What could be more authentically working class than an entire neighbourhood named after a beer? Seefhoek has kept its gritty character against the forces  of gentrification decades after Seef, its iconic foaming raison d’etre, was consigned to oblivion. 

Like the 100 or more Antwerp breweries that once made it or a similar beer. The recipe apparently lost. Few folk alive who could even recall its actual taste. Enter the self-styled Indiana Jones of fermentation reclamation – one Johan Van Dyck. 

On our recent trip to the Flemish city we never made it to Seehoek, described by one guide as a labyrinthine enclave. For generations a redoubt for the Roma people, it’s a cultural melting pot with over 100 nationalities represented. Next visit we’ll check it out.

Instead, this time, 2.5km to the north on Eilandje, a former dockland site, we sought out Antwerpse Brouw Compagnie (Antwerp Brewing Company) and the visionary brewer who brought the eponymous Seef back to life. It’s an amazing story. Told, as it should be, across an enjoyable tasting flight in the taproom. Our slight unease about making it back to Brussels for the flight home assuaged by the quality of the ABC beer range. 

For too long De Koninck held the monopoly as the Antwerp brew, with its characteristic bolleke glass. Nowadays it comes under the umbrella of Duvel Moortgat, where Johan used to be marketing director before quitting to set up his own brewery on the back of three years of Seef research. 

His true brewing idol, though, is there for all to see on a display in the taproom – the legendary Pierre Celis, a milkman who single-handedly revived Belgium’s traditional witbier (cloudy white beer) style in the Sixties, naming it after his village, Hoegaarden. He later moved to Colorado to help kick-start the American craft beer movement. Johan brewed under Pierre before his death in 2011. 

There are similarities in the rebirth of Seef. The 6,5 per cent Belgian blonde we taste has similar hints of coriander, maybe clove, and a (lighter) cloudiness but other attributes that are all its own. Some spice, floral hoppiness and a hint of banana and tropical fruits. Is this how it tasted originally in its 19th century heyday with different yeasts? The buckwheat base remains the same, rather than the barley of its rivals.

Seef dates back to the 1700s. It is easy to forget that the distinctive amber ale that is De Koninck’s signature brew only rose to prominence in the 1930s. By then the First World War and the conquering Germans’ thirst for Pils and pillaging of brewing equipment had killed off Seef production. Any scientific records seemingly vanished also.

Which left Antwerp native Johan, who had stumbled upon Seef – the ‘Champagne of the Working Class – in a book about Antwerp’s important brewing history, with a mammoth task on his hands. Cue tracking down descendants of families who owned breweries before the War.

Eventually, Eureka, the Holy Grail. He found an 90-year-old brewer who had saved his original hand-written Seef recipe. Johan’s Indiana Jones-like persistence had paid off.

Now came the leap of faith to be able to replicate it with modern equipment. In one interview he recalls: “I had two major challenges. The first was yeast – I did know what characteristics were needed for the correct fermentation and aromas, but the exact yeast was obviously not included in the recipe. The second was the process: the recipe I found was a practical description from the late 1800s. As a brewer I needed the actual values of temperature, the speed at which the brewhouse heats the mash, etc., because all of this impacts flavours and aromas.”

To his rescue came the University of Leuwen’s faculty of brewing chemists, who held in their vaults the historical Antwerp yeast used in 1900s beer-making. It gave him the green light in 2011 to start his first brewing trials on an old colleague’s equipment. The result  soon began to win multiple awards, eventually encouraging Johan and his partner Karen Follens to crowdfund today’s brewery and taproom just a 10 minute walk from the rusty red bastion of reinvented Antwerp, MAS (Museum aan de Stroom). Well worth a visit for its exhibitions, not just the stupendous views.

We loved the unique Seef (which Johan has trademarked), but it it is only part of an impressive beer roster encompassing a Radio Minerva, a 7 per cent Tripel created to champion an endangered local radio station, Lucie, a tea-infused 8 per cent blond, and the very quaffable, tropical Eilandje. But the stand-out was the Bootjes Bier, a tribute to the historic Red Star Line. Its museum in the original HQ is just a short walk away and vividly evokes the part their liners played in transatlantic emigration. 

Refined with ginger and coriander, this complex Flemish red ale is very Belgian; a fresh hop pale Johan poured from the tank felt very American Craft. Antwerp has always faced out to neew worlds.

Antwerpse Brouw Compagnie, Indiëstraat 21, 2000 Antwerpen, Belgium. Some pictures courtesy of the brewery

Sit yourself down in the Great Hall and listen to a dream I had. In it I am sitting on the high throne of Oswald, King of Northumbria in its 7th century golden age. In my hand is a green glass claw beaker that is two centuries older. I am sipping mellow Tacnbora whisky; it signifies ‘standard bearer’ and is a taste of things to come at Ad Gefrin, Brittonic for ‘By the Hill of Goats”.

The Northumbrian hierarchy, who built this summer palace in a place now known as Yeavering, fed off portentous dreams. These foretold the Vikings sailing in to ravage their region. You know, the sacking of Lindisfarne, then the monks, who fled with the body of their bishop, St Cuthbert, and eventually founded Durham, in whose cathedral he lies. Such a rich history in this corner of North East England.

Now my dream dissolves, though the taste of Tacnbora lingers long. It is a blend of Scottish and Irish whiskies that is holding the fort while the Ad Gefrin (pronounced ad-jef-rin) brand’s own single malts come on stream. An ‘usquebaugh’ to usurp the traditional monopoly in these isles of the Scots versions.

