JAMON JAMON PARTIDA DOS: PIGGING OUT IN MALLORCA

I went to Mallorca for Christmas, and took Gorbals with me as co-pilot as I planned to do a lot of driving.  I've had better wing men with four legs, but since he’s experienced GPS in action his navigational skills are getting better.  We didn’t have GPS in the hire car on Mallorca but he did a fair imitation, using his tablet to follow the road and instructing “In about 20 meters, turn left” in a robotic monotone, which was still an improvement on “Turn left – oh never mind, too late, you’ve just gone past it”.   I ignored his exhortations to turn and gasp at the vista while I was negotiating twisty mountain roads. 

Gorbals doesn’t care for “fancy” restaurants because (a) he is an anarchist, and (b)  his wardrobe does not include a dinner jacket, or even a tie, so we can’t go anywhere too posh.  Not together anyway.  So we ate very local.  Most of the time we opted for tapas bars – for two reasons:  one, he doesn't rant about the evils of capitalism in them, and two, you can eat at a more reasonable hour.  I knew from previous visits to Spain with Harold that the chefs in posh Spanish restaurants don’t turn up till 8.30 p.m. at the earliest and you won’t be served before 10 p.m.


We stayed in an apartment near the Santa Catalina district, which is becoming quite trendy.  Across the road from the flat was a dull-looking cafe called Cafe de Palma, which was recommended by our landlords.  We didn't get to try it out until a couple of days before we left, and I wish we'd gone there from day one. It was run by a delightful and slightly deaf lady with a loud voice and a very maternal manner.  On only our second visit she greeted us with "Hola, como estais?" as if she'd known us for years.  It was crammed to fire safety infringement levels with books, magazines, biscuit tins, puppets and cushions. There was about a 10-year pile of back issues of Hola? magazine, which would have kept me happy all week.   Especially as I am a big fan of the Spanish breakfast.   The "flat white" much vaunted by Starbucks is a poor relation to the classic Spanish caffe con leche which is my favourite morning coffee.  There is no way to explain to a 17-year-old spotty barista in Caffe Nero that you want a coffee that's milky but strong.  The Spanish understand.  Along with a freshly-squeezed orange juice and a Mallorcan ensaimada pastry (light as an angel's wing), it comes a very close second to the Full English.  

My wing man turned out to have an excellent instinct for sniffing out good tapas bars.  He found a good one on La Rambla – called Bodega La Rambla - that we ate in twice.  You can eat standing up at the bar or queue for a table in the dining room at the back, where you can order a medium plate (5 tapas for 7 euros) or large plate (7 tapas for 9 euros).  Your tapas are all thrown into the same dish - mushrooms, sausage, Russian salad, omelette and meatballs -  and you’re in and out within 45 minutes.  The waiters are super speedy and jolly with it.  In my perfect world, all the waiters would be Spanish.

Some tapas bars are more upmarket than others.  Gorbals felt quite at home in the pretty down at heel Bar Espana, which is run by two elderly gents, possibly brothers, one of whom has a most interesting and quite dramatic tic which reminded me a lot of Alf Ippititimus played by Jack Douglas on the Des O’Connor show back in the 60s.  It was frequented by a motley collection of characters, mostly quite elderly and clearly a bit mad, with whom Gorbals struck up a rapport.  They seemed to understand his approximate Spanish. As it was winter I eschewed the usual apéro of gin & tonic, and had a Patxaran, a pink Basque bitters served on ice, which was extremely pleasant. No food in the evenings, but on a normal lunchtime it is apparently heaving with tapas fans.


Other tapas bars which were on my list turned out to be closed at the times we wanted to eat - El Gallego and La Bodeguita del Centro in carrer del Carme, off La Rambla. One little place which was open was Bodeguita Bellver, where the chef was lovingly constructing very upmarket sandwiches in a space the size of a broom cupboard.  A beer and a glass of very good Rioja came to 9 euros, a little excessive but as my friend Arthur Smith is wont to say, "If you haven't been ripped off when you go abroad, then you haven't been abroad."  Outside of the Christmas season there is a kind of pub crawl that goes on Tuesday evenings, called La Ruta Martiana, or the Martian Route, where a number of downtown tapas bars offer a cana and a tapa for 2 euros.  Needless to say, it wasn't happening the week we were there.

