BOOK MY GLOBE: US EDITION
Yes, I am way behind on the blog writing

There is a good reason. I am concentrating on writing the book itself for the good folks on both sides of the Atlantic, who have paid me cold hard cash to deliver in August.

I promise to catch up soon. In the meantime, I hope the image above meets with approval

It is the cover of the jacket from The Free Press who will publish the book in the good old US of Stateside

I will supply links to Amazon for this and the Uk edition in due course

Thanks

Simon

THAILAND: COOL SWEET IN BANGKOK
My next couple of days in Bangkok, I concentrated on fitting in a bit of sightseeing, which included, of course, a visit to The Royal Palace.

When I arrived, the place was mobbed and lines of people dressed in black were forming sombre, orderly queues.

I was unsure what was going on. I had no TV and had not had chance to catch up with any news on my P.C. So, I walked to the nearest information booth to be informed that the sister of The King of Thailand had died the day of my arrival.

Princess Galyani Vadhana was 84 and revered in Thailand for her promotion of education and culture amongst other things.

In fact, all of the royal family is treated with extreme deference and honour in Thailand, from simple things like standing for the national anthem before the showing of a movie in the cinema to harsh punishments for signs of disrespect. It is unusual coming from a country where our royal family receive and indeed deserve so little respect, with a few exceptions, to visit a country where they are part of the very fabric of society.



Because of the ceremonies, much of The Royal Palace was closed so, I cut short my time there and headed to visit the legendary Khao San Road, the epicentre of South East Asia’s back packing community.





For years, just about every gap year traveler has begun their adventures in this street which became famous when it was featured in the rather drab film of Alex Garland’s equally drab book, The Beach and, unless you are eighteen, there is precious little to recommend anything other than the most hurried passage through an ugly street full of tatty cafes serving banana pancakes and panini to hungry youngsters,



On the most subjective of research methods, most of the kids seemed to be white, middle class and with dreadlock. Many had “gone native” jettisoning their Western clothes on arrival and trading them for the nearest pair of Thai Fishermen’s pants. Quite franlky they look fucking stupid, but hey, I guess it supports the local economy.

I left there about five minutes after I arrived and headed off in the nearest tuk-tuk, in search of some lunch, which I found in the form of some fish ball soup at a small shack in Bangkok’s impressive Chinatown. It was, in the blistering heat and staggering humidity, all I could face before heading back to my humble accommodation and having a much needed kip to prepare me for supper.



So far, so good. All the food I had eaten from the market and street food snacks to the previous night’s high end meal had been a success, which meant it was time for something to go tits up, which it did with that’s night’s meal at Bussaracum. I had gleaned the recommendation from the Thailand pages on Chowhound, which should have warned.



It wasn’t an actively bad meal, just lacking any of the freshness and zing of the previous couple of days. Mee Krob was oily and tasted as if it had been sitting around for a while and a salad of Papaya too tasted tired. The only dish that stayed in the memory for any period of time was a dish with the unlikely name of Nong Gob, a tray of meaty frogs legs covered in a fiery sauce. Those I liked and chewed down to the bone.



The rest however was unmemorable and expensive and, while the service was sweet enough, I was in and out in little over an hour, which at least left me time to head down to the river and catch one of the free shuttle busses to the ritzy hotels that line the water and drown my sorrows with a remarkably well made Martini.

If there is one thing I like, it is shopping malls. Don’t ask me why, but I love them and can often be found pottering happily around them in air-conditioned comfort in the heat of the day when I am traveling.



Well, of al the cities I have visited, the ones in Bangkok are at the top of the tree. The enormous Siam Paragon with its Car Dealerships on the third floor to the MBK mall with seven floors of stores all selling excellent knock off gear, that of course, I would never dream of buying.



It counter pointed rather well with my afternoon’s journey from modern to ancient as I headed up the river to Wat Pho and to see a splendid Golden Buddha, which seemed to be surrounded by lots of people from South Dakota who were offering useful commentary in a “gee, its big” kind of way.



But, after the disappointments of the night before, I wanted a decent meal. It was going to be my last meal in the city and I didn’t want my abiding memory to be of an oily mee krob. Heaven forfend.



Another recommendation this time turned out to be a real winner. Chote chitr was a tiny, unassuming place with a big reputation. Cuttings from papers local and international covered its small walls. Apart from me, the only other table occupied was by a group of women taking a break from work for lunch and I was quickly ushered to a small table and given a menu.



As poor as the meal had been the night before, this meal was as good. The meek rob, well I just had to have that again, was stunning, fresh and crispy with the sourness of tamarind. A salad of banana flower was fresh and had all the pre-requisite sharpness and the green curry’s chilli kick brought tears to my eyes.



It was just about a perfect meal and a perfect end to my time in this hugely energetic city.

Talking of energetic cities, next stop Kuala Lumpur

THAILAND: COOL SWEET IN BANGKOK
I can say at the very beginning that Thailand ranks in the very highest echelons of my trip both for the food and the people.

Mind you, it didn’t look that hopeful to begin with.

My flight over from London via Doha was blighted on both legs by screaming children. My malaria tablets had kicked in and made me feel like a pregnant woman with morning sickness and I spent much of the flight going to puke up and to top it all off, when I arrived at Bangkok airport, there was a hideous wait for my bags, for immigration and for a taxi.

Not a good start.

