‘And then I ate a big sandwich’ – A date with a Francesinha

There are few things in life that cannot be improved by the addition of a big sandwich. Having a bad day? Eat a big sandwich. So drunk that you had a bit of a ‘disco nap’ on a big sofa in the pub while accidentally revealing your knickers to the world? (NOT THAT I HAVE EVER DONE THIS OF COURSE) Alleviate your crippling embarrassment by eating a big sandwich. So hungover that it feels as though a hungry hungry hippo is rampaging around your skull and you never want to see daylight again? Hell yeah, you need a big sandwich. So convinced am I by this theory I’ve decided that, if I ever write an autobiography, I’m going to name it: ‘And then I ate a big sandwich’. It just fits.

So, when Mr. McMc’s Portuguese colleague invited us out for a francesinha a few weeks ago, I responded to her email so quickly that I think I gave my wrist whiplash. For the uninitiated, a francesinha comprises two pieces of toasted sandwich bread filled with three different kinds of meat – ham, linguica (cured sausage seasoned with garlic and smoked paprika) and thinly cut steak. This is smothered in melted cheese and a tomato-beer sauce, served with fries and washed down with lots of Super Bock. (Apparently francesinha means ‘little Frenchy’ in Portuguese, as it is adapted from the French croque monsieur. This explains its etymology in a bit more detail.)  It is immense, it is intense, and in Portugal it is the kind of meal you eat before you go out dancing all night. How could I say no?

I admit, before I tried one for myself, I was slightly worried it was going to be the kind of gut bomb that lies heavily on your stomach and sinks you into a state of epic lethargy. I spent my day prepping for the event in the way that a prize fighter trains for a bout – no carbs, lots of water, a gigantic salad for lunch and no snacks (if you don’t count the revolting strawberry fondant chocolate I misguidedly ate for elevenses). I even refused the offer of bread and olives when I arrived at the restaurant. This was a decidedly GO HARD OR GO HOME situation.

The Francesinha money shot

When my francesinha arrived, it didn’t look like much – just a cheese toastie swimming in sea of tomato sauce. Then I opened it for the money shot and saw the meat. SO MUCH MEAT. Put it this way – if one slice of bacon a day is enough to cause cancer, then eating this has probably shaved a good five years off my life. My favourite component was (perhaps unsurprisingly) the linguica sausage. Grilled to perfection, it snapped pleasingly to the bite, releasing huge bursts of smoky garlic flavour. I could happily have eaten a sandwich made with just that and nothing else. I wasn’t so keen on the steak – it was slightly overcooked (probably from being covered with the sauce) making it a bit tough for my liking. While this is a ‘sandwich’, it’s not exactly the kind of thing you can pick up with your hands. You end up sawing great hunks of the thing off with a knife and fork and eating them in delightfully messy, oozing bites – the rich fatty hit of the meat being offset by the sharpness of the tomato-beer sauce. And, in a fit of inspiration, I decided to be really dirty by sticking the accompanying fries in between the slices of bread for some full-on carb-on-meat-on-carb action.

A few tasty Super Bock’s to wash it all down with

Despite all my fears, once I’d eaten my francesinha, I immediately wanted another one. I also understood why Portuguese people delight in eating one before they go dancing – after one of these, it feels as though you could take on anything (and I imagine they work brilliantly as a booze sponge). As it was, I had to alleviate my cravings with lots of Super Bock, a few glugs of Portuguese dessert wine, and many, many pasteis de natas (small Portuguese custard tarts). But I’ll be back to take it on again at some point in the (near) future. After all, it’s a big sandwich. And life is always better when you know where the next big sandwich is coming from.

I ate my francesinha at Café Porto on Rodney Street, Liverpool. However, if you want one, you do need to call and request it in advance.

Skint Lunch Club: 81 Renshaw Street

Streaky Bacon, Cream Cheese & Spring Onion sandwich and a large bowl of Sweet Potato and Chickpea soup.

