Glengower Hotel

Along the promenade in Aberystwyth, north towards Constitution Hill, is a great bar/hotel called the Glengower. It's been a staple of our trips to Wales ever since we started coming here as a family in the early 80's. The owner's have changed over the years, as has everything else about the bar except for the numerous picnic tables looking out onto the Irish Sea. There really is no better place to sit on the prom, the Glengower being the only bar in the vicinity and always full of families, stragglers, students and the like. They also have a pretty nice menu. One afternoon I stopped in for a cheese and pickle sandwich, one of the best sandwiches I've ever had; simple, fresh and served on crumbly wholewheat granery bread. A welcome alternative to all the heavy fat and fried food to be found throughout the town.

Light of Asia

When in Britain, at least one plate of Indian food is a must, though it's always hit or miss. Last year in Aberystwyth, Kelly and I got take out from an Indian restaurant not far from our hotel and it was horrible. I suppose we should have realized it wouldn't be a very good meal by the lack of clientele during the dinner hours, but everyone makes mistakes. Light of Asia, on the other hand, is always busy, and for a reason. It is the best Indian food in mid/north Wales, and has been as far back as I can recall. The decor has been different every time I've eaten there over the past 20 years, this trip it was a very modern and neon design, a French synth-pop aesthetic, but the menu doesn't suffer. We ordered naan, samosas, and various curries and vindaloo; all very good and very, very SPICY. The spice overshadowed the tastes quite a bit, and it wasn't my favorite kind of hot (as Sayeeda pointed out, it tasted like the spice was from a paste on all the dishes.) The lamb on the other hand, which was the meat of choice in all our dishes, was perfectly cooked, tender and rich. Nothing compares to Welsh lamb.

@Adams

It was coincidental a very special marriage took place while we were in Wales: Lucy, beloved daughter of dear friends Mags and Keith Jones of Aberystwyth, was wed in Swansea Rick Davies. We were honored to be invited to the families’ wedding- dinner the evening following the ceremony.

The dinner was held in Y Mwmblws—The Mumbles. Growing up this was one of Dylan Thomas’s favorite places, and I had never been there. The town fronts The Mumbles Road, and across it a park runs the length of the town, between it and Swansea Bay. It’s a novel and pleasant town, and despite the constant flow of automobiles it is a quiet place.

The dinner was at a restaurant called @ Adam’s, a lovely and newly refurbished space midway through town—because of the layout I’d guess it might have been the ground floor of a hotel at one time. The night we were there the place was all but given over to parties—two wedding celebrations and a Seventy-fifth Birthday! Our tables were in a front room, the late angle of the sun still lit the expanse of water towards the never-ending activity of the Swansea Docks.

A two- and three- course meal were offered, and provided some interesting choices: I steered toward salad and lamb’s liver. I though that was a good match of lightness and genuine Welsh celebration.

The salad was a goat’s cheese and beetroot with a citrus dressing—rich, sweet, tart…did exactly what a salad should do, prepare the palate.

(I’ve never understood the practice of some to end the meal with a salad…what, as a digestive aid?)

And my palate had a good experience in the offing. The lamb’s liver was in thick strips and done to a moist and flavorful well…. What is it about lamb?... particularly in these northern and frontier reaches it is closest to the earth and fullest of any meat.

The liver was served on mash with black pudding—which, if you’re not familiar with it, is a British blood sausage: Very good sliced cold—good bread and mustard & you’ve got a genuine sandwich in your hands—and a revelation as the result of preparing it with the liver; the sausage took on characteristics of a bleu cheese, crumbly and almost-creamy at once.

On the plate, the trio—black, white, grey—seemed somehow revolutionary: Under the jus of smoked bacon and baby onion the meat was served with, it was!!!

@Adams

Over a decade had gone by since I last saw Lucy, so I was more enamored by her and her family than I was with the food here, but the food was wonderful. I ordered seafood risotto as a starter, and it was good - though plain - and the rice a bit crunchy. The main course was a bit more exciting; crisp pork belly with mash, vegetables and a grain mustard jus. The meat was a bit chewy, though the flavor adhered to the mustard jus perfectly and completely satisfied.

Sayeeda ordered a fillet of seabass with a sort of buerre blanc prawn sauce, brightened by diced veggies and fresh, local cockles (a tiny little bivalve, in case you didn't know.) She gave me a bite and I absolutely loved it; the buttery sauce melding all the different sea flavors together nicely.

Little Italy

Aberystwyth is a small town on the west coast of Wales. It was the Medieval—and maritime—Capitol of the Principality, but all vestiges of ship-building and ocean transport have disappeared. Today it is home to the University of Wales and the Welsh National Library, and a holiday/picnic destination for the denizens of the rolling hills that slope down from Wales’

Heartland to Cardigan Bay. Today the population of the town is about seventeen thousand—a number that rises substantially when the university is in session

I’ve been a visitor to this magical spot since 1974…and a regular diner at the Little Italy Restaurant since the early ‘90s, shortly after its inception. Then, the spot was known as La Boheme and offered a menu composed two-thirds of “traditional British” dishes (the best beef & kidney pie I’ve ever eaten), the rest of Italian specialties. In the early ‘90s the owner changed the name and the offerings: The traditional dishes were trimmed to “old favorites” on a rotating basis (sadly, the beef & kidney pie disappeared) and the Mediterranean offerings expanded. Always when I dined there I was conflicted as to whether I would order the pie…or the filet au poivre—the advantage of the menu change was that on most visits I no longer had to make a difficult choice.

