Spotlight: Boston, MA

Might this be the Cambridge Spy down by the harbour? He is wearing sunglasses, after all. Or perhaps one of his fellow agents? Or simply a nonchalant passer-by? A mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a dashing camel-coloured jacket...

Prior to landing in New York, the Spy had been chilling out in the noble yet meteorologically capricious city of Boston, MA, where he managed to get sunburnt one day and then snowed on the next. Based in Harvard Square, close to the academic powerhouse with which it shares its name, the Spy decided to carry out a spot of ‘research’ in the name of his own fine cultural heritage, and uncover the three best scones in the area. Alas, it is not for nothing that they say ‘two cultures divided by a common language’, and the Spy had forgotten to what extent ‘scone’ in America simply means ‘enormous, dense, very sweet cake with an adventurous  approach to  flavourings’. However, he ploughed ahead, and with diabetes and heart disease capering capriciously at the wings he uncovered three pretty good specimens, more importantly, at three lovely establishments.    

Fine example of a Stateside scone and a cup of the black stuff (from Crema Cafe).

1. On the first day, he found himself in a branch of Au Bon Pain next to the news stand in Harvard Square, with a cinnamon chip scone in his grubby paw. He had always wanted to try cinnamon chips, which was a happy bonus (think chocolate chips, but cinnamon-y and perhaps even sweeter), and the cake-like quality of the scone was not too bad. The best thing about the experience was that he was sitting in the glasshouse part of the café looking over the square, and a merry band of three little sparrows had somehow made their way inside and were busy hovering up the crumbs, Disney’s-Snow-White-style. (However, a word of caution: flee from their crusty old bagels like the wind. In fact, flee from most bagels in Boston. Both ‘bagel’ and ‘Boston’ start with the same letter of the alphabet, but that is where the association ends.)

Cinnamon chip scone and coffee (L), and three bold musketeer sparrows enjoying the leftovers (R). The one on the left may even have a cinnamon chip in his mouth.

2. Breakfast #2 was conducted at the delightful Crema Cafe, which is justly popular with students and a great place to both chat and work. The Spy could choose between oatmeal maple and pecan scones, cheesy savoury scones or pear and ginger scones, and he went for the last of these, mostly on account of not being a big pecan fan. The scone was the best of the three sampled (as was the coffee that accompanied it), and boded well for the other delicious-looking products on offer, with moist chunks of pear and a lovely ginger twist that was perfect to perk up a Spy in the early morning. However, once again, these were not scones as the Spy knew them, and there was a cloyingly sugary, buttery coating over the Spy’s mouth by the end of the proceedings. However, there were even some fine-looking English muffins on the counter for splitting, toasting, buttering and jamming, and quite frankly, they looked far superior to most muffins that can be found in Merrie England itself.

The array of baked goods on sale in Crema (scones in front), and academic types probably pondering something deep and meaningful at the espresso counter.

3. The final scone was consumed at High Rise, a sweet little bakery set back from the street in a yellow wooden-slatted house. Local sources (in particular Agent Pinky Bee) inform him that the bread is not quite as good as it looks, but the atmosphere is great, with outdoor seating in the courtyard for sunny days and welcoming ladies and gentlemen behind the counter, ready to give you personal recommendations and advice on all your crucial yeast-based purchases. The scones were a little smaller and less sweet than offerings elsewhere (hallelujah!), but once again, the bakers had got creative with the flavours, with orange-and-coconut and maple-and-pecan on offer. The Spy went for the latter (reasoning that he could always pick out the pecans) and was rather impressed by the flavour and texture of this little number. But he still doesn’t like pecans.

Outside and inside the High Rise Bakery (scones at the bottom right of the baked good selection).

Moving on from breakfast, a number of the Spy’s lunches were held downtown in Boston’s financial district, in the form of meetings with his high-powered fellow spy Agent Andromeda who works close by in the Bank of America building. (In order to gain access to this establishment, the Spy got his own extremely official pass, complete with photo, and has never been so excited. He is currently debating as to whether he can wear the pass back in England without attracting unwanted attention, and is regretfully coming to the conclusion that he cannot. However, he is determined to wear it in the privacy of his own home, possibly pinning it to his official MI5 silk pyjamas.)