Hands up who’s skint. Well, that makes two of us. I looked at my bank account last week and let out a wail that could probably be heard across Merseyside. To add insult to injury, January looks to be the month where everything I own suddenly decides to break or run out. Eyeliner, jeans, PC hard drives, you name it. It’s like one long Monday where your bank manager has you on speed dial and you can’t afford to drown your sorrows in overpriced cocktails.

However, like the brave little soldier I am, I refuse to allow my straightened circumstances to stop me indulging in the odd lunch out every now and then. Thankfully, I’m lucky enough to work in an area of Liverpool where I’m spoilt for inexpensive lunch options, one of these being the recently opened 81 Renshaw Street.

81 Renshaw Street is an ‘arts cafe’, which opened with relatively little fanfare a few months ago. It’s the kind of unassuming little place you could easily walk past if you didn’t already know it was there. Like so many recent Liverpool openings, it’s decorated in ‘shabby chic’ (Christ I hate that term), so there are lots of old cabinets full of vintage crockery, rickety-looking tables, large squishy sofas and a gas fire that I’m sure my Nana June owned back in 1989. Where in other places this kind of ‘I’ve just accidentally wandered into a jumble sale’ style looks contrived, here it works – although this may just be because you can tell it’s there with no sense of irony whatsoever.

I had the soup and a sandwich, which consisted of a Streaky Bacon, Cream Cheese & Spring Onion sandwich and a large bowl of Sweet Potato and Chickpea soup. The sandwich itself was fairly utilitarian – two slices of crunchy streaky bacon and a large smear of spring-onion-studded cream cheese on a crunchy ciabatta roll – yet salty, creamy, crunchy and delicious. Plus, it wasn’t filled with any of the limp lettuce and watery tomato slices that can so easily ruin a perfectly good sarnie.

The real star of the show, though, was the Sweet Potato & Chickpea Soup. It’s always good when you see a simple dish done right, and this was as warm and welcoming as a bear hug. Hearty, slightly sweet and heady with toasty cumin, here was a soup that actually tasted of something, a delightful change from the bland fibrous mulch I’ve often had served up to me in other places. As a testament to how good it was, I overheard a woman at one of the other tables asking her waitress for the recipe, which she duly scribbled down. You don’t get that at Subway.

Flourless Clementine Cake

But woman cannot live on soup alone, so I decided to buy a slice of Flourless Clementine Cake for the road. Packed full of almonds and sour-sweet clementine peel, this was a squidgy slice of tasty complexity, and a cake that I will definitely be attempting to recreate in my kitchen sometime in the next few weeks. While I was there, I also had a sample of their Banana Bread in my mouth and didn’t instantly spit it out and cross myself. As regular readers will know, I deem bananas to be the devil’s own fruit, so the fact I managed to eat something containing them without wanting to wash my mouth out immediately with antiseptic is definite progress.

With its ramshackle charm, minimal web presence and really good homemade food, there’s a refreshing lack of pretence to 81 Renshaw Street. While its food is never going to win any awards for originality, it will win plaudits for being simple, tasty and full of heart. Plus, you can eat like a queen and get change from a tenner. And, in these times of economic hardship, you can’t really say fairer than that.

Reader, I married him

So I got married then.

In case you were wondering, this has been the reason behind my radio silence over the past few weeks. Lord knows I attempted to create culinary wonders to post on here, yet my pre-wedding nerves led to them dissolving into huge piles of fail. Take, for example, the swiss roll I attempted to make the Mr. for his birthday. I over-whipped the cream on my first try, leading me to layer my sponge with something which was more akin to watery butter than any recognisable creamy treat. The second attempt was such a disaster that I ended up waving a glass of whisky at it while crying and watching it slowly collapse all over my washing machine. Thankfully, I am now able to see the funny side of this situation, even if I have yet to remove all of the remnants of the strawberry jam from underneath the spin drum.

