The Change-Over...

So the day has finally arrived. After many amazing sounding applicants for job of Choc Star manager, I came upon this pair. Presenting: Shrimp & Ben!

Both were wilting in their office jobs and longing to get to grips with the Choc Star world. It's really physical, LONG hours, no weekends off, I kept telling them. We're so ready, they said. We want to get stuck in!

Until I starting putting the word out there for a replacement so I could get on and pursue other things, there was one thing about doing Choc Star that had never occurred to me. Yes, it's knackering, yes, you've got to be really on it to do it and yes, you are working while most other people are playing. But there is one thing that has never happened to me once in the van - and that is grappling with the desire for the clock to hurry up until home time. It just isn't like that. The rhythm is different all the time, the punters are often different and the day passes in a blur of nice chats, chocolate offerings, neon lights and music.

I'll miss this. But I'm truly excited that while I am ready to move on, two others are ready to step in. Shrimp and Ben are a delight already - do stop by and say hello if you're near.

Jimmy will be on the Southbank as part of the street food section of the Real Food Market by the Royal Festival Hall, Fridays-Sundays most weekends (but check the blog for more specific details).

Hope to see some of you there at some point - we're under the new industrial commemorative staircase, down form the Hayward Gallery.

For now, here are a few snaps of what we've been up to lately (apologies for the yawning gap between posts - life has been mental).

Book launch of Richard Johnson's Street Food Revolution - this old boy was a devil for the choc!

Cast and crew for Ridley Scott's prequel to Alien. Charlize Theron wanted to give them all a treat so we hot-footed it over to Pinewood. (Sadly no pics of CT scooping in the van).

A wedding in Somerset - this guest loved Jimmy so much he was behind that counter faster than all hell. I hit the dance floor while I had the chance....

Some of my Friday regulars on the Southbank. These two are hilarious and demons for the shakes.

Under the new stairs for the Festival of Britain celebrations. It's becoming a real chow and hang zone...

Another wedding down in the countryside. We take in large lungfuls of sweet, balmy air while we can - suck it up and save it for London.

Two of our most regular customers - Anne and Manny. She likes cupcakes, he likes death metal. Always a pleasure to see.

By the bandstand for the Royal Street Food Festival that eat.st showed out for. Great group of traders, we had a ball.


Another choc fiend...

And here is Jimmy nuzzling up to The Rye as part of the #16days event that eat.st and The Meatwagon put on. Peckham, we love you!


More soon. Enjoy the sun y'all!

Supper # 40 - Shepton Montague, Somerset

The rain won't stop. It throws down all it has with a kind of glib defiance. I drop my mum at Tiverton Parkway station after a huge lunch and a long, atmospheric walk round her boss' garden. We both agree that it's the most incredible private garden we've ever roamed - even the woodland is landscaped. I'm sad to say goodbye to my mum, I wanted it to be gorgeous weather while she toured with me. I wanted to louche about for longer with her - it's all gone so quickly. Off she goes and on I go - a quick stop-off at Willie's for some more chocolate and a bit of banter and then over to Somerset.

The rain makes me want to curl up and get my cosy on. I don't want to be with strangers tonight so I call and invite myself to uncle Jules' and aunt Di's. A more welcoming response would be hard - the warm wishes of encouragement floweth right through my Sony Ericsson and I attack the journey with gusto. I feel reassured that I'll be amongst family. I wonder if I didn't have the option - which I seem to have had a lot of in the West country - I'd miss it? Perhaps we lean into that which we know will catch us. Yet free-falling is one of my favourite things to do. Maybe I'm just not much of a wet weather free-faller....

So anyway, I arrive back at J&D's in the mid-afternoon. Diana is at work and Jules is running a multi-faceted operation in the kitchen. He's just got hold of the Ottolenghi cookbook and is devouring it in a most hands-on manner. We hang out a while and I offer to decorate the salmon. I realise that I've cooked nothing but chocolate on this entire safari - not a morsel of savoury fare has been fashioned by me so I take to the salmon with vigor, creating for him a translucent ruby coat of sliced tomatoes. I even make eyebrows. It's all very Robert Carrier.

Jules hands the kitchen over to me and I get to work on a sunken chocolate souffle. As it cooks the guests arrive; endless horsey couples from this village or that. Champagne is served in the drawing room, Kettle Chips passed around, the air is awash with the smell of perfume. I'm a recoiler of small talk and am starting to feel a bit like a stuck record:

"I'm having a big, chocolatey adventure in my choc-mobile". / "I look for people to give me supper and then make them a chocolate pudding in return". / "No I don't sleep in the van". / "No I don't have SatNav". / "Yes, I have piled on the pounds and am starting to feel pretty uncomfortable - maybe a more expansive seatbelt is in order".....

