Orlando Gough

When my wife Jo and her partner Sally were running their knitwear business from a shop in Clapham in the 1980s, next door was a fish and chip shop run by Fanos Theofanos, or Frank the Fish. His parents had emigrated to England in the sixties. They spoke no English, and lived in a self-imposed ghetto. Frank, on the other hand, despite flaunting his Greekness, was an honorary Brit. His assimilation encompassed even the cooking of our national dish. He was an excellent neighbour, able to offer a range of services, from a plate of chips to the harassment of one’s enemies, a kind, thoughtful and essentially decent version of Reggie Kray. Every day a battered saveloy (a battered saveloy! Heck!) was posted through the letterbox. Jo and Sally would peel off the batter and serve the saveloy to their dogs. An indelible greasy mark appeared on the carpet, which was a worry when posh clients – even occasionally royalty – visited to buy the upmarket knitwear.

Since that time, fish ‘n’ chips, that quintessentially English dish, has just about survived the onslaught of a thousand competing foods – hamburgers, pizza, fried chicken, curry, chow mien, pho, Cornish pasties, falafels, sushi… It has even survived its own miniaturization into poncey canapés.

It’s a difficult dish to get right – the freshness of the fish, the composition of the batter, the nature of the fat, the temperature of the fat, the age of the fat, the kind of potato, the size of the chips, the cooking of the chips. Personally I’m almost always disappointed – the idea is better than the reality; except in Aldeburgh, Suffolk, where having queued for several weeks you can eat your meal on the sea wall, and in Padstow, Cornwall, where you queue for several weeks just to get into the town. Since the town on the opposite side of the river is called Rock, surely Padstow should be renamed Rick, or perhaps St Rick (more Cornish).

Fish and chips a quintessentially English dish? Maybe not, actually. It testifies to the British ability to absorb an enormous range of foreign influences (Kevin Pietersen, the cappuccino, bhangra) while ferociously spitting out stuff that we’re suspicious of (Abu Qatada, Lithuanians). Peter Gabriel versus Nigel Farage. At the moment Nigel Farage seems to be winning the battle.

Fried fish is a Jewish dish, possible Sephardic, possibly Ashkenasi, brought to Britain by Portuguese immigrants in the early 19th century. The obvious similarity to Japanese tempura is surely a coincidence, since Japan was severely isolationist at that time. Chips are from Belgium. Tomato ketchup? It might appear to be 100% American, but it was one of a myriad of catsups that were an important part of the British middle classes in the 19th century. They were a means of preserving perishable ingredients – mushrooms, tomatoes, lemons, walnuts, oysters, anchovies – while concentrating the taste by prolonged cooking in sugar, vinegar and spices. HP Sauce and Lea and Perrins are part of this lineage. The sweet-sour method and the spices surely suggest origins in the Far East, a result of the British mercantile adventure of the 17th and 18th centuries. Tartare Sauce? French, of course. Mushy peas, pickled onions? Our own invention.

Cooking proper fish and chips at home seems out of the question; you really don’t want to be futzing around with a deep fat fryer. St Heston gives a recipe which probably tastes marvelous but takes about 12 hours of ferociously hard work, as well as an investment in several hundred pounds worth of kitchen equipment (usual problem). Cheaper to take the train to Padstow. So in our household we follow St Hugh with his pesky domestic version:

Make roast potatoes, cutting them as small and parboiling them as long as you dare, roasting them in what seems to be an unnecessarily large pan. Ten minutes from the end, make space in the pan and put in a few bay leaves (an excellent addition) and some fish fillets – sea bream works well here.

This is accompanied by a pea puree: cook the peas in boiling salted water, drain them, and then whizz them up with mint leaves, pepper, and as much butter as you can absorb without artery breakdown; and tartare sauce: for four people, make a mayonnaise with 2 egg yolks, a teaspoonful of Dijon mustard, a tablespoonful of white wine vinegar and 300ml oil – a mixture of groundnut and olive oil works well. Add a scant tablespoonful of chopped tarragon, and a tablespoonful each of chopped parsley, chopped capers and finely chopped gherkins.

Serve this wrapped in yesterday’s Daily Mail, so that you can eat while reading HATE PREACHER LEAVES TAXPAYER FUNDED LIFE IN BRITAIN. WE SAY GOOD RIDDANCE etc.

You can read more of Orlando’s culinary tales in his Recipe Journal. Click here to find out more.

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by TOAST ( 19.03.14 )

TOAST co-founder Jamie Seaton tells Elle Decoration what he is reading, watching and downloading this month.

My favourite piece of music is (Are You) The One That I’ve Been Waiting For? by Nick Cave, for its capture of those pure, amazing, transcendental moments of new love. I’d like to add Schubert’s last three piano sonatas, which seem to weave their threads around our existence and render it gorgeous.

