Underground Mexico

Blogger's acting up, hence a rather tardy round-up of Sat night. Which was brilliant. I want Sat nights like that all the time and I loved that I had a choc-mobile to add to the mix. I arrived fresh from a slightly harrowing dodgeball tournament in Hammersmith and then went bump-bump-bumping over the endless suburban humps en route. Found the road, just wasn't sure of the house. 'Ms Marmite!' I cried down the handsfree, 'where the heck's your driveway?'. Busy dealing with her false eyelashes she dispatched her Goth, doll-like daughter to call me in to the narrow space. It wasn't the most dynamic call-in ever - the daughter stood awkward and sullen with no clear idea of what she was doing out there - but eventually we squeezed through and I was taken into the heart of Underground Restaurant HQ.

It was a bit like Kilburn's answer to Rocky Horror. There was the sister all corsets and high-heels, her ample boobs practically meeting her chin, an almost permanent twinkle in her eye. And Johnny, the Australian 'front of house' - ginger quiff, piercings through nose, mouth, eyebrow(?) etc, sharp in black, total dude. Then Helen, the food blogger who really wanted to get involved. The daughter lurked in the background, the epitomy of anti-waitressing whilst Ms Marmite Lover bustled out resplendent in black cocktail frock, super-high wedges and a broderie Anglaise Victorian pinnie.

I felt right at home.

My friend Charlie had introduced me to MML a few weeks back and we quickly concocted a plan to bring the choc van along to one of her secret suppers. The theme was to be Mexican so I came up with a spiced chocolate mousse laced with a chilli syrup for the occasion. I made most of it in advance but needed to finish it off on arrival, so after plugging in through the bedroom window I tottered out in my stilettos and got to work.

'What are you doing in there' asked some passer-by. He pressed his face up against the back window of the van to see me surrounded by choc mousses, enveiled in lurid pink and pulsing rope light combo. 'Oh you know, just stirring it up' I replied and he backed away with an amazed grin on his face. I was then ushered into the house where a place had been set for me in the 'restaurant'. I grabbed a margarita (very tangy) and joined my table.

The whole room was chattering away animatedly - around 20 guests all thrilled to be doing something different with their evenings; what a relief - we can talk to one another! The constraints of decorum kaput, chair hopping and glass sharing ahoy! At each table were salsa and chips - corn & mango, tomato and my favourite, the guacamole. Joder! this woman can season! It was a really tasty one - in fact the best I've had in London. I dug in lasciviously.

Meanwhile in the kitchen things were kind of hectic. I went in to chat and could barely see anyone for the smoke that was engulfing the place. I felt my way past the hanging undies and bottles of wine to the Aga where I found MML griddling the tortillas for all she was worth. Real blue corn tortillas to be served with the chili sin carne, stuffed, baked jalapeños, rice and sour cream. Eventually, buoyed on by a few more swigs of margarita, she was ready to serve. Table by table, each of us pounced on our plates most heartily. More wine got ordered, more people swapped places and then seconds got dolled up.

Finally came the moment for pud. I got into position behind the counter, grabbed the bottle of chocolate martini mix I'd been chilling in the freezer and furnished each of the guests with a mousse and a shot - perhaps a small tour of the van for those who were really keen - and away they went, back into the hub and all the perkier for it.

After coffee, cognac and more getting to know one another (Gronya with the YSL coat from eBay! Spike with the Pekham chocolate shop suggestion! The festi-loving couple who'd visited us at Bestival!) they all trooped off and home. We, the 'staff', then gathered round the Aga for a cognac-tinged 'wash-up' meeting spearheaded by Johnny. I was on the edge-of-my-seat rivetted by his ideas, MML and sister were shattered but happy and the daughter interjected with the occasional correction to Johnny's French.

In the end MML lost her voice, Johnny cycled home and I went to bed amidst the Underground Restaurant debris...a great night that I hope continues really successfully for them all.

LONDON LEG: Supper #47 - E1

Dinner in a high-rise - my idea of heaven. As a child, driving into London with my family, I would gaze yearningly at every tower block we'd pass. They looked so exotic to my country girl eyes. I loved the thought of living in such close proximity to so many others. My cosy sense of urban life had my imagination running wild with thoughts of intensive, relentless domesticity; of wall to wall carpet, 24 hour central heating and fish fingers and chips. My family all thought I was nuts and yet, decades later, a part of me still feels like this. So when I got an invite from Andrew to bring choc pud to him and his friends in his retro pad in Spitalfields I was there with big jangling bells on.