But stand-up tapas heaven was to be found in the markets - our local market, the Mercat Santa Catalina, had several bars where the local hombres were stuffing their faces with Spanish omelette, squid, beautiful Spanish ham and all manner of pintxos accompanied by a cana of beer at 11 in the morning, while their senoras were loading up with goodies for the holidays.   I bought some exquisite bellotta ham (made from acorn-fed pigs) and some cheap local foie gras, a loaf of bread and some fruit, which we had with a bottle of white wine in the sun on a bench  by the marina at Port de Soller, on Christmas Day.  One of the best Christmas lunches ever.

The district with an intense concentration of restaurants was La Lonja, where the highly recommended Bar Dia was closed but we had sit-down tapas at La Cueva – a bit posher than La Rambla, at least the tapas came in separate dishes, and we were serenaded by a trio of musician students known as Tunas dressed in medieval gowns singing traditional old Spanish songs, whilst the Germans at the next table drank sangria, no doubt trying to recapture the heady atmosphere of their summer holiday.  In some ways we were lucky it was December, I dare say in summer their repertoire includes "Y viva Espana" and other delights.   

I was surprised to get into Casa Espanola on Christmas Eve without a reservation.  It was quite late in the evening, as we were going to midnight mass at Palma Cathedral to hear a UNESCO Masterpiece of Oral Intangible Heritage.  Our jolly Argentinian waiter served us up a fairly average paella and two bottles of Mallorquin red to help to wash it down.  In church we were considerably swayed by the majesty of it all. Gorbals even went up to receive the Eucharist, but was a bit disappointed to find they'd run out of the Blood of Christ and had to make do with what was left of His Body.   Austerity seems to have even hit the Catholic church.

On the drive to Porto Cristo on the East Coast we passed an unprepossessing restaurant to the side of the motorway which rang a bell.  I realized had eaten there 30 years ago.   Es Cruce was a basic transport caff then – we stopped because my Parisian paramour at the time decided trucks parked outside was A Good Sign and he was right – there was no menu, we were beckoned into the kitchen and had to point at what we wanted, then a bottle of wine was plonked on the table and we were charged for what we drank.  The restaurant has expanded somewhat – it now holds some 400 diners – but is obviously still very popular, as the massive car park was full and there was a crowd of people milling about.  Mental notes were made for future visits. 

I sampled Mallorquin soup ("supa mallorquina") in Es Tanit the one restaurant open in Porto Cristo.  It turned out to be bread and cabbage soup.   More bread and cabbage than soup, and could have been served warmer, but was very nourishing, especially as it was December and I had acquired a filthy cold.   Outrageously overpriced, and on checking Trip Advisor later I found it was a restaurant known for poor quality food and ripoff prices, but it was all that was open.  Gorbals probably chose more wisely with his spaghetti carbonara.

We dropped into Magalluf just to have a look.  I was last there 30 years ago and it had improved immensely.  Mainly because it was December and everything was closed.   Apparently it’s got a rather racy reputation lately.  The culinary options, had anything been open, appeared to be pizza, doner kebab, burgers and chips, so we made our excuses and left.  But Mallorca wouldn't be Majorca if we didn't have one night in a British bar, and so we went to Hogan's which was just round the corner from our apartment, and had beer and red wine and burgers. 

                                                 Es Baluard museum restaurant



It wasn't all slumming it.  One day I gave Gorbals the afternoon off so I could treat myself to lunch at the cool and ubertrendy Es Baluard, the restaurant of the modern art museum of the same name overlooking Palma marina.  It was all low loom armchairs and trance music in the sun.  So far, so Ibiza.  I only had a glass of white wine and a slice of Spanish omelette but it was quite nice sitting there in my Vuarnet sunglasses feeling like Penelope Cruz although probably looking more like Montsarrat Caballé.

The best tapas of all – by no means the cheapest – were in a little restaurant called Sa Botiga in a little town called Santanyi, run by Germans Gaby and Michael who had had the place for 3 years.  They really were special, and beautifully presented.  The restaurant terrace is across the road from the actual restaurant, in front of the church. Mid-afternoon, i.e. lunchtime in Mallorca, there were no cars and we had a delightful couple of hours in the sun sampling these creative and delicious tapas.  The restaurant itself is immaculate and every nook and cranny was filled with second-hand books in all languages, in fact there appeared to be a second-hand library on the first floor. 