...so I talk to the kids about school and years out and...the tour. On the sofa my grandmother holds court. Dressed in one of her Chinese silk kaftans, her silver hair chignoned expertly, she holds her glass as if she might look somehow incomplete without it. The guests sit reverentially, listening in as she talks of days gone by - of business trips to Egypt, Colombia, Manila, New Orleans. Dinner is ready and we all file through to the dining room, the table laid beautifully, fresh flowers everywhere.

WHO CAME: Jules, Di, one of their kids (Emily), Grandjane, three couples.

WHAT WE ATE: For starters a salad of samphire, green beans, sesame and tarragon - vivid green, glossy and summery. Next the aforementioned enrobed salmon, bright yellow Bearnaise sauce, baked endive stuffed with gruyere and prosciutto and royal potato salad, studded with quails egg and smothered in salsa verde - my favourite thing in the whole world. The fish is pale and super fresh. I can taste its insistent upriver journey working onto my tongue. We drink Puligny-Montrachet and '97 Pauillac.


DINNER TABLE TOPICS: I sit opposite a caddish looking guy - very Jilly Cooper and, to complete the picture, am intrigued to discover that he is 'Master of the Hunt'. We dance along the delicate rope of convincing one another that we're not out to get the other. I wouldn't dream of criticising the Master's antics, besides, I'm distracted at the thought of the sunken souffle. Sunk? To go down it must go up and this poor mite simply rigamortosed in overbearing heat. Clamped tight and unyielding it sits next door awaiting an ordinary reception.

THE PUD: Luckily there are strawberries and raspberries and great, voluptuous folds of whipped cream to disguise my lacklustre offering. It passes without remark. Any positive on the S.S. I silently dismiss. I tell myself it was the oven's fault.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: I help Emily wash up while the rest of the party carries on drinking. Cigarette smoke wafts through, intermingling with the perfume, the wine and the smell of delicious food. It smells like a good time and yet it seems surprising to have the fag smell in there. How quickly we adjust - and how few homes I've been in on this trip where any smoking has occurred.

Bed is cool and reassuring and I sleep as heavily as usual.

Weston Super (night)Mare

It just doesn't have quite the same retro appeal as my beloved Morecambe. My mum had joined me for a couple of days and we headed over there from Nailsea (after a fun night of boozing it up with the delightful Sue and Trev from Foresters). We'd heard that there were more charity shops in Weston than anywhere else in the UK. My mum's ears pricked up and that wild look took over her face: TAT! Off we trailed, along a particularly dreary part of the tour - along suburban lanes bereft of intrigue or funk - and into town.

There is the distasteful whiff of inertia about the place. It's as if there was a choice between sentience and coma and everyone in Weston chose the latter. The shop keepers can barely be bothered to look up, the waitress seemed joyless and those poor old donkeys...

I even discovered a 'farm shop' that haunted me it was so horrif. I tried my best to rescue some bags of grated cheese from their ambient, mould-inducing stupor but nobody in the shop seemed to care. I left in a hurry, past confused samplers wondering why I didn't want to taste the smudged bits of lemon cake. We pushed on out of there with relief.

Chocolate tasting - Clevedon Pier, North Somerset

I did a chocolate tasting last week at the most beautiful place I've ever had the pleasure to talk on this fine subject. Clevedon Pier is a Victorian fantasy - 200 yards of gappy planks marching out to a deathly looking sea miles below. The good people of Foresters turned out in their dozens to squeeze into the tiny little capsule at the end of the pier. We tried raw beans, roasted nibs, 100% pure, Venezuelan truffles, champagne truffles, 70%, milk and then finished off with a tray of chocolate martini shots. And then another tray...and another. By the time it was time to traverse back to the mainland we were all hugging and kissing each other like old friends.

This place flicked my switches and I'd return in a heartbeat.

Willie's Chocolate Factory

It was a miserable day. I'd started it in Exeter where I sidled up to a guest house and caught their wi-fi. I felt a bit dodgy but there was nowhere to park in town and it was pissing with rain. I got on the M5 up to Tiverton and ran over roundabouts and through puddles to get to oor Willie's chocolate factory. It was great to finally be there after hearing about the place for over a year. There was Willie, doing hundreds of things at once but looking fighting fit - even if he did complain of exhaustion.

The place is a warren of rooms; little units of high activity all lorded over by the heavy mechanical clunk of moving paddles and vibrating metal. In one area workers with blue hairnets wrapped freshly molded chocolate cylinders in gold foil. They were wordless in their concentration. I didn't hang around with them for long. Willie finally got off the blower and gave me a proper tour of the place.

