The Rockfish! Nothing Fishy About These Fish and Chips

The Rockfish.  A perfect place for fish and chips in the little, historic seaport town of Dartmouth.

It’s downtown, facing the Dart River, and about a stone’s throw away.  The blue front, with large white letters looks small, but opens up when you step through the door.  White and bright, like cresting waves on a blue sea.

http://www.therockfish.co.uk

The craving for fish and chips is second only to the deep and abiding need for beer and bouncing breasts.  I mean for some people, not you and me, of course.  To satisfy the need for F & C, we asked the locals.  Everyone pointed in the same direction.

We popped into The Rockfish.  Cheery place, with nautical décor.  Beer and wine line the walls, along with other, less interesting things.  The cod and chips were wonderful.  Crisp, flavorful.  And, the service was top of the line.

It’s one of those places you come to eat, but stay for another beer or two.  Comfortable and conversational. The waitresses glow with efficiency and charm.  I like it that the kitchen is open.  Being a curious cook myself, I wandered back and watched the process. 

What makes The Rockfish fish and chips different from anyone else’s?  Dip the fish in batter, fry ‘em!  If only it were that simple.  First, the fish must be FRESH.  The Rockfish’s motto is spot on!

Which begs the question:  How can you tell if the fish are fresh?  Your nose.  When you walk into a fish restaurant and smell a bit of brine, but nothing ‘fishy,’ you’ve come to the right spot.  If the smell blasts you like a right jab from Mike Tyson, turn around and quick-step out.

Next, the batter.  It should cover the fish and become one with the fish, but not replace the fish.  Sounds straight forward.  I like the batter as a thin, crispy addition, with a crunch that adds to the joy of biting into moist, white fish.  The Rockfish did not let me down.  Their fried fish is exactly as it should be. Crunchy on the outside, moist within. Tasty. Cheers!  Bravo! 

Next the chips, or fries, as we call them in the Colonies.  Not thin.  Not thick.  As crisp as the fish.  There’s a secret, which I’m certain you already know.  Chips must be fried twice.  The first dip into hot grease brings the moisture to the surface, the second frying adds the crispness. Quite nicely done, Rockfish!

Now, do you add some catsup?  Oh, lads and lassies, ye have immense gaps in your culinary knowledge.  Vinegar.  Adds a bit of bite.  Cuts the grease.  Permits your taste buds to relax and smile with joy and settles your stomach.

But, not just any kind of vinegar!  My favorite (and the English standard) is malt vinegar. Rockfish also gives you an unexpected choice of lemon vinegar.  Superb!

What is malt vinegar anyway?  Well, anything that ferments can be taken a little too far and you end up with vinegar, right?  You’re got red and white wine vinegars, apple vinegar, and dozens of others.  Malt vinegar is made by malting barley.  Ok, clever man, what-the-fruitcake is malting???  You take fresh barley grain, soak it in water, allow it to sprout, and dry it with hot air.  From there, you make ale and let time turn the ale to vinegar.

In England, at the fish and chips take-aways, they used to serve fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, the chips sticking up in stalks of golden splendor.  Millions of people ate their fish and chips with no ill effects.

Long past.  The government, like all governments, found a solution to a non-existent problem.  Bureaucrats with time on their hands and a steady flow of the silver coin decided that newspaper print is toxic.  Now-a-days paper used to wrap the fish at fish and chips stands is approved for use in a sterilized lab room for infectious diseases.  Ok, I added that last part.

There are also ‘fish labeling’ laws to contend with.  Restaurants can no longer simply state ‘fish and chips’ on the menu, but have to name the type of fish, cod, plaice, etc.  So far, the bureau-dolts have not required first names and birth certificates.

But, at The Rockfish, no worries.  No newspaper wrapping.  Order cod or plaice, or whatever (by name).   Sit back and sip a cool, local ale, or a nice glass of wine.  It’s going to take a bit of time.  Nothing they serve is pre-battered, or frozen, or pre-cooked.  It’s fish and chips as they should be.  Perfect! 

Finished eating? I think we have time for one more beer and perhaps some dessert.

Lemon Cheesecake!  Sweet and tart!  Super!!!

Write the name down:  Rockfish!

Homburger hof

In the courtyard

Typical German reads atypical menu

Alt Bier - hummmmm

Beauty is in the details

Homburger hof is dog friendly.  They even provide a water bowl

Mixed grill, with potatoes and herbed butter

Rump steak, smothered in onions and gravy, with bratkartoffeln

Schnitzel and fries

Scharf Käse - mixed vegetables, cheese, and hot peppers

Rondell 3  66424 Homburg, Germany

06841

Tele:  +49 6841 8090802

www.homburger-wirtshaus.de/

One of the first things you learn about Homburg Saar (pronounced Home-berk and not to be confused with Hamburg, in the far north) is that the Homburger hof is the only restaurant whose hours are dependable.  1000 to 0100 daily.  Period.  None of these closing at 1400, or not open on Wednesdays annoyances.  And yes, they serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  Der hof is also the biggest building in town, so it’s tough to miss.  By the way, hof often means courtyard and I guess the crowded tables out in front count.

