Chilies, Cucumbers & Quinces

The Taylors (Biddy's folks) always have a warm and welcoming kitchen, usually with simple, high-quality food on the table. Most veg and fruit is homegrown, bread is freshly baked, and superb (but incredible value) cheese is from the market.

Last time I visited was after a night on the town with Biddy and Maija, so the wholesome food was medicinal as well as delicious. Then I had a long drive home. I arrived back feeling dehydrated and queezy, but had been sent on my way with these lovely vegetables from the Taylors' garden. An absolutely delicious cucumber, tomato, chili and mint salad refreshed and revived me.



A couple of days later, I baked apples with slivers of the Taylors' quinces, adding lemon zest, lemon juice, honey, butter and sloe gin into the mix. Deeelightful with clotted cream, and the quince makes a big difference, transforming sweet 'n sour apples, with its fragrant layers of muskiness.

Beer Bread

I am brewing some ale. Today, I siphoned it out of the fermentation bin, leaving the velvety sludge of yeast behind. The sludge smelt so incredibly delicious, filling the senses with powerful beery, yeasty, malty fumes, that I couldn't bear to chuck it all away.

I used a couple of dollops in with wholemeal flour, a spoon of malt extract, slosh of fermenting beer, pinch of salt and some milk, to make bread. It was a complete experiment, because I had no idea if the yeast would work well enough to make the bread rise, or what it would taste like.

Toasted beer bread, buttered

It was a brilliant success! It smelt like a dream bakery from a century ago, as well as a bit of pub carpet (in a good way). Honestly, though, it was such a wonderful smell. Tasted damn good, too! It had a really full flavour that was miraculously similar to the smell.

One slight draw back; my bread had a bitter aftertaste. With butter and jam or cheese, the bitterness wasn't noticeable, but the beery flavour still was. Next time, though, no actual beer, and more malt extract.

The yeast took longer than packet yeast to start working enthusiastically, but after a couple of hours it was really going for it. I kneaded it again, made it into a twisty loaf, left it under cling film to rise again, and then baked it at 180˚C for about 20 - 25 minutes. It came out with a moist and crumby texture, and you know the rest.

I left the lovely, pretty beer loaf on the kitchen surface, and when I went back to take photos, this was all that remained. Which must be an excellent sign.

Bread remains :)

Now, what to do with the rest of the sludge... There's way too much to use just by making another non-bitter loaf. Any ideas?

Monaco, Cannes & Cuttlefish

A couple of days working in Monaco last week meant parma ham and hot peppers for lunch, whilst watching superyachts and listening to the regular roar of supercars.

I was staying with a friend in Cannes, and the evening meals included a pizza, valpolicella and limoncello in the local Sicilian-run pizzeria, plus two beach picnics. So nice to be on the beach at night and warm! Isn't that what summer is supposed to be like?

Superyachts and swimmers, Cannes

Beach picnic parties consisted of champagne and rosé, all sorts of perfectly ripe French and Italian cheeses, baguettes and olive bread, fruit and olives. There was a plum tart, too, with crumbly pastry and a thick layer of almond paste - mmmmm-m! There was even candlelight, music (a Michael Jackson extravaganza), and dancing!

Camembert by candlelight

On my last day, I had time for some sun-bathing and lunch on the beach, before catching my flight. Attracted by the bustling open kitchen and the sight and smell of the seafood dishes, we picked L'Annex as our beach-side restaurant. I chose the cuttlefish which I had seen being prepared for other diners and looked amazing. My companions chose another cuttlefish and tuna steak. We sipped ice-cold rosé and nibbled light baguette slices as we waited for the griddled seafood to arrive.

We were not disappointed! The seafood itself was perfectly cooked and super-fresh. The pungent garlic and basil sauce that was poured all over it was absolutely mouth-watering. Ideal! Ideal food, ideal to be eating it on Cannes beach! This is one of my favourite ever meal memories.





After the food and wine, my lovely friend hired sun loungers, and I soaked up the rays for as long as possible. We drank sparkling mineral water and cava. When the empty cava bottle was discovered, we were repremanded like naughty school children, for bringing our own drink. This, despite paying a fortune for the loungers, and spending €90 on the meal for 3. Oh well, I forgive them due to the idyllic day and the perfect lunch.

Yey! Back to France!