Weddings do strange things to your brain. In the months leading up to mine, I was convinced that I wouldn’t fall prey to all of the neurosis’s that afflict brides. I pledged to be sanguine, rational, the very picture of calm. And then August rolled around and I turned into a shaking, stuttering wreck. Stress turned my mind into  marshmallow fluff. I lost my appetite and woke up craving cigarettes – despite the fact that I stopped smoking in 2007. I had anxiety dreams which involved me walking down the aisle wearing nothing but a vintage Manchester City shirt and a bright orange tutu. On the Monday prior to the big day, I found myself running laps around the perimeter of my office in an attempt to calm myself the fuck down. My life had suddenly turned into a bad RomCom, albeit one where the bride chugged red wine out of the bottle at 6am while watching Great British Bake Off the morning of her wedding.

Me and my father. Copyright: Charlotte McDermott

And then my wedding day rolled around and everything went brilliantly (well, if you ignore the fact that my truly beautiful shoes nearly crippled me numerous times, and I accidentally managed to smother my husband in bright red lipstick when I kissed him to seal the deal). My bridesmaids Charlotte, Kate and Kathy provided me with moral support, amazing porridge, a ridiculous amount of Prosecco and stupid YouTube videos featuring Nic Cage to prevent me bursting into tears and ruining my carefully applied make-up. And while my facial expression while walking down the aisle was more ‘pant shitting terror’ than ‘blushing bride’, getting married to the man I love more than anyone else in the world was genuinely one of the best moments of my life. 

Cutting the Cake. Copyright: Fong Chau

Naturally, I wouldn’t have done it without a whole heap of folks helping me out and keeping me sane along the way. So, like a weeping Oscar winner, allow me to thank all of the brilliant people and suppliers who made my wedding day so amazing.

• The Athenaeum on School Lane were absolutely brilliant. Nothing was too much hassle for them, even when I ran in there sweaty and panicking the day before just to check one last time  that our MP3 player would work with their AV system. We got married in their private library, and (if you’re a massive literature geek like myself and Mr. McMc) I could think of no better place in Liverpool in which to get hitched.
• Leaf on Bold Street provided us with a giant dancefloor, huge squishy sofas, piles of food for our guests to feast upon when they wanted a break from dancing badly to Fleetwood Mac, and truly brilliant service. There are far too many pictures of me twirling around in my wedding dress in their toilets, but I’d like to blame that on the bounteous waves of joy I was experiencing rather than the four Jagerbombs my Brother bought for me.
• Laura’s Little Bakery provided my wedding cake, a beautiful confection comprised of a gingerbread cake swathed in cream cheese icing. It was squidgy, rich and utterly delicious. It’s always a sign of a good cake when all of your guests lick their plates clean and then ask for seconds. Indeed, many said that it was the best wedding cake they’d ever had – something I was inclined to agree with when I was munching a giant slab of it on my sofa the next day. The cakes she provided for the reception were consumed with equal gusto – so much so that I’m already thinking of ways in which I can replicate her lemon curd cupcakes in my own kitchen.
• Our wedding photographer, Rebecca Who, was an absolute wonder who exhibited both patience and skillz in following us around all day. One of the highlights of the day was me, my bridesmaids and her all wandering through Liverpool City Centre in our regalia, making people wonder if we were a real bridal party or just a very elaborate photo shoot. Honourable mention should also go to Mr. John Doran of The Quietus who was possibly the best wedding-disco-DJ a person could have asked for. The memory of my entire family dancing to Azealia Banks’s ’212′ is one which will stay with me for a very long time.

And then, in the best traditions of all newlyweds, we spent the next day eating pizza in our pyjamas, drinking Champagne and watching the football before buggering off to Berlin. But that’s another story for another blog post. Until then, look everyone! I’m married! BLOODY HELL!