When we tired of tapas there was always Pa amb oli, or Mallorcan ham & cheese sandwich.  The first one we sampled, at S'Olivera in Valldemossa, was the best.  not the cheapest, at 10 euros, but the ham was top quality pata negra, generous slices under large slices of manchego cheese, under which were slices of fresh tomato on rye bread.  Garnished with olives.  A feast.  We had pa amb oli again at the very local Ca'n Moixet on Pollença market square but it was not quite as good.

                                   Three little piggies went to market ....

Ham, or jamon, was everywhere in Mallorca.  Legs and legs of it. Massive great hocks.  In the markets it seemed that's what everyone was buying for Christmas dinner.  It is a very porky place, Spain.  And by the sainted Miss Piggy, it was good stuff.  Pata negra, serrano, bellotto,  some came in their own special bag.  There were also cochinillas or suckling pigs - I wanted to have a roast suckling pig dinner but we didn't manage to find a place open at the right time - and whole pig heads used as decoration, one winsomely sporting a red ribbon in her, or its, er, ears. Pig's ears, pig's trotters, every part of the revered halouf was available for stewing, roasting, grilling or frying.  It must be quite hard work being Jewish or Muslim in Spain.  Halal and kosher are not much in evidence.

The problem with going to a Mediterranean island off season is, many of the attractions will be closed. Sadly another wonderful place which I remembered from my visit 30 years ago turned out to be shut - Bar Abaco is an old Mallorquin house which is something akin to a museum that serves cocktails in impossibly glamorous historic surroundings.  Even Gorbals would have liked this, although probably not the cocktails.  The old single-track train to Soller was - of course - out of action for two months, but across the street from the dinky little railway station I found an old-fashioned art deco café dating from the 1920s,  called Bar Cristal.  It serves the most orgasmic hot chocolate you have ever tasted, like melted chocolate, so thick you have to eat it with a spoon.  It was served by a fairly orgasmic 6’4” waiter called Llorenç, who had black hair down to his waist in a neat pigtail, a black beard and eyes the colour of the hot chocolate he had just placed in front of me.  He persuaded me to have an ensamaida with it.  To be honest he could have persuaded me to do the washing-up.  He was so gorgeous I had to take his photograph.   When you get to my age you can get away with that sort of thing.

In my perfect world, all the waiters would look like this 

                

Ensamaida and hot chocolate

Palma de Mallorca in December, by Ryanair from Brussels Zaventem, 110 euros
Apartment rental 410 euros for 10 days through Novasol

Bodega La Rambla, La Rambla 15

El Gallego, Carrer del Carme (off La Rambla)

La Bodeguita del Centro, carrer del Carme (off La Rambla)

Bar Espana c/Oms, off La Rambla

Bodega Bellver, c/Serinya 2

La Bodeguita del Medio, c/Vallseca 18
Bar Dia c/d’Apuntadors 18, La Lonja

La Cueva, C/d’Apuntadors 5, La LonjaCasa Espanyola c/d’Apuntadors 9, La Lonja

Bar Cristal, Plaça de Espanya (hot chocolate and hot waiter)

Es Baluard Museum restaurant

Sa Botiga, Santanyi

Es Cruce, Carretera Palma-Manacor, km 41, 07250 Vilafranca de Bonany
Bar Abaco, c/Sant Joan, La Lonja
Hogan's, c/Monsenyor Palmer

GOOD GAME, GOOD GAME

After the extraordinarily long mild and dry spell,  mid November it turned chill and damp, and it was time for a long overdue ladies' lunch and catch-up with Aunty Marianne.  I like going for lunch with Aunty as I get to walk down the lovely Avenue Lambeau, ablaze with colour as the dying cherry trees made their last hurrah for the year.  Aunty greeted me with a choice of gin and tonics - Hendrick's, or Gordon's Crisp Cucumber.  I sipped a bit of each, and decided on the Gordon's which really did taste of cucumber.  We watched with some amusement Othello the cat watching the telly for a while, before heading out to eat.  Aunty used to rather favour Le Lido at the bottom of Avenue Georges Henri by the park gates, but was mortified to find on her last visit that the new management had installed TV SCREENS.   The horror, the horror.  When you dine out with Aunty, you know you'll be going somewhere Proper.    She told me we were going to the Heisenberg, which rather threw me, having recently watched "Breaking Bad".   

