Meat City

When it comes to eating out in the Danish capital it isn’t all Michelin stars and San Pellegrino accolades, you know. Elite restaurant waiting lists and Michelin-starred prices shouldn’t dissuade cash-strapped gourmands from sampling the best that New Nordic food has to offer.
The wonderful regeneration of the city’s meat-packing district is transforming Copenhagen’s grassroots drinking and dining scene, without pretension and with Scandinavian style in spades. Following New York’s similar development of its slaughterhouse-quarter, Kodboyen has been given the urban facelift from stark and blood-spattered to quirky and achingly-cool. The local young crowd can be seen here in vintage clothes and oversized glasses looking dangerously close the fashion-edge.
Bars such as Pate Pate, are fit to bursting with trendy denizens on a Friday night. The décor is reclaimed furniture, hat-stands, pianos and vintage posters infused with live jazz and a buzz of merriment. A couple of plates of tapas and a decent red wine list suit the laid-back mood perfectly. A crispy fried salsify, was bang on taste-trend and an apricot and almond tart combined light pastry with jammy fruit ensconced in a nutty sponge.
For those looking for eco-credentials then Bio Mio’s canteen-style eatery ticks all of the boxes. Everything is made to order in front of you at the open kitchen. Traditional fare has found an organic revival here, with dishes such as pickled herring in beetroot on rye bread encapsulating all that is Nordic in one vinegar-soaked bite.
The real jewel of Kodbyen lies at the heart of this labyrinth of one-time pork-purveyors, at Fiskebar. Going against the grain of the area's meaty heritage, this fish restaurant presents New Nordic, envelope pushing flavours in a slick black leather and steel interior. A standout dish of black cod with buckwheat puree, shaved chestnuts and truffles is expertly balanced. The interesting and delicate dish is accompanied by a bubbling mini-cauldron containing a cauliflower gratin with a decadent surprise truffle centre. Eating here is a joy from start to finish, staff are friendly and the ambiance relaxed yet refined.
Meat city by night may be alive with youthful fervor, but by day it’s eerily vacant with the odd animal carcass being ferried to a chilled truck eliciting visions from horror films. But one establishment, Café Te, opens all day for passers-by to slake their thirst with a brew. With teas and coffees of all persuasions it’s worthy of a pitstop to peruse the shelves that are stacked high with caffeinated goods.
A world away from the cobbled streets, meandering canals and the brightly coloured harbours that are so synonymous with Copenhagen, Meat City proffers a different chapter of Copenhagen’s history. A post-industrial re-birth has taken place, where you can mingle among the city’s most creative and sample assets from Kodbyen’s ample culinary hotspots, which, to my mind, have proletarianised the New Nordic culinary revolution.

Tea-up

In the afternoons all across Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay you see locals carrying a thermos to meet friends. They pass a leather cup with a silver straw among them. Odd you might think, but no, they`re partaking in the most South American of rituals - mate. It`s a kind of tea made from the yerba plant and it was adapted from the Inca culture, but as I`ve discovered there`s far more skill involved than a dunk and squeeze.
You won`t find mate in most cafes, it`s reserved for the street, house, park, bench and is rarely drunk alone. I meet a patient mate drinker willing to brief me in the art of this laborious infusion. We begin filling the cup three-quarters full with the green dried leaves. We then soak it with luke warm water and repeat this three times until the tea has expanded. Next the hot water from the thermos is added and my friend makes a well for the silver straw, which has a filter at the bottom. As a newbie, I`m not given the straw until round eight of filling the leaves with hot water as it`s really strong.
When I get my turn, it`s not the most pleasant flavour. In fact, it reminds me of an overstewed green tea when you forget to take the bag out. I`m told three attempts and I`ll love it. I persevere, but it still tastes too strong and bitter. Mate doesn`t contain caffeine, but it is a stimulant and about an hour later I`m chatty and feeling really calm about everything. We`re laughing away and I`ve got tons of energy. So now I know why you don`t drink it alone, you need someone to laugh with. Although the taste could get better in my opinion, I`ll be giving mate another go. The ritual of spending an hour laughing with friends and feeling happy is ok by me, bitter brew or not.

