The Green Cafe, Ludlow

The review below has been published on James Day's fantastic website
www.eat-the-midlands.co.uk I'm not going to post many reviews here, as there are plenty of restaurant critic bloggers around. I just think the Green Cafe is well worthy of a mention.

The Green Café

If during the soggy summer of 2008 you blinked, you may well have missed it. On a nondescript Ludlow street, in a nondescript Ludlow tearoom, something rather wonderful was going about its business, diligently and splendidly.

In this tearoom, during that drear summer, a certain Clive Davis plied his trade, and people that knew (and fortunately I was one of them) would flock there and enjoy some of the soundest and most honest cooking that Ludlow has ever known. We would flock there cautiously; for this tearoom was and indeed still is, situated in the part of Ludlow where on weekend nights (and that was when Clive was open) twee and tweed give way to vice and VD. But it was worth flocking – by heaven was it worth it – and when Clive’s residency came to an end how we missed the guy.

But, oh frabjous day! Clive is back in business, and this time he’s here to stay, at the Green Café in Ludlow’s twee ‘n’ tweedy Dinham.

Now, as an aside I would like to make it clear that Ludlow is not the gastronomic Mecca that hacks on the national press (and dreadfully, some in the local press) would still have us believe. Yes, there are some excellent butchers, bakers, and cheese shops. There are also two fantastic restaurants (Mr Underhill’s and La Becasse), but if you want to go out to eat, once a week, without feeling like your wallet has been violated, or that you’ve been to the pub, then there is nowhere in Ludlow apart from the Green Café that is worth bothering about. And that stinks. And it will make me unpopular. But it’s true, and anyone in these parts who cares about food ought to agree with me.

What Clive has done is simple – so, so simple: He has found a pretty place; put some pretty staff in it; got himself a talented (and pretty) sous chef; sourced the best ingredients he can get his clever paws on; not buggered the ingredients about; and created simple, good value, brilliant food. Consistently.

On my most recent visit I took Mr Pernickety. The menu is sexy, short and sensible, and changes every day. Two starters, four mains, one pud (a superb vanilla pannacotta with poached rhubarb on the day we went), and something for the sprogs. Nothing costs more than a tenner. Ingredients are seasonal, and mainly sourced locally. Clive doesn’t source his fish locally, because he used to be a fishmonger* and he isn’t stupid, so he gets a thrice-weekly delivery from day boats that fish out of Brixham.

On the day we went there was mackerel, which he filleted and fried, and he served it with some lightly pickled cucumber and a dollop of perky horseradish crème fraiche. And I had it for lunch, and it was staggering. The perfect dish for a sunny day. I can’t really say much more than that because it was what it was, just cooked with that lightness of touch and understanding of balance that Clive has. Each ingredient tasted proudly of itself but the spanking fresh mackerel still played the protagonist.

The veal in Mr P’s sandwich comes from happy baby cows reared just over the river on Earl Plymouth’s estate. Cooked to tender pinky loveliness, with a dollop of wobbly lemon and caper mayonnaise and a sprightly salad, this was probably the proudest sarnie in Shropshire. Oh, and it was seven quid. They make proper pasta at the Green Café too, and the ladies wot lunch on an adjacent table were making borderline When Harry Met Sally noises over their pappardelle with asparagus, parmesan and crème fraiche.

There are four good Italian wines - a lemony Sicilian white is cracking value at £16.00 – and plenty of local beers and cider. This is also the only place in Ludlow serving properly good coffee. Again, sad but true.

Service is smiley and knowledgeable but can become a trifle chaotic on particularly busy weekends. They get away with it, because it’s that kind of place.

At the moment the Green Café is only open during the day, but by the end of the summer Clive will be doing weekend nights. This is very exciting news indeed.


The Green Café at the Mill on the Green
Dinham Bridge
Ludlow
SY8 1EG

01584 879872

*The great Simon Hopkinson, in his book Week in Week Out writes; “Do talk to Clive. He will sell you the best fish you will ever eat.” When it comes to Clive’s fishy credentials, that’s enough said.

