Vendettas, nuraghi and the marches: Eating for England

We are now rarely bothering to cook. The rot started one sunny Sunday in a Norfolk village, called Salthouse. We'd planned to make lunch. In fact, we queued at a busy seafood vendor's shanty stall along the coast and bought a big bag of crabs that his staff had dressed, and some of their fresh raw samphire. Samphire is like a salty green asparagus with more shoots, and is grown right there, in those Norfolk marshes.

We'd only heard of it as an ingredient on television, never tasted it, though we'd always wanted to. We were also charmed by the fish vendor's tale that he had seen Samphire growing along the West Australian coast, around Monkey Mia, when he was there, not so long ago. So we bought some, without any cajoling, promising we'd find that stache in West Australia if ever we went. The crabman gave us detailed instructions on how to cook the samphire, noting that Norfolk folk finish it off with a dressing of vinegar and butter. Which would go perfectly with the crabs, we thought.

And it did. It was delicious. But we ate it that night, not that day for lunch. As we ended up enticed by what we saw on people's plates on tables at the pub, next door to the crabman's shanty, overlooking the marshes and dykes that stop the North Sea invading the low lying land in this part of Norfolk.

Potted prawns entree. I am now hundreds of kilometres away from this very ordinary pub that attracted crowds driving from far and distant to eat, but I would happily drive back tomorrow just to try this entree item a second time. I immediately voted it my favourite taste sensation on this particular trip, and have it down as a Special Request for Pete to master, the instant we get home. A preserve jar full of curried prawns with a rich layer of butter melting on top, as it arrived at the table. I plan to eat it often. Our mains were tender roasts of lamb (fed across the road on the marsh grasses, and butchered locally) and so yummy I didn't want to leave. This meal started our taste buds thrumming seriously.

The next day we ate thick, delicious, flaky Steak and Ale pie in The Belgian Monk in Norwich that was beyond delicious, ridiculously cheap. Now, this, typically, is basic English fare, but this serving in this pub could not have been bettered in a Michelin starred restaurant. This year, again, we have found eating out in England so reasonable, and with the current exchange favouring us it costs just a little more than we could buy the ingredients for at home, without any of the effort of having to cook ourselves.

Moving up to the Yorkshire Moors we came across an immaculate little village inn in Sawdon near where we camped -- with a meticulous vegetable plot and herb garden out back -- (we have been known to go hunting for the herb and vegetable garden before we even enter a pub restaurant, this trip!) -- with barely 40 seats, which on Sunday didn't fill just once, but was well into seating its second round of guests, when we left. All reserved.

This in one of the tiniest, off-the-road villages, in the Yorkshire Moors. Not a place you would expect too many folk to even know was there. Here we ate beautifully done fare, but the star of the show was a red cabbage vegetable done in a red wine and balsamic reduction that was so crunchy, red, crisp and mouthwatering, that it, too, is listed, as another Special Request for Pete to master. As we left we promised the passionate foodie chef-owner, who has a clever sideline in designer-cottages-to-let attached to his pub, to go with his delicious designer food -- that we would return. And we definitely will.

Then, today, in an unassuming little village pub in a remote village in the Yorkshire Dales we ate to-die-for warmed goat's cheese sliced en croute, that was so memorable I may start thinking of it is an English not a French dish; along with a dessert of trussed red currants and fresh raspberries on a bed of macaroons and meringue, that may become our standby dessert for unexpected dinner guests. So very easy and so delicious. We have a couple more weeks to try out all this local fare and none of us, as yet, seems inclined to revert to home cooking yet. All in the name of foodie research, of course.

oooOOOooo