The music I am currently listening to a lot is rebetika – the wild, keening Balkan blues of the 1920s, often played on a bouzouki. A great modern take on this can be heard on Çiğdem Aslan’s album Mortissa.

One of the wonderful things about books is less that they influence one but rather that they seem to coax into the light ideas that one is already groping for. It’s almost a magical process by which one finds oneself led to just the right book, making manifest inchoate feelings or ideas, at just the right moment. Here are two: The Midnight Folk by John Masefield, which my father read to me when I was four or five years old and opening doors on the magic possibilities of the imagination; and Living by Zen by DT Suzuki, which I read when I was in my mid-twenties.

At the moment I’m reading The Broken Road: From the Iron Gates to Mount Athos by Patrick Leigh Fermor (John Murray, £25). It’s the last book in the trilogy that tells of his walk from London to Istanbul between wars and was put together posthumously by Artemis Cooper and Colin Thubron. It’s romantic, elegiac, erudite and very entertaining.

If I had a free day in London, I would spend it going around the galleries. There’s a favourite Velázquez and a favourite Rembrandt in the Wallace Collection that I visit again and again. I love Sam Fogg’s gallery, on the corner of Cork Street, which shows Gothic and medieval art. Or, for a really indulgent free day, I would have a long lunch with my wife and friends at Locanda Locatelli.

My favourite destination in the world is Kyoto. I love to go to one of the Zen temple gardens in the morning before any crowds arrive.

The app I love and use most is, boringly, Chambers Dictionary. I love words, their derivations, their resonances, their various uses and what they reveal of the cultures and times that use them.

This interview appears in the April 2014 edition of Elle Decoration.

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by TOAST ( 10.03.14 )

Michael Smith

The French swear that the secret to understanding the mysteries of wine lies in understanding its terroir. As an Englishman you can’t even pronounce the word without feeling pretentious; and terroir is just as tricky to get your head round as it is to get your tongue round. It’s a concept that’s alien to the English mindset – we haven’t really got a word you can translate it into – yet it’s a cornerstone of the French understanding of how wine works, and why good wine is good.

It boils down to the belief that a glass of wine is ultimately the expression and distillation of the entire sweep of factors that give birth to it, from the type of grape to the geology, soil and climate that feed it, through to the historical and cultural climate affecting the human hands that navigate that process. In this way, a glass of Burgundy is perceived to have a fractal quality, in the sense that it is an image of the whole “world” that has produced it, and the finer the wine, the richer the picture. The clue’s always in the name with French wines – Champagne, Burgundy or Bordeaux are all places too, and in a sense, so are the wines. It’s a profound, even mystical idea, something close to “As Above, So Below,” with roots in the mindset of the medieval monks who first tended the vines – a very ancient idea that’s come round again, with the prevalence of current holistic, biodynamic ideas, and our recent obsessions with the provenance of our food and drink.

A belief in terroir is a belief that everything is part of an interconnected whole, that everything is bound by profound and subtle connections and correspondences that on the surface may seem to be arbitrary coincidence. It seems clear to me that clothes, a form of human culture and creativity as fundamental as cultivating the land with vines or cattle, have their roots in terroir as profoundly as food or wine does.

The fundamentals of the British wardrobe grew out of the landscape, out of the fishing village, the farm and the hunt. Wellies, waxed jackets and tweeds are inextricably tied to the muted, pearly skies, mossy river banks and damp slate roofs that are the textures of our lives on this island. The greens and browns and russets of a Gainsborough or a Constable are the same greens and browns and russets of Harris Tweed, Barbour Beadales or Oxford brogues.

We’d forgotten our native style a little over recent decades, fallen out of love with our climate and the clothes it gave us. The age of Easyjet convinced us that the sun is god, and we fell under the spell of a fake-tanned Mediterranean fantasy that is inappropriate and alien to our climate and our natural sensibilities. Thankfully, all that seems to be on the wane, we’re beginning to leave the bare immacked chests glaring out of low cut v-neck tee-shirts to the Latin blokes, and only the crassest Big Brother contestant wears ripped jeans and pointy leather estate agent shoes these days. Give me the subtlety and the modesty of a brushed indigo cotton shirt and woollen pullover, which suit a wander through the subtlety and poetry of an autumnal English riverscape best.

As a walker, a wanderer who invests great meaning in this daily communion with the world, I’m all for those grey skies that bring out the greens by the riverbank. I can say with certainty that a great glaring sun bearing down on you is the enemy of an ambling walk, turning it into more of a chore than a pleasure: all that squinting the eyes, sweating and ducking into the shade – give me gentle, grey jumper weather any day; the ideal weather for wandering and appreciating the world is the weather in between, that quiet, moderate, subtle weather that is the metaphor and midwife of the British sensibility.