A pan of Scouse for #globalscouseday

The Irish have their Irish Stew, the Lancashire types their Hotpot. And Liverpudlians have Scouse. It’s part of the fabric of the city, a major component of what makes those who live in this corner of the North West of England who they are. Ostensibly, there’s no real difference between these  dishes bar their construction – all three being a simple combination of lamb (or beef), potatoes and a few root veg chucked in for good measure. But, if you’re being poncey, you could say that there’s something about the Merseyside terroir which makes Scouse unique to Liverpool, and so much more than your average, everyday meat stew.

Of course, Scouse isn’t a native Liverpool dish. Like many things you’ll find in this city, you’ll find that it’s an immigrant that has been taken in and brought close to Liverpudlian’s hearts. To quote my good friend Wikipedia;

“In the 18th and 19th centuries Liverpool, being a major seaport, found itself inundated with foreign seamen, especially Norwegians, looking for a berth on any ship. There is still a Scandinavian Seamen’s Church in Liverpool built in the 19th century. Scandinavian seamen’s churches proliferated in many British ports in the late 19th century, and it is therefore probable that these incomers brought their recipes to Liverpool.

A “pan of scouse” became a common meal in working class Liverpool. A thickened stew, usually of mutton or lamb with vegetables slow cooked to tenderise cheap cuts of meat, it takes its name from the Norwegian for stew, “lapskaus”

My first introduction to Scouse came when I’d been living in Liverpool for only a few months. It was an achingly cold February day and the canteen in my office was closed. I ran across the road to the café situated in the Anglican cathedral and devoured a bowl of the stuff whilst watching flakes of snow drift slowly across Hope Street. Warm, rich and soothing, it made me immediately feel comforted and at home. It was the first time I really felt in love with Liverpool   – although it certainly hasn’t been the last.

I’ve now been living here for (almost) three years, and in that time I’ve eaten a lot of Scouse. But I’ve never actually gotten around to sharing my own recipe for the stuff. So what better time to celebrate this most seminal piece of Liverpudlian cuisine on this blog than today – Global Scouse Day?

According to folklore*, every 28th February, Scousers from across the globe all cook up a pan of Scouse to remind them of home. As I have come to realise whilst trying to formulate my own recipe for the stuff, every bowl of Scouse is different – and every Scouser you meet with invariably have their own opinion on what it should contain. Some people say you should use only lamb, some say a proper Scouse should always always contain peas. Others say that it’s a lump of swede which provides it with that certain something. However, it’s been agreed upon the core components of it are:

• Lamb or mutton (cut into chunks, and never minced)
• Potatoes
• Carrots
• Onions
• Beef stock of some kind and a few generous dashes of Worcestershire Sauce

All of this various components are thrown into a pot and cooked together until the potatoes break down and the gravy acquires the consistency which could coat the back of a spoon. Again, there’s a fair bit of argument about whether it should be a thick or thin stew, but all agree that it should always be served up with pickled red cabbage or beetroot, and plenty of bread to mop it up with.

For mine, I made it with a mixture of a cheap cut of lamb and some stewing steak, which I fried in some butter and cooked down in a few pints of Bovril. I also added a dab of tomato paste to the mix to provide it with a bit more of an umami kick, as well as the ubiquitous potatoes, onions and carrots. After a few hours of football watching and concerted stewing, it was done – just the thing for a lazy Sunday spent watching Liverpool (fittingly) win the Carling Cup final.

I can’t make any claims for this being authentic Scouse, but then again, I’m not an authentic Scouser. If you fancied gussying it up a bit, I imagine it would be brilliant with a bit of black pudding or chorizo chucked into it. Happy Scouse Day everyone!