...Well, only for 3 weeks (8th - 30th June), which will rush by, but I'm soooo looking forward to being back in my kitchen! Just the prospect of returning is making me all freshly inspired and enthused about cooking, concocting and just generally eating; homemade perfect pizzas cooked in my wood-fired oven, ridiculously rich homemade ice-creams, salads of lush home-grown or market produce and garden herbs, cool summer soups, scrambled village eggs, barbecued meat and fish and cephalopods and fruit and veg and breads, picnics and booze on the beach, croissants and pain au chocolat with coffee, steak tartare, fruits de mer, oozing little goat cheeses... and so on, and on... Ooh, and I'll make a strawberry tart with the wonderously juicy and fragrant local varieties that are in season! Actually, how the hell am I going to fit all of my French food fun into 3 weeks?

My kitchen in France

Uruguay: Colonia, Montevideo, Punta del Esta, Treinta Y Tres & Melo.

Awesome countryside, lovely people, intriguing cowboys PLUS lush, fresh, local food and low prices!

We found the posh port district of Buenos Aires, where we were told we could get an excellent steak, amongst a forest of glistening skyscrapers. Unfortunately, we didn’t have the money for a pricey steak, and it was 11am, so we had an enjoyable milky coffee and mini croissant, sitting in proper hot sun, while we waited for our ferry to Uruguay. Ahhh at last! We hoped this was the start of solid sun for us!


Buenos Aires port

Colonia:

Uruguay was a different world to BA. We had no idea what to expect, but the cobbled streets, horse-drawn carts piled with firewood and ancient cars of Colonia were a joyous revelation. The El Viajero Hostel was lovely, clean, had tonnes of gorgeous original features and an old-fashioned ambience.

Uruguay was surprisingly and delightfully cheap and the food and was generally excellent. We opted for the Mercosur pavement café, and ate an extremely delicious pizza topped with a local mushroom (the memory of it makes my mouth water now), begetal, drank beer, and watched the fascinating Uruguayian world go by.





That evening, we went for a drink at one of the prettiest, quaintest restaurants, with ferns growing from its ancient walls (Pulperia de los Faroles), but the service wasn’t very welcoming, so we decided to go elsewhere for supper. We found the fantastic, bohemian El Drugstore, and had a night to remember.


Outside El Drugstore are a choice of colourful tables, including one set out in an ancient car. Needless to say, the few kilometres from BA to Colonia did not have an enormous impact on the climate, so we chose to sit in the cavernous warmth inside the restaurant. It had hugely high ceilings, exposed brick, and colours, patterns and posters everywhere, with the wonderful wood-fired stove as the main focus point, and little side rooms leading deep into the building.


Starting off with bread and herb-sprinkled butter, I was taken aback by the wonderful fresh flavour and creaminess of the butter. Luisa, who runs the restaurant, said that it was normal to have such fragrant, locally produced butter in Uruguay. Having lived in Portugal, she told us that she really appreciated coming back to Uruguay for the high-quality meat, dairy foods and bread, and that the difference is marked.

After spending ages over the highly confusing and massive menu, we chose a Uruguayan speciality for supper, chivito, which is mainly the collection of farmyard foods that you get platters of in loads of rural communities around the world. It included egg, ham, cheese, bacon, mirepoix in mayonnaise, palm hearts and salad. Biddy had chicken grilled with cheese and salad. All of it was nicely cooked and tasty.


Along with the food, we were drinking cheap jugs of rather moreish table wine. The speed at which we drunk it increased somewhat during the meal. Then the friendly Texan couple, Carmen and Bob (pronounced ‘Maaam’) on the next table started chatting to us. Actually, Maaam was born in Cuba and Carmen was originally from Honduras. They were clearly very tipsy and rapidly getting more so, and we joined the fun with more and more jugs of wine.

Then a guitarist/singer climbed onto a big block and started up with some impassioned latino tunes. The wine really enhanced the music. It also made Biddy very emotional when a very cute 4 year-old called Ely wanted to dance with us. He was the son of another American couple, who take Ely with them all around the world, on exotic and exciting trips.


Adorable Ely

Punta de Este:

We woke up with fuzzy red wine heads, not feeling to pleased with ourselves. After a restorative walk around the estuary, and an amazingly cheap Mercosur meal of beautifully cooked hake, fried in breadcrumbs and served with lush salad (with medicinal beer), we decided to move on. Colonia is very pretty but there isn’t an awful lot to do or see there for more than a day. We walked to the coach station and caught a bus to
Montevideo.