Things got better when I arrived at my small guesthouse, however and, after a warm welcome, I was able to go straight to my room, shower and head out to explore the local neighbourhood of Sukhumvit.



More by luck that judgement, it would appear that I had chosen well. It is a pleasant neighbourhood and my accommodation was within a pineapple’s throw of the nearest station of the efficient Sky Train.

Within about an hour of arriving, I was already face down in my first meal, a simple bowl of fried rice prepared at a local street stall. One bite and I knew that I was going to enjoy my time in Thailand. Cooked in front of me, served with a hint of a smile and entirely delicious. Add to that the fact that the cost was less than the price of a daily newspaper back in London and I walked away with smug mode fully engaged.





The jet lag had kicked in by now, so I headed back to my guesthouse and fitted in a few hours sleep before smartening myself up for a visit to a well-known local restaurant, Ban Kanitha, which had been recommended to me by a friend who had lived in Bangkok for many years.







I was slightly dispirited to see, when I arrived, that the only other people in the place were a couple of loud British businessmen who were squealing at high volume to the manager

“If you make it too hot, we won’t pay for it”

He of course, smiled sweetly in return, despite their horrific behaviour and turned to me with a menu. It wasn’t cheap, this being a place I suspect is predicated on feeding the large ex-pat community, which congregates in this part of Bangkok. But, as a first experience of Thai food in Thailand, I was pleased with what was served. A shrimp salad was sharp, fresh and fiery, soft shell crab had a pleasing crunch and the shrimp cakes came with a sauce whose sweet, sour taste was unmistakably Thai.



With a couple of cold beers, it was enough to send me off to an early night and thoughts of the next four months on the road.

The following morning, jet lag kicked in once again, and I was up and about at 5am. I took the all too rare opportunity to catch up on some writing before heading out to visit one of Bangkok’s famous markets. In this case, The Chatachuk Market, about a half hours ride North on the Sky Train.

By the time I arrived at 8.30am, it was already well underway and the small spaces of its crowded passageways were already crowded with weekend shoppers. It’s a great market, one of the best with just about everything on sale you could imagine.



I can’t think of too many markets where shops selling puppies, being blow dried to fluffy cuteness in preparation for the arrival of potential new owners, could sit next to shops where live chickens were being killed, gutted and fried, in preparation of the arrival of, well, me.



This being Thailand, there is food, of course there is food. There is food everywhere. The people are obsessed with it and, after a starter snack of a couple of passable spring rolls, my nostrils were attracted by the smell of that chicken frying. I stopped at a small stall where the chicken seemed to be the major thing on offer and ordered a sizable portion to work my way through.





What can I tell you? I am a sucker for good fried chicken at the best of times, but this was right up there. Serious stuff and served with a seriously spicy sauce that needed washing down with the fresh fruit drinks being made at the next stall. If I close my eyes, I can taste it now. I gnawed on it until the bones were sawdust, which received a reward in the form of a smile from the owner as I paid her whatever small pittance it cost.

The humidity, by now, was stultifying and I was pleased to climb back on board the air conditioned Sky Train and head back to my guesthouse for a nap. I was obviously exhausted, because by the time I awoke, it was dark outside and I realised I had been asleep for about six hours.

Still, I managed to drag myself bleary eyed into the shower and woke up enough to head out to the Suan Lum night market where, I had been told, they had an excellent open air food court.



I am told that it is under threat of closure, which is a great shame because both the market and the food court are a great deal of fun. After a stroll around the shops of the market, most specialising in traditional Thai handicrafts, I headed to the food court, which was set up so you bought pre-paid vouchers which could be exchanged for food and drinks at any of the many stalls set up around an area of seating the size of a football field.

The first odd sight was of young Thai women dressed in traditional German outfits. I had not long returned from Munich and thought for a moment that my malaria tablets (also prescribed for dealing with cases of the clap, thanks for telling me Dr Patel!) had caused hallucinations. However, it transpired that, as everywhere, the German brewers had been there first and one of the biggest beer stands was Pauliner.

The second odd sight was the seeing a large TV screen showing Wigan Athletic Vs Bolton Wanderers to a less than rapt audience of bemused Thai families. The English Premiership is incredibly popular all over the world, but I think they might have been hoping for Liverpool, Manchester Utd or Chelsea rather than a couple of bottom table, Lancastrian strugglers.



Still, everyone seemed to be having a damn good time and I joined in with a big bowl of Green chicken curry and sat down to watch the game. To be honest, it had the same effect on me as it would have done had I been back in the UK, it drove me home to bed.



It is fair to say, I was enjoying my early experiences of Thailand. Particularly as I had no idea what to expect before I got there. However, on the walk home, I took a detour through one on Bangkok’s infamous streets of girly bars, Soi Cowboy and, I have to admit to almost bringing my supper back up at the sight of fat, old and ugly European men (mostly German and Dutch it appeared) groping girls young enough to be their daughters and certainly not looking as if they wanted to be groped by anyone let alone these, corpulent, lecherous Neanderthals.


A few of them called out to me

“Come, buy me lady drink”

“You want massage?”

Their lips formed a smile but their eyes were hidden behind bars of being trapped in this vile profession.

It was my first experience of Thailand’s seedier side and it made me as angry as it did nauseous.

I went to sleep with the sounds of Sukhumvit filtering through my window and those small, sad smiles of the small sad girls filtering through my jet lagged dreams.

