A "Fungathlon" Brunch: AKA Wild Mushrooms on Toast

We’ve all got traits that drive our other halves nuts. Some people leave the toilet seat up. Others are terrible washer-uppers. Some fail to ever take the bins out. Others fart in their sleep. Some snore. But the thing I do that drives Cowie nuts is to regard a run in the countryside as an opportunity to go mushroom foraging.

I’d like to think that I’ve invented a new sport called “Fungathlon” – where you have to complete a half marathon and also forage for mushrooms en-route. So when we were in the final stages of preparation for our Olympic Triathlon at Hever Castle and Cowie planned a 14 mile run for us around the gloriously undulating Longleat Estate, I saw it as a chance for some energetic foraging.

Cowie always sends me a map of our intended route to get my approval in the days before we go for a long run. I normally look at the hills and wince and then agree. But what she hasn’t realised until now is that I always check to see if we run through any woods. And if we don’t, I tend to suggest an alternative route that is more likely to yield mushrooms.

Within 50 metres of setting off we’d stumbled across a bank of chanterelles nestling in the undergrowth. Cowie ran on as I picked and inspected them. I wasn’t sure whether I should collect them and take them with me or whether I should just put down a marker so I could find them later. Common sense got the better of me and I spent the next mile catching up with Cowie who had forged on ahead.

As we ran, I dreaded someone else finding my stash of golden chanterelles. I was wracked with fear that a mushroom thief might strike. It spurred me on to run faster. Then after 10 miles, I spotted what looked like a cep winking at me from under some birch trees. Without thinking twice I vaulted a barbed wire fence and went foraging. Again, Cowie zoomed off, muttering something about “bloody mushrooms”.

As she ran off into the distance, I inspected what I thought was a cep. But I soon realised that it wasn’t quite the noble Karl Johan Svamp, but I had a strong suspicion it was an edible bolete of some sort. I quickly searched the surrounding area and found 4 or 5 more specimens, which I collected up and hid under a tree next to a discarded can of Coke with the hope that I’d be able to return later to pick them up.

I jumped back over the fence and sprinted down the hill to catch up with Cowie who was by now almost out of sight. It stuck me that this is actually an advanced form of interval training and in fact is the kind of thing they should recommend in Triathlon World magazine.

For the last 4 miles my head spun as I thought about what to cook with our haul of shrooms. I concocted mushroom and cider pates, mushroom ragus with polenta and mushroom soups in my mind as we closed in on the Bath Arms. I barely even noticed when we finished and was simply excited about picking up our mushrooms before any fungal bandit struck. We drove home via the mushroom drop zones and collected our haul which sat on my lap in the car with a reassuring covering of moss, twigs and excitable woodlouse.





We got home and, whilst Cowie showered, I checked the internet and my mushroom books to identify our collection and to check they were edible. It turned out that I was right about the chanterelles and that the boletes were in fact Birch Boletes which whilst not the very best, are regarded as being a tasty, if a little slimy.

By the time Cowie had returned from her shower I had cooked up my favourite mushroom brunch of the year. I simply sautéed the mushrooms and served them on sourdough toast from At the Chapel, in Bruton, and topped them with an egg yolk from Cowie’s hens which cooked in the residual heat of the mushrooms. And accompanied this with some invigorating watercress from John Hurd’s watercress farm which is just up the road.









It couldn’t have been more local. And it couldn’t have tasted any better. It was the most perfect brunch you could ever imagine. And left me beaming with delight for the rest of the day. It’s not often that you can combine fitness training, mushroom foraging and feasting all in one morning.

A Breakfast worth Cycling 61 Miles For

Rather than blow a fortune on a romantic weekend in Whitstable, with dinner at the Sportsman, we decided to cancel our reservation and cycle to Bill's in Lewes, near Brighton instead. We’d heard such great things about a little place called Bill’s that we felt we had no option.

So at 10am on a sunny Saturday we set off to the South Coast on our bicycles… We left Balham, Tooting and Mitcham in our wake before emerging in Surrey rather than Sussex. In our infinite wisdom we’d decided against taking a map. Rather than taking the direct route on the A237 we had gone on a tangent on the A217. Banstead Downs, it turns out, is around 12 miles off course from Caterham, which was our gateway out of London and into Sussex. Cowie only told me how far we had deviated when we got to Lewes. Hopefully the map below will help you to understand how much further we had to cycle. What it doesn’t show is the small mountain range that runs through South London…



Having got back on track we were then assaulted by a disgusting hill coming out of Caterham. My cheeks were bright red and the air was blue with cursing. But when we got to the top of the hill the view across the M25 was spectacular.



The London traffic dispersed and the fields opened up. We found ourselves wiggling along down beautiful country roads. Planes rhythmically lined up to land at Gatwick, spewing carbon dioxide only marginally more disastrously than my lungs.