There was a room heaving with jute sacks, full of single estate beans just arrived from the Venezuelan Cloud forest. He slit open a sack and emptied it into a waiting container. From there buckets full were thrown in the top of the enormous Bilbao roasting machine. After 20 minutes they'd come out the bottom all toasty and smelling great. Into the winnower where the shells got sucked away ready for the beans to begin the grinding and conching process.

The concher had been going on one batch for a few days, slopping the dark liquid back and forth, refining the particles for the smoothest end result. Willie lifted the lid and we both got a scoop of warm, melted Rio Caribe prime for tempering and barring up. It feels like a meal; like the ultimate in nutrition - complex and deep with notes that sing of a far flung land.

It would have been good to stay and talk all day - so many questions! But the road to Cornwall called. I loaded up with fresh supplies and thanked Willie for the bags of beans and nibs he threw in for good measure and hit the highway.

Look out for more of Willie back on the box soon....

My uncle Julian

We stayed the night in Shepton Montague with Diana and Julian. Ferds got deposited on the bus back to London at Wincanton and I returned to do stuff. There was Julian busying away in the kitchen, defrosting pheasants, roasting tomatoes, pulverising beetroot.

"You will stay for lunch, won't you?" he asked.

How could I resist?! Here is a man who has seven kids, a business to run and numerous other duties and he is quite happy to spend a good hour or so on a Monday lunchtime cooking up a storm so that his niece is well taken care of. What a legend - and a true devotee to the cause of eating well.

Skye Gyngell's pheasant breast with roast tomato, beetroot and creme fraiche and sauteed spinach as cooked by Julian is one of the best things I've eaten the whole trip and put me in fine shape for the journey down to Dorset.

Supper #32 - Temple Coombe, Somerset

Steve the gamekeeper has agreed to let me come for supper. It's a really busy time for them all because the pheasants chicks are being put through the 'hardening up' process. He drives us over to a spot in the middle of nowhere to see what it's all about. A mound of old sawdust burns, smoking up the early evening sky. Chicks chirrup in darkened hutches. They're all kept in different zones according to age - from really warm to 'sunroom' to ambient - and kept vigil over for weeks to ensure the heaters don't go off or the foxes don't advance...or 'out of towners' don't come and release the birds.

"Oi don't moind 'em, 'slong as those fuckers don't come a meddlin'", he tells me.

It must be pretty annoying when you're going about your business; carrying on a tradition started generations before - something which plays an important part in the balance of the countryside, not merely as a sport for the hell of it - when some upstart comes burrowing in without any knowledge of what it's all about and kicks up a stink.

We watch as Steve and his son, Daniel, gather up lame chicks and dispose of them, stoke fires, staple up flaps and wheelbarrow feed about. All very industrious. It seems a shame to tear them away from all the fun but Cheryl is back at the ranch cooking up a feast.

THE SET UP: Steve and Cheryl have three kids - a son who's a trapper near Yeovil, a daughter who works down at the stables and Daniel who left school at 16 to pursue gamekeeping full-time. He claims to be able to pluck a pheasant in 30 seconds flat and has a couple of pheasants stuffed and displayed in his bedroom - shot when he was eight years old. In fact, never mind about the stuffed birds, Steve has half a forest worth of animals stuffed and mounted on his walls. I've never seen anything like it - not where you're there with the gunman, telling you the story behind each shot. Munt Jack, Roe deer, Chinese Water deer line the hallway - and then it starts getting serious when you clap eyes on the Warthog. Back in his bedroom stands his pride and joy - a Kudu shot when Steve went on safari in the Northern Transvaal.

They have such beautiful, strong eyes. I'm crazy about deer; it's the only meat I avoid eating and it's almost eerie seeing so many in such a small space. Back in the kitchen Cheryl is plating up enormous helpings of venison. I balk inwardly and gladly accept a glass of red wine from Steve who's chucking it back enthusiastically. Ferdie's on the scrumpy and Cheryl chides him in her merry way. Daniel slopes in bulkily and then moves next door to devour his plate in front of the telly.

WHO CAME: Steve, Cheryl, Ferdie and me, plus Daniel in the other room.

WHAT WE ATE: Large slabs of slightly overcooked venison, boiled cabbage, boiled carrots, roast potatoes and Yorkshire puds. I get stuck in and am soon struggling with an un-swallowable bit of gristle - AArgh, no napkins to spit discreetly. I chew it, cow-like for as long as I can but it has to go. I grab my opportunity while Cheryl is telling us about her eight brothers and sisters...