Why Ad Gefrin holds a mirror to Northumbrian history

Fascinatingly this family-run fledgling distillery in Wooler, which opened in 2023, has its own Anglo-Saxon Museum/Visitor Experience attached and the throne is just a re-enactment prop; the beaker is on show here but there’s no way I’d be allowed to drink from the fragile ancient object which is on long-term loan from the British Museum.

The presence of this and other artefacts, some from the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, is a triumph for museum director Chris Ferguson, a member of the family and an Oxford Archaeology DPhil. From the moment you enter the atrium foyer you are hit with a special timeless feel. Dressing up in Anglo-Saxon gear is not compulsory, mind.

The symbiosis of history and a spirit crafted from local grains and pure water is quite deliberate. The goat logo over the state-of-the-art premises links with the Venerable Bede chronicling the 7th century practice of a king being accompanied by a standard bearer carrying a staff crowned with a goat’s head,

Wooler, ’Gateway to the Cheviot Hills’ and on the St Cuthbert Way trail, lies just four miles from the Great Hall/Summer Palace site first discovered from the air in 1949.

The beaker comes from further afield and is a story in its own right. It is of delicate  greenish-blue glass, possibly recycled from Roman shards, with a double row of pincered decorated claws reinforcing it. It stands some 20cm high with a 40cl capacity. Imported from Frankish glass-makers and unique in the UK, it is undoubtedly a luxury object, certifying the status of the figure, in whose coffin it was found. This was back in 1775 at Castle Eden in Co. Durham.

(Apparently, you can live the dream. There is a UK firm that has replicas of the beaker made in the Czech Republic)

Being a words man, my favourite part of the Anglo-Saxon visitor experience was displays of kennings. These two-word phrases are most prominent in the epic poem Beowulf, but cropped up in humbler settings. The sea is the whale-road, warriors are shield-holders, wael-stow means slaughter place (battlefield). Speech itself is word-hord. Visitor-friendly does not have the same ring.

You don’t have to join Ad Gefrin’s ‘Corenkyn’ roster of members to get at a taste of this hugely ambitious project, built on the site of a derelict haulage yard. Take a tour and an informative tasting. The on-site food is excellent, too. Don’t neglect first to visit the museum and if the historical urge really is upon you book an off-grid whisky walk in the Cheviot uplands to see the crannies where moonshine distillers of the past such as Black Rory plied their rot-gut trade back in the 18th century. 

Contrast with the sophisticated equipment in the hands of head distiller Ben Murphy and his access to superior raw materials – Diablo barley, grown within 20 miles and malted in Berwick-upon-Tweed. Ad Gefrin’s own borehole provides the pure water needed. The hand-picked casks come from much further afield. Core maturation will occur in ex-Bourbon and ex-Oloroso barriques and, innovatively, in new Normandy oak hogsheads. Sauternes and Amarone barrels also feature. 

Serious stuff as well as a great day out. It is an hour’s drive north from Newcastle upon Tyne. If you’re tasting, sort a designated driver!

Sanjeev Kapoor, now in his sixties, is the subcontinent’s celebrity chef incarnate. The Mumbai-based telly star’s Mastering The Art of Indian Cooking is one of my go-to-guides to that vast country’s myriad regional cuisines. So, confronted with the new Dishoom Leeds Malvani Lamb special, I consulted the guru. 

He shares several recipes from the Konkan Coast around Malvan town, 300 miles south of the Maharastran capital, once known as Bombay. In context, no distance really; the state is bigger than the entire UK. Malvani Shrimp Fry, Fish Curry, Chicken Hirwa Masala and bone-in Lamb (or Goat) all share the coconut and souring agents such as tamarind and kokum to be found in Goan cuisine even further south. Given the location, seafood I expected; lamb less so.

The Leeds Dishoom version follows the template of a fragrant blend of dried red chillies and spices, ample ginger, onion and garlic. The gravy is infused with roasted coconut, cardamom, chillies, turmeric and pippali pepper. Surprisingly fiery. The upmarket casual dining brand has policy of introducing a unique special for each of its launches. At the time of writing it now operates 11 cafes and four spin-off Permit Room bars across the UK.

All are inspired by the Irani cafes in South Bombay that catered for the Parsi Zoroastrian community, long ago exiled from their native Persia. It is a colourful but dwindling culture and in truth none of the originals can ever have looked as smart as this Dishoom that opened on August 14. It is definitely the hottest ticket in town.

The immaculate re-fit, alongside the Victoria Quarter features cosy leather booths for families and groups to settle into, alongside a wooden bar at the heart of the restaurant. Vintage decorative lights, sourced from the mother city and lovingly restored, sit alongside bespoke lighting throughout the café, casting a warm glow that evolves from breakfast through to late evening. 

Start off with a bacon naan at brekkie, tuck into a Ruby Murray and house black dal at lunch and as dusk falls take every advantage of the Permit Room bar’s delights, culminating in a Samir’s Vice cocktail marrying tart pineapple and sweet strawberry with tropical Takamaka Seychelles Rum Blanc, fat-washed in coconut milk and dashed with cardamom bitters.You need never leave.

That was my inclination on our preview visit. This Dishoom doesn’t have the advantage of the Manchester version’s epic Victorian premises; indeed its defining style is Art Deco more redolent of Thirties Bombay. But it immediately shares the same vibrancy and has a story all of its own. 

Co-founders Shamil and Kavi Thakrar, who opened the original in London in 2010, have hd fun creating a myth for each subsequent Dishoom. Here it’s some shaggy dog tale from war-time Bombay (then a bastion of the British Empire) based upon the explosion on board the SS Fort Stikine in Bombay Dock in April 1944, which sent gold bars flying across the city. Legend has it that some of the missing gold was never recovered.

