Fermentation revivalist Sandor Katz makes this punchy pesto to capture the essence of spring. Chickweed, a spicy herb, is his green of choice to pair with ramps, to which he adds mild herbs and sunflower seeds, but you can replace chickweed with watercress, arugula, or any other peppery green. The same goes for the ramps—this pesto works just as well with spring onions or garlic. It will keep in the fridge for a few weeks, and Katz uses it throughout the day: on grits or eggs for breakfast, slathered on sandwiches for lunch, and tossed with potatoes or pasta for dinner.

Featured in Pesto Is So Much More Than Basil on Pasta.

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Couscous was introduced to Sicily by way of North Africa, and makes a filling main course when topped with the island’s fish, shrimp, squid, and mussels. The fragrant tomato and seafood broth is a finishing flourish for the semolina granules to soak up.

Featured in: “Eating the Arab Roots of Sicilian Cuisine.”

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I don’t order dry martinis anywhere except in Estoril. Usually, I like my gin wet. But sitting in a low antique chair at the wood-paneled Spy’s Bar in the Hotel Palácio, nothing but a dry gin martini will do.

The echoing clatter of heels on marble drifts in from the hotel’s double-height lobby, and there’s never quite enough chatter to drown out the soft music. In daylight, the gleaming green and blue of the garden and pool blink through long windows into the dim bar, lined with elegantly worn satin upholstery, and smoky mirrors catch the light at night. When it rains, as it does in winter, you can stare out at the dappled pool with underwater lights changing colors for no one. Waiters in white jackets carry platters of hors d’oeuvres, tiny tea sandwiches and salmon rolls.

Sipping from my stemmed glass, I am joined by a long and hallowed line of dry gin martini drinkers. Located twenty-five minutes outside Lisbon, Estoril became fashionable in the 1930s for its grand hotels and casinos. Then, during World War II, neutral Portugal, which played both sides off of one another to ensure its own safety and profit, was flooded with foreigners staying for longer than just a summer vacation.

While Lisbon was the center of official operations, seaside Estoril teemed with royal families from Spain, Italy, and Bulgaria, as well as French aristocrats, wealthy traders, displaced Jews, and the spies surveilling them all. Many took rooms at the Palácio—Allied territory—or the Hotel Atlántico, favored by the Germans. The Spanish royal family remained in town until the & ’70s.

My very first time at the Palácio, walking to the breakfast buffet at the end of a hallway took me nearly 20 minutes, because I kept stopping to look at the photos of visiting European royalty and guests from the ’30s to the present that lined the walls: stiff skirts at debutante balls, tiaras and white dresses at weddings, Grace Kelly and members of the Spanish royal family—the Infanta Pilar, among other Bourbons. Later that evening, I chose my outfit with slightly more care. The next day, as I left for the beach, I swiped on some lipstick.

The Palácio, with its dark bar and bright lobby, copious marble, lived-in period furniture, and bellhops in tails, has the inherent theatricality of an old movie. Ian Fleming stayed here in May of 1941, when he met Serbian-born triple agent Dusko Popov, the ur-Bond playboy spy known as “Tricycle” for the women occupying both his arms. Here, Fleming conceived of his famed character (and perhaps his hero’s idiosyncratic “shaken, not stirred” directive). In those years, the high floors of Estoril hotels—the Palácio, Atlántico, and Inglaterra—were booked solid by agents who gazed toward the ocean after nightfall to decipher code twinkling from offshore ships. When the Germans ordered the best champagne at Spy’s Bar, the gin-swilling Allies knew a battle had been lost in Africa. Bartenders got the news before the papers printed it.

José Diogo Vieira, the Palácio’s head concierge, was 18 years old when On Her Majesty’s Secret Service filmed at the Palácio in 1969. In an early scene, he plays a bellboy with neatly combed hair who hands James Bond his room key. Vieira wasn’t around when Popov and Fleming were in residence, but their routine was common knowledge, he says. They circulated—hotel room to hotel restaurant and back again, restaurant or room to bar, bar to casino, and back again—drinking cocktails as they gathered information and traded secrets along the way.