MUNICH: A TURN FOR THE WURST



Let me begin by saying that the Germans are entirely barmy.



I actually mean than in a good way. Not the “come down at 4am and put a beach towel over everything that moves kind of way” but in a way that holds them up for admiration for their devotion to all things beer and pork related.

The Bavarians are, if it is possible, even more barmy. Genuinely barking mad and drinking at the Doollaly Tap.

I love them to bits.

I have always had a fondness for Germany and the Germans even since my job as a publisher meant that I attended twenty (yes count them) Frankfurt Book Fairs. I also dealt with many German publishers and spent happy times on the road visiting them at their offices, mainly in Munich.

Add to that the fact that the book of EAT MY GLOBE had also been sold to a German Publisher (Ullestein) then there was very little chance that I would not find some opportunity to shoehorn them in to my trip.

I decided on Munich for a few reasons. One was that, I love it as a city. Another was that my brother, Robin had not been there and I thought that it could make a nice addition to our other joint blog, Dos Hermanos. I also had a couple of friends there who could show me around. Finally, it was because, of all Germany, I really like the food in Bavaria.

Ah, German food. It is about as misunderstood as our own dear British cooking. But, when it is at its best, based on great ingredients and simple preparations, then it is hearty and delicious if a little challenging vis proportions.

The flight to Germany was typically smooth and the new-ish Lufthansa Terminal at Munich’s airport a delight.



Robin had, of course, done plenty of research and had fashioned his own guidebook culled from the pages of various publications and internet sites. Their first bit of good news was that, before we even caught the train into town and to our hotel, there was a very good bier hall at the airport itself.





It would have been churlish not to make use of it so, we settled ourselves down with a large dark beer and took the edge off our appetite with a plate of grammels chmaltz. Basically, lard spiked with fried onions and chives, which can be spread on black rye bread.


Compared to our previous visit to Berlin almost exactly a year previously, the weather was perfect and, after depositing our bags at our basic but perfectly serviceable hotel, we set out to see how many hotels we could hit in an afternoon before hooking up with friends later.

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We did not do too badly, visiting about four in all including the famous Hoefbrauhouse where large men in leather clothing played Oom-pah music to scare the children and waitresses too wore the traditional Durndl while carrying large plates of sausages and potatoes to hungry tourists seated at communal tables.





Off all of the bierhalls, this was by far the most touristy and we did not linger long. Long enough to down a beer or two before heading off to the next venue.

By the early evening it would be fair to say that The Majumdar Brothers were pretty much “in our cups” but we had hardly started because that night we were going to be spending in the company of Stefan Berg, one of Germany’s leading mixologists. A frightening thought.



I had first met Stefan and his cohort, Jorge at the London Bar Show (see previous post to remind yourselves of the liver challenging event that was for one and all) and we had hit it off immediately. So, as soon as I knew I was coming to Munich, I was in touch.

The quality of mixing I found in Munich was of an exceptionally high standard with Stefan taking us to bar after bar where the mixing was superb and not just because he was so well known. We did our best to mop it up with a visit to another beer hall for some meat and potato sustenance, but by the time we headed back to the hotel in the early hours, we were, well to be honest, we were pretty much out of our skulls.





So, the next day, we took pity on our livers and took it easy with some good exercise and little or no beer. Munich really is a lovely city, one of the most beautiful in Europe with its wide streets, squares and parks. We enjoyed an amble around the bustling central market (with a stop off for a morning sausage of course)





and we went “ooh” and “ah” at the marionettes on the famous clock tower. Actually, I didn’t. I have never really been impressed by such things and, after a few minutes of staring up at coloured wooden puppets moving to no particular purpose, I turned to my brother and said

“That’s enough for a lifetime”

If we took it easy on the booze front, we certainly didn’t on the food front. Fortified with sausages in a bun, we fitted in a light afternoon snack of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and a plate of cake before heading for an early supper to take on the mighty Schweinhaxen.



By all that is holy, this is the mother of all pork-based dishes. It is, as the name might suggest, basically, a pork knuckle cooked until the skin crackles but the flesh remains creamy and moist. Covered over with gravy and then served with a dumpling which could be used for hand to hand combat, it is one of the most challenging things I have ever eaten. Big brother, on the other hand was man enough to gnaw his portion right down to the bone, but even he went a funny colour when trying to polish off the dumpling.





We staggered back to the hotel for a second evening. This time, however, not because of the booze, but because of the half a pound of pork we were both slowly digesting inside.

I have to admit that the night was filled with meat sweats, digestive noises that even a brother should not hear and, by the morning, it was still sitting in a lump in my stomach.

Fortunately, by the time we reached the destination of our morning’s excursion, I was feeling a lot better and was able to pay attention to the horror that is Dachau.

We had been determined to fit it into our schedule. As we reach a stage where many who perpetrated the horrors of The Holocaust and many who suffered under its shadow are dying off, it is important that as many as possible are exposed to the brutality of what occurred.

Not just the brutality, however, but also the normalcy that was given to such brutality. That is the true horror of walking around Dachau. It was never actually used as a death camp, but it is the place where the organisation of mass murder was planned. Dachau is what happens when the most efficient nation on earth turns its mind to mass murder.

What strikes you most as you walk around the quiet and well preserved camp ground is just how ordinary it feels. Just how normal the Germans were able to make the destruction of a race and just how close they came to succeeding in their task.