Letter to the Ludlow Advertiser

Dear Sir

Last Sunday, in a rare and uncharacteristic act of public-spirited goodwill, I put some of my treasured tomato plants up for adoption. It was a heart-rending thing to do, but due to a lack of space in my greenhouse I had no alternative option. I had already given a surplus away to my next-door neighbours and my mother, but there were still eighteen of these plants remaining.

I placed these plants in a large plastic box at the end of my road in Ludlow (for the purposes of karma and self-righteousness I kindly ask you to not publish my name and address) with a notice attached bearing the following inscription:

“We are baby tomato plants. Our Mummy & Daddy can’t look after us any more. Please take us home with you and give us lots of water and sunlight. Thank you.”

An hour later I stole discreetly and covertly to the end of my anonymous road and to my delight found that five of the eighteen plants had been adopted. I was thrilled in the knowledge that some kindly motorist or pedestrian had passed by and taken pity on these frightened but verdant little plants. All notion of performing a selfless act fled as I basked in the profound personal joy that can only come from giving.

Later that evening, still basking in the glow of self-satisfaction, I tiptoed back to the end of the road to find that all of the remaining plants had been adopted. You can Sir, I’m sure only begin to imagine my relief at this discovery. The knowledge that each of my baby plants had been taken into the bosom of new families only served to enhance my sense of selfish smugness.

To cut a long story short, the purpose of this letter is two-fold. Firstly, and most importantly I would like to heartily thank the voluntary foster parents of my vegetal progeny for saving these plants from a slow demise on the compost heap. May your plants bring you unbridled joy and an abundance of tomatoes. Secondly, I would like to ask that whoever adopted my rather useful plastic box in which the plants were contained, return it at their earliest convenience. It wasn’t included in the deal.

Yours faithfully


Henry Mackley

The Day I Killed a Chicken

The other day I killed one of our hens. She had been ill for some time with 'compacted crop’ and her gullet had swollen with sour undigested grain. We read all the books and we tried to make her better but we couldn’t, and we had agreed that we’d never take a chicken to the vet. So I killed her.

I always thought that emotionally it would be easy to kill a chicken, but it wasn’t. I’ve killed lots of animals before – rabbits, pigeons, pheasants, squirrels, and the like – and never enjoyed the process as such, but been satisfied in the knowledge that it was pest control, or that the victim of my trigger-pulling would be eaten. But the chicken wasn’t a pest, and we weren’t going to eat her. I wasn’t even sure if I was putting her out of her misery, as she didn’t seem particularly miserable.

I thought that I should wring her neck, as that’s how good poultrymen are supposed to do it. Hold her upside down, head between the fingers and give it a good yank. Easy. But I couldn’t do it. I wimped out. I didn’t want to pull too hard and take the head off, but more so I didn’t want to be too gentle and end up with a live chicken with a compacted crop and a sore neck. So I shot her. I shot her in the back of her tiny little head with a .22 air rifle. I held her between my feet and placed the barrel against her head and I pulled the trigger, and when I picked up the flapping twitching corpse by its feet, my hands were shaking and I had a small but discernable lump in my throat.

I Heart the Compost Heap

The compost heap, when one gets it right, is a thing of utter tear-inducing wonderment. I got my heap wrong last year and it still lurks there, full of ants, rat shit, and doom. And I don’t know what to do with it. But the one I started this winter, back in the frozen old days of January, by fucking jeepers-creepers it’s a good ‘un.

I stoked her (for surely any seriously super heap is a “her”) in January with some greenish but woody bits and bobs from the garden. Live twiggy bits of holly and the like. For as any composterer knows, one needs air to flow happily and freely through the heap. The live twiggy bits ensure that this will happen.