The scenery from the bus was mainly pale green grassland, the odd large tree, and lots of flimsy-looking, squat buildings. As we got towards the centre of Montevideo, the architecture became grander and older. But when we got out and tried to follow a map to the youth hostel, we almost drowned in the hoards of people, heat and thick pollution. After 5 minutes of getting totally lost in this filthy, hectic shit hole, we went back to the bus station and caught another bus. If we’d had the time and money to give Montevideo a chance, we may have enjoyed exploring the colonial charm we had read about. But we didn’t.

A few hours later, and the next stop was Punta del Este, one of the throbbing surf capitals of the world, with stretches of skyscrapers, dunes, clubs and bars. We arrived well after dark, and after a local bus ride, we found ourselves in worryingly quiet streets, with closed shops and restaurants. It was really cold! We identified a chilly, dark sandy track with the youth hostel’s sign, and began the mini-trekk, past a ferocious and very vocal dog, until finally we arrived at the hostel steps.

The white and blue exterior of Hostel Manatiales hinted strongly at hot seaside resorts, but we had arrived just as the first cold spell of autumn had hit. The hostel was damp, mouldy and dirty, which would have been more bearable if it was warm. The staff were helpful, if incredibly slow (actually like slow motion), and the shy boy from reception took us (very slowly) up the road to the only place we might find something to eat – the whole town had shut down for low season.


A mile or so up a wide sandy track, flanked by large villas, we can to the local shop. The shy, slow boy translated for us, and we sat outside shivering over glasses of beer, while we awaited our metro pizza, which was all that was available, and sounded darned appealing to our cold, hungry tummies. Metros are sold by the metre, and we had ordered 50cm of the stuff, which was a lot. It was not a good pizza, but was enjoyable comfort food, with a sweet, bready base, sweet smear of tomato sauce, and piles of bland, too-sweet cheese - all lovely and oily, hot and filling.


Crossing Uruguay:

There was certainly more of a holiday atmosphere the next morning. We sat basking in the sun, drinking tea and coffee …for a frustratingly long time, until a dude on a moped finally arrived with the breakfast bread. These pretty white rolls were soft inside and delicious with dulce de leche. A local speciality, they are called galleta pan.


Galleta pan

We were so disappointed by our time (and bad timing) at Punta del Este, that we were pleased to be on the move again after breakfast, and relieved to be waiting for a bus in the sun (in view of thatched roofs), even if the breeze was pretty cool and strong.

After a short time on the road we were thoroughly enjoying the journey. The scenery was spectacular. We had hours of watching it go by, and never once felt bored. Vast grasslands dotted with enormous trees stretched into the distance. Copses of eucalyptus trees marked river and streams, and every few miles we passed a ranch. The grassland was divided into vast fields, containing buff cows, the odd horse, and emus! The biggest treat was spotting real-life cowboys, with leather hats, plaid shirts, pretty faces, and relaxed control over their livestock.




The pretty, run down little towns were almost entirely made up of mini one-storey buildings, and had a backwater, laid back feel. Everyone moved slowly. And the country is so small and under-populated that everyone knows everyone else, so that every time the bus stopped, whether in the middle of a prairie or in a village, everyone kissed the new arrivals ‘hello’, and began chatting loudly. We got stared at a lot, but the people were friendly to us, going out of their way to help, and to stop their children staring - we were becoming increasingly blond and tall compared to the locals, and it was very clear that we had moved off the beaten tourist track.

At Treinta Y Tres, we stopped to change buses, giving us time to enjoy an Ecuadorian band with American Indian style dress and dance, then a meal at the Cafeteria in the same square. I ordered ‘pulpo’, expecting octopus, but was happy with the nicely cooked steak and chips that arrived! Especially as prices seemed to be even cheaper in the interior of the country – a litre of beer was $1 US. It was also getting warmer as we moved inland, and we sat outside in the sun to eat.