The Heydenberg, as it turned out to be called, is a rather staid looking Belgian/French brasserie on the corner of Avenue Heydenberg and rue de Décembre, opposite the De Baere bakery.  On a Sunday lunchtime in November a few tables were occupied by ancients, average age about 95.  Our arrival brought the average age down to about 75.   Aunty was greeted effusively by the nice lady manageress, who is used to seeing Aunty with The Bloke, but was happy to accept me as a substitute, even though I don't flirt as much as he does apparently.

Croustillant de Brie

For starters we both had Croustillant de Brie (Brie deep-fried in filo pastry) drizzled with honey and sprinkled with pine nuts and walnuts. I was delighted to see from the specials blackboard outside the restaurant that the game season had arrived, and the weekend special was Steak de Chevreuil (roe deer steak) with girolle mushrooms and fruits of the forest.    Aunty went for the marcassin (baby wild boar) with similar edible decoration.   Both dishes were served on a white rectangular plates with a quite delicious gamey gravy and liberally sprinkled with redcurrants, raspberries  prunes and figs.   Which reminded me we were nearly out of loo roll. 


The meat was beautifully cooked and quite tender, which surprised me, as my earlier experiences with game, during my time with the late Major, convinced me that venison can be quite tough.  Of course back then we used to buy our Christmas meat from a bloke round the back of the pub who would only take cash, which may have had something to do with it.

Wild boar in seasonal garnish

Roe deer steak with similar seasonal garnish

A half-litre of the house white with the starter didn't last long, and was swiftly followed by a half-litre of the house red.  For pudding I had the individual home-made Tarte Tatin with chantilly and vanilla ice cream (I know - give me a break, it was Sunday) and Aunty had the crepes with vanilla ice cream.   Her Atkins regime has fallen by the wayside recently, and I was lucky to catch her in between bouts of self-discipline.      
Besides the specials, The Heydenberg also does a standard menu of meat, fish, pasta and light dishes such as omelette and croque monsieur, as well as desserts, and children's dishes.  It has big plate glass windows on two sides through which to survey the denizens of Woluwe St Lambert going about their Sunday constitutional to the bakery or the park.

The bill came to almost exactly 100 euros for two.   Not cheap, but not beyond the price range of two Grandes Dames either.   And it's not often you can hand over fifty smackers without a twinge of regret.  It was altogether the most tasty, satisfying meal I have had in a long time (and I can't fault the company either).  The ladies toilets are nothing to write home about, but clean and the lock on the door works.  It is an entirely unpretentious, down-home, quiet family restaurant, with no tellies.  

Those old crones know a good deal when they see one. 

I give the Heisenberg four stars:  like Walter White*, I'll be back.

Brasserie Heydenberg
Avenue Heydenberg 17
1200 Woluwe St Lambert
Open 7 days a week, lunchtime and evenings




*I think that's who I mean.  I'm afraid I fell asleep on the sofa before the end.
 

JAMON JAMON PT.1: HAMMING IT UP IN ANDALUSIA

I did not write up the trip to Andalusia last November, since due to the top-secret nature of the mission, I did not have a chance to explore the region's culinary heritage to the extent I would have liked, but I did find a number of places where you can eat on a budget.    The places that impressed me most were the comfort stops just off the motorway, which were fabulous - with hand painted tiles, and counters piled high with all manner of home-made foods.  Watford Gap or South Mimms will never have the same appeal.

Spanish transport caff

Spanish food can be about grande cuisine, but do not overlook the smaller meals - breakfast, snacks, aperitifs.   The coffee in Spain is the best in the world, in my humble opinion (turns down sound of Italians protesting) - a Spanish breakfast of caffe con leche, freshly-squeezed zumo de naranja and a pastry comes a close second to the Full English.  

On my return, I was keen to find out where you could eat good Spanish food here in Brussels.  I had to go no further than the end of my road, where I found not one but two excellent little Spanish hostelries sitting together like a pair of castanets:  Casa Miguel and Los Amigos de Aragon.   They are tucked into place des Gueux, the point where rue Franklin meets rue des Patriotes, about 5 minutes' walk from Schuman roundabout, and the triangular cobbled area in front of the restaurants serves as a communal terrace, smoking area, outside bar and overspill when Real Madrid are playing Barça.  Sometimes people will be sitting down at tables eating with cutlery, sometimes they'll be crammed in standing up eating tapas off the bar, you take it as you find it. Both restaurants serve a great selection of tapas, and can do you a paella to order for a group.     We had a group session there recently and were served two tapas each, an excellent seafood paella and a huge selection of desserts for 25 euros a head, wine not included.  