As elements in Europe attempt to drag us back to the dark days of extreme right wing politics, I truly believe than every man woman and child in Europe should be made to visit one of the death camps to see what man is capable of and what their idiotic ideology can lead too.

Unsurprisingly, on our return to the centre of town, we were a little subdued. But, our spirits were soon lifted by the appearance of my close friend, Isabelle who I have known, through publishing, for years.





Although originally from across the border in Austria, Isabelle is a Munchen as Muncheners come and she loves the city with a passion. We spent the rest of the day in her company wandering from beer hall to beer hall, sampling food and drink



and then walking it off around Munich’s lovely English Garden before decamping late at night to her own lovely apartment to round off the night and the trip with some fiery schnapps.





That was Germany. It was an all too short visit, but I am delighted to have fitted it into the schedule. It really is one of my favourite countries and the Germans, despite their travel habits, one of my favourite peoples.

The food too, is underrated. Oh, it is hardly haute, although there are now many fine high-end dining restaurants throughout Germany. But, it is hearty and honest and that, above all is what attracts me to a culture and a cuisine.

God willing, I will be back and, next time, God also willing, I shall do my best to finish a whole dumpling.

ICELAND: DON”T EAT THE YELLOW SNOW


Once again, the extraordinary generosity of you folk amazes me.

This time, it was in mid January as I headed off to explore the joy that is Iceland at that time of year. A time when the lakes of capital city, Reykjavik are frozen solid enough for local high schools to use as an extra sports field. A time when most normal citizens of this small but thriving city are wrapped up warm inside.

Backtrack a bit to the beginning of EAT MY GLOBE and I am sitting in one of my favourite bars, Pinchito and, no, it is not just my favourite because it is less than thrity seconds walk from my apartment.

I am telling anyone who will listen that I have just quit my job and will be heading out on the road. The only person who is, in fact, paying any attention is my the manager of the bar and my friend, the glamorously named Magga Kristiansdottir. She is both stunning and can mix a good Martini which makes her, in my shallow book, as close to the perfect woman as it is possible to get.



“Come to Iceland” She announced, between delivering some plates of excellent Spanish food to a table and greeting some new customers.

“You can eat mouldy shark”

To be honest, that was about as good an offer as a man like me is ever going to get from someone like Magga so Iceland was on the list.

Fast forward almost nine months and there I am again in the same bar, this time agreeing with Magga that I shall meet her at some ungodly hour the next morning to head off to London’s least lovely airport, Stanstead for our early flight to her homeland.

Magga, it turned out had the opportunity to head home for her sister’s graduation ceremony. So, it made sense that I join her so, for the time she had free, she could show me around.

We were met at the airport by one of her closest friends, Erla who announced that she was handing me the keys to her apartment to sue for a few days and heading off to stay with her boyfriend. Never, as Frankie Howerd might say, has my flabber been so ghasted. I knew from Magga that I had been offered a bed for my three nights there, but had no idea that the whole place was being turned over to me. As I said, I should be used to the acts of generosity I have encountered as I travel the globe, but people continue to astonish me.

Before pondering on food, Erla and Magga wanted to introduce me to one of Iceland’s most famous landmarks, The Blue Lagoon, formed in the middle of a stunning outcrop of volcanic rock, is a lake that takes its naturally warmed water from mineral springs. It is a beautiful set up and the three of us spent the next couple of hours happily pampering ourselves in the therapeutic waters until The Sun began to decline over the horizon.

Magga had decided that my first experience of Icelandic food would not be in Reykjavic, however, but out on the coast at a small restaurant called Fjorubordid which specialised in local crayfish.

It was only a short distance away from The Blue Lagoon, but when you added that to the fact that it was now dark, beginning to snow quite heavily and that Erla’s car had, to be kind, seen better days, it was one of the more interesting transportation experiences of EAT MY GLOBE to date.

We made it however and were soon seated in the warm and cheery dining room of Fjorubordid drinking our first beer. Actually, it was our only beer because, like everything else in Iceland, everything is ludicrously expensive and the one small bottle of local beer came in at nearly £10. They had wines on the list too, but a bottle that you might turn your nose up to at the supermarket was coming in at close to £40.


The food was expensive too, but not quite as nosebleed inducing as the booze. It was also rather good. The restaurant served only crayfish in varying portions, which came simply steamed with accompanying sauces, salads and deliciously addictive small potatoes. The crayfish were the stars though. Great steaming pots of them, to be peeled and sucked down with dubious slurping noises.

A lot of people had told me that food in Iceland was, well, crap. Some of it was. Much of it was weird and some of it was downright nasty. But, these small, sweet, plump little beauties were as good as anything I had tried on the trip to date and made the effort of getting there and, indeed back to Reykjavik worth all the effort.



By the time we got back to the city and Erla had settled me in her flat, I was ready to crash out. I wanted a reasonably early night as Magga had promised me that the next day brought with it the threat of a boiled sheep’s head, Bill Clinton’s favourite hot dog and the chance to go clubbing with a gaggle of Icelandic lovelies.

As you can imagine, with those thoughts in my head, my dreams were, shall we say, quite vivid.

I was not meeting Magga until later the next morning as she had errands to run, so, I took one of the all too rare opportunities to sleep in, the pelting snow outside being an added disincentive to forcing myself into the great outdoors any earlier.



On top of which, I had just begun to take my Malaria medication in anticipation of my forthcoming trip to South East Asia & India with all the joys of morning nausea that came in attendance.