I was told to leave the van at home as parking was an issue so I wrapped up the night's offering and jumped on the 35 bus. Eventually, after some mind-numbingly confusing 'short cut' I should never have even attempted, I emerged at the foot of the big, ugly, but still kinda glamourous Denning Point on Commercial Street and got buzzed up to the 9th floor. I tried to share a lift with a Bangladeshi family but they weren't up for it at all, in fact I suspect that they hung back just to avoid joining me. I tried not to take it personally.

The door swung open to a glorious cacophony of swirling green, yellow and brown carpet. Could it have been more perfect?! I don't think so. I chased it from room to room, transfixed by its gaudy tone and flouncy ways. I could barely lift my gaze to shake hands with the people in the flat - it was just so much to take in. I was taken into the kitchen for a drink. All the windows were steamed up with the fug of cooking. All over the table were strewn packets of Tesco Finest sausages and bottles of red plonk. I clutched my half pint glass of wine and made off with the host to explore the place a little more thoroughly.

THE SET UP: Andrew rents this flat from the family of an old lady who died. All her stuff is still there - the tables, chairs, retro kitchen and, my personal fave, the fully kitted out open-up bar. I think this is what sold it to him; yes, the vistas are marvellous, but what's really dazzling is the glasswear in that cabinet. For a moment I even forgot about the carpet.

WHO CAME: Me, Andrew, his girlfriend, his brother, his brother's girlfriend, Eleanor, Eleanor's flatmate, Gen and Lucas.

WHAT WE ATE: Bangers and mustard mash with buttery cabbage & bacon and onion gravy. It was just what I felt like on such an horrific, wet night. The whole flat was moist with warm, cooking smells and I felt as if in a big, bright protected bubble held aloft in the sky.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: A lot of the guests are in TV production so we had tales of who was doing who and where, Charlie Brooker, new ideas for shows with Martin Clunes, a dog and a gimp mask. My host opened up to me about his 'bulimic urges' for chocolate which found him purging at the gym rather than down the loo. We got the real reason behind the Schweppes and Tango commercials and someone suggested playing the biscuit game (which biccy would you be and why?)...I went for a Penguin, though the game never really got off the ground as Lucas was busy discussing some woman at work's rack and how he stares at it - not because he wants to dive in, more out of fear of suffocation.

THE PUD: On such a cold and hostile night I pulled out one of the classics - hot chocolate fudge pudding, a dessert that I was raised on and which still gets the most squeals whenever I make it. This time though I decided to spike it with some Aztec flavour - chilli, cinnamon and vanilla. It was great - all that molten richness lifted completely by the spices. Andrew's brother said it was the most drug-like food he's ever had and, I have to admit, the place did turn from manic, Oxbridge raconteuring to hazy, glazy submission in one fell spoonful.

LONDON LEG: Supper #46 - Cheam

I met Jake a few weeks ago as I trawled round Tower Hill with a camera crew filming me. They wanted to gage strangers reactions to the Choc Star Tour proposition. In full waitress mode I charged around with a tray of freshly baked - still warm in fact - ultra fudge brownies; wafting them before people, hoping to stop them in their tracks. Jake was one of the many who stoppped, one of the several who agreed to have me round for supper and, so far, the only one who actually came up with the goods and invited me. "I'll have to clear it with my other half first" he warned, "she might be suspicious".

I returned home and Googled him - as promised - and discovered that he had run for Mayor this year and was mad about motorbikes. Great combo, I thought and we made a date. Monday found me horrified by the weather. I read about Miami in the paper and felt a deep, anguished pang for my old life over there - how every morning you wake up in that city, in that state, being reached for by the most glorious and enticing light. Here I must make do with alternatives - chocolate is the obvious choice and on a day like that there was only one thought on my mind: chocolate bread & butter pudding.