And that sensibility has been as important as our climate in shaping the clothes we wear – as well as emerging from the landscape, the British wardrobe has been slowly shaped and honed by the history of the culture that crafted it, just as a river smoothes a pebble in its flow. We’ve inherited and re-worked the wardrobe of the first industrialised and truly urbanised culture. The cites of our grandfathers and their grandfathers were the sites our suits and ties and macs emerged from, to meet the demands of those new urban realities. But this civilisation of big brick and stone cities was a place with a lingering romantic attachment to its green and pleasant folk memories. The sports jacket and flat cap became ubiquitous among the urban millions partly because they expressed aspirations of respectability, having filtered down from the dress codes of their betters, which codified the sporting and hunting and country pursuits those landed gentry rulers enjoyed. The sports jacket and flat cap inferred on its huddling, terraced masses a sense of the dignity and nobility that came with the town and country lifestyle that these clothes were originally invented for. Our clothes are as much about imagination and yearning as they are about practical realities. Clothes provide psychic as well as physical shelter, and are an imaginative counterbalance for the all the things that are missing in our lives.

So are the beards, bicycles and Barbours ubiquitous in the gentrified inner cites today similarly the yearnings of a rootless digital culture lost in Twitter space? We yearn for an authenticity behind the 3G hall of mirrors, floating freely through the disjointed contemporary conundrum. Is this why, as we traipse the clothes shops of a shopping mall that could be anywhere, night or day, summer or snow, or the chilly aisles of another generic M&S Simply Food on the commute home, as disconnected from the source and reality of our clothing and our food as any British people have been since we urbanised and industrialised two hundred years ago, we’ve developed such strong yearnings for the organic, the authentic, the heritage, the locally specific? Maybe these yearnings offer our souls some anchor that will ground us as we float freely through modern life, and our Yorkshire rhubarb or Northamptonshire brogues are the looking glass fantasies and nostalgic yearnings that fill the holes in our current culture.

The British wardrobe is as much an expression of this psychic landscape, the hopes and needs of the sensibility that inhabits this land, that shapes and is shaped by it, as it is an expression of our climate or geology or botany. The French have always known that the haunting and elusive poetry of place that results from the marriage of all these things is somehow distilled into a good bottle of Burgundy, which unfolds and unravels from a glass onto the palate and the mind with all the resonance and suggestiveness of Proust’s madeleine. Just so with the textures and colours and cut of a Savile Row suit, a hunting jacket of Harris Tweed, or a mac in the rain that falls and glistens against the urbane stone of Edinburgh’s elegant New Town.

To browse our new SS / 14 Men collection, click here. 

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by TOAST ( 24.02.14 )

By Nat Lucas

“A room is, say, 9 by 12, but when you’re introducing sound to it, you can create a space that’s giant, hearing things outside the room or feeling certain through a vent, and then there are abstract sounds that are like music. They give emotions and different moods.” (David Lynch 1999)

It may seem counterintuitive to take an auditory approach to a photographic exhibition, but as the artist under consideration is David Lynch, stepping off the travelator of convention seems acceptable. Heard in isolation, the ‘multichannel sound composition by the artist,’ could be described as the noise that your brain blots out in the course of everyday experience. Loosely pulsating brass drones are layered with occasional octaves, fifths and harmonics in the upper frequencies. We hear wind across open pipes interspersed with the chippings and banging of hot and cold metal. This is the sound of the shadow of an industrial age. It is the music of everything that has been cancelled.

This soundscape frames Lynch’s uniformly sized, monochrome images perfectly. In true cinematic fashion it provides another dimension to the mise en scène he presents of decaying abandoned factories. Those familiar with his films (such as ‘Eraserhead’ and ‘Dune’) will not be surprised to learn that he began to take these pictures while scouting locations for film shoots. With this exhibition what was previously a backdrop becomes the focus of attention, the used up factories now take the lead roles in creating an atmosphere of tension.

This is a post-industrialist landscape embodied in a range of locations such as Lodz, Berlin, New York and Northern England. Husks and kernels of buildings decay, their walls rupture and forgotten sills are covered in debris. One door opens onto darkness while another gapes onto an unspoken void. Obsolete machines cling to walls with twisted edges like sordid metal lips. Skylights are distant, always out of reach. Nature scurries to wild the ruins and reclaim the ground. Human life has been deleted. 

Eight photographs form a study of glass panes, all either shattered, vicious toothed or absent. The window frames bring to mind rhythms of Mondrian squares but somehow in the negative. Only where panes are missing can we see a few stark twigs gesturing upwards. 

Three works “Untitled (England) late 1980s early 1990s,” provide an alternative to the heavy shadows of the rest of the exhibition. Here pylons stride across electricity farms and bulbous smoke stacks still breathe (above). Lynch managed to chase around the North barely a wisp ahead of the demolition crews. Within the frames there is space for a glimpse of a green, though less than entirely pleasant, land. Industry is dwindling but has not yet been fully disassembled.