By the time I did drag myself up and out of the flat, The Sun was shining and, although it was still as cold as a first date that you take to see Monday Night Smack Down, I was well prepared, with coat, hat and gloves, to take in the city.



It is a small place. The whole country only boasts a population of some 300,000 but the city of Reykjavic itself is vibrant and attractive. The hosts of coffee shops were already filled with bright skinned youngsters talking about ever such important stuff and well-dressed people were milling around the streets doing their weekend shop.

By the time, Magga turned up, I think I had just about seen everything there was to see in the town centre, so was glad when she suggested we head off to lunch. I was slightly less pleased when she said we were going to a café the local bus station, but I knew she must have a reason.





She did. The café at the local bus station is run by a slightly odd looking man whose has taken it upon himself to protect the traditional foods of Iceland.. In particular he wanted to maintain the tradition of eating Swidd (pronounced swith) which I was delighted to find out was half a boiled sheep’s head with the fur singed off.



It is not a pleasant thing to look at. Well, it is half a boiled sheep’s head with the fur singed off as I just told you. The teeth are still intact in the jaw and the tongue is very firmly still in cheek. Despite that, it is quite tasty and I picked delicately at the flesh while sipping the “Xmas Ale” Magga had made for me. An odd mix of the local malt drink and a nasty, synthetic orange pop which, as the name suggests, they like to drink at Christmas. Odd stuff indeed.



Magga, however was in her element and, after devouring the cheek meat, she ripped open the jaw to reveal the tongue and started work on that before picking the whole thing up and gnawing on it. She is very much my kind of woman.





Not trusting dentists in London, Magga had made an appointment with her childhood Dr to have a check up and so left me to my own devices pointing me in the direction of one of Reykjaviks oldest institutions. It may come as a surprise to find that it was not a civic building or a church. It was not a place of archaeological interest or a sight of historical importance. It was a hot dog stand.

The Icelanders love their hot dogs. In fact, the fist thing Magga did when we got to The Blue Lagoon was rush inside and order one from their café. They appear to be addicted to them.



They are not the only ones because, and this wont come as any great surprise to you, when I arrived at the stall, there were a significant number of pictures of one Mr Billy Jeff Clinton gorging himself on them during a recent visit.





Well he has good taste. These are some of the best hot dogs I have ever tried. The dog itself is good, the remoulade sauce gives a nice tang, but the real trick is in the deep fried onions which give a pleasing counterpoint against the soft roll and the sausage. I ate a few during my visit. Not as many as Billy Jeff, that would be silly, but quite a few.



Full of dog and sheep, I headed back to the flat to prepare for my night out with the Icelandic lovelies. I was not disappointed as one after another of them arrived at my, I mean Erla’s flat as planned and began to get horribly pissed as they prepared for a night out.

In Iceland, booze in bars being so expensive, as result of recent prohibition which only ended less than twenty years ago, people tend to buy their liquor at the state run shops and drink at home to get a buzz on before going out where they limit themselves to one or two drinks.



So, I just sat as Magga, Erla and all their old school friends sat around, became more and more in their cups and talked about their husbands, boyfriends and sex lives. I was concerned that doing all of this might be uncomfortable for them with a balding forty something man sitting in their midst, but no one seemed phased and Magga announced

“It’s no problem, you are just like one of the girls”



Bloody Hell. Obviously, just what I wanted to hear.

By about Midnight, I was ready to head to sleep, but the girls were just about ready to head out. Their night was just beginning. Reykjavik has a legendary bar and club scene and I can see why. The main drag of the city is littered with places for people to meet and dance and it does not even begin to get going until well past 1am in the morning.



I gave it my best shot, I really did. But, by 5am, I was about to fall asleep, so left them to their own devices and walked back to the flat and to sleep.

No great surprise then that I did not wake up until well into the afternoon the next day. Peering through the window, I could see that the snow was pelting down again outside and I felt even less inclined to go out than I did the day before. So I didn’t. I ran across to a local supermarket for a snack and sat in the cosy warm flat writing until the doorbell rang at 6pm.

It was Erla.

She had not been up long either and offered to take me on a last tour of the city and to the places where I could go and get some of the mouldy shark I had avoided during the trip.

She knows and loves her city and took me on a whistle stop tour of all the places of interest. I loved the fact that you could head right up the driveway of the presidential palace and even more so when she told me that it is every Icelander’s right to make an appointment to see the president if they have something they wish to discuss. Imagine doing that with Mr Brown or Mr Bush

Finally, she took me to a local supermarket that specialises in some of the more unusual items on the Icelandic menu at this time of year.

Thooroblot literally means Thor’s Feast and celebrates the end of the winter when the last of the preserved foods could be eaten and fresh food caught for the first time in months. They are good at preserving things here and on offer with wonders like blood sausage, sour ram’s testicles, dried puffin and of course, Harrkl, mouldy shark.

I am not quite sure how they figured it out, but, because of the cold, the local basking shark has to produce a toxic substance under its skin in order to float. If you were to eat it immediately after you caught it, it would make you incredibly ill. So, they bury it until the toxins are removed by the ammonia produced during decomposition (stick with me) it can take up to six months after which, quite frankly, the stuff smells like piss.

Along with the Durrian fruit, it is easily the worst smell I have encountered on the trip so far.