Operation Secreto

I arrive at a street with a number scrawled on piece of paper. There`s no sign of a restaurant. An old man is smoking in a doorway, I tentatively ask if it is the restaurant I`ve walked a long way to find. Minus teeth, he responds that he`s never heard of a restaurant here. This restaurant is part of Buenos Aires` exclusive puerta cerrado (closed door) dining scene. I`m all for covert cuisine, if only I could find the damn thing.
There`s a vaguely familiar symbol on a wall with a small door in the middle. I push the buzzer. Hola. I give my name. Footsteps. A door opens into a courtyard. Once the door shuts behind me it`s all smiles and welcoming handshakes. This restaurant is no longer particularly underground, most closed door restaurants appear in people`s living rooms, however, here they have converted a space the size of a garage - hold on it probably is a garage. There are seven tables, an open hatch kitchen and it`s eclectically decorated with model cars.
It`s empty, but it doesn`t seem to matter due to the small scale and homely ambiance. The draw to Almacen Secreto is regional Argentine cuisine and the menu is divided geographically. The north is fairly familiar territory to me as is the centre, but as the area I`ve failed to visit the south is most intriguing. I chose pickled trucha (trout). Inch square nuggets of pink trout have been given the vinegar treatment along with onions, peppers and garlic. The trout crumbles at the slightest touch and is very moreish with the crunchy onions and peppers. I heap piles onto warm homemade bread with some garlic soaked butterbeans.
As the only diner my main arrives a little too quickly, but I'm excited. I´m trying pork in frutas del bosco (fruits of the forest). Four pork medallions arrive in a light gravy speckled with mustard seeds and blueberries and some herb covered rice. Blueberries are grown in Argentina so their presence isn´t surprising, it`s just the pairing with the pork I'm not convinced about. Well, not for the first time, I'm wrong. The sweet yet flavoursome fruit stands up amiably against the nutty pork. I can taste something else and it takes me a while to work out the flavour because it's really subtle, it's mint. There are fresh mint leaves in the gravy, I'm shocked. It shouldn't work. It's a lesson in restraint, I think, the blueberries are minimal, the mustard sting slight and the fresh mint only hints underneath it all. It provides a light, but very interesting sauce, that keeps entertaining my tastebuds until the final fork.
The waitress hovers hawkishly at my shoulder as I sip a short black coffee, I'm still the only diner. I don't care, I wanted an exclusive dining experience and it doesn't get better than private service. I start to wonder whether it's a reward for years of dutiful serfdom delivered in one hit of playing "upstairs". One could get used to this.

