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Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

1 month ago

Review: Tamasha’s Handcross (née The Royal Oak Inn)

There are restaurants that feed you. And then there are restaurants that slap you across the face, pour you a pint, and remind you why you left the house in the first place. Tamasha’s is the latter.

I should know—I used to own the place back when it was The Royal Oak Inn. A creaky, quintessential English pub where the beams were low and gravity did unspeakable things to a man’s pint if he forgot to duck. Now? It’s reborn as a Bangladeshi fever dream—richly decorated, humming with life, and yes, featuring a goddamn fish tank built into the floor. Forget your Instagrammable neon wings or “press for prosecco” buttons—these lunatics put a 20-year-old koi collection under your feet, plus a baby sturgeon named Spike who greets you like the maître d’ of Atlantis.

The food? Excellent. The kind of meal that makes you look at the sad jar of supermarket curry paste in your kitchen and wonder what the hell you’re doing with your life.

• The pappadom and pickle tray should come with a warning label: addictive.

• The onion bhaji? Best I’ve ever had, anywhere. Golden, crisp, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as you crunch your way to nirvana.

• The biryani—spiced with the kind of confidence most chefs only dream about—melts down to pure meat-butter on the tongue.

• And then there are the house specials, each one a bullet with your name on it.

But the crown jewel, the pièce de résistance, the thing that makes me want to pitch a tent under those cursed low beams and live there forever—the Tamasha naan. Fluffy, charred, stuffed with cheese and minced lamb, kissed by fire and the culinary gods. The kind of bread you cradle like a newborn and don’t share, not even with your mother. Pair it with a cold Kingfisher at the bar and some godawful daytime TV glowing up from the floor (yes, the floor), and you’ve achieved enlightenment.

My only gripe? They’ve ruined my favorite sport. The old Oak’s low beams used to claim pint after pint, forehead after forehead, providing endless entertainment as patrons knocked themselves senseless on their way to the loo. I lost count of the number of free beers I handed out, replacing dropped pints for dazed customers with fresh lumps on their skulls. Now the beams wear “Watch Your Head” signs. Where’s the fun in that?

Tamasha’s is not just a restaurant. It’s a resurrection. A place where Bangladeshi hospitality meets English pub bones, and the result is magic. If you don’t walk out grinning, full, and just a little bit in love with a sturgeon named Spike—you’re dead inside. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

2 months ago

Brunol: The day I marinated in a Bloody Mary from hell

You haven’t lived until you’ve been simultaneously pickled, trampled, and slow-cooked in the Mediterranean sun with 15,000 strangers and several metric tons of overripe produce. Yesterday was my La Tomatina baptism in Brunol, and I now know what it feels like to be the garnish in a drunk Spaniard’s gazpacho.

The day began in a way all regrettable days do: far too early, with misplaced trust in Google. The plan was simple—catch a bus at 07:30 near the zoo. The universe, however, had other plans. Google, that smug, all-knowing digital bastard, lied. The bus wasn’t for another 30 minutes. So, six of us summoned an Uber instead, because nothing screams “traditional Spanish cultural immersion” like piling into a ride-share with a driver who’s already had enough of tourists for one lifetime.

We arrived in Brunol with minutes to spare, just in time to queue for what I assume was the Guinness World Record for “longest line in human history.” Mercifully, our ragtag crew included Justin—a Brit with a moral compass set to “meh.” Queue jumping commenced, much to the fury of one German woman whose glare suggested she had personally invented the concept of orderly lines and was deeply offended by our revolutionary ways.

Wristbands secured, lockers assigned, souvenir t-shirts donned—we entered the waiting zone. La Tomatina doesn’t start until noon, so there was only one logical thing to do at 9 a.m.: drink. Beer, wine, lemonade spritzers—because nothing pairs with impending chaos like a cheap hangover. By 11:30 the streets had swollen with bodies—15,000 of them, pressed together like canned sardines marinating in their own anticipation and questionable life choices.