I bought a tub of it, of course, being an intrepid explorer and I also bought a bottle of Brennivin, the local hooch made with Caraway, which is meant to be drunk with it.

But, and I am going to be honest with you here. I tried some in the supermarket and it persuaded me that the tub I bought, still sitting tightly sealed in my fridge, is going to remain that way for some time to come.



So, that was Iceland. We headed back to London early the next morning and I got ready to fly out to Thailand a couple of days later.

It is hardly the culinary capital of, well anywhere, but I rather liked it. I liked the people who were incredibly hospitable. I liked the city itself, if not the pelting snow and I even liked some of the food. The thought of those sweet crayfish and the onions in the hot dogs often come back to me when I am hungry.

Not so sure about the sheep’s head and the ram’s testicles though. I will leave those to Magga

Next stop, South East Asia

ISLAY: THREE MEN AND A STILL



If you have been reading the blog from the start, you will know that one of my first forays into the world of food and drink on this trip was to meet with the estimable John Glaser of Compass Box Whisky.

He was good enough to spend a whole day with me at the very start explaining all about the processes of making whisky(”good whisky is like good pornography. They both need good wood”) and about his own maverick but highly regarded company specialising in blended and pure malts.

So, fired up by that, I decided that I was going to spend some time between longer foreign journeys and head up to Scotland to see where the sauce is made at the source.

John made a few suggestions and put me in touch with Kilchoman, a new distillery on Islay. There first releases would not be until 2010, but the new spirit, fresh off the stills was already getting good reviews and augured well for the future.

They were incredibly responsive and, before long, I had arranged to go and spend a week with their master distiller, Malcolm Rennie seeing what happened when. Most of the work would be done in the morning which also gave me ample time to visit as many of the eight other distillers on the island as possible.

It sounded perfect. Islay whiskies have always been my favourite with their unmistakable smells of smoke and peat.

It also sounded perfect to John because, once I told him that I was on my way, he managed to sculpt some time from his hectic schedule and agreed to join me for my week’s stay. It was just getting better and better. Not only was I going to be on Islay, home of my favourite whiskies, I was going to be joined by one of the most respected men in the whole industry. A double bonus.

Another bonus came when John, in an act of extraordinary generosity which I soon found out was not isolated, agreed to cover the costs for the whole shebang. Even when the mad, bad and dangerous to know, Mr Nick Strangeway, cocktail maker extraordinaire got wind of the trip and made us a party of three.

What John knows about making Whisky, Nick knows about using it and what he knows about using it, I knew about drinking it. We were an unlikely grouping and I could not help but think of the characters in my favourite humorous novel “ Three Men & a Boat”

The flights were relatively painless. From London to Glasgow and from there, by a small propeller driven plane, to Islay’s tiny airfield and, by early evening we were settled in our waterside guesthouse and having the first of many tastings at the nearest bar which, inevitably had one of the biggest collections of Whisky I have ever seen.





Well rested and plumped up by an excellent in heart attack inducing breakfast the next morning, we made our way the few short miles to Kilchoman (pronounced Kil-Ho-Man) for our first days work.



Malcolm Rennie and his colleague, Gavin have both been in the business a long time and were already working the morning distillation with the sort of quiet professionalism that comes from twenty years in the business. They were also indulging in a constant stream of affectionate bickering, more akin to an old married couple than colleagues. All very funny and which continued over a welcome cup of strong tea as they told us what our tasks would be for the next week.



First up a tour of Kilchoman’s small but perfectly formed facilities. The malting floor (Kilchoman being one of the few that grows its own barley and floor malts rather than buying in malted barley which the larger distilleries are forced to do) then the mash tums where the heated malts are turned to a beer called wash and then the stills themselves where, as all Scotch Whisky is, the wash is distilled once and then the resulting spirits are distilled again to give the clear liquid that becomes the amber beauty of Scotch after aging in the barrels.



Then a trip to the warehouse to see the first barrels of what will become Kilchoman’s first release in 2011. The New Spirit, that is the spirit given up after second distillation is already being released in small sample bottles and augurs well for the future. There are already the signs of a Scotch that will age incredibly well in the barrel and Malcolm, with all his experience, was quietly pleased as the knowledgeable amongst us ( that will be John and Nick) made all the right noises.



Over the next few days they put us to work. First of all turning the malt on the floor by hand to make sure that all parts of the barley heated through at the same time. Next, shovelling through to the wash and the mash tuns so it could brew and finally, measuring the “Faints” and “stills” of the first and second distillations.




Fortunately, most of the main work takes place in the morning which meant that each afternoon we were able to head off and visit six of the seven other distilleries on the island. John Glaser, before starting his own company was a honcho at Diagio who own most of the distilleries on Islay. Because of that and because of Nick’s own connections, our visits to the distilleries were far more than just the normal tour guides. In most cases we were shown around by the master distillers and then treated to tastes of some very special whiskies indeed. From a 12 year old of the very best distillations from Bowmore to a 21 year old from Lagavulin aged solely in Sherry casks.



My own favourite was from Caol Isla, for so long known as one of the producers of single malts for Johnny Walker, but now producing very fine single malts under its own name






In more recent times, because Bourbon barrels can only be used once for their original purpose, the old barrels have been sent to Scotland to contain Scotch. However, in times past, the barrel of choice was a Sherry barrel and some limited editions are still made in this way which gives the end result a rich, dark, amber hue and a definite hint of matters Jerez to the palate and nose.