*a few people I’ve spoken to in the pub recently, and this Twitter account

SCOUSE (Serves four)

I used this recipe as a rough guide, as a quick search of the internet revealed it to be the most authentic

You will need

• 400g Stewing Steak
• 400g Neck of lamb (I used shoulder of lamb here and found it to be slightly too boney. Lamb is expensive at the moment, so use mutton if you’re trying to save your pennies)
• 1 onion, roughly chopped
• 2 medium sized carrots, chopped into rounds
• 5-6 large floury potatoes (I used King Edwards), chopped into large chunks
• 2 pints of good beef stock (I used Bovril because I really like Bovril)
• 1 tbsp tomato paste
• A few good glugs of Worcestershire sauce
• Salt and Pepper for seasoning

Make It!

1. If it hasn’t been already cubed by your butcher, cut the lamb and stewing steak into large cubes and season well. Brown in batches in a mixture of butter and vegetable oil (or, if you have it, beef dripping).
2. Transfer the meat to a large saucepan  and add the chopped onions, carrots and the tomato paste. Add the beef stock until it has just covered the meat. Add a few good glugs of Worcestershire sauce and  simmer on a low heat for two hours.
3. After two hours, add the chopped potatoes and another glug of Worcestershire sauce, and simmer for another two hours, stirring occasionally. The large pieces of onion will start to break up and the potato will become soft and will make the final sauce thick.
4. Serve with pickled red cabbage (I used this recipe from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall for mine), and fresh bread. You can also add ketchup or HP sauce if you like (although personally, I think that’s a bit wrong).

Introducing #Scousetroclub

For the past few weeks, I’ve been helping my friend Sid of Sid’s Food Fascination on a secret project. It’s a secret project which has seen us meeting up in pubs across the city, drinking far too much beer, eating burgers and thinking up interesting names. So, after a lot of discussion (and more than one mild hangover), I’m quite happy to see that he’s launched Scousetroclub, Liverpool’s first (and so far only) dining club.

Modelled around Manchester’s award winning Gastroclub (@gastroclub_mcr), Scousetroclub is a chance for gastronomes across Merseyside to get together,  enjoy great food, meet new people and discover new restaurants. Each restaurant will be producing a special set menu for each event (This won’t be  food that you can walk in off the street and order). It also gives you the chance to try something new and different, prepared by a professional chef in a top Liverpool restaurant.

I’ve been to quite a few Gastroclub nights in Manchester, and I’ve never had a bad meal. Indeed, the Gastroclub evening held at Harvey Nichols in March stands out in my mind as being one of the best dining experiences I’ve had this year. So, I’m excited to see how Scousetroclub is going to take off  – and the chance to meet some cool, interesting new people.

The first Scousetroclub is being held at Lunya on 1st February 2012, and the meal menu will include a cava sangria on arrival and a five course meal for £29 per person. I’ve long been a fan of Lunya (and their amazing chorizo sausage rolls). Indeed, I’d even go so far to say that it’s one of my favourite restaurants in the city. I think it’s the perfect place to hold the first event, and I’m really looking forward to seeing what Peter Kinsella and his team will be serving up.

Liverpool’s had an awful reputation for food in the past – one which (in my opinion) is really quite undeserved. Hopefully, events like Scousetroclub, the birth of the (reportedly excellent) Liverpool Supper Club, and the legion of new restaurant openings that we’ve seen in the city over the past twelve months will go some way to convincing outsiders that it is possible to get a damn good meal in this city.

If you’re interested in attending Scousetroclub, a place can be booked by emailing scousetroclub@me.com. Alternatively, keep an eye on their website, and on their Twitter account.  I’ll see you there.

Blackburne House Café: Is this the best soup in Liverpool?

As a rule, I dislike soup which I haven’t made myself. You may think that this sounds like a ridiculously arsey statement, but it’s rare I find a café, restaurant or lunch emporium which manages to get such a simple dish right. Most of the soups I’ve eaten recently have tasted of overcooked vegetable mulch and old string. Hell, even the ones I’ve made myself have lacked that certain something (that something mainly being a) seasoning and b) the ability to not smell like I’ve been stewing knicker elastic for an hour and a half).