For the past few decades, it’s been owned by the Karlsberg Brewery, also located in Homburg.  But, that’s not the beginning of the story.  The building was completed in 1907 and has been a military headquarters and a hotel before the brewery bought it and made it a restaurant.

Ok. Ok.  All of that is fabulously interesting, but is it any good?  I like it!  When someone even whispers about going there, I come running.  Karlsberg beer is some of the best around, especially the Alt Bier, or beer brewed in the old style, with the fermenting yeast forming on top of the wort (wheat or barley mash).  What about top-fermenting yeast?  Less fizz.  Usually alt bier runs from 4.8 to 6% alcohol and for my money is smooth as glass.  The Karlsberg variety is at the low end of the scale. Reminds me of English ale, also made with top-fermenting yeast.  The color varies, but is predominantly a deep mahogany.  If you think all dark beer is a little bit harsh and rough around the edges, alt bier will teach your taste buds a new lesson.

What about the food?  Earthy and delicious.  There’s nothing startling on the newspaper menu, but you can order without fear.  Traditional and dependable.  I love the salads, the schnitzel, and the rump steak smothered in onions and dark gravy.  The bratkatoffeln (pan cooked potatoes) are not to be missed.

You said ‘newspaper’ menu?  Yep.  Looks like a newspaper.  Reads like a newspaper, with specials replacing the normal newspaper ads.  Speaking of specials, there’s a different one each day of the week, which gives you a price-break of a couple of euros.  But, even without the price-break, the Homburger hof won’t shred your budget.

When you go to the Homburger hof website, check out their recipes, most of which feature beer, including three types of beer soup!

Now you’ve done it.  A heavy thirst is rising like a tsunami. Time to kiss off the errands, bundle the wife into the car, and chill in the hof and people watch, while the alt bier does its magical, psychological work.  If you can't drink a beer right now, just keep repeating this mantra:  I don't need a beer to be happy...I don't need.....

Le Cheval Blanc – Worth Every Penny

A corner of the main dining room

Crémont - the justly famous Alsace bubbly

Well, perhaps not every penny.  You must put aside a bit here and there, for rent, gas, and keeping the odd cobweb out of your wine cellar.  Nevertheless….

We threw money to the wind and had dinner at Le Cheval Blanc (The White Horse) in the half-timbered Alsatian village of Lembach.  (scroll all the way down for full address and tel)  From the moment we were greeted by the receptionist, shown to our table and offered wine, until we left some three hours later, we were never disappointed for even a fraction of a second.

What do you look for when you go out to eat?  I’m talking about you personally.  Ambiance?  A quick bite?  A dining experience?  If I’m spending more than pennies, I want it all and I want it better than anything I could cook at home.  As a friend of mine put it:  If you have an expensive meal and walk away thinking you could have done that yourself, you’ve wasted your money.  I may add, you’d also like to walk back in with a shotgun and suggest the Chef-in-Thief return your silver shekels, or lose what’s left of what he so proudly calls his brain.   But, of course civilized people don’t do that. We know when we’ve been robbed fair and square.   We tell all our friends to make reservations under different names and cancel at the last minute.

No worries at Le Cheval Blanc.  I guarantee that unless you are a master chef, with your own Michelin starred restaurant, there’s no way you can match this cuisine.

Delicate, little finger sized vegetable creams 

Which brings us to the whole question of La Guide Michelin and the meaning of their stars.  Without putting too fine a point on it (pun intended), one star means “a very good restaurant in its category.”  Two stars means the restaurant offers “exceptional cuisine and worth a detour.”  The coveted three star ranking means you should bow down and thank your lucky three stars that you could get a reservation this century and that you could afford it.  As of late 2009, there were 26 Michelin three star restaurants in France and 81 in the world.  Some have carried the distinction for years and others have just arrived and the kitchen staff is still drunk and celebrating.

Proudly carrying one Michelin star, Le Cheval Blanc offered one of the most superb meals I have ever had, for décor, service, and unbelievable deliciousness.  I walked away after happily parting with my money, armed with a broad smile that stretched across my face and down to my belly

Le Cheval Blanc offers an a la carte menu and also several compete menus. We decided on The Gourmand menu, which had so many courses I ran out of fingers, but you can count them yourself on their web site: http://www.idealgourmet.fr/930-restaurant-ideal-gourmet-presentation_mr-gb.html.  No meal in France begins without wine.  We selected a Crémont, the Alsace version of Champagne and were not disappointed, with it’s crisp, yet soothing taste.

 

Shaved slices of smoke cured beef

Beer bread and local farmhouse butter

Foie Gras - silky smooth and melts on your tongue

Cannelloni as you've never had it.  A glass of local, light Pinot on the side.

Rather than test the limits of language and endurance, I will exhibit great restraint and restrict myself to impressions of the cannelloni.   Why pick pasta?  Common point of departure. Everyone knows pasta and we all have our favorites.  None are in the same category as Le Cheval Blanc’s version of this Italian staple.