View from halfway up the Bank of America, looking over the river. From the other window, you can see the harbour and all the little islands. There was also a popcorn machine and a 'fruit-tree' (i.e. covered in fruit) in the kitchen: classy.

There were two particularly fine lunch experiences, the first in a branch of the chain Cosi, which is particularly notable for the fact that it makes its own squagles (square bagels, although they seem to be baked instead of boiled) and flatbreads (both white and wholemeal varieties), which can be seen baking in a giant oven behind the counter. The best part about it is that you can make up whatever salad or sandwich you like, chewing thoughtfully on a corner of the flatbread while you make your decisions, since the piping hot odds and ends from each new batch of bread are put in a big bowl on the counter for the customers to sample while they wait in the queue. Unsurprisingly, these chewy, moist, salty strips of wheaty goodness are actually better when taken out of the bowl than when bought in a packet, once again confirming the old adage that the best things in life are free.

Flatbread (L) and squagles (R). FYI, the Spy went for a cinnamon raisin number (bottom right)...

The other notable lunchtime establishment frequented by the Spy and his colleagues was the Chillean sandwich joint Chacarero. In a country of infinite culinary choice, it was something of a relief to see three basic choices – chicken, beef or vegetarian (i.e. roasted peppers) – which came in small (pah, who are they kidding?) or large (i.e. the size of a baby elephant). The bread was homemade, and on top of the aforementioned choices was piled tomatoes, a square of cheese, guacamole, a green spicy Chillean paste, and most excitingly GREEN BEANS, which the Spy has never experienced in a sandwich before. Apparently it’s a Chillean thing, and who is the Spy to quibble? There were also the most delicious sweet potato fries in the world, which, in the Spy’s scabby opinion, made the finest chip butty this side of Old Blighty when paired with a torn-off corner of sandwich bread.  

Green beans being applied to the Spy's sandwich monster (L) and the monster with sweet potato fries to keep him company (R). Note that two of the chips have made their way over the the sandwich, and are begging to be made into a chip butty. Begging, I tell you.

Finally, having mooched down the numerous highways and byways of breakfast and lunch, the Spy feels justifiably full enough to skip dinner and move straight to dessert. And in Boston, the holy Mecca of State-side ice cream, what could be more appropriate than a late-night visit to JP Licks (we’re back in Harvard territory now), commonly considered to be the finest purveyor of these sweet, sticky dairy products in town. With a grass-like covering on the walls and tables shaped like the black patches on Holstein dairy cows, there was definitely a bovine theme going on, and the Spy’s head almost exploded from too much choice when he beheld the glorious blackboard behind the counter, chalked up with more flavours and varieties than he ever thought possible. Having sampled oreo cookie dough (divine), mint oreo cookie dough (nearly chocolate chip, but gooier), crunchy butter almond (the flavour of the week), oatmeal cookie frozen yogurt (his favourite; he has had rose-tinted dreams of fluffy bunny love about this one ever since), he plumped for (and, as time goes on, plumped is the word), tiramisu and chocolate chip cookie dough frozen yoghurt flavours. The tiramisu was pretty alcoholic and not much else, but the cookie dough was smooth, creamy and to die for. The Spy plans to start a petition to get a branch of JP Licks in Cambridge, UK; perhaps some sort of Erasmus-style exchange programme? Or an ice cream town-twinning scheme? We could send over our Italian-style gelato (FYI the best can be found in La Margherita on Magdalene Street, while Fitzbillies and Chocolat Chocolat both sell ice cream from the almighty Oddono’s from London in the summer, although the former also does its own scrummy Chelsea bun ice cream…). Anyway, the Spy has sloped off his Spy convention to write this, and must return, before they release the hounds and drag him back by his ever-tightening boxer shorts…

The glorious lists of flavours, complete with grassy wallpaper (L) and a sample pot (R), possibly oreo cookie...

