list it will go, if only because you can't buy just two inches of black pudding. I am left with a whole coil of the stuff; a magnificently rich and flavourful version from the queen's farm shop at Windsor, but a weight watching sin of enormous proportions. I wonder, does anyone know if it freezes well?

After two terribly elegant introductory courses, the man went for upscale comfort food: salmon burgers. Not complete child's play, as they rested upon home-made rye focaccia, but not particularly complicated either. Mince up salmon, add chopped spring onions and capers, bread crumbs, lemon juice, egg and some herbs. Shape into burgers. I elaborated on the recipe here (another from Hahnemann) by pressing the burgers in clingfilm, wrapping them tightly and putting them in the fridge for an hour, which I think helped keep the fairly delicate patties together. Those get fried for four minutes on each side, then placed on that rye base with a generous spread of dressing made from creme fraiche, mayo, lemon juice and chives, a pile of salad leaves and a tomatoes. (The last ingredient not for the birthday boy, of course, who's allergic to them.)

On the side I did what's evidently a classic Scandinavian slaw: thin strips of pointed cabbage, freshly-shelled peas and lots of dill, all raw, tossed with a honey lemon dressing. I've never cooked much with dill and am not a particular fan of the flavour, but it's a Danish staple and one of Piers' favourites, so I'm experimenting. This salad, I must concede, is a winner. I'm a firm believer that all burgers need chips (fries), however, so I left Trina's cookbook for an Epicurious take on an oven-baked sweet potato version. These need refinement. I overdid it on the herbs (you shake the potatoes in oil and herbs before dumping them into a roasting pan) and left them in the oven a bit too long, but they were tasty all the same.

We returned to England for his requested dessert: Summer pudding. Although a classic, and very easy, I'd never actually made it. I opted for Epicurious again ... probably my most-used recipe web site, archiving years of recipes from Gourmet and Bon Apetit ... and a raspberry and blueberry version of the dish. The bread shell didn't get quite as gooey and juice-soaked as I wanted, which taught me a lesson about putting some of the liquid in before the fruit filling, but I had reserved a jug of the juices and could amend this with an additional bath once I'd unmoulded the pudding.

On the wine front, we started with a bargain. Jean de Praisac's brut champagne is produced by industry giant Heidsieck for the Thresher chain. It usually retails for just under £15 but has the biscuity, round flavours of something far more expensive. In fact, having dug it out of the champagne rack without any memory of where it came from, we thought we'd popped something pricey; it was only my post-meal web search that revealed the bargain. The real expenditure came with the wine for the rest of the meal, though this, too, could be put in the bargain category.

One of the benefits of doing really fine meals at home is that you can splash out for wines you could never afford in a restaurant. By conservative estimate, last night's Meursault ... Patrick Javillier's "Les Tillets" 2008 ... would be about £100 on any London wine list. We picked it up in Berry's summer sale, at 25% off its regular retail price. Yes, still £29 a bottle, so not something you want to glug down without thinking. Nor is it something I can imagine paying £20 a glass for when dining out. But here, it was both an appropriate and magnificent splash. Robert Parker gives it a lofty 92 on his scale and says "the wine’s lush texture together with ample juicy freshness and intriguing finishing mineral nuances makes for immediate delight." I can tell you that it also makes for a wine with the lightness to complement fish, but the body to stand up against the strong secondary flavours of the black pudding and the sweet potato fries.

I am seriously contemplating heading up to the Berry's outlet at lunch to buy a case while it's still on sale to put back for special occasions. Although I am hoping that the next big celebration is not on a Sunday. With that much food and wine on a school night, this Monday morning I am not as bright as I might be. Bring on more coffee, please.

Potter and dancing dragons sweep me away to other worlds, and argue for the series novel

It is fashionable amongst culturally literate types to bemoan the rise of the sequel and the series in popular entertainment. There's nothing original coming out of Hollywood any more, they moan, it's all about franchises with a number after the name.

It's a valid argument you can support with plenty of dire examples. But I'd counter that for every derivative, shortcut-taking series, there's an artfully crafted set where each new episode builds and improves upon the last. Indeed, our household library is dominated by series. From the classics of our childhood .... The Chronicles of Narnia for me, The Lord of the Rings for him ... through to the sequential adventures of Richard Sharpe, Didius Falco, Aubrey and Maturin, King Kelson or Brother Cadfael, there's something wonderfully compelling about set of characters and a fictional world that draws you in over multiple installments.

For lovers of those sorts of series, this was perhaps the biggest week in memory.

Fantasy writer (and fellow Medill School of Journalism graduate) George R.R. Martin has left his fans waiting six long years for the latest installment of his epic Song of Ice and Fire series. Often called "the American Tolkien", Martin developed a fascination for the English Wars of the Roses into a fantasy world with feudal families squabbling over a throne, augmented by a hefty dose of magic and mystery. Fans of the series ... and I'm a big one ... adore his complex plots, intense character development, Machiavellian political sensibilities and unabashed sexuality. In fact, I'd compare him to Russian writers more than Tolkien, as his vast numbers of characters and intricate, inter-related story lines remind me of the notes and family trees I sketched out in university to keep the details of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina and Sholokhov's Don series straight.