At Sainte Catherine a new quite upmarket Spanish restaurant has opened, Le Fourneau Ibérique, serving "gastronomic tapas" and "new Iberian cuisine".  At lunchtimes you can choose 3 tapas for 19 euros.   A la carte dishes cost between 6 and 11 euros in tapa size, and 12 to 20 euros in racion size.   To impress your friends, you can book the whole restaurant and the chefs will dress you up in whites and put you behind the serving hatch as if you had prepared the whole meal. 

Tapas Locas is not far from the Ancienne Belgique and a great place for an after-show bite to eat.  It's a young crowd,  inexpensive tapas and typically speedy Spanish service.

Bar a Tapas in the trendy St Géry district offers some reasonable combos at lunchtime, a wide selection in the evening and private rooms for parties. 

Basque food is reputedly the best cuisine in Spain.  ComoComo on trendy rue Dansaert specializes in Basque pintxos, or tapas, served in yakitori style on a moving conveyor belt.  A bit expensive for tapas but tasty and unusual dishes.   One for los hipsteros.

If you want something a bit more upmarket, La Cueva de Castilla sits on place Collignon close by Schaerbeek town hall. With awards from Gault & Millau 2006 and Michelin Guide 2008, and valet parking, it's not a tapas bar.  There's a 3-course formula for 44 euros, not including wine. You're as likely as not to find the Bourgmestre of Schaerbeek entertaining guests there.

The area around the Gare du Midi is traditionally where Spanish and Portuguese immigrants settled, and there are dozens of small Iberian restaurants and shops which are a closely guarded secret to those in the know.  The Economato Espanol is a Spanish grocery store in the shadow of the Pensions Tower which is open every day but does a particularly roaring trade on Sundays when it finds itself in the middle of the sprawling Midi market.  As soon as the weather is warm enough, people will be standing at the outside tables drinking Estrella and discussing Valencia's chances in the Liga de Campiones.  This is where I buy my olive oil.  I am ferociously faithful to Spain when it comes to olive oil, it's smooth and buttery, without that bitter aftertaste you often get with Italian oils.  (There'll be a contract out on me by now with the Italian olio mafia).   My favourite brand is Carbonell Extra Virgen, at 8 euros a litre, but other brands in the same price range are just as good, such as Hojiblanca.  

You can also buy your Spanish olive oil, lomo, and other Iberian goodies from Productos Espanoles Mediterranea on the Chaussée de Louvain, just up from Place Dailly,  Sabores de Espana on Rue Archimède on the corner of place Ambiorix, or Espana Calidade and Casa Tella in St Gilles.


There will be more jamon jamon in the New Year after my Winter in Majorca with Gorbals Chopin.  Hopefully I'll have some good addresses to recommend. Meanwhile, rattle your castanets to this.





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Los Amigos de Aragon / Casa Miguel, 1 & 2 place des Gueux    02 734 1447 / 02 735 4100
Le Fourneau Ibérique, place Sainte Catherine 8       02 513 10 02
Tapas Locas, rue du Marché au Charbon 74   02 502 12 68
Bar a Tapas, Borgwal 11, 02 502 66 02
ComoComo, rue Antoine Dansaert 19     02 503 03 30

La Cueva de Castilla, place Collignon 14, 1030 Schaerbeek  02 241 81 80
Economato Espanol, Esplanade de L'Europe 9, Saint-Gilles

Casa Tella, Chaussée de Waterloo 23, Saint-Gilles
Productos Espanoles Mediterranea, Chaussée de Louvain 446, Schaerbeek
Sabores de Espana,  rue Archimède 66 (closed Sunday)
Espana Calidade, avenue de la Porte de Hal 63, St Gilles

GO WITH THE PHO

I have long been a fan of Vietnamese food, having spent many years in Paris, and already knew my cheveux d'ange from my nêm.   I had only recently been introduced to Phô, the tasty and nourishing beef or chicken broth that is a staple of Vietnamese street food and is now becoming very trendy.  A restaurant called Phô Phô had recently opened up near my office but I was keen to try some authentic stuff.  So I took myself off to Vietnam in April of this year, on a spring roll offensive.  