Dishoom Leeds reimagines the fortune made from the gold bars and glamorous mid-century details abound through  both interiors and artwork. Guests can read the full story on Dishoom Leeds’ website here.

The disaster is referenced in The House Rules emblazoned on the wall of the first floor main dining room dining hall: “No stealing gold bar”. As in other Dishooms the rest of these quirky admonitions are geared to the city they are in. Such as “No exchanging corn for meals” – a charming tidbit from Leeds’ history, where hungry patrons would once barter corn for their supper. 

The all-day dining roster (which does include a toothsome grilled corn cob doused with chilli butter) is fixed on Bombay comfort food inspired by the city’s cafés, grills, street stalls and family kitchens. But is also strays across the rest of the subcontinent.

Witness that slow-cooked Malvani Lamb. Accompanying is golden laccha paratha, flaky and ghee-rich, for dipping and a sharp onion salad. As always at Dishoom don’t ignore the sides. They are some of the best things on the menu – old faves such as the house chaat (fried sweet potato covered with cool yoghurt, pomegranate, beetroot, radish and carrot plus a tamarind drizzle and green chutney) and, of course, Dishoom’s legendary signature dish – black dal simmered for over 24 hours. New to me was a side of warm aubergine chutney, addictively sweet and sour.

To accompany, we had to try Kohra IPA, made specially for Dishoom by Leeds craft beer maestros Northern Monk, built to handle spicy food. I was more than happy with a Dishoom Margarita (aim for the smoky mescal variation)

A sign of the times, there’s a great non and lo drinks offering, even beyond Indian staples such as sharbats and lassis.

Dishoom, 68-78 Vicar Lane, Leeds, LS1 7JH.  It is mostly a walk-in café, with guests welcome anytime. Reservations will be available for breakfast and lunch, with limited evening bookings available from 6pm.

Flavours of home – a Maharashtran diversion

At The Guild of Food Writers Awards 2026 the International or Regional Cookery Book Award went to Indian Kitchens: Treasured Family Recipes From Across the Land by Roopa Gulati (Bloomsbury, £26). The Fortnum & Mason Awards judges went one further and named it their Cookbook of the Year. It is a wonderfully evocative exploration of diversity in food and in culture as seen “from the home front”

Take the Jewish community of Alibag. Roopa’s chapter on Maharastra takes her to this ferry port an hour south of Mumbai, where she meets Yael and Ralphy Jhirad for lunch. The Children of Israel, their Jewish community, here and in Mumbai, has been in India for 2,000 years after fleeing persecution. In recent decades many of its number have migrated to Israel, leaving just 5,000. In contrast to the Parsis, who number 60,000. 

The Jhirads follow kosher rules in dietary strictures and observing the Shabat. During Passover food made from fermented grains and pulses is not allowed and processed foods such as dried spices are forbidden, unless certified as kosher. Quite at odds with the pillars of Indian cookery? No tart-tasting tamarind or cooking, so Yael compensates  by adding lime juice, tomatoes or green mangoes.

This ground-breaking book (from an author brought up in Cumbria) and restaurants such as Dishoom unlock a whole world of Indian cooking that is a far remove from the curry house staples of yore. The Dishoom cookbook (Bloomsbury, £26) is a gloriously produced, food-led exploration of the the topography of Bombay, but for a more intensive dive into the specific cuisine that inspired that tome try Farokh Talati’s equally evocative Parsi – from Persia to Bombay (same publisher, same price).

Talati’s ‘day job’ is running St John Bread and Wine in London’s East End, but has promoted his take on Parsi cuisine in supper clubs, including one at Maison Bertaux, Soho’s legendary French cafe. The world surely is a melting pot.

One of the delights of our recent trip to Bologna was emerging from our apartment one Sunday morning in search of coffee to find a buzzing organic market on our doorstep. Just 12 hours earlier the Piazza Aldrovandi  had been swarming with carousing students; now it was celebrating the equally vibrant food culture of the Emilia Romagna region.

On a dairy stall we encountered a tub of Squacquerone. Surely this was the tangy soft cheese layered with prosciutto di parma and arugula (rocket) on the piadina flatbread we had snacked on in the Quadrilatero gastronomic quarter? A purchase and post-coffee tasting confirmed it

Squacquerone di Romagna is a wobblier more spreadable version of the Lombard soft cheese stracchino, matured for a maximum four days, often less. 

It has PDO status, exclusively produced in a well defined area between the Ravenna, Cesena, Rimini, Bologna and Ferrara provinces, and between 64 Porrettana trunk road and Po river. Four cattle breeds, including Frisona Italiana (Friesian) provide the rich milk, the native lactic enzymes joined by natural whey starter, veal rennet and salt. Result: the final product, shaped by the molds, it is poured into, is slightly sourish from brining, but also delicately herbaceous. 

Under my radar till Bologna and I’m now trying to source it in the UK. Perhaps like the Lambrusco wine that accompanies it so well, it doesn’t travel well.

Summer – time for chilled soup? Not same old Gazpacho or Vichyssoise, mind. Both of which I can at least pronounce. Unlike Šaltibarščiai, Lithuania’s legendary ‘Pink Soup’, whose annual festival drew a record 176,000 visitors to the capital Vilnius the other weekend. I wish I could have joined them. Maybe next year. Meanwhile I’m making my own. Simple recipe later.