Vieira’s hair is now white, but he parts it on the same side and stands with a similarly straight bearing. And summers at the Palácio still look more or less as they do in the film’s opening scenes, still feel more or less how they did when Fleming and Popov operated. Shouts float up to balconies from the pool, and guests roam the beach, hotel, bar, and casino in little loops.

Ponta de Santa Maria

Which is exactly why I keep coming back. There’s a comfort in the continuity, in being strong-armed by tradition. Before dinner, on that first trip, I sat on my balcony and looked out across the landscaped park at the darkening ocean, seeking out a recognizable pattern from the ships on the horizon.

Among the first things José Manuel Cima said to me when I met him two years ago was that I was wrong. I did not want to order the grilled squid. I wanted to order the fresh grouper. Cima, ever the kind gentleman, has been running Cimas for 50-odd years now, and has a sense for these things. The second time we meet, when I return to Estoril with the express purpose of indulging in my love of history and tracking down spy haunts, is much the same: I like fish best? I want something traditional? In that case, I’m having the bass with clams.

Of course, he’s correct, just as he was the last time. The bass emerges fleshy and with a surprisingly light shallot cream sauce, the plate dotted with shell-on clams. Cima knows these recipes well: They’re his mother’s. His parents took over Cimas—then called English Bar—from a Scottish spy in the early ’50s. Her Majesty’s agent Horace Bass had opened the pub in 1941 in a faux-Tudor guesthouse next to Estoril’s old casino, and it acquired its name equally for its dark wood rooms as for the Allied spies who lurked within. Its signage appears perpetually caught between the two names—Cimas from the street, English Bar in cursive on the crest, Cimas-English Bar on the menus. As I finish my bass and listen to the surf crashing outside, I imagine slouch-shouldered spies trading secrets over strong drinks.

That I have never been steered wrong by the bossiness of my elders—that following tradition doesn’t feel like play-acting at nostalgia—creates, for me, a sense of relaxation and routine. I know, in Estoril, that I will drink the same cocktails in the same places where spies and royals drank them 70 years ago. I’ll read a novel published more than 50 years ago by the pool or garden, wish I’d brought dressier clothes, and eat crab legs and sardine heads with my hands. I will order what Cima tells me to order and go where Vieira directs me. During the summer, I will spend afternoons on a beach where German women spoke with Swiss accents in hopes of seducing Allied officers. And when I want ice cream, I will walk to Santini, purveyor of flavorful ices since 1949.

The present encroaches: The small casino next to Cimas was torn down, and the large casino in which Fleming spent his time, constructed in 1931 and expanded in the 1960s, was sold to a Chinese gambling conglomerate 30 or so years ago; the new owners “improved” its façade with mirrors and thousands of blaring lightbulbs. Last year, a monolithic gray hulk of a modern Intercontinental replaced the Hotel Atlántico. And at Spy’s Bar, a separate gin menu now lists 22 varieties besides Gordon’s, a nod to the craze for gin and tonics that has swept Spain and Portugal.

But though I may ask for my dry martini prepared with a flowery French gin, I will drink it in the same dim seat where the Count of Barcelona drank his daily dry martini for 20 years when he was in town. I’ll head to dinner at Cimas, where, every day, Cima and his daughter Sara keep a close eye on the recipes from the past, making sure they remain relevant and fresh. There’s little fear Estoril will change too quickly: Her young sons, Sara assures me, already know how to pick the best fish from the market.

See the recipe for Braised Bass and Clams in White Wine and Cream »

The post The Seaside Portuguese Town That Inspired James Bond appeared first on Saveur.

This classic Portuguese dish of bass and clams cooked in a fragrant broth and finished with a rich glug of cream is adapted from Cimas in Estoril, which has been serving fresh fish to clientele since the ’50s, when the establishment was owned by a Scottish spy.