Prior to that I placed chicken wire beneath her. This was to keep out the rats, the rats who made a base in the old heap. The old heap was next to where the hens live, so it was a nice, warm, smelly, and tasty HQ for them. They could snooze on the Bad Heap during daylight hours and in darkness, prey upon the leftover hen food. The fuckers.

This time it won’t happen because of the chicken wire that keeps out the rats. It’s a good heap, and rats hate a good heap*. Through frigid February and March I wait. I wait for my garden to grow, I wait for the weeds to grow, so that the heap can start working. There’s nothing** that a heap likes more than a few weeds.

In April we get some warmth. The seeds I have sown have sprouted but it goes cold and they go on hold. The grass grows and I mow, and I introduce the heap to her first layer…

…On a hot weekend in May I smell the heap. I put my hand in the heap and it feels warm. I put my trust in the heap. I even ask my mother-in-law, a compost-expert, to take a sniff of the heap.

A lot has changed since January. We have made a baby, I have lost a job. But the heap goes on and on and on.

The compost heap is working, even if I am not. I feed it and worry about it and perhaps this will do as a pre-runner to fatherhood.























*I don’t know if that’s actually true
** Well, some things, but we’ll get to that later

Bunnies

Some people are a bit funny about eating rabbits - and I’m exclusively talking about the wild variety here - but I’m not really sure why. The older generation still worry about myxomatosis (a bastard form of pest control, which thankfully is not nearly so prevalent these days) and the younger ones won’t eat anything that they knew once had a face. The fact of the matter is, that bunnies exist in abundance, lead a jolly happy life, eat well, reproduce like - erm - rabbits, and taste very good. It also happens to be cheap, unless you live in London, where nothing is cheap. But you’re used to that aren’t you?

There is no closed season on wild rabbits - they’re classified as ‘vermin’ rather than game - but try to avoid them during the mid-summer months when they are bringing up their young. Their flesh tends to be a little milky, and think of all those orphan bunny-babies! Generally though, this means that they are readily available throughout most of the year, the young ones getting oh-so-gradually tougher and fattier as winter approaches.

I like to get rabbits that have been rifle-shot or ferreted. Animals that have been killed with a shotgun tend to be peppered with shot, bruised, and rather fiddly to deal with. If you’re lucky enough to have a decent butcher he’ll be more than happy to tell you about the demise of your supper.

Rabbits should be paunched (gutted) as soon as possible (preferably within 12 hours of death). Personally, I like to eat rabbits fresh-ish, not having been hung for too long. Unlike ‘proper’ game birds and beasts, ie; pheasant, hare, venison and so on, I find that rabbit takes on a rabbity, rather than gamey flavour if it has been left to hang for more than a day or two. I appreciate that this might not mean much to a rabbit-eating novice. Just take my word for it, if you want.

Again, to avoid this ‘rabbity’ flavour / pong as mentioned above I tend to give my (skinned) rabbits a good rinse before cooking them. Chaps like Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall or Fergus Henderson would more than likely thrash my culinary bottom for suggesting this sort of treatment, but it’s a personal thing. I like my rabbits to taste of rabbit, and I would never tell people that they taste like chicken, but sometimes they can give up an overly strong grassy musk, which can be easily rinsed away. As a point of interest, boy rabbits exude this whiff more so than the girls.

As it is often difficult to determine the age and therefore toughness of a skinned rabbit, I find that the two best treatments for him are either a long marinade and / or a gentle slow cook. If however, you have a particularly little, tender wild rabbit it will need neither of the above treatments. Also if you have yourself a miserable, fat, intensively farmed rabbit, the same applies. You bastard.

Things that (dead) rabbits like:

- Tarragon, and for that matter any aniseedy stuff. Pernod, star anise etc. Just go easy with it
- Sage. Again, take it easy
-Wild mushrooms. Dried or fresh. If using dried, keep the soaking liquid for God’s sake!
-Mustard - for some reason Dijon more so than English
-Smoked bacon, pancetta, just make sure it’s good stuff. Rabbit tends to be rather lean so look for good amounts of fat.
- Good dry cider or perry



Rabbit Pie with Cider or Perry

I first made rabbit pie on a whim. I had some London friends coming to stay for the weekend and I thought they might appreciate a groaning pie, chock-full of country goodness. And, I’m delighted to report, appreciate it they did.