Basically it’s a Borsch, the bright hue coming from its beetroot base. Other Baltic and Slavic states boast their own takes on such a refreshing chilled potage. The Poles call it Barszcz or Chlodnik, the Russians Svekolnik (the Ukrainians don’t).

Borscht, the hot variety I conjure up through the year, benefits from a rich meat stock, whereas Šaltibarščiai folds diced beetroot, spring onions and cucumber into Kefir, that fermented milk drInk created by lactic acid bacteria and yeasts that thrive at room temperature. Yes, it’s probiotic and good for your gut.

Ever since I witnessed the great Jonathan Meades – in one of his Magnetic North BBC documentaries – visit the Hill of 100,000 Crosses in the north of Lithuania, a  pilgrimage site and symbol of resistance against Russian occupation. I’ve been hooked on its history. The country’s pagan heritage, too. Known as “Europe’s last pagan kingdom,” Lithuania was the last nation in Europe to officially convert to Christianity in 1387.

Surprisingly Vilnius offers a riot of ‘wedding cake’ Baroque churches, which every late May play second fiddle to a mass of folk in bright pink costume slurping ice-cold soup

This year around 35,000 visitors from abroad were able to participate in the Pink Parade held on water, the signature costume competition, a giant four-storey tall pink slide, and culinary interpretations spread throughout the city. The sheer scale was reflected in 355 mapped locations offering šaltibarščiai-themed food, activities and events, culminating in the Best Pink Soup Costume Contest. The ‘traditional egg topping’ is on my garb bucket list.

Food trucks stationed around the White Bridge epicentre of the Pink Soup Festiavl used more than 4 tonnes of kefir, which was the main ingredient for almost 6.5 tonnes of šaltibarščiai devoured across the weekend. 

Nearly 16,000 people dressed in pink took part in the 10.5 km IKI Pink Soup Walking Competition across the city alongside more than 600 pets. Later, participants exchanged their steps for almost 50,000 fruits, and other ingredients used to make Lithuania’s iconic cold soup, including 4,000 cucumbers, 2,000 beets, and 4,000 bundles of dill.

• The 2027 edition of Vilnius Pink Soup Fest, the fifth, will take place on May 28–30, returning to its traditional last-weekend-of-May slot, and symbolising the beginning of summer season in Lithuania.

How to make Lithuanian Šaltibarščiai

first of all I consulted my Baltic food bible, Amber and Rye (Murdoch Books, £25) by Zuza Zak.She refines the recipe by creating an add-on fermented beetroot elixir, which I might use another time but had no patience to wait the five days it would take to bubble up. So here’s a simpler take on this classic dish that I Googled…

It supposedly serves four, but is ample for six. Spoiler alert: be careful with your colourful beet dicing. I splattered my chinos.

Ingredients

1kg kefir

200g beets, boiled or marinated

200g fresh cucumbers

six spring onions chopped

a pinch of fresh dill

2 eggs

salt, to taste

For serving

400g potatoes, boiled

dill, chopped, to taste

Method

Finely chop the vegetables and dill. Mix them all in a large bowl. Pour the kefir over the vegetables, flavour with salt according to taste, mix and let stand for several minutes (the longer the mixed vegetables stand, the tastier it will turn out).

Pour the soup into bowls, cut the boiled egg in pieces into the bowls. The cold soup is served with dill-speckled hot boiled potatoes on the side.

 

It was the unlikeliest bonding in cinema history. Danny de Vito and Arnold Schwarzenegger teaming up as Twins in the 1988 movie. It ought to have been boloney, but retains an easily digestible charm. Unlike the US sausage of that name that is a pallid, industrial copy of true Bologna sausage – the sacred Mortadella.

Bologna, of course, is Mortadella Centrale, Italy’s food capital. Inside the trattoria, Drogheria della Rosa, it appears I am  in the realm of Hollywood legends, too. Read the clippings. Drogheria devotee Arnie’s tip-off led to dinner visits from Danny and later Francis Ford Coppola.

But this converted pharmacy is no obvious celeb haunt. Indeed founder Emanuele Addone (above) takes centre stage. His “You’ll enjoy this  Montepulciano d’Abruzzo with your osso buco and vitello tonnato” is an offer we can’t refuse. Still, this is a benign Godfather. The whole experience radiates warmth. Under Emanuele’s twinkly but watchful eye service for our dinner is super-efficient. It all belies the cluttered, offbeat setting, featuring shelves of the original apothecary’s bottles.

The menu feels a step away from the rigid Cucina Bolognese template that dominates around the Piazza Maggiore and deep into the heart of the city’s gastronomic quarter, the Quadrilatero. 

Not that you’re likely to be disappointed by the pasta on offer in most places. It’s a spectator sport to see the sheets being rolled out in pasta shop windows. Just don’t expect spaghetti with your bolognese ragu. They are strict about pairings; it has to be fresh tagliatelle, which holds the sauce better. 

Even more seriously, there is specific legislation about the dimensions of each pasta type and we discovered tradition demands (mostly ignored) that the Emilia Romagne classic lasagne be only served on Sunday.

At the Drogheria my pasta course  was the archetypal Tortellini in Brodo, where hand-rolled tiny pasta parcels are simmered and served in a clear chicken and beef broth. The best fillings combine pork loin, prosciutto, mortadella, and Parmesan. 

Make your mind up about the legend behind its creation. After a battle the gods Jupiter and Venus retired to a country inn between Bologna and Modena (where balsamic vinegar comes from). The innkeeper spied on the goddess of love through a keyhole. All he could see was her navel. In his infatuation, he sculpted a pasta replica.