Featured in: The Seaside Portuguese Town That Inspired James Bond

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Gujarat, India, 1970: I’m five years old, and we are celebrating the spring harvest on my grandparents’ vegetable farm amid their rows of beans. Into my bowl I spoon heaps of vegetables from a steaming earthenware pot that has just been dug out of the ground after spending all night there, toasting under the embers of a fire until its contents are transformed into tender, mushy comfort. Everything in this celebratory undhiyu (which translates to “upside down,” because the pot is sealed and buried upside down) is smoke-flavored: my grandparents’ own beans, of course, some of which I picked myself the day before, but also potatoes and other vegetables from neighboring farmers that my grandparents got after bartering their beans in the informal trading economy that pops up every season. We are all vegetarians, like most Gujaratis, and I chase my bowl with a mango that I grab after scampering up one of the trees that dot the property, the buttery fruit dripping juice on my cousins below, who scream happily.

London, 1987: I’m 22, and for the first time in my life, have gotten on a plane. I meet my new husband at the airport, and a few days later find myself perusing the aisles of a frigid, fluorescently lit supermarket near our flat, which we share with his parents. Everything is foreign to me. The language, sure, but more important, there is no sun, no dirt, no plants from which I can pick a basket of vegetables myself, just plastic-wrapped, antiseptic, drab substitutes. Instead of the pigeon peas I’m used to, I grab some English peas. Instead of the starchy sweet potatoes I’m used to, I get a few waxy tubers that look decent enough. I go home and try to bring the flavors of Gujarat to London, sprinkling a little turmeric here, a little cumin there, from my masala dabba, a round container with six spice jars inside that my mother had packed for me before my journey. It was her way of saying you can take the tastes of home with you, even though you’re heading to an unknown land.

San Francisco, 1992: My husband, our three-year-old daughter, and I have moved to America, and a few days after landing, I head to the San Rafael farmers’ market. I don’t yet know that it is the third largest in the state, but I do know that I’ve stumbled upon something wonderful—heaps of baby carrots, purple and yellow and orange, next to piles of shimmering purple eggplant, willowy stalks of herbs, and so many different colors of potatoes and peppers and onions I don’t know where to begin. That night, I ask my husband if we can buy a place within walking distance, and a few weeks later I’m unpacking in a house a mile from the market. I cannot drive, but know I need to be here, in the sun, smelling the vegetables before I put them in my basket, and so for years, I walk to the market every Sunday, load up on vegetables, and then walk back, bags swinging from my arms. During the spring one day, as I pick fava beans by the handful so I can take them home for a stovetop spring undhiyu, I suddenly realize that, for the first time in years, I don’t feel homesick.

Heena Patel runs Rasoi, a Gujarati catering company in San Francisco.

See the recipe for Gujarati Spring Vegetables with Chickpea and Fenugreek Dumplings »

The post The Vegetable Diaries: How I Adapted to Cooking in a Foreign Land Where Nothing Tastes Right appeared first on Saveur.

Though it is typically made with root vegetables, come spring, Heena Patel likes to put a bright seasonal spin on the southern Gujarati vegetable dish undhiyu. The muthias, or chickpea dumplings made with fresh fenugreek leaves, are a traditional addition and add a faintly sweet, celery root—like aroma and flavor.

Featured in: The Vegetable Diaries: How I Adapted to Cooking in a Foreign Land Where Nothing Tastes Right

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The skin on this slow-roasted pork belly gets peeled off and fried into cracklings, allowing the fat underneath to render and caramelize. Whatever vegetables are in season—this time of year, it’s carrots, turnips, and leeks—pair well with the meat, which is served with a cider-spiked applesauce and best enjoyed with a bitter ale, one of the many beers you can drink with it at the Black Bull Inn and Hotel in Coniston.

Featured in: Go Walk (and Eat) in England’s Wordsworth Country

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This advanced version of traditional pork pies includes three kinds of pork (shoulder, belly, and slab bacon) and tender chicken for a multi-note meaty flavor, plus savory stuffing. The recipe is inspired by the huntsman pie from the Brantwood Café, a restaurant in Coniston, where it’s served with tangy Westmorland chutney. Our recipe makes small single-serving pies; you will need four 5 3/4-by-3-inch loaf pans, available from Wilton.