In his Darwin College Lecture ‘Life in Ruins,’ the writer Robert Macfarlane suggests, “Ruins offer niches for narrative.” The ‘Factory Photographs’ offer a palimpsest narrative where industry is being overwritten by nature. The story is one of a shifting population and a change of power. As Lynch remarks, “Every work ‘talks’ to you, and if you listen to it, it will take you places you never dreamed of.” 

David Lynch: The Factory Photographs at the Photographers’ Gallery to 30th March 2014.

Photograph: Image 2, David Lynch, Untitled (England), late 1980s/early 1990s.
Archival gelatin-silver print. 11 x 14 inches. All photographs in an edition of 11. © Collection of the artist.

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by TOAST ( 06.02.14 )

Orlando Gough. 

This autumn we took a holiday in Lefkada, one of the Ionian Islands. It was a blue holiday – in a good way – dominated by the sea and the seductive surrounding islands (Kephalonia, Ithaca, Megannisi, Skorpios) which loomed in a thousand shades of blue, blue-green, turquoise and grey-blue, constantly changing with the weather and the time of day. 

Skorpios was particularly intriguing – it used to be the holiday home of the Onassis family, and was where Jackie Onassis was famously photographed nude bathing by a Greek paparazzo. Oh, the ordeals of the rich and famous. The family recently sold it, possibly illegally, to a Russian oligarch’s daughter. It looks like the lair of a James Bond villain, with a yacht the size of a large house in the harbour. We lingered offshore in a considerably smaller yacht, partly because we were fascinated, in a Daily Mail-ish kind of way, but mainly because there was no bloody wind – and were seen off by a couple of goons in a speedboat.

With the help of, or, to be more accurate, with absolutely no help from a charming guide book from the 1950s which was devoid of facts but full of the purest poetry, we made a trip to Englouvi, the highest village on the island, famous for lentils, which are grown on the plateau above. ‘The landscape begins to change,’ says the guidebook; ‘on the one hand vineyards and colourful fields, stone huts so expertly made they might be ‘built by a hand divine’, and on the other, the craters of the moon and strange geological formations… The fields of lentils and the persevering growers working in them keep us company for a short while yet…’ We kept company with the persevering growers, and admired the strange geological formations, before visiting a very excitingly abandoned radar station with a spectacular view over the entire island and the mainland. It was like the lair of a James Bond villain several years after he’s been dispatched by the great man. Knackered and overgrown, it was dominated by several satellite dishes on a giant metal grid that could be climbed by someone with the sang-froid of, say, James Bond. We vowed to come back at night with a picnic, but never did.

At the highest point of the plateau (so I suppose it wasn’t strictly a plateau) was an exquisite miniscule monastery. Inside there was a tiny dome painted blue. It was like a James Turrell artwork, making absolutely apparent the idea of trying to come as close as possible to heaven. Outside a young couple, tourists, snogged, smoked and took scenic photos of each other.

The lentil fields themselves were nondescript, consisting of bedraggled rows of shrubs – wrong time of year. We went into the village and bought a kilo of lentils for a slightly eye-watering €12. Back at our house we discovered that they were mixed with a large amount of grit and tiny stones. We set to winnowing. My son Daniel and I were spectacularly bad at it, making the mistake of winnowing negatively (removing the grit from the lentils). We had to be taken off the job, slightly grumpy, and were replaced by a crack team of positive winnowers, who completed the work in about the time that Handel, had he been around, could have written The Messiah. Or Demis Roussos could have shaved his beard. It was a reminder that, much as we might complain about modern methods of agriculture and food preparation, we have got our lives back. The lentils were excellent, rather in the style of the Castelluccio lentils from Umbria, also, curiously enough, grown on a plateau.

The next day, in the delightful Lefkada Town, we found exactly the same lentils in a supermarket, with all the grit taken out, for €5 per kilo. The persevering lentil farmers of Englouvi had taken us for a ride, though it must be admitted that we were the classic marks – keen middle-class holiday-makers in the relentless pursuit of the Holy Grail of Authenticity. Which can only be a good thing for the ailing Greek economy.

The plfs, says the guidebook, cook the lentils in huge cauldrons, and serve them with salt sardines and olives. Sounds good.

Try this method of cooking them (serves 6):

250g lentils (Puy, Castelluccio, Englouvi)

a small bulb of garlic, cut in half horizontally

1 onion, minced

2 mild green chillies, deseeded, finely chopped

grated zest and juice of 3 limes

4 tbsp olive oil

2 tbsp chopped mint

Winnow the lentils for several weeks – unless you’ve bought them from Waitrose, in which case immediately…

Put the lentils and the garlic in a saucepan with plenty of cold water. Bring to the boil, and simmer very gently for about 20 minutes until the lentils are al dente. The timing is critical, so keep testing. The window between grit and mush is quite short. Discard the garlic and mix in the rest of the ingredients. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Good cold.