Confession, I prefer the larger Tortelloni encasing perhaps spinach or pumpkin. The Montepulciano, by the way, was an inspired accompaniment at just 25 euros.

Earlier in the day, whisked in by the monorail from the airport, we had undergone everyone’ds Bologna wine initiation – a visit to the Osteria del Sole in the Quadrilatero. The selling point of this 15th century tavern haven on the Vicolo del Ranocchi is good affordable vino to wash down food you can bring in without charge. It certainly hides its light sotto un moggio (under a bushel); twice we had walked past. Saturday lunchtime, so it was heaving.

To share we took the Emila Romagna region’s favourite flatbread, piadina, packed with prosciutto di parma, the soft cheese squacquerone and arugula (rocket), and sank tumblers of local Lambrusco and Pignoletto, each lightly frizzante.

Around the corner you’ll find the Mercato di Mezzo (the Middle Market), which dates back to the Middle Ages and was transformed into the city’s first covered market after Italian Unification. These days it operates as an eating-in exhibition space.

I much preferred the less touristy Mercato delle Erbe along the Via Ugo Bassi, which lives up to the greenery in its name. Altro is its own collection of eateries, the pick of which is Banco 32, a vibrant seafood bar attached to that rare Bologna animal (sic) a fishmonger. 

Still Bologna’s best known food stores are in the Quadrilatero and charcuterie and cheese rule the roost. Swanky Tamburini, with its own cafe, is the most high profile, but Salumeria Simoni is certainly the mortadella mecca, even hosting its own food tours to explain the superiority of mortadella tradizione.

Yes, even the Italians can pass off sub-standard, Spamlike versions. At its best it lives up to the 16th century version documented by Bartolomeo Scappi, personal chef to Pope Pius V, and writer of groundbreaking cookbook Opera. His mortadella method involved finely chopping lean pork and fat with two knives rather than grinding, and seasoning subtly with spices to create a delicate, cooked sausage, wrapped in caul. Pale pink, it should be laced with bright gleaming spots of fat.

No wonder one of the nicknames for Bologna is La Grassa (The Fat). The others are La Rossa, for both its communist leanings and terracotta red rooftops, and La Dotta or The Learned because the city’s university is the oldest in the Western world.

The need to house the students led to the expansion of residential space and so the construction of the 40km of porticoes in the city centre alone. It rained on and off during or stay, so were were more than grateful for these distinctive covered walkways.

The are particularly attractive around the angular Piazzo Santo Stefano, home to my number one must-see in Bologna – the labyrinthine complex of medieval churches, cloisters and crypts named after that saint. It originally consisted of seven churches. Four remain and they are the very definition of ‘hallowed spot”. It’s such a contrast contrast to the monumental Cattedrale di San Pietro and Basicilica di San Petronio. In Pilate’s Courtyard, see if you can spot in its alcove the 16th century ‘Crowing Rooster of St Peter’.

Once you’ve got the taste for porticoes, it’s worth making the pilgrimage to the 18th century Santuario della Madonna di San Luca, a pink Baroque basilica on a hill top 10km south west of the city. It is a fair walk out before you test your calves ascending the world’s longest portico – 3.8km uphill all the way under 660 Unesco-protected arches. If you’re not up to it, there is a little tourist train. You’ll be met by a grand view across the city to the distant Apennines. 

Our reward for our own strenuous  efforts was a late Sunday lunch back in town at the Trattoria da Me. Michelin-mentioned, with a new generation in the kitchen, its food is decidedly more contemporary, but it still honours lasagne as a Sabbath special. So that was our starter and its light layers and textures were a revelation.

En route from Santuario, we had stopped off for an IPA at another beacon of new wave Bologna. Self-styled ‘independent and rebel bakery’ Forno Brisa, has five outlets, offering their own sourdough, cutting edge coffee and a very un-Bolognalike vibe. Ditto Il Punto, the city’s best birra artigianali pub. Excellent craft pours in a heavy rock ambience, five minutes walk from the Trattoria da Me. You have to venture further out to sample the wood-aged wild ales and sours at the Ca’ del Brado taproom.

We were staying on the fringe of the beautiful Piazza Aldrovandi, just beyond the night-time hubbub of this cluster of al fresco bars and street food. Buzziest spot, another crack in the bulwark of trad Bologna, the Ragū & Draft kiosk, combining the city’s signature meat sauce in buns or on tagliatelle with draught cocktails. Walk north from here up the Via Giuseppe Petroni and in 10 minutes you’ll experience a very different cocktail setting. At aperitivo hour where better to sip your negroni than  Le Stanze, inside the vaulted former chapel of the Palazzo Bentivoglio? Pull up a bar stool against a backdrop of faded 17th frescoes.

In complete contrast is the bar of the art house Cinema Modernissmo. Originally  it was an underground theatre of a medieval palace that was demolished in the early 20th century. The cinema it became finally closed in 2007, but with the backing of Martin Scorsese reopened three years ago and it is a glorious city centre bolthole. After exploring a free exhibition on the great French director Agnes Varda we each sipped a sbagliatio. One plus of viewing a film (a portion of which are in English with Italian subtitles) are the food boxes, which could include tortellini – naturally.

Step outside onto the Via Rizzoli and turn your head right. Ahead of you lie the Asinelli and Garisenda towers, currently closed to the public, but enduring symbols of this city full of surprises. 

La Grassa, La Rossa, La Dotta, Las Sorpresa.