We’d been told to avoid the A22 and if we landed up in East Grinstead, then we’d gone badly wrong. So what did we do? We found ourselves rumbling along the A22, which if you hadn’t guessed, is the main trunk road from London to Eastboune. Every now and then we could hear the squeal of tyres as a motorist got too close for comfort. Lorries the size of Simon Cowell’s ego and huge buses of pensioners did their best to barge us off the road. And then we landed up in East Grinstead! Apparently we should have taken the little country roads that run parallel – by contrast they are safe and pretty.

So when we got to East Grinstead we popped into a BP garage to sneak a peak at a map. The assistant went one better and told us we were not only on course but only 15 miles away. This gave us second wind as we calculated being only an hour or so from lunch.



On leaving East Grinstead we discovered Ben Nevis. If you were under the illusion that Nevis is in Scotland, then you are very, very wrong. It’s 2 miles south of East Grinstead on the A22. We snaked up the mountain, constantly being deceived by the way the road curled back on itself. Several false summits later we stopped and gathered our breath before our final assault. We stormed to the top, only to be confronted by the most soul destroying road sign, I’ve ever seen which looked something like this…

Feeling despondent we ploughed on and were delighted to discover that it was downhill all the way to Lewes. We zoomed along ridges, flanked by cows and dive bombed by birds. This final stretch of cycling was spectacular.

We arrived at Bill’s at 3 o’clock. I was so hungry that I’d considered eating my front wheel and bicycle chain. It was throbbingly busy with people devouring breakfasts and wolfing down impeccably sourced food.



Bill’s is famed in Sussex for serving stonkingly good organic produce. But most importantly, they do one of the best breakfasts in the South East.
When we ordered pretty much everything on the breakfast menu the waiter suggested we had asked for too much. So we asked for some crumpets as well!



My full English was excellent. Plump sausage competed for primacy with two wonderfully poached eggs, two rashers of immaculate bacon and a mushroom, that had been dusted with thyme leaves. The only concern was an over exuberant application of basil leaves and a paucity of sourdough toast.



Cowie’s scrambled eggs with smoked salmon was served cold. So we sent it back. We listened to a tell tale ping but none came. Moments later Cowie was tucking into a fantastic pillow of runny scrambled eggs, that oozed over a generous sheet of smoked salmon. Apart from the false start, this deserved full marks.



Cowie, being Cowie, devoured a platter of salads and vegetables with indecent speed as I guzzled my rhubarb smoothie like a child who likes annoying everyone when they suck the final dregs out of the glass.



We had several long chats to the staff who were charming throughout who were giggling at the fact that we’d cycled 61 miles to be there. They all clearly love working at Bill’s and their passion ensures all the customers leave with a smile on their faces.

We loved our cycling expedition so much we’re going to make it into a series. Although I doubt we’ll do too many that require 5 hours of cycling! If Michelin gives stars to restaurants depending on how far you’d drive out of your way to eat at them, then it might well be time for Bianchi or Trek to launch a new guide that is based on how far you’d cycle for breakfast. We’d suggest that Bill’s deserves the full 3 star rating.

The White Bull, Ribchester, Lancashire

Nestled in the middle of the area where there the map says “here be dragons” is a charming village called Ribchester. We decided to break up our journey to indulge in a birthday meal at L’enclume in the Lake District with a stop-off en route. We managed to put the Alan Partridge inside us both to one side and instead took inspiration from Diana Henry’s increasingly invaluable guide to the gastropubs of the UK. We were keen to viist the Three Fishes Inn, until we saw their website and instead went for the rustic hospitality of the White Bull which has rooms.

The M6 is certainly an arterial road. It pulses and stops like a heartbeat resulting in a deeply frustrating journey that involved grid lock every 20 miles for absolutely no reason. Relief coursed through our capillaries as we abandoned the motorway and trickled our way round the Ribble Valley to the charming Roman village of Ribchester. The White Bull is an 18th century stone pub with a fine, pillared entrance and statuesque outlook across a small square at the front and the river at the rear. We gave each other a look of approval and were greeted by the head chef/co-owner, Chris Bell, who welcomed us like long lost friends.

Our room overlooking the river was spacious, well appointed and furnished with an excellent bed. We spruced ourselves up before heading down for some well earned refreshments. It never ceases to amaze us how early people have their dinner in the North. A couple arrived at 5.40 and were furious that the restaurant didn’t open till 6! We settled in for a few drinks before giving in to our stomachs at a more civilised time.

Sadly the restaurant was only a quarter full. This made the atmosphere slightly stilted to begin with before we warmed up and decided to talk to each other rather than pass notes back and forth like naughty school children. The menu was one of the more exciting we’ve seen recently. As ever we could both predict what the other wanted! Cowie had potted crab followed by salmon with Mediterranean vegetables – so Cowie! Whereas I blasted through my RYA (Recommended Yearly Amount) of fat by ordering confit of duck followed by roasted turbot with foie gras and morels.

Cowie’s crab wasn’t really potted at all. It was flaked and then mixed through with crème fraiche and coriander which worked brilliantly. Light and zingy. Almost as if it had been designed for girls. My confit of duck was soft and melting. But it lacked the crispy skin and salty bite I was yearning for. It put a smile on my face and an inch on my waist.