We’ve published a book of Orlando’s recipes full of similar tales. For more about Orlando Gough Recipe Journal click here.


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by TOAST ( 17.01.14 )

A highly personal list

Candy ads: three very short films by Wes Anderson, advertising Prada’s perfume called Candy. The films are pure Anderson – perfectly observed, superbly detailed, delightful and funny. Lea Seydoux stars and is, as always, beguiling.

Peter Doig’s No Foreign Lands exhibition at the Scottish National Gallery. ‘Willingness to take up the challenge still posed by Gauguin, Matisse, Bonnard and Hopper places him in a long line of great colourists, expressive handlers of paint and creators of richly textured worlds’ is what the Gallery wrote – and it’s true.

Dolsot bibimbap: from Korea, the perfect winter food. Served in a sizzling hot stone bowl – healthy, wholesome, delicious, nourishing of body and soul.

Feral, a polemic by George Monbiot that argues for the re-wilding of the land. Monbiot in his columns can sometimes seem strident or self-righteous. Here he (mostly) isn’t – and convinces.

Flower Appreciation Society: wonderful florists, working from a straightforward and exuberant natural love of natural flowers. Created meadowy drifts of colour for the opening of our Marylebone shop in March.

La Grande Bellezza (released here as The Great Beauty): Paolo Sorrentino’s sweeping, poignant, gorgeous, satirical, all encompassing Roman movie. Our film of the year, without doubt.

The Guardian: for great journalists bravely going about producing great journalism.

Keith Francis: bags to last through generations from a third generation leather worker, hand making his wares on a canal boat near Abergavenny.

Kerry Seaton: goldsmith, designing and making quiet and perfect jewellery, each piece a small homage to the world’s existence. See our work with her here,
and her own website here. 

Koya Bar: great udon place on Frith Street in Soho. No better way to start a London day than Japanese breakfast here.

Jennifer Lee’s show at Erskine, Hall and Coe. Lee creates pots of great purity and presence. Edmund de Waal wrote ‘Lee has managed that rare thing: to own a language of form and tone. She now has the freedom to inflect that language with a subtle and distinctive voice.”

Longbows: the concentrated looking, the draw, the release, the flight! Any symbolism is too obvious to bother with – but something atavistic was left resonating.

The Luminaries. Almost too obvious to choose a Booker Prize winner – but Eleanor Catton’s book is good! Absorbing (and lengthy) almost in the way of a 19th century novel. And very enjoyable.

Manufactum: great German supplier of a wide diversity of household (and more) goods, all chosen with a very keen eye for no-nonsense, thorough-going quality of design and make.
The German site for some reason seems to carry more product than does the UK one.

Music At Midnight: John Dury’s biography of George Herbert, the metaphysical poet. Most absorbing read of the year. As Herbert’s verse addresses difficult subjects in lucid and elegant verse, so John Dury reveals the poet’s life, times and poetry with equal clarity and sympathy. Not a fast read but deeply absorbing, elucidating, enjoyable.

Pizzica: wild Puglian variety of tarantella which, through the dark mornings of November and December has been stirring us to life as we drive to work. Listen to Donna ‘Sabella by NCCP (Nuova Compagnia Di Canto Popolare) and Lu Rusciu te lu Mare by Alla Bua.

The Rolling Stones in Hyde Park – on a perfect summer’s evening. Approached, of course, for all the well-rehearsed, dreary reasons, with some cynicism - all of which dissolved immediately the first great chords of Start It Up rang out across the warm evening air. A great gig!

Savage and Chong. Romilly Saumarez Smith is a wonderful jeweller working on that boundary where a craft carries so much resonance that it starts to become art. Romilly and her colleague Lucie Gledhill have produced a new line, far more affordably priced than their one-off pieces.

Edward Snowden: approve of what he did or not, it’s a great thing that – as a direct result of his action – an important and necessary debate is now taking place in the public realm.

Tate Britain’s wonderful new hang of its standing collection, done chronologically. Such a simple idea – and so brilliant. Like a walk, room to room, through history – revealing so much in both its progression and the diversity within the progression.

The US is talking to Iran! Isn’t this absolutely the best thing to happen in 2013 – the prospect of some peaceful accord in the Middle East? Why hasn’t it been more highly lauded in our media and by our politicians?

Wright’s Independent Food Emporium: like a family-run, Carmarthenshire Dean & Deluca – and therefore much better than that venerable New York store. Imaginative and delicious deli food; good coffee and wine; wholesome and well-chosen groceries; warm, welcoming, good-humoured and enthusiastic.