Spotlight: Cafe Balthazar (i.e. New York New York #2)

The sophisticated interior of Cafe Balthazar, complete with sophisticated breakfasting-types.

Continuing in the theme of slinking and slunking from country to country in the name of international espionage and all things grub-related, the Spy feels compelled to pen a brief note about the Soho watering hole at which he enjoyed an excellent breakfast a couple of days ago: Café Balthazar.

Cafe Balthazar, outside and inside: the perfect bolt hole for a bedraggled, rain-soaked Spy.

He had been keen to try this place for a while, having fallen in love with Café Saturnus on the other side of the Atlantic in Stockholm, home to the biggest most kick-ass cinnamon buns in town. (Back in Blighty, the best, gooiest cinnamon buns thus far discovered by the Spy undoubtedly can be found in the Nordic Bakery in Golden Square, London, in which the Spy has actually scheduled work-related meetings with London-based clients so that he might have an excuse to make the train journey down from the boggy fenlands. But he digresses…) 

Cafe Saturnus over in Stockholm, home to the biggest cinnamon buns known to man (L) and frequented by pregnant women (R); possibly a connection there?

In any case, to come to the point, Café Saturnus was apparently modelled on its Stateside counterpart, which is apparent from the website design, if not immediately obvious upon entering either establishment. With its beautiful French décor, art-deco pillars, moulded ceilings and starch-stiff apron-clad waiters and waitresses, Café Balthazar is a perfect place for a weary Spy to chase away the sleep from his (sunglasses-clad) eyes. It also has a sweetly beautiful patisserie-bakery next door so their goodies can be taken away.

View through the window to its lovely little bakery, photo taken when the Spy was peering through like some sort of cake pervert....

And it was here, with that morning’s Guardian newspaper swiped from the table by the entrance (huzzah!), that the Spy finally enjoyed the best coffee and the most delicious fruit scone of his trip (with crunchy chewy oats on top: the Spy will be looking to replicate this inspired move), with a wee pot of Bonne Maman strawberry jam on the side. Bliss.

The spoils of a happy happy Spy.

And on the way back, tramping up Broadway in the rain, and passing through the Flatiron district, he found the sinfully naked Anthony Gormley statues peeping down from the rooftops like a bunch of suicidal nudists. (As in, naked statues by Gormley, not naked statues of Gormley. Though perhaps an idea for his next exhibition?)

   Exhibit A: one extremely wet-looking, glum statue. 

And now for a game of Spot the Naked Statue When Manhattan is Shrouded in an Enormous Rain Cloud... 

Spotlight: New York New York

The towering Empire State Building, hidden ominously in the approaching storm clouds...

The merest sample of what is to come: Stroko's deli from across the street (L), 

and a million choices of smoked, dried and pickled fish in Ess-a-Bagle (R)

Last week, the Spy slunk his slippery sliding way across the Atlantic, and you join him in New York, sitting in Ess-a-Bagel just off 3^rd Avenue and 51^st Street, home to the chewiest, most enormous bagels he has ever snaffled in all his Spy days. During his breakfasts here thus far, he has sampled oat bran, whole wheat, salt and cinnamon raisin, and has come to the conclusion that he is, at heart, an oat bran man with a soft spot for cinnamon raisin. (They were not kidding about the salt on the salt bagel, which formed a thick white crust around the edge like the shores of the Dead Sea, ensuring that the Spy spent most of the day drouthy and dried out like an prune-skinned Egyptian mummy, seeing camel / oasis hallucinations and begging passers-by for water, all with a throbbing headache that comes from having all the water extracted from your brain until it resembles a shrivelled pickled walnut.) His tummy has been a little too delicate for such morning delicacies as gefilte fish or pickled lox, but the happy guzzling going on around him leads him to conclude that the reputation that precedes this fine establishment is not unfounded. All human life is here, and the Spy is already on first name terms with several of the gentlemen working here, largely because, he suspects, of his cut glass tones and James Bond appearance.

 

Oat bran bagel and coffe (L) and a Sunday morning queue that stretched all the way out the door (R) 

Salt bagel, with the vast majority of the salt scraped off. The Spy had not even started on the bottom at this point, which was so thickly salted that the bagel was elevated about 6 inches from the table... 