It's best to make it at least 24 hours before eating so by Tuesday evening when it was time to steer Jimmy out into the suburbs those slices of bread were fully engorged with the rich, chocolatey custard surrounding them. I might well have broken into it en route and enjoyed the thing uncooked - I was that craven of its velvetty layers. Jesus, this girl needs some sunshine real bad!

THE SET UP: I have been asked to come at 7.30 for 8. I feel I've done pretty well to arrive at 8. Jake comes out into the street and guides me into a space opposite the house and tells me that they've all started without me. Wow, that's a first - but as I follow Jake into their house to be confronted by a table full of strangers that old magic descends. I can't really explain it other than to say it's a bit like acting; it's kind of other worldly, exciting, addictive. I can tell immediately that this is a table of laughs and that feeling at home would be easy.

WHO CAME: The really jolly neighbours, Ray and his wife, Jake, his girlfriend Ruth, her 30 year old son who's living with them, a friend of Ruth's from work and me.

WHAT WE ATE: Jake is cook tonight, he and Ruth take it in turns but I can tell that he gets a real macho pleasure from putting food on the table. This is adorned with a gold shiny strip of paper that stretches right the way along it and is peppered with bottles of wine, most of which I have to decline on account of having to get Jimmy back to SW9. Halloumi awaits me as I take my place at the end of the table. I love Halloumi in an extra special way. As I attempt to stuff the grilled cheese into the warm pitta pouches and then into my gob I hold back in order to converse with this table full of new people I suddenly find myself sitting with. "So what's this all about then? I'm intrigued", they ask me. "What do you actually do?". I gulp a slither of the tasty rubber cheese down and explain myself: London suppers, different backgrounds, chocolate as common ground, etc. They seem satisfied with my response and the eating and drinking continues.

Out comes the main course - a spicy beef stew with mashed carrot and butternut squash and a potato and roast carrot melange. The vegetarians down the end got stuffed oyster mushrooms; only Ruth's work mate is allergic. Jake laughs it off and pours more wine. I feel right at home: nice hearty cooking, the wonderfully maternal Ruth to my left, Jake the patriarch playing the raconteur and the neighbourly couple just oozing reassurance.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Pretty varied. From Ruth's son's drum n bass dj-ing exploits to Ray's prize winning sunflowers. Turns out most of them hail from Wandsworth/Battersea and I listen with delight as they talk about being Rockers "cos it was cheaper' and swapping boyfriends down at the Monday Club. "We didn't go out to get drunk in those days" says Ruth, "We went out and had a drink."

Jake and Ruth first went out when they were 15 and now years, marriages and many mod/rocker antics later they're back on. And Ruth has come to be accepted by Jake's other family - the bikers. I wet my pants a bit. "What do you mean!" I demand to know, "Can you hook me up with a dinner invite?!". "Could be tricky, they're very closed - especially after what happened last year". I vaguely recall a motorway murder. I remember Hunter S. Thompson's 'Hell's Angels'. My imagination starts running wild. Jake reveals his biker name to be 'Pyro' and what he does to car drivers if they mess with him on the road. I shimmy inwardly and increase the pressure. "I'm not promising anything - I'll see what I can do". And then, a ray of light - " I do have a friend who's a pole dancer. A bloke."

Oh well hell, that'll do! Bring him on! Can he cook, and then we eat and then have pud and then can he put his outfit on and dance for us?! I almost forget about the damn bread & butter pudding in my reverie and curse having to drive because I need some of that Rioja.

THE PUD: It's all bubbling at the sides; a great moist, dense bed of chocolate hotness. It smells like heaven. I mean, all these cold choc puds are great in the summer but what the hell's the winter for if not for eye-closing aromas like these? Ruth serves us all. Ray tells me he used to be a 3 Kingsize Mars Bar in a sitting man before he became diabetic. I feel bad. He doesn't and launches at the thing with vehemence. The cool double cream rivulets through the folds and we all enter our happy place. Apart from the work mate who's not really into chocolate, but hey, all the more for Ray!

LONDON LEG: Supper #45 - SW16 (Mystery Meat)

Well last Wednesday was a bit of an eye opener. I was invited to join a group of twenty-something Trowbridge transplants on their regular 'Mystery Meat' meet. Gwen, Anna, Ella, Annabel and Jemima started up this weekly supper club when Anna returned from her family's farm one weekend with three braces of pigeon. Being the game bunch that they are they decided that from then on they would take it in turns to surprise one another with a different beast or cut, with the winner having to head for the corner shop with £1 to buy the pudding. So far they've had snout, heart, tongue, cheek, testicles, rabbit, turkey and that old favourite, chicken. How quirky and retro I thought and leapt at the chance to join them.