The pasta we’ve all eaten is doughy, heavy, with a mostly predictable topping of cream or tomato and beaucoup cheese.  Le Cheval Blanc’s cannelloni was as light as a crêpe.  The filling of duck foie gras and slivered, wild mushrooms rested in a reduction of black truffle emulsion, frothy and heavenly.  Each ingredient was individual, with nothing overpowering the effect of the whole.  Flavors soared!  I have never tasted such a divine blending of tastes and perhaps (depending on my investments and whether or not I choose to ever drive a car) never will again.  And yet, the cannelloni was only one of a parade of delicious surprises, many photos of which I had to exclude for reasons of space.

Each course and the many palate cleansing intermediate courses arrived like works of incredibly wonderful, stupendously interesting, tongue slapping works of art.  In truth, I had to restrain myself to capture the moment on film before reaching for my fork.

This was not a good restaurant, or even a great one.  It was far more.  Le Cheval Blanc was a dining experience that will live on my palate and in my dreams for decades to come.  If there are better restaurants, neither my taste buds, nor my wallet are prepared for the challenge.

Stuffed zucchini flower, with crawfish in a light, herbed cream.

Roasted lamb chop with purée of carrots.

Roasted duck breast

A spectacular cheese tray with some twenty selections.

Dessert:  Peach four ways, roasted, sorbet, mousse, and in egg custard

Le Cheval Blanc

4 rue de Wissembourg

67510 Lembach - France

Tel : 00 33 (0)1 45 72 07 14

House made, hand dipped chocolates, cookies, and gelées

A Lunch to Remember

St Étienne rises from the center of Metz

St 

Inside the cathedral

A little Alsatian beer to whet the apetite

From inside Le Bouchon

Garlic butter at its best

A helpful staff member

In the confectioner's

Can't be lunch without dessert

I love Italian food, especially the cream dishes from the north.  Also fond of German, Japanese, Spanish, and … to save time, just glance at a map of the world.  But, as I’ve said before and will say again, until a court order shuts my blasphemous mouth, the French could teach anyone how to eat.

To make my point, I need only mention bread.  The baguette is so simple even a simpleton, or a vicious ex-wife could make it: flour, water, salt, yeast.  Lots of people, including the Germans, do a fair job.  But, for my taste buds, if it ain’t French, it ain’t a baguette. Nowhere else is the golden crust so wonderfully crunchy and the inside so delightfully chewy.

            After a tour of Saint ´Étienne, the Metz cathedral, it was time to put aside the political differences between the French and the rest of the world, break a couple of those baguettes, slosh some eau de grape, and spend what’s left of our shrinking American dollar. 

            What’s the difference between a bistro and a restaurant?  To my ever so humble eye, a restaurant is a self-contained, sit-down, eating establishment, while a bistro sells coffee in thimbles, and has a bar you can lean on when you see your bill.  Also a bistro’s the tables spill out onto the sidewalk like the pedals of a flower, where clusters of women in high heels and men with scarves gather to look down their Gallic noses at the rest of us.  Busy, obnoxiously well-groomed waiters flit about with martial like efficiency, delivering cream softened coffee, beer, wine, and full plates of things you can’t for the life of you find on the menu.  The beer in Alsace, by the way, is exceptional.

Bistros are quite the experience, but today we settled on Le Bouchon, a restaurant in every sense of the word, tucked into a corner of the bustling downtown.  Elegant tablecloths and napkins, glistening goblets, polished silverware, waitresses in black and white ensembles that make a man fidget and pray.  With my French pretty much limited to bonjour, au revoir and de la bière pour les chevaux, I had to be careful with the menu.  Once before, my arrogance led me to hastily call for rognon de veau, which turned out to be veal kidneys in a sauce far too mild to overcome my gag reflexes.

 This bright, sunny, hopeful day I went for the escargot, salade, entrecote avec béarnaise, pommes au gratin, and hericots vert.   For the uninitiated, or those who refuse to learn French because it makes you sound like you’ve got a serious sinus problem, I’ll offer a fighter pilot’s translation.  Snails, salad, rib steak, mayo with tarragon, toasted potatoes in a cream sauce and some green beans.  Again, it all sounds simple, but a French chef has that magic touch that channels the simple into the sublime.  Maybe it’s the creamy mixture for the potatoes combined with delicate browning, or the freshness of the eggs for the béarnaise.  Maybe it’s the rigid standards for culinary perfection in everything, from meat to the greens, to the politely wrinkled silk tablecloths?  Beats me, but it also beats most anything, anywhere outside of France.

The French do not eat, they dine, meaning unhurried conversation and unhurried consumption to the point of idle dawdling.  Dine we did, for the best part of two hours…actually the best part of any two hours you’d care to name.  I could go on about the food, the superb garlic butter on the escargot, the crisply tender green beans, potatoes that praised themselves, and the perfect doneness of that steak, but the photos do a better job.

After a meal like that, it was time for a short walk to a confectioner’s for coffee and dessert with the very young and beautiful.  Unfortunately, I stood out.