Toast’s customers & followers: without you we would be nothing.
Thank you! Merry Christmas! And a Happy / Peaceful / Prosperous New Year!

Photo: Toni Servillo as Jep Gambardella in La Grande Bellezza

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by TOAST ( 23.12.13 )

A Tale for Midwinter by John Andrews

“Sing what I heard you chant the other noon,
The Verse I keep, tho’ I forget the tune.
“Cease, Pike, with Perch successful war to wage,
Their weary finns delude your idle rage;
Nor sleep expos’d, lest Frogs your lives betray,
And you unguarded fall an easy prey.”
(Moses Browne 1773)

I have no memory of it raining when I stepped outside and later put it down as you might to bad grains in the porter or the distractions of a pretty bar girl, but whatever it might have been I was soon lost in the streets behind the inn. At first each corner seemed familiar, more familiar than the last so that the feeling that I was lost was momentary until I reached a dead end and felt a sudden terror at being more lost than before. I doubled back, laughing as I did so at my silliness, choking back the brief knot of fear that had climbed into my throat. But doubling back did no good. The iron railed maze grew thicker, and soon I noticed that the houses I was passing had no light falling from their windows. Nor did they have curtains to close upon the world at night. They were empty dwellings.

I did not remember when my walk turned from a scurry into a full-blooded run. The first fall hurt, the skin breaking on my knee and on my elbow. The velvet on my coat tearing as if it had been ripped by something sharper than stone. I scrambled back up and was sure I had seen a face briefly staring at me from behind a window and I called out but there was no reply. Not stopping to look behind me I rushed on and fell again as I turned the corner.

The light had gone from the sky when I awoke, unaware of how long I had been out for and felt the blood drying upon my temple and the dirty water in the gutter cold against my stomach. Pulling myself up I noticed nothing but one thing. How this street was suddenly so different to the others I had run down. It was not as long and it was not as narrow. It broadened out and at its end was a shop from which fell light. A yellow glow, an unnatural projection of warmth. I ran towards it and collapsed through the door. A bell sounded above my head as it did so, it startled me but not so much as the solid thud of the door closing fast behind me. I turned and looked up. Above a finely glazed and polished wooden counter was a long single shelf upon which stood a continuous row of sealed jars with pickled contents lurid in colour and mis-shapen in form, frogs with blistered throats and sticklebacks with mutant spines, outsize minnows and freakish mice, and some jars simply labelled ‘eyes’, ‘organs’, ‘sweetnesses’. Every sixth or seventh label bore a description of a quarry, ‘Christmas Morning Pike’, ‘Moonless Perch’, ‘Whitsun Trout’.   All inscribed by a delicate hand in dark red ink. On the counter standing guard stood a crow, its beak like a thorn stolen from a Bible passage and its glistening black eyes like two drops of poison. It was tethered from the neck by a fine silver collar that appeared to be engraved and which led in turn via a linked chain to a brass loop that had been nailed into the floor.

I could feel my own blood pulsing as it was pressing against my temples.  I was sure somebody other than myself had just entered the room but my eyes told me that I was still alone except for the bird on the chain. I could just make out a human voice, no louder than a whisper in the corners of the room either side of me. I swung round but there was nothing just my own reflection in the glass of the shop door. Oh, I did not recognise myself so mad did I look, so dishevelled, so fearful and reduced. Suddenly in the same reflection a shadow moved past the open doorway in the corner of the room. I turned and called out but my words were like dry sticks in my throat. This time I leapt across the room and through the door but was forced back. Even though the divide was no more than air the temperature was far colder as I forced my frame across the threshold. This antechamber was furnished simply with a table and chair. On the table was a candle that had been recently lit. The light from its flame flickered off the walls but barely reached the hearth opposite, which looked as if it was more a place where eels slept than a place to seek warmth. There was no evidence of what or whom had formed the shadow. My heart was now beating so loudly I could barely contain it. It felt as if I could take it from my chest and set it on the table so free of my body was it. I began to laugh hysterically and uncontrollably at this thought, images of my wife and child passing before me before the smell of camphor filled my nostrils, the light from the candle was extinguished and in the blackness and in the deep cold the eels I had imagined asleep in the hearth began to writhe and silently cross the floor towards me.