After multiple promised publication dates that didn't come to pass, Martin's fans were starting to think he'd never deliver the three books needed to finish the series. Then HBO turned the first novel, A Game of Thrones, into a mini-series that got rave reviews and brought even more fans to the franchise. Surely, Martin had to deliver now? Last Tuesday, he did. Thanks to the magic of technology I didn't even have to leave the house; I downloaded A Dance with Dragons onto my kindle a few hours after it officially came on the market. And I wasn't the only one: Random House reports selling 298,000 copies (including both print and digital) in the first publication day alone.

At more than 1,000 pages, and with a mid-week release, I couldn't give in to my usual instinct to read the latest installment of a beloved series from cover to cover immediately. So I'm pacing myself. (My Kindle informs me I'm 16% of the way through.) My initial impressions? Generally excellent. Plots are racing along with exciting twists and turns, old friends are returning with new nuances, mysteries continue to develop. I may have two early complaints. First: enough with the complexity, George. This is the time in a series to start bringing all those disparate plot lines together and start creeping towards a conclusion, not to introduce even more new things. At this point I'm willing to trust him that everything is for an ultimate purpose. Second: we're getting perilously dark. There's always been a streak of violence and realism in these books, but certain descriptions of violence in Dance make me wince as I read. Again, I trust they're for a purpose, but I hope the grit doesn't overwhelm the sweeping grandeur of the piece.

Despite those discomforts, this latest installment does everything I want a series book to do, namely bring me back into a familiar and fascinating world, and hang onto me so tightly that it's a trial to turn my attention back to reality.

Turn my attention to something else I did do this weekend, but it certainly wasn't reality. Because Martin's latest episode sat cheek by jowl with the release of the concluding Harry Potter film. I like A Song of Ice and Fire enormously, but I adore the Potter series. Like Narnia in my childhood, there's something that connects right to my soul. I'm not just reading a rippingly good plot, I am completely engaged in the characters. I honestly care about these people and what happens to them. (Which is why I suspect Martin will never have me in great, gasping sobs the way Rowling did as we peered into Severus Snape's dying memories.)

It seems like yesterday that I stood in the first-day-of-publication queue for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, took it home and read for a solid 18 hours ... broken by one short night's sleep ... until I reached a shuddering, massively satisfying conclusion. In fact, it was just over four years ago, as my blog entry of 22.7.07 shows. It hardly seems much further back when I was pouring over still shots from the soon to be released first film, marveling at how perfectly the design team seemed to have brought the world in my head to life on screen. That, amazingly, was a decade ago. And now, it's all over.

I'm delighted to report that this franchise goes out with a bang. The only complaint I could possibly make is that it's just not long enough. A lot of plot detail ends up on the cutting room floor but, let's face it, the majority of people watching the film know those things anyway. What you get as a consequence is a roller coaster ride of constant action that puts you on the edge of your seat and could easily entice you to sit through the whole thing again immediately. The actors all deliver in perfect character and those familiar sets become even more magnificent as they come under attack in the climactic final battle. And all the emotion is there, made all the more poignant by the fact that, with both books and films done, you really are saying goodbye this time. I didn't sob quite as traumatically at Snape's death, but sob I did.

My fiance is one of those rare beings left untouched by the Potter phenomenon, having seen just the first film and read none of the books. He indulgently accompanied me, and even from his distant perspective he admitted it was an entertaining two hours.

To any fan who's invested more than a decade in this world, however, it will be far more than entertainment. It's an emotional journey that brings you joy, fear, tears, breathless anxiety, wonder and, ultimately, deep contentment. Emotions that are all the more intense precisely because of that multiple-episode commitment. That, when they're done well, is the magic of a series. They work their way into your soul in a way that few single works, no matter how great, ever can.

Zuma is undisputed winner in London's Japanese restaurant stakes

I have not been a good Weight Watcher this year. Stress, travel, eating away from home a lot ... all are enemies of the low fat, portion-controlled diet and regular exercise required for good health. This kind of balance is far easier to strike if you don't go out much. But let's face it, that's not me. (And it were, this would be a mighty boring blog.)

In fact, going out is on the rise now that Piers works up in London and, on days when we're both in town, staying up for dinner seems so much more logical than joining the commuting throng and rolling through the front door starving with a meal still to cook at 8pm. How to dine out a lot and stay Weight Watchers friendly? My latest attempt has been to refine my restaurant choices to Japanese. Low on saturated fats, heavy on fish, great on portion control; it's hard to do an unhealthy binge at a Japanese restaurant. (Although, as you will read below, it turns out it is possible.) Thus over the past three weeks I've been to Shogun, Itsu, Hiroba and Zuma. The last stood out as the finest restaurant of the four, but all had their own advantages.