Parrillas in the mist

A bad bus journey followed by a night having my face mauled by a savage pack of mosquitoes has left me less than enamored with Montevideo. It may be Uruguay's capital city, but old town Monty feels like the most rundown parts of Buenos Aires. But, the ciudad vieja does hold what must be the BBQ-lovers mecca - the Mercado del Puerto.
This is a covered market a stone's throw from Montevideo's port, now filled with parrillas instead of market stalls. The flagstone floor holds up wooden bars surrounded by stools at the centres of which are the slanting grills over wood burning fires. I take a seat at the coalface, it's a little warm, but I want to see all the action. For those not wanting to singe their eyelashes there are plenty of tables at this particularly upscale parrilla called El Palenque.
I'm buzzing with all the activity, it's a relatively small space and I watch trays of fresh fish being shuttled to workstations. The BBQ-maestro tosses a log into the fire at one end of the grills, this is burned for hours and the embers are chipped away with a scythe-like implement and shuffled underneath the steaks and fish. Nothing escapes the subsequent fire power, whole chickens roast, sausages spit and curl, fish sits up top next to potatoes and a whole charring butternut squash.
This is more than just a steak house and there's plenty of Spanish heritage in the menu. First up, I try a fat and crispy chorizo pimiento - a paprika spicy sausage. Orangey red inside with hunks of mauve fat, this is a traditional Spanish-style sausage. It's grilled within an inch of inedibly-burned and has the warm smokey tones of the grill. I love the way the sausage is dense and firm to cut, it's so much more robust than an English sausage. The meat is less ground, retaining the fibrous quality of fresh cuts of meat. Its picante spices tingle my tongue and lips satisfyingly - I'd be happy to eat five.
I'm still chewing the fat (literally) when my paella dish arrives bursting with yellowed rice and squid. I can pretty much smell the Atlantic from my seat, so I am hoping that's a good nod to the freshness of the squid. It's darker and saucier than its Spanish compadre and heavy with paprika and garlic. It's a little too oily, but the purple rings of squid are soft, not at all rubbery, with a reassuring tentacle count. They]ve used a heavy stock and lots of oil making this quite rich for seafood. It's tasty, though I only manage a plateful rather than the whole paella dish I've been assigned.
Some salted flattened chicken breasts are slapped on the grill as a guitarist starts churning out some Uruguayan country songs. The bar fills up with grey moustacheod, steak-paunched old men. Uruguay may share a lot in cultural-common with its neighbour Argentina, but it´s starting to reveal its identity as the bar joins to chorus the guitarist´s tune.
It might be the Uruguayan Tannat I'm being plied with or the favourable exchange rate (this meal comes in under £15), but I think I might be warming to Montevideo after all.

Welcome to the jungle

With a new found commitment to getting upclose and personal with my dinner, I thought it about time I went to the top of the food chain with some huntin´, shootin´ and fishin´. Well bamboo rod fishing in the wetland jungle of the Pantanal to be more precise.
My fishing expo begins with a 5am alarm call from approximately a thousand birds. Quite a shock for this city girl, but dawn is the busiest time of day in the jungle. I´m about 6 hours drive into the jungle. No phones. No internet. No one to hear you scream... somewhat dramatic, granted, but you get the picture.
We stroll to the river edge by 7am and set off in search of some fish. The Pantanal is swampland and the river is slow and infested with caiman alligators and the reason for the rods - piranha. Piranha arn´t as dangerous as Hollywood has led us to believe, or at least not at this time of year, I´m keeping all extremeties inside the tin can of a boat all the same.
My guide settles us in a corner and we bait our hooks with beef - for those discerning piranha. Soon my line is twitching and I feel a tug from the depths, I bring my rod up to find the beef gone and no fish. I continue to feed the fish in this way for several hours to the distress of my Croccodile Dundee-esque jungle guide. I sit and wait. It´s not all bad, the passing toucans and sound of the kingfishers make for excellent background entertainment. The occassional bellyflop of the alligators is more disconcerting, however.
After lunch, I´m determind to catch something and changing my rod tactics yields a King Fish within minutes and the illustrious piranha has his knashers around my hook shortly after. Neither are good enough for the pan, apparently. We save the gasping, glugging piranha at the back of the boat and a piao fish (I can´t find a translation for this fish, it has a distinctive yellow underside, though) my guide has caught gets three whacks to the face.
We toss the piranha to the alligator and I catch a live David Attenborough special. The alligator crunches all of the bones out of the piranha before swallowing it whole.
Back on shore, Dundee slaps the piao on his oar, produces a long knife from his shorts, scales and guts the fish right there. He washes it in the river and takes it back for the camp cook. The piao arrives at my plate in an hour cut into small steaks, coated in a lightly spiced batter (almost like a southern-fried spice) and deep fried. It´s a flaky white/grey meat fish and has the earthy taste of all river dwelling swimmers. It´s delicious and light, if a little on the boney side, but fish doesn´t get fresher than this.
It´s great to see so closely where your food has come from, it doesn´t get more organic than catching it wild (sustainably and responsibly, one fish fed the whole camp) and a few days around the jungle camp fire and I´m in full hunter-gatherer swing. Now, where´s that spear, I´m gonna get me a wild boar.