 

Pottage is a lovely word, summoning up a comfort dish to ward off the bleak  February chill. Maybe one caveat re this perennial thick stew comes from the Danish proverb: “One ill weed mars a whole pot of pottage.” Reassuringly, winter is not conducive to foraging, so usual suspects spinach, carrots and courgettes have been chosen to flesh out this Pottage of Roveja. Plus a Swiss-Italian buckwheat ribbon pasta called Pizzoccheri, which I first encountered last year on a visit to the Poschiavo Valley.

As I open my 250g pack of Roveja, an ancient pea variety, cultivated almost exclusively and on a tiny scale in the Umbrian mountains, south of Perugia, I am struck by its lentilness in the round. Dark green to brown, it fits that legume bill, but will need a lot longer soaking – 24 hours and more. Is it the ancestor of the modern pea or a separate species? The jury’s out. I just know that simmering if for a few hours produces a beguiling, earthy stock for the soup/stew.

It’s a debut in my kitchen for one of nature’s great survivors, brought back from near extinction after being spotted growing feral in a ditch. Imported from the Middle East in Neolithic times, Rovejab goes goes under varied names across Italy – notavly pisello selvatico or pisello dei campi o robiglio, roveggia, roveglia or corbello.  Its niche resurgence is down to being adopted in 2006 by the Slow Food Presidium, champions of small traditional producers.

They don’t come much more traditional than the good folk around Civita di Cascia  and Valnerina in the Sibillini Mountains.  All cultivating, weeding and harvesting is done by hand. Nutritional scientists laud it as a legume rich in fibre, proteins, phosphorus, potassium and vitamin B1, yet free from fats and gluten. 

Once it was a staple in the diet of herders and farmers. The beans are grown at altitudes between 600 and 1,200m, planted in March and harvested in the middle of the summer, to be dried out for all-year consumption. Harvesting is a laborious challenge. Combine harvesters can’t be used because the long stalks lie flat on the earth, so the plants must still be scythed manually. 

Besides soups, Roveja can make a fine side, flavoured with crisped guanciale and grated pecorino. Very Italian, then grains can also be ground into flour to make a polenta typically seasoned with anchovies, garlic and olive oil. 

I was happy with the pottage l made from the dried dried peas sourced from my favourite Italian supplier, the Ham and Cheese Company of Bermondsey.

1976. Up in Dry Creek Valley, Zinfandel heartland of Sonoma County, Joel Peterson was picking for his first solo foray into crafting that stalwart Californian red. A lightning storm drenched the 29-year-old amateur winemaker as he hoisted 50lb tubs of grapes into his truck while two ravens harassed him from a nearby tree. And thereby hangs an epiphany. 

Let Zinfandel chronicler David Darlington take up the story in his Angels’ Visits (1991): “At the time Joel was reading Sir Walter Scott’s The Bride of Lammermuir, a gothic novel whose hero, Lord Ravenswood, falls off a bridge and drowns in quicksand while coming to the rescue of his sweetheart.

“Under the circumstances it seemed to Joel that such a plot might also describe the start of a small winery. As he drove away… the setting sun squeezed beneath the clouds, igniting the landscape a surreal orange and painting two rainbows on the charcoal sky. In Joel’s mind Sir Walter Scott receded and Native Americans appeared as he recalled an Indian legend wherein man is discovered in a pod, and is instructed in the arts of survival by a raven.”

Ravenswood – Gothic birth of an iconic producer

Joel Peterson is a great survivor himself. The gestation of his Ravenswood brand might sound fuelled by waccy backy – this was seventies California after all – but Joel’s ‘drug of choice’ was always a certain heady, tannic red made from the State’s bedrock grape. Zinfandel is a thin-skinned, small grape which means less skin-to-juice ratio, so potentially higher tannins. It is also  notorious for uneven ripening, so bunches have to be left on the vine to ripen fully. This leads to high sugar in the berries, which makes for high-alcohol wines. Hence a now discredited trend for late harvest Zins, dry and sweet.

Peterson never went down that route. 600 cases were made from that initial harvest. After which he became a gypsy winemaker around the area until he eventually could create a winery of his own. His pride and joy were the single vineyard Zins he made, lauded by the likes of Robert Parker. The plan was for small open top, redwood fermenters, hand punch downs, extended macerations, native yeast, gentle transfer, minimal processing and small French oak aging – all done by hand. European with a Californian twist.

But he admits in the book that their ‘Chateau Cash Flow’ was the generic Ravenswood Vintners Blend, the cheaper early release version. Launched in 1983, annual production neared one million cases, at one point, making it the world’s  bestselling red Zinfandel. You’d find it in Morrisons and Tesco, maybe still can.  Dwarfed, though, by the big guns who dug a gold mine in creating White Zinfandel Blush. But that’s a whole other story.

Ravenswood itself was engulfed by drinks behemoths. first Constellation Brands and then on to Gallo (California-based, it’s the largest wine producer by volume on the planet). Ravenswood then went into limbo and Peterson founded a new boutique winery, Once & Future, to recapture the magic of Zinfandel, and his son, Morgan Twain-Peterson, became a Master of Wine with his own highly regarded winery, Bedrock Wine Co.

Serendipity that led me back to top-end Zinfandel

So is it a case of the Zinfandel Empire fights back? Ironically Gallo have resurrected Ravenswood as a fine Zinfandel with an initial annual production of 6,000 cases with Peterson as consultant. For his own project he remains an inveterate searcher out of off-the-radar old vine parcels. Hence the Wine Society bottle I’m about to sample. This latest example of their flagship ‘Exhibition’ range is the result of an abundant 2024 vintage leaving Peterson with more Zinfandel than usual. 