THE SET UP: I turned up with Gwen, sans Jimmy (bad parking round there). We picked our way along the dingy streets of Streatham and filtered up a hill to a house. It was like entering studentdom again - just wall to wall momentos of good, cheap times. Anna was prone on the sofa underneath layers of duvet. In fact most of the floor space in the TV room was occupied by some kind of bedding; it was like it was set up for a permanent slumber party. We went through to the kitchen so Gwen could prep her mystery meat whilst Anabel's dad wandered about applying liberal amounts of Deep Heat to some shoulder ailment. More stuff - a cacophony of it, occupying every work surface, every wall, every shelf. I found it reassuring and cosy and happily headed off to the utility room to wedge the night's pudding into a packed fridge.

WHO CAME: As well as Gwen, me, Anna and Annabel's dad, Dave, one by one fresh faced girls would enter the scenario: Ella, just back from the Embankment cafe she worked at, Jemima, returning from a day of textiles, the sweet French girl and Annabel who hadn't been home since the previous morning and who'd still managed to squeeze in a date with someone else before arriving home.

WHAT WE ATE: Gwen thought it would be amusing to recreate one of the dishes from Jemima's mum's WHSmith exercise book, circa 1982 - Tasty McBrides. She carefully pottered away in the background while everyone else ploughed merrily through the two bottles of red wine on the table. The plate arrived to a fanfare and was accompanied by a special 'Mystery Meat lamp' in order to show it off properly. We all sank our teeth in to these odd little bites. Yum! said everyone reaching for more. I gagged a bit and barely finished one piece. The truth was that the mystery meat in this scenario was Spam. Ever since Spam fritters at school I've never been able to cope with it. It flooded my gag reflexes still further as Gwen explained the recipe; of fried Smash, onion powder, grilled Spam and other horror stories. These girls were insatiable for the stuff though and soon the plate was empty.

Then came the main attraction - a great, hearty robustness of a stew, it was lousy with bone marrow streaming through the sauce. Soon the guessing began and in moments the real meat revealed itself - Oxtail, bought from William Rose on Lordship Lane. I asked why she didn't get it from Brixon market but Gwen thought it best to keep it super legit in matters of tail.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: The talking was non-stop, from Dave's move to Thailand to the Trowbridge Pump festival that happens on Anna and Ella's farm in Wiltshire. Annabel kept on coming out with whacked-out stuff like how she feels like she morphs into Angel Delight when she's having sex. Dave would turn a blind eye and concentrate on his electrode machine which he decided to hook me up to. I sat there clutching onto Ella as he delivered mini-electric shocks into my arm. I'm not sure why. I learnt about the only male lap-dancing club in Europe which just happens to be there on Streatham High Street (they've all been). Then Jemima taught us Cumbrian - who knew? There's a whole damn dialect of it and I want in on the action (she said she'd hook me up with some Lake District folk). Games began - starting with everyone having to describe someone with just one word. From a table full of people I'd never met I got calm, still, serene, curious and alert - I think I might just have been a bit stunned post-electro probing.

THE PUD: I pulled the pud out of the fridge, turned it out and showered it with glass-like shards of amber caramel - a chilled pralined truffle terrine. It was slight hell to cut up but once apportioned was nyammed up quickly. They all seemed to like it a lot, but to be honest I think the £1 option from the corner shop might have been just as warmly received - they're just those kind of girls and as I left that night I felt a small pang for living a life of cosy chaos, surrounded by your best friends, up to the eyeballs in clutter and debauchery.

LONDON LEG: Supper #44 - N1

Last night saw the beginning of my London leg of the tour. I've been all over the place this summer and have missed the suppers. I wonder how things will be back in the Capital....in a way it's a completely different slant as I don't need to sleep over because I live here (SW9 FYI), therefore I won't be getting so rat-tanked because I'll be driving, which should aid my clarity and sharpen my observations. Hmmm, not sure about all this. I wonder, will the hospitality branch be extended to me by Londoners even though they know well and good I have my own bed?