A pig´s ear

The first time I discovered fejoida, a smokey black bean broth, I thought I´d found an incredibly tasty Brazilian favourite - end of story. But, like so much Brazilian food there´s more than just soup in the pot - there´s ladles of soulful history too.
Beans are to Brazilians what rice is to the Chinese - it´s a staple side dish that goes with everything. Black bean broth fejoia can be eaten everywhere it´s creamy from a long simmer and broken crushed beans make it thick, with bay leaves and minimal seasoning it´s simple but oh so effective. Its elusive sibling fejoida, however, is often only served on a Saturday. This struck me as unusual. When I asked a chef why I am restricted to eating fejoida on one day of the week, she told me the story in the soup.
When slaves toiled in the kitchens of the Portuguese settlers, their food allowance didn´t stretch to meat items such as pork. During the week these cooks would squirrel-away cuts of meat such as ears, snout and tail in vats of salt. The staunchly Catholic Portuguese gave the slaves a free day on Saturday so that they could visit the church. This then also became a day of celebrations and time to dust off those precious pig´s ears and conceal them in the black bean stews.
Fejoida is often still made in this way, leaving pork in salt for most of the week to make fejoida on Saturday morning. In some places the ears, tails and snouts continue to be the cut of choice. This gives a salty edge to the black beans and for a modern twist is sometimes served with crisped pork croutons.
All over Brazil kitchens remain loyal to tradition and so the bubbling spitting pots of beans carry the memory of Brazil´s mixed and chequered history.

Tarts of Rio

Life on the road has peaks and troughs, just when you think you´re down on your luck a cake emporium changes the course of your day.
After a morning of being turned away by every tourist agency in downtown Rio de Janeiro I bump into a Brazilian girl who offers to act as a translator as we go to the airport. Erica spends 20 minutes trying to help me buy a flight before I decide that I can´t afford it. I offer to buy her a coffee by means of thanks, instead she offers to take me to a cafe where she needs to buy a tea cup for her husband in Canada. I´m sold when she mentions something about Portuguese pastries.
So, flights missed long forgotten, I arrive at Confeiteria Colombo. I´ve visited more than a few cake cafes in my time, but even my jaw thuds against the tiled floor on entering the enormous tea room. The high walls open into a balconied second floor with stained glass ceiling. The walls are all covered with grandiose mirrors that remind me of Parisian cafes. The whole building seems preserved in its decadent art noveau style from the late 19th Century. I fear my apparel of shorts and vest may be out of place among the starched-collar waiters.
At the entrance, in front of rows of round table tops, two glass fronted cake counters are laden with intricate and diabetes-inducing delicacies. There are tarts with carefully blowtorched meringue toppings, brigadeiro (sweet made from condensed milk) and gateux of various fillings, but the specialties here are the traditional Portuguese pastries and flans.
We sit down and Erica points out some traditional treats for me to try and we share a pot of coffee. I order the Pastel de Belem and a flan. The Pastel de Belem is essentially a custard tart, but it is far removed in sophistry from the rubber-middled eggy kind you find at Gregg´s the bakers. The pastry is a light crispy almost puff almost filo - I don´t know how they achieve this but it´s lighter than air. The custard centre, burnt slightly on top, is a confectioner style custard. It´s smooth and creamy with a velvet-vanillery warmth that coats the mouth. There´s also a barely perceptible hint of cinnamon. The tart disappears with alarmming speed.
The flan is a mini tower of custardy cake, although quite similar it´s firmer than a creme caramel. It has a grainier almost cake consistency with a nutty-almond flavour. It sits in a light, thin moat of caramel.
In the auspicious room with it´s serious waiters, marble table tops and ornate decor, I´m transported to an era of European splendour. Where furniture and decorations were shipped across the seas from Belgium to bring the best and latest styles to the cultural heart of Rio.
The cakes reduced to crumbs, I´m sad that I´ll probably never eat a Pastel de Belem here again and I bemoan the stodgy ineptitude of Gregg´s gelatinous custard offering. On second thoughts, it´s probably for the best - I´m not sure they´ve developed a pastry-gorgers anonymous yet.