Little Italy is on the town’s main street, North Parade—its upper floor is crowded with tables, but only a few get a look down on the broad and tree-lined thoroughfare.

It’s the floor below where I always reserve a certain table among the five available. Four of us negotiated space around a table meant to be comfortable for two. The room is a centuries-old stone room that is now a cellar with slate floors and a hearth near the window…ah! that window, and the table below the street. We watched under the stone arch, the leads and glass, a parade of townspeople bustling towards Friday evening.

In certainly the only disappointment I’ve suffered there, I was told the beef pie no longer appeared on the menu…

The filet was as expected—still superior to any steak au poivre I’ve ever encountered.

The meat is always firm around its tender soul, the sauce that covers the steak and floods the plate a wonder in its own right: A wine, jus and cream blend abundant with green peppercorns that harmonizes with the filet and leaves an almost citric taste.

I forgo salad and vegetables; sometimes there’s a green decoration on the plate…and that’s nice. From among the potato choices I always order the chips—that sauce is the best chip sauce imaginable; the owners of Little Italy should license it to the Sausmeesters in Amsterdam.

Cafe Rouge

Sayeeda and I found my father and brother at the Cafe Rouge just after the sun set, and after they had finished plates of escagot and pate. The Lanes was slowing down, though in the air were distant roars from pubs where a football game was fueling the night. The Rouge had just set out the candles for the evening, as had the Italian restaurant across the way.

I had done a little research on the Rouge; it's a chain restaurant with more than 150 locations throughout the UK, although it doesn't look the part. The menu seemed typical French, the kind of menu you'd see in any French restaurant anywhere. Altogether not exciting points for me when considering a restaurant. The worst part for me was the fact that all the product probably came from some warehouse in London (when I asked the server where the salmon was from she said, "Uh, I'm not sure... it comes from our supplier in London.) And I could taste it. The minute steak I ordered was really chewy, and though cooked well it was pretty much flavorless. Sayeeda's nicoise salad was topped with an overdone salmon fillet, and seemed pretty unexciting (the saving grace on this, in my opinion, was boquerones!) And Kilian's steamed mussels had a sea taste that wasn't quite right... as though they had been sitting around too long or were from bad water. Kilian also ordered the fried camembert with raspberry sauce, which was practically a dessert.

Later, when flying out of London to Italy, I saw a Cafe Rouge at Heathrow Airport. Now that I think about it, I think Kelly and I spent a night on the floor of their dining room last year on our way to Amsterdam. No more airport food.

Cafe Rouge

The Lanes in Brighton, what is now a charming resort city on the English Channel, is the oldest part of the medieval town—a twisting web of narrow streets given over to shops, pubs, clubs, bars & restaurants and the tourists and locals they serve and entertain. It’s a wonderful, attractive neighborhood.

The restaurants are of every ethnicity and style—pub lunches and fish & chips sprinkled a menu of Indian, Italian, Thai, American, Japanese, Chinese, North-African…among others. And a charming little French café, the Café Rouge: It sits on a corner at the north edge of the Lanes, and caught our eye with its red & white awning and tables under heat lamps—the weather was clear, bright, but it was still April, and a constant breeze kept down the temperature.

And, of course, there was escargot on the menu.

Ezra, his brother Kilian and friend from the city, Sayeeda, and I settled at an outside table an hour or so before sunset, ordered drinks and a pate. The people-watching was wonderful; we were right at that entrance to The Lanes that leads to the principal clubs and music venues

The pate was very good—a chicken liver pate with caramelized Roscoff onion and chutney. The bread was fresh and slightly warm, the onion and fruitful chutney light, though anything but subtle over the rich liver.

And I got my escargot—a half dozen snails in pesto, basil, parmesan and pine-nuts…and presumably garlic, I don’t know. Perhaps I’ve asked too much of my palate for too long, upped the garlic use like an addict and a little bit doesn’t register anymore…maybe; but, still, I would have liked something more sensuous than this particular sauce that, under-garlicked, detracted from some pretty good snails and no real companion the café’s good bread.

The Steak-frites I ordered was fun—like the other dishes we had, enough French in the enterprise and the food to bring to mind that other place and its cuisine.

chose the peppercorn sauce over Bernaise, red-wine, and a few other, sauces . The steak was nicely fried—a thin cut, a minute-steak, it was not tough but only teasingly tender. The sauce was thankfully not as understated as the escargot’s, and complemented the frites—which were plentiful on the plate in this traditional dish.

I’ve enjoyed better, and experienced more mundane, presentations of this in French brasseries: Café Rouge does a good and effective meal.

Author’s Note: I’ve eaten in Brighton in the dead of Winter. It’s not the same as the carnival plsce which is almost a city-beach for Londoners in the summer. Its history and elaborate Promenade, the great entertainment Pier jutting from it…its charming appearance in many films (my favorites are “Genvieve” (1953) and “Quadraphenia” (1979)) draw tourists all year round. In Winter though, the city is somewhat muted as is the rush of tourists; when the winds from the Channel burst cold through the streets the pace is largely local—there’s less frenzy in the welcome and more genuine warmth in the pubs and bistros.

I can’t imagine anything more fun than on a December night sitting in the Café Rouge’s “period” dining room—intimate, with décor from the continent, as well as close attention to the customer…very little French-for-the-English about it—and having a Calvados after escargot and Steak-frites.

I’ll eat there again—a pleasant experience.