However, yesterday, I managed to stumble upon possibly the best soup purveyor on Hope Street (if not the whole of Liverpool City Centre), the Blackburne House Café.

Blackburne House is a pretty ace place. Not only is it home to the Liverpool branch of the W.I. (who, may I say, aren’t your average W.I. and seem like a rather cool bunch of ladies), but it’s also a place which supports women’s enterprise, health and wellbeing. They provide massages, well being sessions, education and help for freelancers, or women starting out in business. Despite working on Hope Street for (almost) eighteen months now, and walking past it practically every day,  I’ve never really visited its rather unassuming little café, preferring the (ever so slightly overpriced) delights of the deli situated in The Quarter.

However, on Monday, I was craving something warm and comforting, and – seeing as the last time I bought soup from The Quarter I ended up spending far too much money on something which was, frankly, disgusting – I decided to pay Blackburne House a visit and see what they had on offer. And blimey, I’m glad I did.

There’s no fussy flavours here, no flavours of the East or strange grains chucked in for a bit of exotic flare. Instead, this is simple, uncomplicated fare which puts me in mind of the kind of thing your Nan would make for you when you’re feeling under the weather.  Homemade, well seasoned and absolutely delicious, truly these are the king of soups. Which would go some way to explaining why I’ve gone there for my lunch three days in a row, and demolished a bowl in under five minutes whenever I’ve been there.

Special mention should also go to the bread  it’s served up with.  Soft, fresh, doughy and delicious, it’s just the thing for mopping up all of that excess. Not that you’ll have much if you’re anything like me. And, best of all, you can get this and a Diet Coke and still have a change from a fiver. Bargaintastic!

Does Blackburne House Café serve the best soup in Liverpool? Well, at the moment, I’m reserving judgement until I actually manage to eat a bowl of soup in every restaurant situated within the Merseyside area. But it definitely serves up the best soup on Hope Street. And when I’m cold, hungry and grumpy, that’s enough for me.

Blackburne House Café

Blackburne Place (just off Hope Street)

Liverpool

L8 7PE

Chilli Banana, Lark Lane, Liverpool

Despite living in Liverpool for *counts on fingers* nigh on eighteen months, I’ve never really explored South Liverpool. Indeed, the furthest I’ve ever ventured down the Northern line is Liverpool South Parkway – and (take my word for it), this doesn’t really contain many delights unless you count the 86 to Speke to be a ‘delight’.

Ever since I moved here, I’d had numerous people telling me to pay a visit to Lark Lane. How it was full of good restaurants, good cafés, and an even a branch of my beloved Pi (which is, you’ve guessed it, a bar which specialises in pies – unsurprisingly I was a frequent visitor to their Chorlton branch back when I lived in Manchester). So, on a balmy Sunday, myself and Mr. Cay decided to take a trip down the Northern Line to Lark Lane. And, as usually happens when we venture anywhere outside of Central Liverpool, we felt a bit peckish. What better way to alleviate our hunger than by indulging in a massive Thai banquet?

Despite its rather cheesy name (and even worse logo) Chilli Banana is one of those stalwarts of the Northern restaurant community that I’ve often heard people recommend when I mention how hard I find it to source decent Thai food in Liverpool. (Trust me when I say that the road to this food blog is paved with the carcasses of terrible Pad Thai’s and Tom Yam Gai’s). Seeing as I’ve found it nigh on impossible to eat any decent South East Asian food since my move to Liverpool, I was naturally wary.  However, once I’d made the decision to dine there, I decided to place my faith in their rather impressive looking selection of dishes – indeed, just a quick glance at the menu caused my stomach to rumble loudly in a rather unseemly fashion.

Both myself and Mr. Cay decided to opt for the Special Banquet Menu, a selection which required two separate tables to be cleared so that our incredibly polite waitress could pile them high with food. The first course was bite sized amuse bouché of a deep fried cracker, stuffed with salty cashew nuts, chillies, spring onions and a piquant lime dressing. It was just the thing to wet our appetites and went especially well with slurps of ice cold Chang beer.