Able Critch’s shop always remained closed on a Thursday with its door firmly locked from the inside and its blinds pulled down, so that fresh bait could be prepared in private. ‘At the Sign of the Crow’ spelled the legend on his gold edged trade card, and so said all who were asked by strangers where the best place was to buy meats and pastes with which to angle. It was said his recipes came from the annals of an angling club whose identity was so old and so secretly guarded that no one had ever known anyone be asked to join it. Rumour surrounded the whereabouts of its meetings, none of which had ever been reported. Critch’s prepared baits worked better than any other accepted temptation and his disciples, of whom there were dozens across the city, never spoke of empty baskets. It was said that Able had not been seen beyond his shop since his wife had perished in a sudden fire, not even to visit their beloved daughter, a remarkably pretty girl who worked at The Folly Inn on the adjacent street and who had a reputation for her kindness to strangers. No, for all of his fame Able Critch did not fish, and preferred only the company of a crow for whom he had had a silver collar made on which was a simple inscription in the tiniest of hands which began,

‘Sing what I heard you chant the other noon
The verse I kept though I forget the tune’


John Andrews is also known as Andrews of Arcadia, for more of his work, click here.

Photo: The Ghost Story by Frederick Smallfield

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by TOAST ( 20.12.13 )

Orlando Gough

Put the kettle on
Put the kettle on
It is the British answer
to Armageddon

Never mind the taxes rise
Never mind the trains are late
One thing you can be sure of
and that’s the kettle, mate.

What ever happened to tea? Once it was a central pillar of our national identity. Probably because for a long time it was a central pillar of our national economy. Tea – opium – silver: a brilliant trade triangle masterminded by the East India Company, using methods that seem, in retrospect, amazingly modern; for example, the off-loading of the dangerous and ethically suspect part of the trade – the delivery of the opium to the Chinese – to intermediaries, enabling the Honourable Company itself to remain apparently squeaky clean. The opium, essentially, buys the tea, which is shipped back to Blighty where it becomes a symbol of a decent kind of Britishness, upright, hard-working, true. A brilliant sleight of hand.

It’s not whether you lose
It’s not whether you win
It’s whether or not
You’ve plugged the kettle in.

May the kettle ever hiss
May the kettle ever steam
It is the engine
that drives our nation’s dream.

Then, gradually, insidiously, tea turned into coffee (while in parallel, almost, the empire collapsed, and cricket turned into football). How can it have happened? It seems to have been part of the Europeanisation of Britain ushered in by Elizabeth David and Terence Conran in the 50s and 60s – French food and wine, Italian furniture, Greek holidays. It was more particularly a Mediterraneanisation, an attempt to deny our climate and live a more carefree outdoor social life (hence those heaters that attempt heat the outside world, a crime against ecology, not to say common sense). And an important aspect of that was the coffee house, with its chairs and tables on the street. Relaxed, sociable. What could be nicer?

Now that innovation has come to bite us. Starbucks, Caffé Nero, Pret a Manger, Eat, Costa etc etc are almost the only businesses left on the high street. Shopping turns into sociability, perhaps. But can you have the sociability without the shopping? I’d like to think you can actually. The high street as a place to meet, and talk, and see stuff together, and do stuff together – it’s a lovely proposition, though one that needs a bit of work.

It’s astonishing that we can drink so much coffee – and eye-wateringly expensive coffee, at that. The standard of the coffee has definitely improved, particularly with the advent of those clever Australian people, with their flat whites, and their enthusiastic obsession with provenance and water temperature. (I went into a delightful independent coffee house recently, and drank a delicious cup of coffee, but had to leave prematurely while the barrista was telling the nth person exactly where the beans came from, how he was planning to make the coffee, and what it was going to taste like: ‘…washed Yirg….updosed….pulled longer….clean and light, creamy body and mouthfeel, strawberries on the nose…’ – a mixture of porn novel and wine-tasting manual.) But what about our health? Are we getting over-caffeinnated? Are we drowning in frothed milk?

And this is where tea might be stealing back into the picture. A suspicion that tea might be better for us, particularly green teas and rooibush teas and herbal teas. (Are those horror stories about herbal teas just rumours, or is there some truth in them?) As we run more half-marathons and spend more time in the gym, are we going to return to the old decent morally upright tradition of tea-drinking?

Long live the kettle
that rules over us
May it be limescale free
and may it never rust

Sing it from the beaches
Sing it from the housetops
The sun may set on empire
but the kettle never stops.

PS The poem is by the great John Agard, who has also written a wonderful poem about coffee – or rather a poem about heaven and coffee – which affirms the coffee dishonourable, tea honourable principle:

You’ll be greeted
by a nice cup of coffee
when you get to heaven
and strains of angelic harmony.
But wouldn’t you be devastated
if they only serve decaffeinated
while from the percolators of hell
your soul was assaulted
by Satan’s fresh espresso smell?

PPS Now, not only has the empire collapsed, tea turned into coffee and cricket into football, but the weather’s changing. Is nothing sacred?

We’ve published a book of Orlando’s recipes full of similar tales. For more about Orlando Gough Recipe Journal click here.