In town for a Spy Convention, his gastronomic exploration time has been sadly limited, but he has discovered two particularly fine New York pizza establishments (as recommended to him by the security guards on the door where he is based): Mariella’s and Stroko’s, the former being a hole-in-the-wall purveyor of pizzas, and the latter being something more of a deli. In general, the Spy admits that he tends to find the pizza in this part of the world not quite to his taste, being not tomatoey enough and a tad over-cheesey, but he knows he will be instantly struck down for such a comment in a city where you can get everything somewhere, whatever your taste, and so will go no further down this scandalous route. In any case, the Spy’s joy was magnified by the fact that the pizza was free (bought by a Dutch fellow-spy on account of The Saga of the Missing Lunch Salad that took place at a Spy convention in Sweden last year) and consumed in the sun at Columbus Circle at the corner of Central Park, and it doesn’t get much better than that.

 

We had joy, we had fun, we had pizza in the sun...

Well, actually it does, because the Spy is utterly enamoured of the New York deli system, particularly the bit where you can pick from a veritable cornucopia of goodies laid out in silver trays; a wide range of cuisines (dumplings, stir fries, vegetables, pastas, salads, schnitzel, fruit) served in a million ways. Although there are of course famous delis such as 2^nd Ave Deli or Carnegie that the Spy has sampled on previous occasions, the best delis tend to be the one nearest to you and open at 2am, and in the Spy’s opinion, the more low-key the better. His personal favourite is currently the 24hr beauty Azure, (3^rd Ave, 51^st street, just opposite Ess-a-Bagel, bit expensive but good grub), and they also have an upstairs seating area where the Spy can sneakily watch proceedings suspended above the salads and dumplings below. The Spy is in heaven. The Spy is never coming home…

 

Not enough fruit for you, sir? Then please take advantage of our million other humble deli food choices, we insist...  

A small update: the Spy is even more in love with New York's 24 hour delis than ever. Returning at some unsavoury hour from a Sunday-night toddle about town (see below) and ravenous as a vegetarian tiger, he found the aforementioned Azure, lights merrily blazing, a glorious array of food products steaming away and piping hot in their little silver trays. The Spy fell upon them like a gannet; he was sufficiently hungry that he would have dithered and deliberated if asked to pick one dish, but as it was, he could have a spoonful of stirfry, a dollop of dumplings and a portion of pasta, as his whimsy took him. He even fitted half a peach and a couple of grapes on top of the enormous food mountain for dessert, and is now lying feebly on his bed, clutching his rounded belly and licking his lips as the mother of all storms rages outside. Cosy.

  

The life-affirming food mountain, with dessert perched on top...

If there's a good reason for missing dinner, here are a couple:

Rockafeller Center, ice-skaters just out of shot...

Macy's indoor flower show: butterflies in the entrance hall (L), hot air balloon and astonished bystanders (M) and lots of lovely flowers (R), all alive (apart from the butterflies). The scent was extraordinary....

Spotlight: Feast East (and a barbecue)

With a magnifying glass, you can see the smoke rising from the barbecue towards the right-hand side of the picture

On Sunday afternoon, the brightest, most blue-skied day of the year thus far, the Spy found himself in the happy position of nibbling at the world’s most perfect barbecued sausage in the most unorthodox of locations: on the beach at Dunwich with Sizewell Nuclear Power Station looming menacingly above on the clifftops.

Smoky black treacle bacon sizzling away...