My eyes almost popped out when I saw our starter, which was a plate groaning with Thai appetisers – skewers of chicken Satay Gai served with a cucumber pickle which coated the inside of your mouth with a deliciously sticky peanut sauce, Po Pia Godd (mini Thai Spring Rolls), Tod Man Pla (spicy, bouncy fishcakes which tasted pleasantly of lemongrass and were just the right size to shove into your mouth in one thoroughly unladylike bite), Spare ribs marinated in ginger, garlic and coriander which were a delight to gnaw on and slices of cucumber which were topped with a crisp pomelo salad. Being a big fan of pomelo, this appetiser was my favourite. Its crisp citrus flavour melded perfectly with the cucumber, and acted as a perfect palate cleanser before I dived right back in to nab some more of those fishcakes.

Next up, a bowl of Tom Yam Gai – its soothing sour sweetness being just the thing to cut through all the fat and meat of the previous course. This managed to combine everything I love about Thai food, a perfect conglomeration of Hot, Sweet, Sour and Salty which soothed both the appetite and the soul. I could have done without the big hunks of barely cooked mushroom floating in my bowl though – and had to pick these out like a faddy teenager in order to enjoy more huge slurps of that delicious broth. (I would have drunk it straight from the bowl if I could, but I believe that’s not considered seemly in polite society).

The main course comprised four different dishes, Pla Kratiem (Catfish with Garlic and Ginger), Thai Green Curry, Gai Pad Kimon (‘Drunken’ stir fried chicken with kaffir lime leaves, chilli and green beans) and a rather interesting dish called ‘Heavenly’ Beef which was topped with crispy basil. Out of all of these, I found the catfish (possibly the dish I’d been looking forward to trying the most) to be a little disappointing. The whole dish felt a bit flabby, with a heavy hand on the garlic and ginger totally overwhelming the flavour of the catfish. The Thai Green Curry however, was a delight. Laden with coconut milk, lemongrass, coriander and chillies, it was wolfed down by the sweet toothed Mr. Cay in record time.

Drunken Chicken (Pad Gai Kimon) was a definite highlight of the meal – the rice wine laden chicken contrasting perfectly with the fresh snap of the runner beans and the sizzle of the chillies – just the thing to be soaked up by bowlfuls of pillowy steamed white rice.

However, the stand out dish of the meal was undeniably the Nua Sawwan, aka ‘heavenly beef’.  Comprising of thin slices of beef cooked in coriander, cumin and sugar, this was like insanely addictive Thai beef jerky. Even when my stomach felt as though it could take no more, I had to keep nibbling away at small pieces, drawn back again and again by its chewy, spicy taste. Although I couldn’t tell you how it got its name, I do know that whoever named it wasn’t joking when they pronounced it to be heavenly.

After all of that food, you could be forgiven for wondering how I could even contemplate dessert. And to that I would reply that you should never underestimate my capacity for consuming sweet pastry based treats. (I’m fairly convinced that when it comes to desserts, my stomach contains an extra chamber like a cow). Biting into one of these chocolate filled spring rolls was a bit like playing Russian Roulette, as all the time I was convinced that some filling would splurt out and burn off the roof of my mouth. I needn’t have worried. Because quite frankly, I inhaled these nutella filled nuggets of deliciousness so quickly that they barely had time to scald any of my internal or external organs. To soften the blow though, I was sure to dip them in the accompanying ice cream first, a creamy orange concoction that wasn’t quite a sorbet, and, when eaten between bites of spring roll, made me feel like I was eating rather more sensorily adventurous Chocolate Orange.

By the end of the meal, I felt a bit like Liverpool’s answer to Mr. Creosote, wondering aloud whether I should undo the top button of my jeans on the train back to Bootle.  I also marvelled at the fact that (with drinks) our bill only came to around £40 per person – not bad considering the truly immense amounts of food we ate. With great food like this only a twenty minute train journey away from my house, perhaps I should visit Lark Lane more often. Although I’ll be sure to wear my elasticated trousers next time.