 

In Ho Chi Minh City, formerly known as Saigon, my first port of call, I stayed in the Continental Hotel, an iconic and elegant colonial palace, made famous by Graham Greene and every subsequent journalist and writer who ever visited the city.   My room on the 3rd floor was enormous and overlooked the opera house, almost the same view that Martin Sheen has in the opening scenes of Apocalypse Now.  The hotel restaurant was empty and expensive ("Le Bourgeois" - Uncle Ho would turn in his grave) so I found a welcoming little place called Vietnam House where I washed away the dust of the journey with a Tiger beer and then a second in swift succession.  Spring rolls followed by chicken with lemongrass and steamed rice came to 400K vnd, or about 14 euros.  Probably extortionate by Vietnamese standards but on the way out I spotted a photo of George H. and Barbara Bush taken in the restaurant in 1995 so obviously Presidential prices.

Because of the heat, most of the hotels in Saigon have rooftop bars where you can catch a breeze.  I went for an after-dinner cocktail at "Saigon Saigon", the 10th floor open-air bar of the Caravelle Hotel.  So good they named it twice.  I had a Saigon Dream cocktail or some such nonsense and tried to stave off jet lag at least until nightfall.

At the Continental, breakfast is taken in the famous courtyard with its three 150-year-old frangipani trees, next to the bar dubbed by sixties war correspondents “The Continental Shelf”.  Interesting breakfast buffet, if you can deal with Phô beef and noodle broth so early in the morning.  Phô is traditionally eaten for breakfast, mid-morning or lunch at the latest.   You could also have dim sum, salad, rice, pastries or fruit.  I played it safe with the last two, trying purple dragonfruit (rather tasteless, a bit like a kiwi with tiny seeds that stick between your teeth) and giant sweet grapefruit.

Beer is a popular beverage in Vietnam and each town has its own brew.  It all tastes the same, but that's not a reason not to order a Bia Saigon in Saigon, Bia Hà Nội in Hanoi, a Huda in Hué or a Tiger anywhere else.  It's all made under licence by Heineken or Carlsberg anyway.   Cold green tea is another popular drink and is often provided free of charge in restaurants or on food stalls.  I saw one woman come into a restaurant, serve herself a glass of green tea, and leave.  


But the beverage par excellence, the culinary jewel in the crown of Vietnam, was cà phê sua đá, (Vietnamese iced cold-drip coffee made with sweetened condensed milk).   I had seen a documentary about Vietnam’s coffee industry and its first coffee millionaire Trung Nguyen, whose coffee shop chain is just one of several in Saigon.   I escaped from the searing mid-morning heat in a branch of Highlands Coffee, another of the many chains of Starbucks lookalikes, and had two delicious super-strong Vietnamese iced coffees while I made the most of their free wi-fi.  Tea and coffee are both grown in Vietnam and the upmarket tea shop chain with the intriguing name of Phuc Long is also prevalent.  The much prized 'weasel' coffee is sold here, made from beans ingested and shat out again by weasels.  I opted for the regular brew.

 

I was assured by people who had been there that I could eat street food for about a euro.  However on the street I decided against it, for various reasons:  one, the heat.  No-one had told me April was the hottest time of year in Vietnam, although the fact that the flight was so cheap should have been an indication.  Eating outside was not a preferred option.  Secondly, the Vietnamese all sit on tiny little plastic stools, which would be children's play furniture here in Europe, and I feared my Western bottom would not fit and I might have trouble getting up again.  So I opted for restaurants with air conditioning and proper seating.  I found another one on Dong Khoi (my lack of adventurousness was nothing to do with timidity, but everything to do with the debilitating humidity) where I had my first real Vietnamese Phô , and very tasty it was too.

That evening I had dinner at a restaurant on Pasteur called SH Garden, I had seen their terrace from the rooftop bar at the Caravelle.  To get to it you had to go up 3 floors in a 100-year-old lift (with a new motor, they hastened to reassure me).  It was like something from Old Shanghai.    There was no room on the terrace, but they found me a corner table inside and I ordered an assortment of Vietnamese rolls (nems, cha-gia etc.) and a beef salad with 2 Tiger beers.  Wine is really extortionate here, even Australian wine which doesn't have to come that far, relatively speaking, hence I was sticking with beer.  Came to nearly 600k (18 euros)  but there was live music.  Tootled back for an early night in an attempt to circumvent jet lag, noticing the Rex Hotel’s rooftop bar advertised its happy hour as “Five O’Clock Follies” – what the war correspondents used to call the US government’s daily press briefing.  On my last evening before setting off for Hué I spent a couple of hours perched happily up there overlooking the Saigon rush hour, enjoying the breeze and chugging Bombay Sapphire and tonic.  