Melo & Wild West:

The next leg of the journey was sadly mainly in the dark. We arrived at the town of Melo to find that all the accommodation had been taken by businessmen, who were converging there for a conference. We had taken a cab from the bus station, and agreed a price for being dropped off in town, but our driver took us from hotel to hotel without charging us more, and even ran into the hotels to ask them if they had a cheap room for us. He had an American wife, which seemed to increase his sympathy for us. We could only find one room in the whole town, which was very expensive. We had ummed and ahhed over whether to just sit on our rucksacks until dawn, in the bus station, but in the end we just took the room.

Despite the price and plush reception area, the room at the Crown Hotel was not very comfortable, and we were not very gracefully received (it was probably the rucksacks that did it). After a nice hot shower we put the same set of our warmest clothes on once again, and ventured into the chilly night. We found the Café La Rural opposite a cowboy’s shop (boots, saddles, hats and other leather goods). The waiter was so surprised to see foreigners, and so thrilled to be able to practice his English, that he gave us free olives and cheese with our beer, “Just to say ‘welcome’”.



We got up in good time the next morning – we were catching the bus to Brazil! We stocked our stomachs up on the standard hotel breakfast buffet, of coffee, bread, plastic cheese, cheap watery ham and fruit.

Unfortunately, the hotel did not accept the international debit cards that we offered (Visa and Maestro), so I had had to run around the streets like a panicked chicken, looking for a working bank machine. Meanwhile, Biddy ordered a taxi, because we would now be too late to walk to the bus station by the time I returned. Panting and sweating, I presented reception with the cash, and we dashed off to catch our bus.

The journey through the dewy morning was wonderful. We saw more ranches, hamlets, and more beautiful scenery. The journey looked short on the map, but took hours of frequent stops, on tiny, winding roads.


When we got to our destination, we were quite bemused. We thought we were going to a town on the border. We found ourselves in what appeared to be the set of a wild west film – a dusty, one-street town, with a couple of shops and bars in, and cowboys who didn’t look like they had much of a sense of humour. The ‘town’ was on a hill, and view of endless grassland from there was incredible, and all the more exciting, because all that grassland was in Brazil.


We hadn’t got any cash, because we hadn’t wanted to take any Uruguayan money out before entering Brazil, and we could not have withdrawn Brazilian cash in Uruguay. This was very stupid of us; there was no cash machine, and the bank didn’t take cards or exchange travellers’ cheques. We had not yet got our bus tickets to the next town (where we were assured there were cash machines), so we were pretty stuck. We had no way to pay for anything, and now way out of there.

Not knowing what else to do, we began counting out our change. And by an actual miracle, we had EXACTLY the money required for two bus tickets. What relief!

Now we had about four hours to kill, until our bus. We walked about, explored the only side street, watched cowboys lazily trotting about on their steeds and sat on a bench. It was about midday, and starting to get hot. We hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since the early morning, and had a long wait to go. We also needed a wee. I started nonchalantly looking through the pockets of my combats and bags. Incredibly, our luck for that day had still not been used up; I found the equivalent of about 20p. We went to a small deserted café. When the string-vested man came out, I somehow expressed our situation and asked if he could give us two coffees, despite having only enough for half of one coffee. He agreed immediately, and signalled that we should take a seat at a table. I felt guilty, because it was clear that these people were very poor and didn’t get much custom. Then he brought us a whole pot of coffee and a basket of bread! This was so wonderful, for a few reasons:

1. Drink and food.
2. The difficulties and rewards of that morning had felt like a ‘real’ travelling-type adventure.
3. The life enriching experience of being given more than we even hoped for, by someone who didn’t know us at all, and who has very little themselves.

Re-fuelled, we were pleased to find that the café had a toilet, so we left feeling very content.

Only another three and a half hours to wait.

More strolling about, more cowboys, more sitting on a bench. Time went slowly, but the surroundings were so alien to us, that we were happy just sitting there observing them. It got hotter and hotter, until we were able to sit sweltering in t-shirts, with our trousers rolled up, and our blue-white feet exposed to the sun for the first time on the trip. Ahhhhh! This was the travelling life!


Me

Cowboys

At last, the ticket office opened. We put our clothes back on and hoiked up our rucksacks.

Porto Alegre - Hell & Heavenly Feijoada

We arrived late at night. Having phoned various guidebook hotels from Bagé, we were a bit worried about finding somewhere to stay - the places we'd called were either full or very expensive, and we had no idea how to find our way to the different areas of the city. We should have looked around at least a little bit, but we just went straight to the crap, over-priced dump over the road from the bus station.