Then came the cannon. A single, chest-thumping BOOM that signaled the start of the madness. Trucks—massive, lumbering beasts—began crawling through the narrow streets, their passengers gleefully pelting the crowd with tomatoes. Imagine being crushed against a wall while strangers in dump trucks hurl overripe produce at your face. Now imagine those trucks tipping their loads: thousands of tomatoes, seeds, skins, juice…and, just for that authentic rustic Spanish touch, a generous dose of manure. Yes—manure.

And here’s the thing no one warns you about: not all those tomatoes are soft, sun-kissed little grenades of pulp. Some are green, hard, and fly through the air with the density of a cricket ball. Getting smacked in the nose by one feels like being punched by a salad. My forehead took a direct hit that I’m fairly sure rearranged some brain cells, and I watched more than one person stagger away clutching their head like they’d just been mugged by a Caprese.

Within minutes, the streets were a fetid stew of tomato guts and cow shit, ankle to knee deep. The smell was a heady cocktail of spaghetti night at a prison cafeteria and a barn floor in August. Between dry heaves, I lost a shoe. Somewhere in that crimson bog, a size 8 sandal lives its best new life, possibly fermenting into a sentient bruschetta.

Before this, I thought an hour of tomato-throwing sounded short. Thirty minutes in, I was begging for the sweet release of death—or at least a hose. When the cannon finally fired again, signalling the end, I had been reborn: a pulp-soaked, sunburned, vaguely Italian-smelling version of my former self.

Then came the cleansing. A local girl peddled us the “privilege” of walking up a street for €2 a head. At the end awaited an old woman armed with might have been dish soap from the euro shop and her son armed with a power washer. €5 for the honor of being sandblasted with tepid hose water and a dollop of generic shower gel. We emerged marginally less red, though smelling faintly of ketchup left in the sun.

Our clothes, stuffed into a bag, began a chemical reaction so vile I’m fairly certain they achieved sentience on the bus ride home. The heat, the stench, the lingering tang of something that might once have been lunch—unforgettable.

Would I do it again? Ask me in a few years, when the trauma subsides and I can look at a pizza without gagging. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey is eating dinner at Casa Baldo 1915.

2 months ago

Walk into Casa Baldo 1915 and you immediately know you’re in the kind of joint where real life happens — elbows on tables, voices bouncing off tiled walls, wine glasses that get refilled before you realise they’re empty. It’s a tapas bar with a whiff of Paris café — like Hemingway might stagger in, muttering about lost love and needing a ham plate.

Then there’s Erika. Our server. Not the usual dead-eyed hostage of the service industry — this one’s sharp, quick on the uptake, patient enough to handle idiots like me asking way too many questions, and with just the right amount of sass to remind you who’s actually in charge here.

The food? Jesus wept. Thin-sliced jamón so delicate you could drape it over your pulse and it would still be beating. Sweet, tender, a love letter to pig-kind. Fried pork belly with… tartar sauce. Yes, tartar sauce. Somewhere, a Michelin inspector fainted — and somewhere else, a god stood up and applauded. It works. Don’t ask why.

Anchovies and roasted red peppers like the Mediterranean gave you a salty, smoky slap. Patatas bravas that could start a religion — crispy on the outside, soft in the middle, with a garlic sauce that sang louder than a drunk uncle Justin at karaoke.

And then, the main act: Bunyol de Albufera. A smoked pepper fritter with torched eel and roasted almonds — smoky, nutty, indecent. A dish that doesn’t ask for permission; it just moves in and starts rearranging your life choices.

Paella Valenciana came swaggering out next — rabbit, chicken, rice that knew exactly what it was doing, and a sucarrat crust that deserved its own fan club. This is not the sad, yellow tourist paella your cousin Karen once Instagrammed. This is the real deal — the paella that makes you want to slap the table and shout “Olé!” even though you promised yourself you wouldn’t.

Dessert was the final kick in the teeth: a goat cheese cheesecake (smooth, tangy, a little flirtatious), and a millefeuille layered with vanilla pastelera and chocolate hazelnut cream — the kind of thing that makes you consider unbuttoning your trousers in public, consequences be damned.