Shogun has the best atmosphere of the four, especially if you're looking for someplace quiet and intimate. It's in an arched stone basement just off Grosvenor Square, and has fewer than 20 tables in the long, cozy space. There's a small sushi bar with five or six seats at it. A full suit of Japanese armor stands at the end of the room, and areas of the restaurant are divided off by screens of arrows; both a nod to the restaurant's martial name. About half the diners were Japanese, and the staff entirely so. Always a good sign. Sushi, sashimi and tempura were all delicious, though the menu was limited and resolutely traditional. I was disappointed in the lack of combination menus, as we were out for a splurge to celebrate new jobs and would happily have gone for some sort of chef's tasting menu. Though there are a few combos, they're pretty basic and not along gourmet lines, leaving us with a la carte choices.

Splurge we did, though not intentionally. Shogun was the most expensive of everything reviewed here, and it certainly didn't provide better value than anything else. We may try it again, however, as Piers swears that bagging one of the few seats at the sushi bar transforms the experience. (This was one of his regular haunts in the late '80s.) For value for money, however, I have to direct you to Hiroba.

This is, admittedly, one of my regular haunts, located as it is directly across the street from my PR agency and on the flight path between London office and Waterloo station. I go so often that it's long lost any sense of being special, which is why poor Hiroba has never made the blog before. I apologise. I should have mentioned it. Because it's a brilliant option in this part of town and the winner in the value for money stakes in the higher end sushi market.

Like Shogun, Hiroba is staffed and frequented by citizens of the Orient. But there's a less traditional slant here. There are two other Hirobas ... one in LA, and another in Seoul ... and I suspect that explains the profusion of more exotic, multiple-ingredient rolls you'll find on the conveyor belt. That belt snakes through the place and at least half the seats are at it, with three tables right next to it and about 10 tables along the walls. Unless you know exactly what you want, avoid the tables and go for the bar, where a profusion of choices will tempt you to build up a little mountain of plates. Though mostly sushi and sashimi, there are some main course options (mostly tempura and crispy beef) which waiters will heat up for you. The average plate is £3.50, which means you can have a very reasonable light dinner and even if you eat yourself silly you're probably not over the £50 mark (excluding alcohol). The only danger here, of course, is that I always enter intending to do the light, inexpensive dinner and walk out having consumed a feast.

It was the chain Yo! Sushi that introduced the conveyor belt concept to London and it dominates this style of Japanese, with Hiroba being a pleasant exception. Another is Itsu on Draycott Avenue in Chelsea. Yes, Itsu is a chain like Yo! and these days you can't swing a tuna in The City without hitting one. They're know for their quick, pre-packaged, high quality sushi boxes, and the St. Paul's branch provides my lunch most days I work from town. I love the place, but was rather surprised when friends suggested it for dinner. Turns out the branch in Chelsea, like its sister in Notting Hill, is a proper restaurant rather than a fast food place. Like Hiroba, the belt snakes through the restaurant, but here it's been cleverly designed so that it flows by far more tables for four. And thus Itsu Chelsea gets my nod for best sushi place to meet up with friends. It's a festive atmosphere, the sushi's good and the staff is quick to both to bring anything ordered off the menu, and to top up your drinks. A bit more expensive than Hiroba to pay for that Chelsea rent, but generally in the same ball park.

If I'm going to splurge, however, the chef's menu at Zuma is the clear winner. I loved this place when I went almost three years ago (see 26.9.08) but hadn't been back since, mostly because it's over by Harrods and I'm not actually in that part of town too often. After my second outing it's worth reminding myself that this is worth a special trip.

The tasting menu is £60 ... about what we spent at Shogun and a bit more than the other two ... for a five course extravaganza that balances exquisite flavors with beautiful presentation and a few show stopping dishes. You start with a nicely-balanced tuna tartare served in shot glasses on a mound of ice, decorated with fans of fried lotus root that provide a crisp accompaniment to the soft fish. Beside that is a plate of wafer thin sea bass sashimi, kicked up a notch with the addition of truffle oil. Taste buds suitably amused, out comes the "proper" sushi course, with three different plates showing off the skill of the guys behind the bar. Course three brings the cooked seafood, with some of the most succulent black cod I've ever tasted glistening under a sweet and sour marinade. That's served with langoustine tempura, a dish that makes the usual prawn version pale in comparison. The main courses climax with wagyu beef and miso soup. The beef is just one perfectly cooked thin steak, marinated, sliced thin and served on a hoba leaf (a type of magnolia, used to wrap steamed foods in Japan) for two people to split. As with the rest of the procession of food, there's enough here to be generous, but not so much to stuff you.

And then comes dessert. Generally not something associated with Japanese restaurants, but here Zuma breaks the mould. Out comes an impressive platter with three kinds of ice cream, two traditional cakes and a pile of exotic fruit. One of the cakes is a chocolate fondant and, much to my surprise, it was absolutely the best one I've ever had. I've tried fondants on their French home turf, and in many a top European establishment, but it's in this trendy Japanese place that I found the perfect balance of cakey outside, gooey interior and dark chocolate bite. This, of course, entirely defeated the Weight Watchers objective of eating at a Japanese restaurant, but locked my determination to get back to Zuma again soon. Not only is in the best Japanese I've had in London, but my second visit has firmly placed it in my top five restaurants across all cuisines in the capital.