This bespoke blend lives up to its Society tasting notes: “With an average vine age of over 80 years, this full-flavoured, vibrant Zinfandel has a rich cherry, plum and blackberry perfume, bright acidity with rich soft tannins, and an evolving long finish. Made in small open top fermenters, and aged in about 10 per cent new oak the resulting wine has great balance and generosity.”

So quite a step up from the Vintners Blend. Beautifully balanced, it still weighs in at nearly 15 per cent ABV, but it wears the alcohol lightly. It proved a perfect accompaniment to a hot game pie. Serendipity? The special offer (£16) came into my e-mail box just the day after Angels’ Visits dropped through the letter box. I’d bought the book on a whim after it was extolled in the Substack of one of my favourite wine writers. Anyone who shares a podcast (Intoxicating History) with Tom Parker Bowles must be posh but Henry Jeffreys is a sharp and streetwise advocate of all things grape.

Grape rivals – Ridge Vineyards versus Ravenswood

I was captivated by Angels’ Visits because it tells stories of individual, very individual, Californian winemakers who have championed the Big Zin since the Sixties… and their vastly contrasting wine styles.. Essentially, though, it centres on Peterson’s Ravenswood and arch rivals, in the Santa Cruz Mountains (main picture) south of San Francisco, Ridge Vineyards. Their Zinfandels under well-travelled philosopher winemaker Paul Ridge aimed for a Bordeaux-style elegance over power. Matching its signature wine, the Monte Bello Cabernet Sauvignon. Draper, who turns 90 in March, has long been Emeritus.but his cerebral approach remains under the hands-off ownership of a Japanese pharmaceutical giant.

Last year I tasted half a dozen Ridge wines at a Berkmann Cellars trade event in Manchester – Zinfandels from their Lytton Springs and Geyserville particularly captivating, if just a mite polite. Angels’ Visits author Darlington does stray into  Jungian parlance of Apollo versus Dionysus. I see where he is coming from. His historical research into how Zinfandel wound up in the Golden State is more plodding. The jury really is out on whether it is the same grape as  – or a close relative of – the similarly thick-skinned Primitivo of Puglia in Italy.

He does debunk the once accepted theory that it came from Hungary or Croatia  via the colourful founder of Buena Vista winery, California’s first, dating back to 1857. Colonel Agoston Haraszthy’s portrait still hangs in their Sonoma base. The grape was also, quite boringly, believed to have originally been a table grape in New England.

When Haraszthy went bust he hopped off to Nicaragua to make spirits from sugar and met a bizarre end. Over to Angels’ Visits again: “On July 6. 1869 he went to meet a business associate on the banks of a Nicaraguan river. He never returned. His footprints were found leading to a tree whose limbs reached across the river: 

one of th/e branches, broken off in the middle, was presumed to have snapped as Haraszthy tried to cross on it.

“A few days earlier at the same spot a crocodile  had killed a cow, and to this day Agoston Haraszthy is assumed to have followed the unlucky bovine into the jaws of oblivion.”

Christmas morning and my main present is an electric meat grinder with sausage-making attachments. It has me salivating, but there’s a bronze turkey to be roasted, Gran Reserva Rioja to be uncorked and, among other parlour games, The King’s Speech to be avoided, so road-testing my gadget just has to wait.

Not for long, mind. Before 2026 with its many scary portents clocks in I will have produced some exemplary Merguez sausages using natural casings and lamb shoulder bought locally and the finest Tunisian harissa to be sourced in the UK. 

A surprising triumph, but now I’ve now assembled the ingredients to tackle making a more divisive banger. Will I have the nerve to recreate a Catalan speciality I first tasted in Girona? The Botifarra Dolça is a sausage but not as we know it. First up, it is disconcertingly sweet. Down to the presence of sugar and cinnamon in the pork filling. Fittingly, it is offered to me with a slice of caramelised apple from a stall in the city’s El Mercat del Lleó. 

I had been expecting to sample the other, savoury, versions of this Catalan rival to Spain’s ubiquitous chorizo, differing primarily through the absence of pimenton. The basic Botifarra Blanca is a coarse textured, white sausage, seasoned with salt and pepper, sometimes enriched with egg, the Negra a blood sausage and the Botifarra de Perol contains offal. But I get the Dolça. It tastes like a combination of mince pie and pork pie. A Marmite moment? Maybe.

My sugar rush along the streets of Girona

As it turns out, it is the sweetest local speciality I encounter during  a morning’s sugar rush courtesy of my Girona Food Tour. It started with my introduction to the Xiuxo. It’s the Catalan cousin of the churro but more luscious – a deep-fried, sugar-coated, viennoiserie cylinder filled with crema catalana (custard). It dates back to the 1920s and the Casamoner bakery chain is a good place to sample it.

Across the Carrer de Santa Clara there’s further sweet temptation from the Rocambolesc Gelateria. Think an ice cream-led spin-off of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, harvesting the creativity of a three Michelin star pastry chef. 

Hugely popular, it launched over a decade ago at the time when founder Joan Roca and his elder brothers Jordi and Josep saw their En Celler San Roca twice named World’s Best Restaurant. Quite a contrast Rocambolesc’s cartoonish backdrop for a riotous assembly of toppings for their soft-serve ices. Despite the day-glo all ingredients are natural. The fun element ramps up with the popsicles, where 3D moulds are used to make fantastical creations. Who fancies a polo (popsicle), made from strawberries and rosewater and shaped like Jordi Roca’s nose?

Origins of the Botifarra Dolça and what to do with it?

