Twinkle, twinkle, little tomato

Have I told you about my arbitrary garden? For Christmas I was given a lovely wooden windowbox, containing nursery-bought thyme and sage, transplanted chives, mint and rosemary and a completely rogue tomato seedling.
The thyme and sage fell early victims to my habit of forgetting to water them. The chives, mint and rosemary have survived but bear the ravages of the ordeal. The rogue seedling is trying to take over our flat.
The tomatoes have even turned a lovely dark red, so I decided to override my own mild dislike for the fruit (and the Man's much more deeply held belief that Tomatoes are Evil) and use them in supper.
This was helped by my having brought back from Ireland some lovely floury potatoes and sweet carrots from my uncle's garden.
A couple of sea bass fillets seemed like a good idea when passing the fishmongers'.
I did have a bit of a Ready Steady Cook moment when I considered the menu, but it turned out surprisingly well.
The outcome was grilled seabass with tomato and fennel coulis, carrot gratté and steamed potatoes.
The seabass I rubbed with salt and pepper on the skin side and honey, balsamic vinegar and pepper on the flesh side, then put skinside up under a hot grill for seven minutes. (Hat tip to Jane for the honey and vinegar idea)
For the coulis, I softened garlic and fennel seeds in olive oil and butter, then simmered the skinned and chopped tomatoes in the fat for about 15 minutes. Then (struck with inspiration at the last minute - never very convenient) I sieved the sauce and put it back on the heat to reduce.
Fresh garden carrots are so delicious and unlike bought carrots that I simply grated them very finely with a microplane grater and sprinkled some window-grown chives on them for the colour. This left them light, fluffy and juicy all at once, as well as allowing their sweetness to display itself to admiration.
The steamed potatoes I just steamed.
I thought the whole was excellent, although the Man was less than enthusiastic about the carrots. I think he noticed there were vitamins in them.

Fish in the City

Some people regard the City of London as an exclusive club, a closed system that is inimical to outsiders, and in some senses, they are right.
The advantage of this, on a social level, is that once you are in, you are in and no questions asked.
For years, I have longed to visit one of the great institutions of the City, Sweetings fish restaurant, but was always put off by the fact that it is so obviously an insiders' haunt.
It is open only at lunchtime from Monday to Friday, from 11 o'clock until 3 p.m. in the afternoon and doesn't take any reservations. The seating arrangements are idiosyncratic – mostly around bars and counters, with one long table that must be shared with all other comers, and the menu is almost Spartan in its simplicity. Starters consist of things like smoked salmon and brown bread, or crayfish cocktail, while the main courses run to fried haddock and chips, steamed sea-bass, and scampi.
My curiosity was finally sated recently when a Sweetings regular offered to be my escort for a leisurely lunch. He was warmly greeted by name, not just by the maitre d', but also by the waitress, the bar staff and the head chef, who came out from his lair specially.
I didn't like to demur when he suggested we start with Black Velvets, which to my mind are usually a waste of good champagne and good Guinness, but then I've never drunk them out of silver tankards before. I don't know if it was the receptacle, the quality or the friendly service, but this was a delicious if filling drink.
The crayfish cocktail was supplemented with generous amounts of lobster, by special request, and my breaded fried haddock was excellent. The accompanying chips were good, but the star of the main course, oddly enough, was the spinach, which was plentiful, beautifully seasoned and had just the right amount of butter on it.
We eschewed the public school dessert menu (sticky toffee pudding and the like) in favour of a savoury – Welsh Rarebit, made with cheddar cheese, mustard and ample Worcestershire sauce.
At this point we ran into another of the idiosyncracies that make Sweetings seem impenetrable. They don't serve coffee. Still, by this time I was enjoying myself so much, and had made such good friends with the staff that I was prepared to forgive even this, on the grounds that this was how it had always been.