I live in several places at the moment and today it’s Bristol’s turn. Hello city, I say, saluting its stone buildings, built to impress. I am at its medieval trading centre and, time travellers, Corn Street is still buzzing centuries later.
Every Wednesday, Bristol’s farmers’ market takes over the historic street and here’s the glorious thing: its stalls are bursting with real food bounty.
I buy fresh halibut from David Felce, the fishmonger (see mini pic below). I won’t talk about fish right now. (Except to say I pan fried the halibut gently for five minutes in olive oil. I usually use butter so that was an experiment. Served it with purple sprouting broccoli. Yup, it was good, she says smacking her lips after dinner. Simple and seasonal.)
The god of convenience has blessed me. My local Bristol farmers’ market also hosts the best bread in the world.
The Common Loaf Bakery uses spelt and rye, flours that have not been hybridised out of their natural existence like wheat has.
I bought a four-seeded (sesame, linseed, sunflower and poppy) spelt loaf and a spelt fruit bread laden with figs, prunes and raisins soaked in sherry, plus hazelnuts, dates, cloves and nutmeg. Not to mention the Celtic sea salt.
Hand crafted artisan bread. It doesn’t get more real than that. (I love those Christians with Hebrew names who make the bread, and keep the price down by living as one family. Respect.)
While in Pie Minister, Bristol’s pie shop, I pick up a copy of Fork.
Promising “no celebrity chefs,” its strap line says: the real food magazine.
Sounds just down my street…