Cowie’s salmon was perfectly cooked. It had that pearly sheen you lust after. Bolstered by some expertly roasted vegetables it had Cowie purring away like the cat who got all the clotted cream. My turbot and foie gras was less successful. Whilst it’s pretty hard not to enjoy a dish with such great ingredients it wasn’t without flaws. It seems churlish to complain that there was too much foie gras. But it managed to completely overwhelm the small piece of turbot. Deveining the liver, some seasoning and not singeing it would have helped too. It was my fault for ordering something so tricky when I should have had a nice steak or a pan roasted fillet of halibut. But turbot, foie gras and morels is hard not to order.

My pannacotta was excellent. As was Cowie’s poached pear. Overall, our meal was like listening to a talented choir singing with a soloist who doesn’t quite hit all the high notes. We had a very memorable evening and loved the fact we could just roll upstairs, past the boozy locals, to bed.

Whilst dinner and accommodation were good, our breakfast was disappointing. The excellent black pudding and fried eggs in my fry up were let down by poor, sweaty sausages and a cold tomato. But this wasn’t a patch on Cowie’s comedy breakfast. I’ve never seen Cowie look so let down. It took several hours of jesting and joking to take the scowl of her face that her soggy bowl of cornflakes induced.

But don’t let our breakfast woes and the off-key soloist put you off. Dianne Henry was right to feature The White Bull in her guide. It’s a great credit to Ribchester and Lancashire. The staff are seriously passionate about their food and made us feel extremely welcome. Chris and Kath are onto a winner here. If you are heading North on the M6 can I recommend you pop in to pay the White Bull a visit. It set us up brilliantly for our onward gastro-trip to L’enclume in Cartmel. It's yet another massive tick for what is fast becoming our Around Britain with a Paunch traveling bible - Diana Henry's Gastro Pub Cookbook.

Annoated review of Heston's Little Chef

I used only words for my debut review as Shreddie Kruger on the esteemed London Review of Breakfasts. So if you want words go there. If you want pictures stay here.

Breakfast at Gazette in Balham

We're both big fans of Gazette. We've had many great experiences and forgive them their French brusqueness. We're lucky to have such a fun brasserie near by.

I have long been a fan of blackboards. I love the palimpsest effect that chalk leaves on the board. So when I found that Gazette now has slate table tops and little mugs of chalk I got very excited. For the rest of the review see below in black board format.



Our waitress recommended les ouef en cocotte which arrived in a cast iron saucepan with cherry tomato compote (I almost wrote compost) and dried basil. Fantastically generous portion of 3 eggs. It was so much fun digging into a saucepan. I guess this use of eclectic, rustic serving vessels is Gazette's trademark.

Cowie loved her madeline's. She always does. Drenched in honey they are stunningly hot and fresh. Springy and naughty.

It's pretty rare that I enjoy bills... but this one was great. It was as if the policeman from 'Allo 'Allo had written it - with our freshly squeezed orange juice reading as freshly squizzed. Genius.



Gazette have a policy of offering reviewers a free drink... so we left them with some Paunch graffiti so they would remember our free drink for next time!

The Warsaw Diner, Nottingham

My first ever review back in September 2005 for Russell Davies', Eggs Bacon Chips and Beans. I just stumbled across it and thought it deserved a place here too.

"ebcb has gone OpenSource! Here's a contribution from Jonathan Brown. Anyone else want to do one? (Not sure I should have let him get away with the hash browns though.)



Just off the Derby Road in Nottingham, this is the unforgettable Warsaw Diner. Offering bizarre Polish food, incredible fry ups and fiery vodka this place is a little bit special.

The Warsaw Diner likes to be a bit different. Magnificent hash browns are served instead of chips.



Always good to see wallpaper scrapers being used where they belong… in the kitchen.



Text book condiments. Aunt Jemima looks absolutely radiant."

It was great fun doing this and an honour that Russell allowed me to write for his blog. You can buy his book here. Unfortunately my review arrived too late to get in the book!



I hope my reviews have improved since then!

A Fantasitc Wholesome Breakie at Leon

I am the first to admit I am abit of nerd when it comes to all things healthy.. especially for breakfast. If you also crave the likes of organic this and that, then Leon is the place for you.

http://www.leonrestaurants.co.uk/

I was thrilled when my 9am meeting this morning drew to a close early and I had over an hour to burn before my next one, with not enough time to scrabble back to the office. So I decided to treat myself.

I spotted Leon in the distance opposite Harrods.. I was staving and dying for a cuppa. I settled in with the paper and awaited for my breakie to arrive. I was delighted with my choice... An enormous bowl of steaming tea and some yummy hot,creamy, thick and gooey organic porridge with homemade blackberry compote. Now I know its sounds ridiculous to get so excited about something as basic as a bowl of oats, but this was the best I have ever eaten! I can assure you the menu does offer many more exciting goodies... but this one was for me!

I have been Leon on other occasions for a light lunch. The fodder is always wholesome, tasty, healthy and delicious. The brand and restaurants are very funky and only add to its appeal.

In short.. Leon Rocks. Go there.. and don't forget the porridge!