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: When Cheryl's mum died only three of her siblings attended the funeral. Imagine that. I ask my favourite question about how the two of them met - it was at the local dance, back when Steve was a bit of a wild'un and keen on bare knuckle fighting and hard drinking. I suggested a few scenarios: "So Steve, did you see Cheryl and sidle up to her, telling her you had some new moves you wanted to practice?". "Dunno, can't fuckin' remember". Cheryl fills us in on what happens, with times and dates and jokes how it's a good job someone has retained this information.

Steve's got real heart - I like him. Ferdie, someone who's as straight talking as they come, really likes him. They take us into the garden and show us the tortoise, the dogs (in a kennel), the peacock eggs and the hooks for the newly shot game.

THE PUD: I've made baked chocolate fudge. It's already been revealed to us that Steve eats five KitKats a day and that Cheryl bakes cakes all week, so I'm sure it'll be met with approval. I slice the old rascal up. It's just warm, with a crisp outer layer and an almost gelatinous dark centre. I think they like it - they have seconds anyway and Daniel even stays to eat it with us. Ferdie suggests it might have benefited from some cream. I tell him he needs to stop over-egging the gut.

As we leave, Cheryl gives me a great enveloping mum hug and Steve grasps my butt firmly. Daniel is sweet and placid. I'm so touched that they were happy to have us over when they were clearly so busy - and the whole thing is done and dusted by 8.30pm (still light!). We drive on to Uncle Jules' house a few miles away and catch up with them before we all turn in, me with Graham Greene's 'Our Man In Havana'.

Supper #31 - Upton Noble, Somerset

We plough on down the A303 until an emergency toilet break forces us to pull into our old mucker Vicki's house in Chicklade to use the facilities. There we stay, lolling around on the lawn, dozing in the baking afternoon sun. We catch up then distribute the rest of the cake amongst them and get on the back road to Upton Noble - apparently one of the most beautiful routes in the area.

Terraced knolls, high hedgerows, Douglas firs all staggering down to luscious ravines and swooping hills - and with the sun cutting languidly through. Purty. We stop off at an egg stall where old ice cream containers hold individually wrapped homemade cakes: coffee cake, lemon cake, chocolate cake. Beyond the large farm gate lives Kate and her husband and their four kids of 1,2,3 and 4 years old. It's a smallholding with Jersey cows, chickens, dogs, a pig, cats, goats, a bull - all spread out over a field, a yard, a couple of statics and a caravan.

I was instantly hooked by this lot. They're proper. 'Free range' as Ferdie said, wild little kids messing around with any old piece of junk they can get their hands on. I understand them; I get it. Sometimes, with certain kids now, there's this slightly horrific sense of self-awareness, born out of an excess of attention and autonomy. That constant thing of being asked for their opinion on everything - as if they're the single most precious thing to ever arrive on Earth. Kate's lot are very refreshing; roaming little creatures with their imagination as the number one toy and self-importance nowhere in sight.

We gave them some ice creams then continued on to Upton Noble where a lane full of kids were hooting and hollering for us as we arrived. These I liked a lot too. Just sort of wide eyed and curious about life. Their folks were off to a party and we were left in charge. We hung round the van, chatting about this and that, then inside to watch a bit of football and have our supper.

THE SET UP: Andy and Vicki moved to Somerset from Woodstock five years ago. They like living in an area that's not too polished - which is what they say has happened to Oxfordshire. The house is a winding, thick stone-walled affair, heavy on Cath Kidston and organic food. Outside chickens mother ducklings and their dogs doze on the tiny road.

WHO CAME: Just me and Ferds - but the kids hung around to chat.

WHAT WE ATE: Spag bol made with lamb's mince and a wonderful peppery rocket salad from the garden washed down with a bottle of organic red wine.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: The sleepover the two older girls had been to the night before and how badly one girl behaved, the family trip to Kerala in February, how mad their mums are on organics and composting and recycling...and bread baking. Then this great strapping man strode in, looking for his daughter. He went wild for the van and then started telling us all about his job as the only servant of the British government on the West Bank. We later discover that he's ex-S.A.S. and I decide that I want to live on such a fruity lane as this.

THE PUD: Ice cream from the van: Turkish Delight, Cookies & Cream, Raspberry sorbet and white chocolate & chilli. Plus a plate of brownie bites.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: Ferdie and I have a spat about who sleeps where. It's a bit of a nightmare when your brother tries to encroach upon your rightful bed. As we walk up to the local for a quick pint I list all the reasons why I should have the best bed and he finally concedes over a game of dominoes. With 'Bedgate' taken care of I slide into cool, crisp sheets and sleep long like a teenager.