20th century Catalan writer Josep Pla ascribed the Botifarra Dolça’s origins to the medieval monasteries, which makes more sense than linking such a pork-based product to flavours associated with the Muslim Conquest (Girona is home to beautifully preserved Arab Baths). 

What we can be sure is there few cultures more inventive in their sausage production. In his magisterial Catalan Cuisine: Europe’s Last Great Culinary Secret (Grub Street, 1997) Colman Andrews identifies 17 officially recognised varieties. 

Traditionally they were made in farmhouses in the pig-slaughtering season before winter, now the commercial varieties are available all year round. 

The straight Bottifara is the one you find grilled with white beans or wild mushrooms, useful too as a stuffing. The sweet version offers more of a challenge, usually being served off-puttingly as dessert. When raw it is bright pink; when left to dry it is a pinkish grey. Grill them, fry them, combine with apple.

The Empordà wine region, north of Girona and inland from the Costa Brava, is particularly proud of its food specialities, awarding them the Productes de Empordà seal of approval. There alongside Palamos prawns, Pals rice, and the ricotta

cheese from Fonteta sits the sweet Botifarra.

Will my Yorkshire Botifarra Dolça live up to such billing? Will I really get the taste? Will my dinner party guests, surprised by their sausage surprise dessert?

The recipe I’ve lifted from the ‘Provincial Guild of Charcuteros and Butchers of Girona’ uses 2.5ks of pork, 2kg (yes, 2kg) of white sugar, the rind of 2.5 l3mons, 25g of salt and and and 3g of cinnamon.

What is worrying me is this instruction: “This mixture must rest between seven and 15 days. If it were directly placed in the gut at the end it would explode due to the volume increase that occurs when the meat releases water and absorbs the sugar.” 

Watch this space!

Baltic, Gothic, Brothers Grimm, Hanseatic League, pagan forests, schnapps and herring – I have increasingly bought into Jonathan Meades’ championing of what he called the Magnetic North in his 2008 BBC documentary with that title. This spring I’ll be off to Utrecht and Lübeck – and hopefully my beloved Berlin – to further consecrate my soul to Northern Europe.

Meades’ brilliant two-parter was a defiant debunking of our British obsession with its polar opposite, the Mediterranean: “The South; we all want to be there. It’s an ideal that draws us to it. It’s a mythical place …The south causes the North to suffer a collective delusion about itself, we deny our Northern-ness. We deny it to such an extent we’re unfamiliar with those countries which share our climate.”

His splenetic case against the Med was amplified when he included the full text in his selected essays, Pedro and Ricky Come Again (Unbound, £30). 

“To Britons today the south is exuberant vines, guiltless hedonism, excitable olives, the immemorial ruins of immemorial civilisations, primary-coloured emotions. It’s a promised land. We vertically tan in order to look southern – oranges do come from the south, from Valencia and Seville. And, of course, an orange patina covers up blue skin when you’re wearing next to nothing in snowbound Newcastle because you believe you’re still in Ibiza. Or wherever.

“British architects are forever going on about remaking run-down Pennine towns as Tuscan hill villages. Barnsley is really San Gimignano. Todmorden is uncannily akin to Pienza.”

I take his ironic point as I consider this in Todmorden, West Yorkshire, my home town for 40 years (and never likely to match Pienza’s UNESCO World Heritage status). Still we have miraculously avoided snow bombs and 99mph winds to rock up on a January Monday morning that is undramatically penumbral and drenching. 

In front of me is The Mediterranean (£37.50 from any good bookshop or via this link), a siren call tempting me to Meades apostasy. A coffee table extravaganza whose 250 beautifully illustrated pages explore the “stories and secrets of the Mediterranean Coast”. 

At my elbow I have a “beaker full of the Warm South”, a glass of Xinomavro red from near Thessaloniki – one of the Lonely Planet’s top seven off-the-beaten-track destinations in this new publication. Here is my own verdict on Greece’s second city , praised by Lonely Planet for its “bar hopping culture and gastronomy rivalling any in the Med.” 

The other cities in focus include marvellous Med melting pots that have higher profiles – Marseille (where the contradictory Meades himself now lives) and Napoli. My digital report on the city of Maradona, Margherita and Vesuvius has vanished into the ether, but for me offshore Ischia (and its wonderful lemons – main picture) was the kind of island surprise that features heavily in this book. Which bizarrely neglects this setting for The Talented Mr Ripley – shame on them.

So what exactly is Lonely Planet celebrating?

Not all the obvious over-touristed destinations and when it does feature them it is keen to stray off the beaten track, enlisting a cast of local chefs, architects, curators and craftspeople – to “share their secrets” of 30 different cities. The  scope is ambitious, so surface scraping is inevitable, but it had this much-travelled reviewer jotting down a bucket list. Put me down for an abundance of lemons, olives and wine.

Who knows? In 2026 or 2027 I might find myself in another of the ‘magnificent seven’, Brač off the coast of Croatia. relaxing by the Adriatic on the stunning Zlatni Rat beach, or hiking to Vidova Gora, the highest point in the Adriatic islands. If city breaks aren’t your focusThe Mediterranean also suggest 15 weekend-long road trip itineraries.

In these difficult times globally it is good to be reminded of the wonders of intelligent, independent travelling. When the Med has so much to offer who needs the hassle of Trump’s hostile American borders? I for one won’t be renewing my Esta any time soon.

• All the images are my own (apart from Thessaloniki), not from the book

©2021-23 Copyright Neil Sowerby unless otherwise indicated. All right reserved.