The making of a rabbit pie (the way I make it anyway) is a labour of love, but an enjoyable and satisfying labour if ever there was one.


The cider / perry option is very much down to you. I’m lucky enough to live close to some of the happiest apple and pear orchards in England. You’re looking for a slightly floral note from your booze that will befriend your rabbit well. Strongbow or Babysham will simply not do. Something pure is essential. Look for the best.

You will need (for a pie for eight hungry Londoners):

Stage 1

-Three wild rabbits; Have your butcher chop them into four bits - Front legs, saddle section, and two hind (hopping) legs

- Three carrots, peeled and split lengthways

- Three onions peeled and quartered

- Three sticks of celery, trimmed and split lengthways

- One bouquet garni (bay, parsley, thyme, tarragon)


Pop all of the above in a large casserole and cover with water (anything up to about eight pints). Bring to a gentle simmer and skim, skim, skim! When you are bored of skimming, place your casserole with a lid in a low oven (100 degrees C) and leave it for at least three hours. Poke your bunny with a sharp knife, and when it gives without a sigh, remove from the oven. Remove the lid and allow your rabbity-stocky brew to cool slightly for an hour or so.

Stage 2


When your bunny is cool enough to handle, remove all the pieces from the pot and set aside. You will now be left with a large pot of wonderfulness. Strain this pot through a colander and keep the remaining liquid. It will serve you well. The remaining buggered veg will do well in the compost heap.

Your first job is to remove your beautifully poached bunny flesh from its bones. You must be careful here because whilst this seems rather easy, bunny bones have a rather annoying habit of creeping into your pie. Be especially careful around the ribcage. A choking weekender is not a pretty thing.

- Pop all of the bunny flesh into a bowl and put to one side.


Stage 3


Finely dice three onions, two celery sticks, two carrots, and eight rashers of good happy streaky bacon (remember: lean bunny loves good fat) and fry gently until it all starts to turn lightly golden.

Now’s the time to add all the lovely bunny meat. Chuck in a handful of flour and stir until well coated. Add a bottle (about a pint) of booze and stir. Cider/ perry/ dry white wine - all good!

Let the liquid bubble and reduce a bit, you will notice it starting to thicken. Now add a small pot of double cream, the juice of half a lemon, a good couple of pinches of salt, and a small handful of chopped tarragon. You want the sauce to be thick, but not too thick, runny but not too runny. Let all of this simmer very gently for ten minutes or so.

Tip all of this loveliness into a big sexy pie dish (I would suggest popping a pie funnel in first – it looks good, and will support the pastry). Let this all cool for a good 20 minutes.

Roll out a large block of ready made puff pastry to a size that will cover your dish (I use Dorset Organic - quite expensive, but worth it - for preference, although the Jus-rol all butter stuff is fine), dampen the rim of the dish with a little water, plonk your pastry on top and press it down firmly all the way round.

At this stage, I like to decorate the pie with pretty pastry leaves or bunnies – this is of course optional, but worth the effort I think. Now brush the pastry with an egg beaten with a little milk to ensure sexy golden pastry perfection. Pop in a hot (180 degrees C) oven for 25 minutes, or until the pastry is a lovely colour.

Serve, and bask in your own glory.

Published in Ludlow Advertiser: 27/8/09

Dear Sir

Although I say it myself, I think that I have had a rather wonderful idea which may interest your readers.

This wonderful idea will, I strongly believe, help Ludlow to become even more unappealing to visitors and residents alike. It will further assist our formerly lovely town to become more like every other bland, homogenised market town in England.