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English breakfasts, or fry-ups—hearty assemblages of meat, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, and baked beans—are traditional all over the UK. Cumberland sausage, a pork sausage from Cumbria (made with meat that’s chopped, instead of minced, which gives it a coarser texture), and black pudding, a pork sausage made with blood, can both be purchased from Myers of Keswick.

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It calls to mind unreal places: Tolkien’s Middle Earth, innumerable iterations of fairyland. It is unlike anywhere I’ve ever seen—and, more to the point, unlike any place I’ve ever felt. I know nowhere quite so lushly green, so exquisitely gentle here, and craggily forbidding there. It had been more than a decade since I’d visited England’s Lake District, just south of the Scottish border, and even to imagine being back there without my husband, Frank, who died in 2010 of a rare form of cancer, was for a long time not possible. But last year, I felt ready.

If England were a play, the climate would be a main character. Not as predictable as its reputation, it is capricious, and its machinations frequently drive the plot. The Monday afternoon I alit from the train in the Lake District village of Oxenholme, I couldn’t believe my good fortune: The sun shone so brightly that it made me laugh in happy disbelief.

From Oxenholme, I took a short train ride to Windermere and the Old Dungeon Ghyll—the magnificently grimly named inn in the Great Langdale valley where I’d spend that night, doubtful I’d get such heavenly sunshine again during my stay in the district. This made me overzealous, determined to walk as much as possible that afternoon. I checked in—it’s a cheerful place, not at all so dank and dreary as the “dungeon” in its name—threw my big backpack on the bed, loaded up a smaller one, grabbed my walking stick, and headed out through the fells. Great Langdale would be the most remote of the places I’d stay during the week, with some of the most rugged and picturesque terrain. More than two centuries later, William Wordsworth’s description of it remains spot-on: “Next comes Great Langdale, a Vale which should on no account be missed by him who has a true enjoyment of grand separate Forms composing a sublime Unity, austere but reconciled and rendered attractive to the affections by the deep serenity that is spread over everything.”

Frank and I met as grad students studying English literature. I was a Romanticism hard-liner: Ever since a William Blake seminar in college, English Romantic poetry was to me something like the literary equivalent of The Clash—the only literature that mattered. Frank was on the fence, splitting his allegiance between Modernists like T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound, and the Romantics, especially Wordsworth. I campaigned to bring him out of the shadows: Modernists were joyless, neurotic, sexless fascists, I argued, as only a twenty-something committed to the infallibility of her opinions can. The Romantics, on the other hand, were wild and free and visionary, suffused by the spirit of revolution that animated their era. Frank finished his PhD. I did not. Still, my lobbying was so successful that we spent part of our honeymoon in that great green heartland of English Romanticism, the Lake District.

At the time, one did not go to the Lakes to eat. Instead, what one did in the district was walk, and we walked each day until we could walk no more—on the historic coffin trail, used long ago to bring the dead from the district’s villages for burial at Saint Oswald’s, between Grasmere and Ambleside, above Rydal Water, passing right by Dove Cottage, Wordsworth’s former home. Down quiet lanes. Up steep hills. Around the lake that gives Grasmere its name. Our reward each evening was a simple, filling meal at one or another local pub—a roast with Yorkshire pudding one night, fish and chips the next—and plenty of pints of English ale.

A few years later, when we returned to the Lake District for a week, we shared a cottage outside Grasmere with friends. It had a large, well-equipped kitchen in which we roasted local Herdwick lamb and potatoes, made big salads, and ate very well while the formidable rains of Northern England percussed the roof and “our” herd of Herdwicks—they came with the cottage—bleated in the yard.

After an absence of many years, neither the district’s beauty, nor the powerful emotions it elicits, had changed. But the food had. Now, the Lake District is for many visitors as much a destination for fine dining as it is for hiking and literary pilgrimage. Pride in local ingredients and attention to detail is evident, at both cozy old pubs and destination restaurants. And in the Lake District, it is advisable—I would say even essential—to experience both, to encounter the earthy and the ethereal, the cultivated and the just-as-it-is.