The “cheats” way is to age the whisky in the normal oak and then move it for the last eighteen months or so to a sherry barrel to give a similar result in a process called ‘finishing” However, the end result is not the same. The final product tastes like two whiskies grafted on to one another not a smooth drink from first sniff to final taste.

However, if “finishing” is not always the best aesthetically, it is certainly good for business as the re-invigorated distillery of Bruichladdich has proved.

When Mark Reyneier bought the distillery a few years back, he bought with it significant amounts of stock. Given that he would not be able to get a return on his investment from new distillation for at least five years, he had to make the most of these existing stocks.

Using his experience in the wine trade, he decided not to go down the route of releasing the standard 10, 12 and 21 year olds but instead to create a marketing drive based on limited releases of whisky finished in a huge variety of barrels ranging from La Tour to D’yquem. The result has taken the whisky world by storm for good and for bad.



The collector of Scotch, or The Malt Maniacs, have been snatching up every new release so quickly that each bottle is soon worth double or triple its original asking price soon after release. That is if you can get a hold of it.



The Scotch Whisky Society seem much less impressed and Mark it seems spends much of his time constantly locking horns with them as he butts against what is allowed.

I was not wowed by all the Bruichladdich whisky I tried, which suffered much of the layering effect other ‘finished” whisky are limited by, but you cannot help but be impressed by a man who has single handed turned a whole industry on its head.

Talking of things turning, let’s move on to my stomach.

Amongst all the distillery visits, I was keen to take John and Nick out to see some of the other food on offer on Islay. Very little of it is available in the restaurants and hotels of the area. In fact much of the food on the island is pretty dire. The good ingredients all get exported to the mainland and to Europe where they fetch a pretty penny because of their quality.

So, if we could not eat them on the island, we could at least go and visit them at source. One such place was the Islay Oyster Company.



Now, I like Oysters, but after a bad one some ten years ago at The Frankfurt Book Fair, they hate me.

Nick, however, has a cast iron stomach for things in shell and within minutes of us arriving at The Islay Oyster Company, he was scarfing them down like a good un. I look on enviously until I could stand no more. I am not sure what made me do it, perhaps it was Nick going “go one try one. You will never get a fresher one” and, he was right of course, these were plucked straight out of the water.



So, casting caution to the wind, I sucked one down. It was good, meaty and plump and I felt just fine. That is, of course until four hours later as we were walking through the cellars of Bowmore and I began to come over all queasy.

They guys rushed me back to the B&B with a few stops for projectile vomiting and I tried to sleep it off. I failed and, at about 6am the next morning, the locals were treated to the sight of me sitting in the tiny A&E department of Islay’s equally tiny hospital, which we had found with the help of an early rising local.

After having a nice lady Dr tell me “it’s probably best if you keep away from Oysters” I returned home to bed while John and Nick went to see the last two distilleries, Ardbheg and the famous, Laphroig. When they returned, they were full of the joys of the beauty of the place and the drams they had been offered. Yippee for them.

Fortunately, both being excellent sorts, they insisted we go back the next day so I could see and taste what we had missed. Not before a final visit to the Kilchoman Distillery to say goodbye to Gavin and Malcolm who, bickering as usual, proved the point that, on a tiny island like Islay, everybody knows everybody else.

“you were ill yesterday, were you not?” said Gavin

“er, yes, I replied”

“and you had to the hospital, did you not?” he added

“er, yes” I added “ the A&E department”

“ I know” he replied “ the woman you asked for directions was ma wife”

And with that, we said our goodbyes and left them to argue about who was making the next cup of tea as we headed off to see the final two distilleries



If there are two companies more beautifully situated than Ardbeg and Laphroig, then I would love to see them. Nestling on the banks of the chopping sea, with the Sun cutting through the chill, it was hard to imagine that I was actually here, on Islay and had spent a week, apart from the time I spent throwing up of course, making a brand new whisky.



There are not too many people I know who can say that. Apart from John and Nick, of course. The other two involed in " Three Men & a Still"

BERKELEY: FROM FRUIT BOMBS TO RESTAURANT BOMBS
If Santa Cruz is full of loveable weirdos, then Berkeley is what happens to weirdos when they make lots of money and settle down.

Everything in Berkeley looks perfect. Oh, it has its dark side, I am sure, but it looks perfect. The streets are filled with achingly styled shops and the people look no less designed. It has a kind of “Stepford Wives” quality about it.

I wanted to like it, particularly as it is the lifetime home of my new chum, Alexandra Eisler and her charming family, but if I am honest, I found precious little to warm to in this town which reeks of the neutering which happens when radicalism is bought off with cash and security.

I kept thinking of what my beloved late mother would have said in that Welsh accent she never quite lost

“All fur coat and no knickers”

I managed not to hit anything on my journey up from Santa Cruz, which was a bonus and soon pulled into my last port of call, a traditional style place that reminded me of the motel in Psycho.

It was, as so many places have been on this trip, basic but clean and would suit its purpose of giving me somewhere to rest my head and full belly down perfectly and at a price that would not bankrupt me.

Alexandra had arranged some fun stuff for my time in town and my first task when I arrived was to head off in search of cheese, my contribution to a picnic then next day at the Hendry Ranch winery.

Now, as I have said on many occasions, The USA is the place where good cheese goes to die. So, I had little optimism that I was to going to find anything worthwhile a feeling that was added to when I found that the one store Alexandra had recommended was closed.