Porto Alegre bus station

The greasy, string-vested man behind the desk gave us the key, and sent us up to our hovel. The sheets we were supplied with were worn so thin, that once we had put them on the narrow beds, you could see through them to the dirty bedding beneath. The dusty window over-looked a filthy alleyway, and we left it open due to the strong smell of gas in our room, that made us fear for our lives. We could hear shouting coming from everywhere, and the hooting cars on the road out front sounded like they were in the room with us. The light in the cold shower was activated by a switch that was located under the stream of water. Nevermind, we did find the room's ridiculousness quite funny, and we did manage a couple of hours' sleep.

Sadly, we were unable to take photos of the ‘hotel’ room, because it was so small, and the shower at such an awkward angle, that our standard-lensed cameras couldn’t capture the fun.

The breakfast wasn't bad, surprisingly: Plenty of milky coffee, delicious, sweet, tangy little bananas, ripe papaya, breads, cakes, ‘juice’ (squash), cheap ham and plastic cheese.

After breakfast, we went straight to the bus station, super-early, to find out about coaches to Foz d’Iguaçu, and buses to the pretty wine-producing villages that we’d heard about in the Porto Alegre area. We bought our tickets to Foz for early that evening, so that we could briefly explore the surrounding villages before leaving, without having to stay an extra night. But then the ticket seller noticed that we didn’t have visas. We were illegal immigrants, due to having crossed the border in the middle of nowhere. We had to go to the airport to explain ourselves and get a stamp, or we couldn’t travel.

Luckily, the airport wasn’t far, and the customs man only gave us a gentle interrogation, but by the time we got back, we were too late to take a trip into the countryside and get back before our Foz bus. We had to miss out on seeing the vineyards and amuse ourselves in the city, and, after BA, we had intended to avoid metropoli. But after a horrible, watered-down, sugary fruit juice in the bus station, we put our rucksacks in left luggage, and began to tramp the town. We were determined to make the best of it. For a few hours. Until we were utterly wilted by the awfulness of Porto Alegre.


Don’t get me wrong; as with Montevideo, I am sure that given time we would have uncovered many more hidden joys of the city, but our brief experience did not do the place justice (I hope). It was hot, sticky and filthy, impoverished and falling down. We walked past crumbling whorehouses (it was the houses that were crumbling not the whores - the young prostitutes seemed quite spritely, despite their rank living conditions) and charcoal-grey gutter kids lying ignored and unconscious on the pavement. Shops consisted of tatt-touters, selling useless Chinese junk. Obvious Criminals, who happened to be blond and blue-eyed, thought they could gain our trust through colouration and offers of ‘help’. Most people were over-weight to obese levels, and the only food we found was brown and deep-fried, whether it was sweet or savoury. The leggings and platforms were out in force, to accentuate the eye-watering arse sizes. Huge skyscrapers lay derelict, right in the city centre, looming over the shops and stalls. We completely exhausted ourselves trying to find something nice.


Thankfully, we actually did in the end; We found the excellent covered market, with amazing street performers doing somersaults through rings of fire outside. We couldn’t take photos, for fear of being mugged. There were pavement cafés along one outside length of the market (Ahhh! Beer! At last some decent refreshment!), fish stalls lining the outside of the port side, and all sorts of food stalls inside. I’d forgotten that Porto Alegre has a port until I was standing next to it!

We found a restaurant in the market, that reminded me of a Spanish taverna, with its high, tobacco-stained walls, busy waiters in aprons, dark wooden tables and locals enjoying leisurely meals together. Bar Naval serves beer on tap and has a very accommodating service.

Some handily English-speaking men on the next table tried to chat us up, to the amusement of the waiters. The pleasing result was a lot of help with the menu and a recommendation of what to do for the rest of the afternoon, and directions to the city’s massive Redenção park.

The food was comparatively pricey but very good indeed. And it was real food rather than deep-fried dough. We sampled some Brazilian delicacies, tasting a rich, smoky bean feijoada, with farofa (course cassava flour which soaks up and thickens sauces, and adds flavour, crunch and calories) and the fantastic acidic, firey and salty chilli sauce (Anyone know where can I buy this in the UK?). Some spice was very welcome after what was beginning to feel like days of bland stodge. We subsequently realized that the flour and the chilli sauce are permanently on almost every dining table, especially further north.