I went and picked Jimmy up from his des res (parking lot in SW4), swung by my pad (deep in the heart of the hood), grabbed the part-assembled pud, revved the Gennie up so as to arrive all twinkling and flashing neon and braved the traffic from South to North. All fine until the atmospheric light show that throbbed out pleasingly to passers by turned spasmodic. Pink, black, pink, black went the on-off situation and my heart sank as I drove up Upper Street, wondering what the heck was wrong with Gennie now.

I arrived on a very swish looking street (in an Oliver Twist when he was salvaged kind of way) and felt sure that no yoots would come rootling around the van whilst I was flanked by such swank vehicles. I was late. As usual. But I carried with me a delightful offering so what could they possibly say?

THE SET UP: Madoc bought the flat six years ago with his sister who lives next door with their mum. Cosy. He used to be a chef but now works for Raleigh International in recruitment. He is a bright and perky host, despite orchestrating this evening's meal with a broken wrist. My God, I did feel honoured that he didn't call the whole thing off - the only mention of it at all was when he pondered the possibility of having a limp right wrist for the rest of his days (nasty). Joining us were Becky who used to work with him at Raleigh, Jezza who used to work with him at Raleigh and Kate, who kind of works with him at Raleigh. And it took me most of the night to get to the bottom of what Raleigh was.

After a visit to Jimmy (where Jezza quizzed me about technical things, telling me he'd spotted us before and pondered the logistics of the power and whatnot) we got back into the warm, candle-lit, Coldplay-soundtracked flat. Wine was offered. Oh God, I'm driving, better just make it the one - and instantly came an invite to stay. "Look," said Madoc "I have this beautiful spare room with a brand new bed". It did look kinda inviting with its pristine Broderie Anglaise bedspread and currently available to the right person for £850pcm (Jesus!), but the thought of fighting my way through the traffic in the morning made me abstain.

WHAT WE ATE: So the one-handed plating of dinner commenced. Becky helped, I took pics and the other two sat waiting at the table. Sainsbury's had produced a free-range chook which Madoc had roasted and served with crunchy boiled carrots, huge baked potatoes, crispy bacon, bread sauce and red wine gravy with a well-dressed salad on the side. Baked potatoes, cold meat and salad is actually one of my favourite things to eat in the world so this winter version put a smile on my face. And the chicken was really delicious - great chunky tranches of flavoursome, juicy breast. Delish.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Kate tried to explain to us about her Raleigh trip to Borneo. I wanted to know what they all ate but it didn't sound up to much (rice, mainly). The conversation switches pendulously - from Japanese caligraphy to how to get cheap tickets to the theatre. They'd all seen Warhorse and insisted I go. Becky lamented her friends' slightly moronic conversation skills since having kids and moving to the country. There she was at dinner with them and the only three questions they asked her were 'Have you got a boyfriend?', 'What's it like being single?' and 'Do you want kids?'. "I felt like Bridget Jones sat there, surrounded by them all - and when I made a joke about Sarah Palin I was met with blank expressions; none of them seemed to know who the hell she was!". I shuddered inwardly and outwardly.

Then Jezza - who I took to be a fairly mid-range, reg'lar middle class guy - got my attention when he began telling me about his dad's homemade fireworks and basins of explosives in the laundry room. And how, at uni in Southampton, he bought a little boat which he used to row chicks out to in the middle of the night across choppy seas. Now he likes vans. He buys them, does them up and then heads off on big adventures in them. Brilliant!

THE PUD: I made a double chocolate, Kahlua-injected roulade. Inside the moist, chocolatey folds swirled a vanilla and white chocolate cream. We all had a slice, Jezza had seconds and Madoc pretty much polished the rest off in cheeky slices directly to his mouth.


By 11.30 it was time to head home - Kate went off to Finchley, Becky cycled up to Highgate, Jezza to somewhere nearby and I took old Jimmy back across the river along nice, uncongested streets.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: Mine! And I expect most of my London suppers will find me back here...unless one of my hosts pulls out a particularly special cocktail, which I would never be able to resist.