In Hué I stayed at the swanky and very oriental Imperial Hotel with a fabulous view over the Perfume River.  Virtually next door to the hotel is the Mandarin Café, much recommended by Trip Advisor.  Owner Mr Phan Chu is a photographer and tireless charity worker, who is always there on the premises, signing photos for his fans.  Fans of Phan, in fact.  Had lunch (Phô Ga this time) and a beer, and Mr Chu came over for a chat and showed me his photo album (I was obviously being invited to buy some prints).  Great strong iced coffee.  

 

 

At a loud music bar called DMZ in downtown Hué I had a couple of beers, went away to watch a show, and when I returned several hours later my young waiter recognized me and welcomed me back.  Most of the conversations I had in Vietnam were with young waiters and waitresses wanting to practice their English.  I ordered a pina colada and a burger, feeling in need of some western food.  There's only so many ways you can serve Phô.  (Two, actually - with chicken or with beef).

The next day I was driven over the Hai Van Pass to Hoi An.  We made a lunch stop at Lang Co beach, where my driver drove into a big tourist complex and pushed me inside.  It was ghastly – obviously state run, sloppy service, awful food and full of Vietnamese OAPs spitting everywhere and eating with their mouths open.  The complex overlooked the sea, the beach was stunning but I imagine the facilities were pretty basic.  It reminded me of state Communist run resorts I had visited in Algeria and Benin.  At the end of the day, in my perfect world, all hotels would be run by the Americans.

The hotel Ha An in Hoi An, where I had booked a room, had been recommended by a colleague at work and was a boutique hotel in an old colonial villa built around a beautifully kept courtyard garden.   Quite bijou.  Every detail was so meticulously thought out, I wondered if the owner might be a gay man.  The bathrooms were exquisite with a rain shower and big pebbles in the bottom to reduce splashing.  Clever.  Rose petals had been scattered in the bathroom and an orchid was placed on the pristine white cotton bed.  The small restaurant was always quiet, but always ready to rustle you up something. 

Hoi An was like a film set from an Indiana Jones movie.  I expected Bert Kwouk to appear in black pyjamas at any minute and offer me some opium.  Although the restaurant downtown in old Hoi An was fairly nondescript, it had an open terrace overlooking the river, and the food was edible.  I was starting to find Vietnamese food was tasty but only had so many permutations.  Anyway you don't go to Hoi An for food, you go for shopping.   This is where the tailors can run you up a suit or an evening gown in 24 hours.  The sales ladies are hardcore here.  Within five minutes of leaving the hotel I was three pairs of harem pants and a silk top better dressed.  The food market in Hoi An was colourful and manned by picturesque locals in conical sunhats, great photo material.

And so to Hanoi. There is a commercial district known as the '36 streets', where every street specializes in a different product. The restaurant recommended by a friend happened to be in the Street of the Sparkly Shoes.  I managed to resist temptation, and found Green Tangerine, a French restaurant situated in an old colonial house dating from 1928.   I was lucky to get a table, as it is quite posh and reservations are recommended.  The Indian manager showed me through the courtyard to a table inside, which was just as well as it poured with rain shortly afterwards.  The staff were all beautiful, graceful, gracious and charming.   The food was stunning.  Not cheap.  But worth it. A mixture of French and Vietnamese, small portions but beautifully prepared, almost like works of art.  The only really memorable meal I had in the whole two weeks.   I had two starters and a dessert, with two glasses of white wine, and it came to about 23 euros.  I noticed they did a lunchtime menu for about 7 euros.

Ca phe Cong is a Hanoi cafe done out like a Viet Cong bunker.  It is painted in military green on the outside, and inside a narrow concrete staircase takes you up through several small rooms to the top floor where you can watch the mental motorcycle riders of Hanoi criss-crossing like an Edinburgh Tattoo display team, only without the precision. 

I had planned to have lunch the next day at the iconic Metropole Hotel but got there too early and decided I probably wasn’t well dressed enough, so ate at Dinh Lang Thuỷ Tạ restaurant overlooking the lake and had a real pig-out before heading for the airport.  A lovely young lady in a brighly coloured ao dai prepared my kebabs at the table.