I began to walk around town in a vain search for cheese and came across the farmers market where there were two (I think) stalls selling locally made cheese. Neither looked that great but, needs must etc etc, so I went to try some samples. I was right, neither was great, but one would do at a pinch so I bought a round.

You would have thought that I had asked if I fondle the stall holder’s wife’s tits rather than offer him money for a cheese that would not be used as cow fodder in France or the UK. The sour look on his face is probably what he uses to turn the milk to make his shitty cheese. $10 for lousy cheese and service with a sneer. God Bless America.

He was not alone though. As I walked around looking at the other stalls, I saw not one smile from the stallholders. Not one. It was as if this was a black hole where all good humour was sucked up. I began to realise that this is why I am really beginning to fucking loathe farmer’s markets.

I managed to supplement this “cheese” with some better examples I found at an over priced foodstore on 4th St and headed back to my motel with just a stop at Fosters Hot Dog Stand to keep me going.





The next day, Alexandra collected me as promised and, after a brief stop at The Acme Bread Company,

we headed out with Tim, her hubby and Carson her charming daughter to Hendry Ranch Winery up in The Napa Valley.


With a few others, Tim and Alexandra buy grapes here and make their own wines. Wines which I was to try later. So, Dr Hendry had agreed to let a few people visit and give us a tour of his impressive winery.

It is quite a place and he is quite a person. A quiet but very heartfelt winemaker who takes the whole business of wines incredibly seriously. Each point of the farm is mapped out not just with variety of grapes but also with clonal types and root stocks. It is little wonder that Hendry was one of the suppliers of grapes for the legendary Californian wine, Opus One.



Dr Hendry, who in his life away from the winery was a creator of electron accelerators, was incredibly welcoming and hospitable and, after our informative tour, he joined us for our picnic and opened a number of bottles for us to sample.






The wines seemed to be the opposite of their maker. Where he is quite and soft spoken, these, like so many Californian wines, were loud and shouty. It boils down to taste and these wines were certainly better than some of the reprehensible fruit bombs I have tried from The Napa, but they were still too big for my distinctly European tastes with the high alcohol content swamping the palate.

The others in the party, more used to such big tastes were much more at home and bought cases to take away. Although, I am still a fan of many New World wines, my preference for the dignity of Old world wine making remains. Hey, it’s my story, I don’t have to be consistent.

On the way home, we made a stop to visit another local Napa legend, Rancho Gordo AKA, Steve Sando. Famous (infamous) on food boards everywhere,

Steve has carved a niche for himself selling a vast range of heirloom beans to foodies across the USA. I have sampled his wares at dinner parties given by friends in the USA, but had never encountered the man myself. So, it was a welcome opportunity to finally put a face to a name. He was in the middle of preparing supper, so our stay was a short one as he offered us prickly pear juice laced with tequila to warm us back to Berkeley.



My final day in Berkeley was also my final day of this leg of EAT MY GLOBE. A leg that had taken in four countries including THE USA, nearly twenty cities and some experiences that it would not be inappropriate to describe as ‘magical” I had made some new friends along the way. Friends who, I am sure I shall know for a long time. I had tried foods that were entirely new to me, the initial point of the trip and I had experienced some lows and some exhilarating highs.

It seemed fitting then that I finish the trip by visiting one of America’s truly iconic restaurants, Chez Panisse where, thanks once again to the generosity of Alexandra, I had managed to get a reservation.

Across from my motel was Café Fanny, also part of the same group as CP. I wandered across for a breakfast of hot chocolate and a muffin. It should have been a sign of things to come. The place looked wonderful, of course and so did the food. It tasted dreadful however. A triumph of style over substance.

Before supper, however, I was invited over to join Alexandra and her family for a pre-supper, supper of freshly caught crab from Northern California. I had to work for my pre-supper supper though and spent a good hour or so filling tasting pots with the jams and marmalades that are part of Alexandra’s new-ish enterprise, The Kensington Marmalade Company before I got near a crab. It was worth the wait. The crab was stunning and made what was to follow all the more disappointing.






Well, let’s be honest. The meal at Chez P was not disappointing. It was iniquitously bad. New words will have to be invented to describe the awfulness of my meal. A shame as one of the pastry chefs, Samantha Wood, had been kind enough to give me a tour of the impressive kitchens earlier in the day. It was also a shame because I was sharing supper with two more local food board regulars, Carolyn and Tamar who had to suffer the tirade of abuse I hurled as each course came out.



An insipid starter was followed by a main course which could used in a court of law to stop Americans ever, ever going near a piece of lamb again.


There was a cheese board that would have made Randolph shake his head in disbelief and a dessert where the filling of a tart tried to make its escape from a rock hard pastry base by sliding off.


All actively noxious and a lousy note on which to end this part of the trip

But, what the hell. It was only one meal amongst hundreds that had passed my lips on this part of the adventure. And what meals they were. BBQ in Kansas, Hot Dogs at Hot Doug’s, Tex Mex and BBQ in Austin, Po Boys in New Orleans and cheese steaks in Philly. Pulled Pork in NYC and tripe tacos in Mexico, Bife in Argentina and Moqueca in Brazil. Thanksgiving turkey in Santa Cruz and fresh crabs in California.

My mum always used to tell me I was a lucky little boy.

She was right. I am a very lucky boy indeed

The journey continues