In order to discover how he came to be there, his journey must be traced back to the day before, where we find him frolicking at the Feast East food show, held in the hills of Chilford Hall Vineyard. At this annual event, which showcases the best food and drink producers to be found in East Anglia, the Spy found his culinary Valhalla, bouncing from stall to stall like a hyperactive kangaroo sampling the wares. There were (*deep breath*) teas, chilli jams, preserves, cakes, oils, sausages, bacon, honey, fudge, ice creams, vinegars, breads, flavoured coffees, Indian sauces, mulled wine spices, fruit juices, pestoes; the list goes on and on. Vendors were interrogated with a ferocity that would have had lesser men and women quaking in their artisanal boots: how did the rapeseed oil men get the smoke into their oak-smoked variety, what was the white powder covering the sausage, and how did the bakers from near Sutton Hoo develop their replica Anglo-Saxon seed bread? Why on earth was this bacon stickily black, how did the pudding get into the Christmas Pudding ice cream, and why were there hordes of Suffolk pensioners picking olives out in Sicily? No lunch was required, as food samples were constantly pushed into the Spy’s hot, greedy little hand, or, when no samples seemed forthcoming, brazenly demanded and immediately gobbled down. All in the name of research, naturally… The Spy could have left with wares from most of the stalls, but lest his shopping bag explode then and there, he settled for the following: 

1. Black smoked bacon cured with molasses and treacle from Emmett’s of Peasenhall. The stall was run by an extremely sophisticated gentleman whose every pork-product recommendation was prefixed with the instruction to open a bottle of wine. The Spy salutes you, sir.

Bacon bacon bacon...
 

2. Sausages from Musks of Newmarket (holder of four royal warrants dating back to 1907), made with bread rather than rusk (for a smoother texture) and real gut skins (making them melting and tender). The Spy couldn’t resist their siren song after sampling several chipolatas, served piping hot from a hollowed-out trencher of bread (to compliment the bread inside the sausages).

Baby chipolatas in their bread cradle, and the Man from Musks demonstrating the gummy awfulness of synthetic sausage skins

3. Apple, apricot and ginger sausages from the fine men at Woburn Country Foods. There were too many delicious ones to choose from so the Spy settled for the personal favourite of the chap behind the stall (the aforementioned AA&G), which was utterly scrumptious. Demand was great; their lamb and redcurrant variety was instantly sold out, and the Spy bitterly regrets the fact that he did not pick up a packet of their Cumberlands before they too vanished.

Big fat bangers bangers fulfilling their destiny

4. Assorted bread rolls from The Cake Shop in Woodbridge near Sutton Hoo (the Anglo-Saxon burial mounds), including traditional Suffolk varieties and Anglo-Saxon replicas. The Spy fell wildly in love with the grandson of the original founder (gender is no barrier where food is concerned), a tall, gangling fellow with a shock of curly black hair, thick-rimmed glasses and the creator of the best double-chocolate brownies known to man. His mother was every bit as wonderful, and dressed in purple and black, she perfectly matched the dense chocolate and beetroot cake with its bright purple icing. The Spy is in love.

The glorious sample tray (root cake and Polish apple cake), and a selection of wares. Note the Purple Lady just in shot, matching the beetroot cake on the stall
 

5. Olive Oil from Racalia, with olives from Sicily picked by bona fide Suffolk pensioners. If this is geriatric slave labour, then the Spy is all for it.

In the absence of a Racalia picture, the Spy presents a selection of oils displayed at the show: the oak-smoked rapeseed oil (the left-most square on the right-hand picture) was delicious, but so new it wasn't even on sale

6. A naked shortbread piggy (as opposed to an iced piggy, also for sale) from Bury Lane Farm. Their gluten-free cakes are every bit as delicious as their normal products, and their scrumptious scones can be purchased in the Farmers’ Outlet on Lensfield Road.

Lordy lord, a delicious selection of Bury Farm wares, including samples
 

7. Chorizo from the Suffolk Salami Company (worthy winner of two Great Taste gold stars).

    

A veritable cornucopia of East Anglian wares...

The ensuing barbecue at which these products were consumed was quite simply the best barbecue the Spy has ever had the pleasure of attending. And for dessert? Crumpets of course, toasted on the barbecue and spread with the last of the fig jam from Pancake Day. And thus, the great Circle of Life was completed, and the Spy was fed for another day...

Happy little crumpets toasting away (L), and the Spy gets stuck in (R). The scabby Fagin-gloves reveal the horrible truth: a Spy's life might be rich and exciting, but it don't pay so well kids...