 

While in Hanoi I went on a 2-day cruise to Ha Long Bay with  Handspan Travel on a junk called “Treasure”.    Lunch, dinner and breakfast were all included.   We were given qa 4-course buffet lunch on arrival, and another buffet in the evening.   All lovely food, although don't ask me to remember what we had.   The sight of Ha Long Bay disappearing into a darkening pink mist is all I remember.

From Hanoi I flew to Nha Trang, once an R & R centre for American GIs, now a major holiday resort for Vietnamese, Australians and Russians alike.  I stayed at the Novotel, overlooking the beach, and was greeted by a charming doorman with excellent English, Mr Nguyen, and shown to my room which was a spacious split-level with a balcony overlooking the South China Sea.  I must say the early morning view did not disappoint, although it was surprisingly noisy at 5 a.m.   Returning clubbers?  I wondered.  On poking my head over the balcony I found the beach packed with early-rising Vietnamese who, unlike mad dogs and Englishmen, stay out of the midday sun, and like to be active on their holidays.  See those little black dots in the sea?  They're all people.  Under my balcony ladies in smart silk pyjamas were doing a tai-chi routine with matching red fans.  I went back to bed until breakfast.

This was my reward for 10 days of tramping around Vietnam in the searing heat.    Nha Trang is full of restaurants, Western, Vietnamese and a huge amount of PECTOPAH.  Kilim restaurant was recommended in my guide book.  It had no air conditioning so it was a trifle sweaty.  As I was leaving I noticed an open verandah upstairs where I would have enjoyed a small breeze.  In the evening I went upmarket and had a mojito and dinner at the Sailing Club right on the beach.  It was full of Russians. 








Nha Trang Sailing Club:  two big fat Russians in the premium seats.  Makes you nostalgic for the Germans.


 


The following day's lunch was in a deserted restaurant in a back street called Viet Nam Xu’a where the food was extremely good.  That evening I went for dinner at Lantern’s  which had also been recommended.  However it was full of tourists, mostly Australian.  My dinner (which was nothing special) was rather spoiled by the grating noise emitted by an Aussie bloke with tattoos wearing a vest two tables down who engaged everyone at the intervening table in conversation and then proceeded to tell them his whole life story and where they should and should not go in SE Asia.   I found the food fairly ordinary and ate quickly to get away from the sound of Crocodile Dundee.  The next day I had lunch at Galangal, a few doors down from Kilim, which advertises 'street food' and you eat in an open courtyard in the middle of four kitchens preparing different kinds of food.  I had spring rolls and a kind of fried omelette. 

Back in Saigon for 24 hours before departing Vietnam, I spent an evening in the Majestic Hotel's  M bar (rooftop bar) where I had a club sandwich and a couple of G&T's at outrageous prices.   But it is another of the great iconic hotels of Vietnam's pre-Communist era.  Graham Greene wrote about it, and during the war the journalists used to gather up on the roof to drink beer and watch the shelling across the river.  


On my last day in Saigon I visited the famous Cholon wholesale market which was an impenetrable swarm of Chinese commercial frenzy.   Old women scurried about with fists full of banknotes, traders punched out numbers on calculators at the speed of light, I stared in wonder at stalls full of unidentifiable produce.   This was not a market for kwailo tourists.  Some serious business was going down here.

 

 

 

My last meal in Vietnam was in Achaya Café where I went for an iced coffee and ended up staying for lunch.   I finally got to try a 'Banh Mi' which is basically an overstuffed sandwich roll, the name being a Vietnamisation of the French 'pain de mie', or white bread. The staff were absolutely charming and very chatty, and I left with a packet of Vietnamese coffee, a 'phin' individual coffee filter and instructions for making my own iced coffee.   The secret is filtering the coffee very slowly with COLD water, and using a special brand of condensed milk called "Eternal Life" which can be found in oriental supermarkets.    I awarded Achaya my personal "Best Iced Coffee in Vietnam" prize. 

At the airport I had to get rid of my remaining local currency, so raided the gift shop.  I had a few hundred thousand Vietnamese dong left and grabbed a packet of coffee to spend it on.   the price was US$ 20, much more than I expected, but I put it down to the airport ripping off departing tourists.  When I got home I examined the packet.  It was Trung Nguyen Sang Tao 8, which, when I checked out on the internet, turned out to be .... made from beans ingested and shat out again by weasels.