And the wine? A house Tempranillo that could make a grown Italian man named Paolo and a nun swear.

Casa Baldo 1915 doesn’t just feed you. It seduces you, fills you, and sends you out into the Valencian night slightly drunk, a little fatter, and a lot happier than when you walked in. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey is in Chão Das Pias, Leiria, Portugal.

3 months ago

Sardines, strimmers, and the language of kindness

There’s a unique brand of hospitality in Portugal that hits you like a surprise shot of aguardente — warm, heady, unexpected, and immediately humbling.

It began with a strimmer.

Our modest little patch of paradise — all 3,200 square metres of it — had started to resemble a hayfield with aspirations. The kind of overgrown greenery where you half expect to lose a dog, a child, or perhaps your will to live. A lawn so thick with grass and wildness that it had begun muttering in Portuguese about autonomy and land rights.

Enter my neighbour.

Unprompted. Uninvited. Unbelievably kind.

Without a knock, without a word, he turned up one day with a two-stroke engine and the quiet determination of a man who has absolutely no time for your neglected lawn aesthetic. He looked around, nodded as if to say “This is unacceptable”, and began strimming.

For two days, we worked together: him with his machine, slicing down walls of grass like a local god of agriculture, and me following behind with a rake, pretending to be useful while slowly liquefying in the Portuguese summer heat. I don’t speak Portuguese. He doesn’t speak English. Or French. Or anything I could remotely attempt. But we communicated in the international language of sweat, grunts, thumbs-up, and that half-laugh-half-gasp sound you make when your back is gone and you’re too proud to admit it.

By the end, the property looked amazing. Crisp. Clean. Tamed. I tried to pay him — he refused. I tried to give him wine — he smiled politely and walked away. I resorted to the sort of wild hand gestures that would get you banned from polite society in most countries, trying to mime “Please let me show appreciation without violating EU bribery laws.” Nothing. This man is pure.

And then, as if Portugal hadn’t already walloped me with enough hospitality to make me feel like a guilty colonial power, the next village — Chão das Pias — held its Festival of Sardines. Chão das Pias Freguesia de Serro Ventoso Visite Serro Ventoso

Now let’s be clear: sardines are not a food. Sardines are an event. A ceremony. A grilled reckoning. You don’t just eat them — you submit to them. And we arrived an hour late.

We strolled in sheepishly, prepared to hover awkwardly near the edges like the uninvited cousins at a family wedding. Instead, we were greeted like long-lost relatives who had finally made it home.

Plates appeared out of nowhere: fresh green salad, vinegary marinated tomatoes that punched with garlic and sunshine, and waxy yellow potatoes so perfectly cooked I genuinely considered proposing to one of them. Then came the meats — crispy pork belly, fat sausages bursting with paprika and joy — and finally, the holy grail: whole sardines grilled over open flame, slick with olive oil, encrusted with sea salt, and bearing that rich, oily, smoky depth of flavour that makes you stare into the distance and briefly reevaluate everything you thought you knew about fish.

No one spoke our language. And it didn’t matter.

There were no awkward silences, no forced small talk. Just clinks of forks, refilled wine glasses, and that rare sense of belonging you can’t buy or plan for. Even the mayor came over to shake our hands and make sure we felt welcome. I don’t think he knew our names, but he knew what mattered: we were there, and we were family.

So here’s what I’ve learned:

You don’t need to share a language to share connection. You don’t need words to know when someone is doing something kind. And you sure as hell don’t need a reason to offer someone sardines, potatoes, and a cold drink on a hot day.

Portugal teaches you that hospitality is not transactional. It’s not about owing or earning. It’s a cultural reflex, an instinct, a rhythm of generosity that flows through villages, festivals, and yes — even through the blades of a borrowed strimmer.

And if you’re lucky, really lucky, you’ll find yourself in a place where someone mows your field for nothing, feeds you sardines for no reason, and refuses your money with a smile that says, “We’re neighbours. This is just what we do.” … See MoreSee Less