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by TOAST ( 19.12.13 )

Lia Leendertz

Autumn is here, and with it comes an urge to step outside despite – or perhaps because of – the chill. For autumn is beautiful. When the photogenic baubles were being handed out, autumn was at the front of the queue. Spiders webs covered in dew? Flame red leaves lying on green moss? Tree branches weighed down with an embarrassing abundance of rosy apples? Yes please, I’ll take the lot. Autumn is a looker alright, and is all the more precious for its fleeting, transitory state. So much of its beauty is the beauty of death and decay: one big storm and all could be blown away, and we will be left contemplating the bare twigs and mud of winter.

If looking for a beautiful place for an autumnal day out, think beyond the arboretum. Yes they are spectacular, and you will admire stunning glades of turning trees in yellow, orange and scarlet, but so will every man and his auntie. Whole fields are put aside for arboretum car parking at this time of year, and that crisp autumnal wander starts to feel a little commoditised and over populated. Anyway, there is more to autumn than leaves, and here are a few places to see the rest.


Exotic planting at Great Dixter, East Sussex

There are some plants that wait for the end of the year to explode into life, and Great Dixter is a fabulous place to see a garden designed specifically for this very moment in the year. The Exotic Garden was one of the late Christopher Lloyd’s great triumphs. He tore out an old, diseased, but Lutyens designed rose garden to make way for the hardy bananas, cannas, dahlias and verbenas that grace this garden until it closes at the end of October. A real riot.

Fruit at Brogdale, Kent

For mellow fruitfulness, visit the National Fruit Collections at Brogdale, basically a vast and hugely varied orchard. Home to the world’s largest collection of fruit trees and plants it boasts almost 4000 varieties of fruit including apples, pears, cherries and nuts. Their Apple Festival is held on the 19th and 20th October.

Grasses at Knoll Gardens, Dorset

Ornamental grasses look beautiful in autumn and winter, holding their shape yet swishing about at the slightest breeze and particularly beautiful against low autumn light. Knoll Gardens is the place to see them en masse.

The dahlia bed at Rousham, Oxfordshire

Dahlias are the flower of autumn and Rousham is the place to see them as a grand spectacle. The dahlia bed is 7ft wide and 150ft long and runs along a south-facing wall, and dahlias have been grown in it for 70 years without a break. This makes for a spectacular and hugely colourful show, right up until the first hard frosts blacken the foliage, and the plants are lifted for winter.

Autumn skeletons at Pensthorpe, Norfolk

Garden designer Piet Oudolf is the master of perennial planting that dies beautifully. He uses perennials that last, holding their skeletons and shapely seed heads well into winter. Although the garden he has created at Pensthorpe is at its colourful height in August, it turns into a beautiful, sepia version of itself in autumn.


Photo of Rousham dahlias by Alexandra Lehna, via flickr. 

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by TOAST ( 01.11.13 )

The fifth in a series of pieces written to photographs taken by Nicholas James Seaton on our autumn/winter 2013 shoot in Canada. Each focuses on an element, albeit a non-traditional kind.

After staring at the above photograph endlessly, returning to it often, Daisy Garnett‘s mind was consumed by Percy Bysshe Shelley‘s poem Mont Blanc. ‘It feels just plain wrong and fraudulent to try and write my own lines when he has already written everything I want to say, and in a way I never, ever could.’ And so, here Daisy presents the the first two stanzas of Shelley’s ‘wonderful, consummate’ poem Mont Blanc: Lines Written in the Vale of Chamouni.


The everlasting universe of things

Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,

Now dark—now glittering—now reflecting gloom—

Now lending splendour, where from secret springs

The source of human thought its tribute brings

Of waters—with a sound but half its own,

Such as a feeble brook will oft assume,

In the wild woods, among the mountains lone,

Where waterfalls around it leap for ever,

Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river

Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.


Thus thou, Ravine of Arve—dark, deep Ravine—

Thou many-colour’d, many-voiced vale,

Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns sail

Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams: awful scene,

Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down

From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne,

Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame

Of lightning through the tempest;—thou dost lie,

Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging,

Children of elder time, in whose devotion

The chainless winds still come and ever came

To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging

To hear—an old and solemn harmony;

Thine earthly rainbows stretch’d across the sweep

Of the aethereal waterfall, whose veil

Robes some unsculptur’d image; the strange sleep

Which when the voices of the desert fail

Wraps all in its own deep eternity;

Thy caverns echoing to the Arve’s commotion,

A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame;

Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion,

Thou art the path of that unresting sound—

Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee

I seem as in a trance sublime and strange

To muse on my own separate fantasy,

My own, my human mind, which passively

Now renders and receives fast influencings,

Holding an unremitting interchange

With the clear universe of things around;

One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings

Now float above thy darkness, and now rest

Where that or thou art no unbidden guest,

In the still cave of the witch Poesy,

Seeking among the shadows that pass by

Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee,

Some phantom, some faint image; till the breast

From which they fled recalls them, thou art there!

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by TOAST ( 25.10.13 )
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