My rather wonderful idea will (and I’m particularly proud of this bit) take place now, in the middle of a grim and terrible economic depression. I will make this idea happen now, because what the residents of Ludlow need is for the value of their houses to decrease further. I will also do it now because it will discourage tourists from visiting Ludlow, and we all know what tourists do, don’t we? Yes! They come to Ludlow and spend lots of money, and then they go away and tell all their friends about how lovely it is. And we don’t want that, thank you very much.

So my rather wonderful idea is this: I shall make it even more difficult, and even more expensive for people to park their cars in Ludlow. I shall make it so difficult, and so expensive in fact, that nobody will want to live here, and nobody will want to visit. I shall organise a team of men to drive around in a fleet of trucks to dig up the roads so that they can install many more parking meters, and paint many more double yellow lines and cause merry havoc. I think I shall organise for this to happen in the middle of August when there are hoards of nasty tourists around. I’m not sure how I shall pay for my rather wonderful idea (for it will surely cost an absolute fortune), but I expect I will be able to find a way to pass the expense on to local residents.

I’d be surprised if any of your readers also think that this is a rather wonderful idea, but perhaps you’d be kind enough to run it past them.

Yours sincerely

Possibly the best restaurant in the world.

There is a street in Florence where there is, possibly, the best restaurant in the world. Although this street is within a dong and a clang of the Duomo’s Campanile it is not one down which tourists saunter, licking gelati in gormless hoards. On this street live two hookers, one at each end. One is a retired army officer, a transvestite until recently, but now a transsexual. She has started wearing tighter trousers since her operation we’re told by a local. The other has been doing the same job since the end of the war. She must be into her seventies and judging by the amount of time she spends sat on her doorstep greeting the neighbours with “buon giorno” and “buona sera”, one might imagine that regular trade (amongst other things) dried up some time ago.

This is a street that doesn’t get much sleep. The windows of the tenement blocks are permanently open at this time of year and the ups and downs of life go on around the clock. There is a Somalian immigration office half way down the road, and next to it a twenty-four hour Egyptian sandwich shop. And opposite is, possibly, the best restaurant in the world. We are sent there by a local man, an ex-pat but after thirty years in the city, more Florentine than Bostonian. If it weren’t for him perhaps we’d have never been, despite staying only two doors down. This place, a trattoria, is not in the guidebooks, and even the internet gives it up grudgingly.

The greatest restaurants are great in a way that is hard to describe. Professional critics write column after column, week after week, and still struggle to say what it is that truly makes a restaurant great. So I shan’t really attempt it here (after all, I’m no professional critic). This trattoria, on this street in Florence just does it. So well. Perhaps it is that it has been here for nearly 150 years and has barely changed the formula. Maybe if it were in a more affluent neighbourhood and in all the guidebooks then it wouldn’t be such a thrill to score a table for two there on a Friday night. I just don’t know. But the things that they can do with a couple of eggs and some artichokes for a primi, and the magic they turn with a piece of chicken and some butter as a secondi, are simply beyond my wildest gastronomic dreams. Their ingredients are of such quality that they are happy to serve a large raw tomato as a single course, and a bowl of unadorned tiny wild strawberries as a dolce. The interior is utterly stunning in a way that modern restaurateurs could only dream of recreating.


An aside:

There is a disease in the UK that started in London, and possibly some of the more ridiculous Cotswold gastropubs, but is now spreading with more vigour than swine flu: Restaurants that are ‘ingredient-lead’ and advertise as much on their press-releases / menus / waiters’ polo shirts. Is this not quite the most daft and horrific indictment of all that is wrong with eating out in Britain? What on earth else should ‘lead’ a restaurant? Intricately folded napkins? Pretty waitresses? Sweet-smelling bogs? For pity’s sake. What is a decent eatery if its kitchen does not start with good ingredients? Why have we in this country got to the point where chefs have to advertise the fact that they actually care about food? Admittedly there are a few restaurants over here that can achieve great things seemingly effortlessly, but not enough.