Supper # 41 - Kingsdown, Bristol

I left Welham and headed north to Bristol for a much anticipated dinner with Elly. Elly owns a great little place called the Pear Cafe which I've been dying to investigate. I curved along the deep Somerset lanes, through Bruton, round the one-way system, through Bruton, round the one-way system...through Bruton. Bollocks - stuck in a kind of warped Chevy Chase renactment. I could not get on the road to Bristol - I tried everything, every possible option but it wouldn't take me where I needed to go. I nearly had a seizure. Until that point I had felt pretty relaxed about the lack of sat-nav and pretty pleased with myself for always managing to find my way - but I thought I might pass out with fury in Bruton.

In the end I found my way to Elly and her friend who hooked me up to his house in the most convoluted example yet of pumping power to Jimmy's interior - it really was beyond the call of duty and I felt honoured. With Jimmy all hoisted up and harnessed in, off to Elly's flat we strolled, stopping on the way to pick up some delicious wine and pudding ingredients. It was kind of the first time on the whole trip where I was just hanging out in a city with a friend in a regular sort of place...like being at home.

Glastonbury was going on just down the road and as I prepped the pud and Elly added final touches to her Lebanese extravaganza I cursed myself for not being by Jigga's side. I love him. I love his rhymes, his flow, his hustle and his swagger - and I knew he'd entertain the acoustic evangelists down in Pilton. My yearning subsided quickly when Elly produced a fabulous bottle of manzanilla she'd been saving for the occasion - she's a huge great shez-head and I am always keen to see what kind of style she'll introduce me to next. We snacked on cobnuts and marinated zucchini, quaffed iced sherry and chatted...and Hov did his thing on the telly. I continued to drink - in a way that spoke of being in the comfort of my own home - while Elly worked magic in the little kitchen.


WHO CAME: Elly and I

WHAT WE ATE: Roasted aubergine salad salad with saffron yoghurt, chargrilled asparagus, zucchini and haloumi salad with slow roasted tomatoes, roast beetroot, baby spinach, sunflower seed and chervil salad with maple dressing, flatbread with za'tar (sesame, thyme and sumac), fatoush and brown rice tabouleh. Phew! It really was a tour de force and I loved it. I can't get enough of all this delving in and layering up - it's so much more sensuous than an austere piece of 'art' on a plate. I fancy that a medieval style of eating may suit me rather well and who cares about meat when there's this much to make the table groan?


DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Well once the sherry had been drunk and then the delicious chardonnay and the amaretto - and a few rollies had passed my lips and given me a light-headed sensation, what we spoke about suddenly seems a little unclear.


THE PUD: So I threw together a chilled chocolate, amaretto, orange and almond terrine. After the Bruton debacle it seemed the best option and besides, I knew Elly would be able to slither cheeky little slices off that old rascal for many days to come afterwards. It's one pud that I never get bored of - how could you? It's not leaden and encumbering, nor overly rich. It's just a cool slice of brown gold dust that fills your heart with niceness and winks at you from the freezer whenever you happen to be passing by.


MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: I forgot to get a pic. Like I said, it was a heavy night.

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.

Supper # 39 - Wellington, Devon

Sorry - this post is no longer for public consumption.

Supper # 38 - Molland, Devon

Molland is really old fashioned. It lies up towards Exmoor coming away from South Molton; a small cluster of houses all looking like they're ready to drop into the road from their high up positions on the bank. As I drive along I lament my lack of horn - you can't see a thing and putting the chimes on is hardly much of a warning blast. If anything it confuses people and they look around, unsure of where the amplified music box sound is wafting in from. I curl around the corners, past the village pub and the tight group of teenagers hanging around on the side of the road and pull up to the Dart's farmhouse. They've said I can plug Jimmy in with their Red Devon bulls while I stay with my uncle Marius down the hill.

I arrive to hoots of delight from Mrs Dart and her daughter and get ushered into their huge, slightly retro kitchen. "You must be hungry", they say and bring out pineapple cake, carrot cake, still-warm quiche - and a large pot of clotted cream to dollop onto anything I fancy. Tea is poured and I get chowing, unable to resist almost anything anymore. It just all tastes so good and how often in London does one get offered cake as part of the daily, domestic routine? Not I and I'ma get mine while I can - before I know it I'm going to be back in that gym surrounded by slightly demonic individuals and craving such things as cake with clotted cream.