Feijoada & all the trimmings

The feijoada was like a rich, dark, smoky cassoulet, that contained black beans, smoked pork belly, beef, smoked sausage and what seemed to be an unsmoked sausage with a bone running through it – all absolutely delicious, and served with refreshing slices of orange, crisp salad, rice and greens. I tried to establish what the tender greens were; they’re called ‘couve’, but translations vary from general brassica to cabbage to kale. Kale seems most likely. We also had some delicately fried flat fish and a few chips! Cool lager washed it all down nicely.

We still felt like we were being watched and scoped out from afar, so still no photos, I’m afraid.

Back out into the hazy sun and humidity (smog, maybe,) we began once again to navigate the grimy streets and fried food stalls, until we found the park. What a relief! We spent a couple of peaceful hours watching families and groups of friends playing sports, walking dogs and drinking maté. There were also caged enclosures down paths, among the trees, which housed monkeys and exotic birds.



Finally, feeling exhausted, sweaty, filthy and greasy, we found our way back to the bus station, and caught our overnight coach to Foz.

N.B. As a big exception to my general blog rule, the photos in the post are not mine. While I was searching for them on the internet, I did find some very pleasant looking pictures of Porto Alegre, so maybe we just caught it on a bad day...

Chimps & More Cake - 23rd August 2007

My third day started off with a trip through Regent - the first place where freed Caribbean slaves settled and built a village. It has not changed much since it was established, with Creole architecture and beautifully tended vegetable gardens among the lush foliage, by the river. We were on our way to the nearby Tacugama Chimpanzee Sanctuary.



Chimps are still hunted for meat in rural parts of Sierra Leone, and their babies sold as pets to rich people in Freetown. Numbers are estimated to have fallen from 20,000 in the 1970s, to less than 3000 now. Both the hunting and the keeping as pets are illegal, but it’s not always easy to educate people about that fact.

Some pet chimps are mistreated and chained up, whereas others are treated like spoiled children. We met one grumpy, rock-throwing male, who used to have his own bedroom with a TV. Even if they start off pampered, cute baby chimps turn into unpredictable, large, very strong, wild animals, and are consequently mistreated later on. The sanctuary takes in these chimps, which are seized from dealers or their adopted families, or handed in.



The idea is that after their rehabilitation into the enclosed forest of the sanctuary, they will be re-introduced into the wild. But there isn’t the funding to research suitable areas for release. Unlike wild chimps, they can be dangerous to humans, because they aren’t scared of them, so the chimps have simply collected in the sanctuary, since it opened in 1995.

Charismatic Dr Rosa Garriga joined the sanctuary as a resident vet a couple of years ago. She has made huge progress in publicizing the plight of the chimps and the work of the sanctuary in the local community, but is frustrated because so much needs to be done in terms of funding and research, which she feels she cannot do alone – I reckon she probably could, though! She’s a tough cookie and passionate about her work.

I’m one of those people who find chimps adorable and just want to cuddle and be friends with them, so it was a real treat to go and see some. But what made the experience even more awe-inspiring was seeing them in their ethereal natural habitat – rain forest-covered mountains. The photos don’t do it justice.


www.tacugama.com



We got back to Freetown in time for lunch, but then had a lengthy search for various cafés serving local food, all of which had closed down or were being cleaned up after a party! Then we stumbled upon Ki-Ki’s, in Campbell Street, where we had barracuda in rich tomatoey, spicy sauce, with rice and Star. I was lucky to be able to chat to Ki-Ki herself, because she normally lives in London, but was back in Freetown for the elections.

In the afternoon, I tried out the Salvonne Bakery, which has a range of heavy-looking pastries, cakes and bread, including small, solid croissants and steak and kidney pie, which I hear is delicious. I bought a little savoury cake, which was light and moist. Its fragrant sponge was mildly spicy, and flavoured with vegetables.



Notorious Paddy’s

In the evening, we went to the notorious Paddy’s, which is a sports bar, restaurant, and all night club, where everyone goes to party. I was with my dad, though, so the partying was limited to tasty kebabs, chips and Star, and taking in the pleasant surroundings. Paddy’s is one huge roof with not much in the way of walls, which makes it spacious and airy, adding to the chilled-out atmosphere. There's an area of tables to eat at, a big dancefloor, a central bar and games like pool.