Chilli Banana, 2 Lark Lane, Aigburth, Liverpool L17 8US

Friday Lunch Club: Host, Hope Street

Friday has long been my favourite day of the week – the day when I clock off at 5pm, kick back and focus my attentions upon the important things in life, like getting pissed and dancing to motown records in inappropriate footwear. But recently, Friday has managed to gain an even more special place in my heart, because that’s the day when I decide to go all out to town in terms of my lunching arrangements.

Being your average everyday office worker, I tend to bring my own lunch to work – or, if I’m feeling especially lazy that day – partake of the numerous interesting looking delights served up in my employers cafeteria. However, at the end of every week, myself and my colleague Lydia decide to lunch in one of the numerous eating establishments situated on Hope Street in Liverpool (which, if the gushing bloke I heard on Radio 4 the other morning is to be believed, is the boulevard Saint Germain of the North West of England).

Of all the places we’ve gone to since we established our little eating club, Host was the one I’d most been looking forward to trying out. I’d heard numerous reviews – both good and bad – of its South East Asian influenced cuisine, its mind blowing desserts and its interesting canteen inspired dining style. Being the kind of girl who quite happily live off noodles for the rest of her days, it sounded just like my kind of place.

And, to an extent, I wasn’t disappointed. Walking into Host is like what I imagine walking into a restaurant designed by the cast of Playschool might be like. It’s a huge airy space – all big windows, Wagamama style benches and primary coloured walls. Whilst some people may find its informality slightly discomforting, I quite liked its easy going style and air of unpretentiousness.

I was equally impressed by the food. For a starter, we had bowls of edamame beans which were served warm with a light sprinkling of sea salt, and were great fun to pop right out of the pod directly into your mouth (even more so when one leapt up and hit Lydia right between the eyes).

For the main courses, Lydia settled upon a poached Sea Bass which was served with pak choi and jasmine rice. It looked and tasted delicious – the broth was light and fragrant with soy and lemongrass, whilst the fish was pillowly soft, flaking off into thick white shards at the merest touch of a chopstick. My Massaman Pork Belly curry was equally good – I’d never thought of pork belly as being an ingredient which would go well with indian spices and thick gravy, but I was very pleasantly surprised. The tamarind in the sauce made the whole dish pleasingly sour, and complemented the silky smooth fat of the pork belly perfectly. The whole thing sang with flavour and I happily demolished the lot.

The only thing which let the meal down for me was the dessert. After hearing tales of Host’s unique desserts menu (comprising of such thing as Strawberry and White Pepper Panacotta with Liquorice macaroons and various ice creams sprinkled with chocolate covered popping candy), I was really looking forward to getting stuck into the Rosewater Parfait with chocolate sauce I’d ordered. However, what I was presented with was a huge salmon pink cylinder…and that was it. I had to ask our waiter to bring me over a small dish of chocolate sauce, and the whole thing just appeared to be a bit underwhelming. Thankfully it tasted better than it looked – like a very posh (very cold) Turkish Delight. Whilst it may be a little sweet for some people’s tastes, I found it to be rather pleasant, putting in mind of when I was a little girl and a bar of Fry’s Turkish Delight (in the lurid purple foil wrapper) seemed like the height of sophistication.

Host may not be perfect, and it may not be the kind of place you’d choose to take a date on a romantic night out (its long benches not exactly being conducive to great shows of intimacy). However, I’ve yet to find a better place in Merseyside for interesting – and really bloody tasty – South East Asian inspired food. Plus, at only £15 for three courses and a beer, it didn’t break the bank either.

I’ve yet to decide whether Host really is something special, or just a very posh Wagamamma’s. However, I will be returning there again. If only to try some more of that Pork Belly curry.