The Darts prepare great greedy lunches for the local shoot. A dozen or so men will come tromping down in their plus-fours and tweeds, chomping at the bit to blast those pheasants to the ground. Apparently it's now becoming trendy for city boys to come and have a pop. I suppose it's part of the rolling-around-in-the-mud-together in the woods impulse; a quick flight from the concrete to indulge the primal. Heck, I'd do it just for the big lunch at the end. They make all their pastry from scratch, cook their own cream, rear their own beef and grow all the veg in the garden. Heaven.

Uncle Mal turns up and can't turn down the cake either. We munch and chat and then settle Jimmy in and head off down the hill.

THE SET UP: My uncle and aunt have been given this house by my aunt's older sister. Sort of given it...it's complicated. Anyway, Marius comes down here all the time from London for work. The house has been part of the Molland estate for centuries, you can practically smell the goat shed. It's brilliant and wonderfully far from civilisation.

Marius goes into the house swinging a cloth bag full of shop-bought goodies: Lincolnshire sausages, bagged lettuce, packaged veg and I am quietly surprised. Normally it's a lot more rustic and there's a hare hanging about somewhere or a partridge laying ready to be plucked. Needn't have worried though as the window of opportunity for a hearty - some might say challenging - supper soon presents itself when we discover that the fridge/freezer has been turned off. Off we troop to the stone back room to investigate the damage. We sniff and dunk and prodd and soon have an 'in' and an 'out' tray: out with the gassy grapefruit juice, the defrosted dog food and the filthy melted ice, in with the defrosted pheasant, the lamb stew and the sliced brown bread.

It really does bond you when you're not sure whether what you're about to eat is going to make you both ill or not, but in my family it's almost a test of strength to see who's constitution can withstand the least likely of offerings. In no time at all the pheasant is perched atop a piece of dripping-slathered bread and roasting in the oven for another time and the lamb stew is bubbling innocently away on the hob, veg roasts in the oven and zucchini softens in a pan.

WHAT WE ATE: Defrosted borscht given an artistic flourish of scissored chives start the ball rolling. Tastes like the earth. As earthy as anything I've had in a long time. Soon enough we're onto the main thrust of the meal - the defrosted lamb stew. There it sits, surrounded by jewel-like veg: zucchini sauteed with tomatoes and oregano, peppers and squash from the roasting pan, streaked with rosemary, chunky discs of carrot - it's quite a sight to behold. We tuck in, our wine glasses at the ready should anything untoward start to occur in our stomachs...all fine we proceed with gusto.

Next we enjoy some salad, reassuringly clean and perky and fresh from the bag. Some camembert accompanies it along with...oh, what's this? The pheasant is out of the oven and it's fatty bed is being touted around as a possible partner to all this clean-cut fare. "It might be a bit greasy" warns Marius, which means that it's going to be so far beyond greasy I probably shouldn't. But, heck, I do and am soon transferring it onto his plate where it'll receive a much better reception.

DINNER TABLE TOPICS: Intrigue and suspicion over previous ancestor's misdemeanors, my grandparents and their barny when my grandmother discovered my grandfather had bought a house without telling her, Marius tells me about being sent out of London as a boy to stay on a farm in Cornwall and what a thrill it was for a King Arthur loving kid, more family disection. We get the map out a lot. I love going over maps - especially with people that really understand them. We gaze over Lincolnshire and its vast tracts of unadulterated farmland. We revel in the possibilities of the ancient kingdom of Arkenfeld. We slap each other on the back and pour more wine.

THE PUD: Venezuelan truffles and whiskey from the Co-Op. I bite mine tenderly, Mal tosses them back like popcorn. They're only just set and so perfectly supple. I love the way the cocoa powder acts as a serious case for the dreaminess within.

MY BED FOR THE NIGHT: Marius marches round the house pulling back bed covers, investigating what lies beneath - not that different to the inspection of the fridge in fact. Eventually we find a bed that I can sleep in, complete with sheets, pillow cases and blanket. One more discussion on the history of the house and where things have been put in/taken out and off I trot clutching (embarrassingly) OK!, full of pics of Wayne and Colleen having a right old knees-up.