I mean it in the best possible way when I say that Hikers Bar—the pub at Old Dungeon Ghyll in the Great Langdale valley—smelled like wet dogs and hops. There seemed to be nearly as many dogs as there were people in the bare-bones room—a few rickety wooden tables, some timeworn chairs and benches, a great old hearth in which no fire had been lit, its mantle strewn with books and maps. I asked John, the knowledgeable, friendly (if deadpan) barman, to recommend a good local ale. He pulled me a pint of Bowness Bay Brewing Company’s Swan Blonde. This crisp, hoppy (but not astringent) beer went down easy. I limited myself to one. There were other ales to try, and it was early yet.

Full English Breakfast

I also asked John to recommend something to eat, and without hesitating he pointed to a special on the menu: roasted lamb shoulder, with chips and peas. I took my pint to the terrace and waited for my dinner. The lamb had the strong, distinctive flavor I remembered from the Herdwick that Frank and I had roasted years earlier. The meat was tender, its crust brown and crackled. It came with enough dark, deeply lamby gravy to coat it—and, better still, to dip the chips in (I even sloshed my peas around in it). As the night grew colder, I repaired inside and drank a pint of Yates Cumbria bitter while I sat by myself listening to the din of other hikers and admiring their intrepid, knackered dogs.

My plan was to alternate pub nights with long, luxurious lunches at the district’s eminent restaurants. Holbeck Ghyll is an imposing old hunting lodge set high above Lake Windermere, in park-like grounds with intoxicating views across the water. There is nothing like marching into such a refined place in one’s hiking boots, with an overstuffed pack strapped to one’s back, and a walking stick in hand. Tom, the maître d’, showed me to a table in the nearly empty wood-paneled dining room. My fellow diners—a young Irish woman and an Australian woman I’d met in the lounge and a couple from London—and I couldn’t resist talking to each other, even though it made us feel like disobedient schoolchildren.

As my lunch started with a small portion of squash bisque with Gruyère, Tom silently, expertly deployed a starched white napkin to dispatch some bees that had gathered menacingly by the high windows near my seat. The most impressive course was baby pig loin, its richness lightened by a vivid green onion oil and the herbaceous crunch of fried sage leaves, served with pork confit, a black pudding, and a pork terrine. It was a beautiful and memorable lunch, but its formality—and the memories of Frank summoned by that dish, of the pork he would chop into a terrine when he needed a break from his dissertation, of the fried sage leaves that he used to garnish his summer corn soup—made me feel my aloneness sharply. I wondered what he would have made of this place, and its cooking, and wondered how different my experience of all this would have been with him.

Crisp Pork Belly with Roasted Vegetables and Applesauce

The Old Stamp House Restaurant in the bustling town of Ambleside is located in a building where Wordsworth had an office when he worked as a stamp distributor. Here, in its small, spare, cool subterranean rooms, I encountered food that tasted quintessentially English (even when classical French techniques were applied) and was exactingly regional, making use of ingredients farmed and grown right in the district and, in the case of seafood, just beyond its borders off the Cumbrian coast. The menu proclaimed its ethos: “Food Inspired by Cumbria,” it said, “Heritage, People, Landscape.” It’s a family undertaking, the Old Stamp House. Ryan Blackburn was in the kitchen, his brother Craig, in the front of house. My lunch began with what I expected to be a homely morsel of black pudding—here, it glistened like a chocolate bonbon and was accompanied by a small, dense pool of reduced port. It was the finest black pudding I’d ever tasted: earthy, not too dry, not too moist, subtly but persuasively spiced. The lobster caught near Ravenglass (perhaps my favorite of all regional place names, the stuff of myth, or at least a Led Zeppelin song), was meltingly delicate, invigorated by zucchini and basil and sweet heirloom tomatoes. Braised pork cheek with queenies (tiny bay scallops) and purées of both artichoke and chestnut were elemental—as if earth and sea, fire and briny air, could be tasted in each bite—bordering on audacious.

Herdwick hogget—described to me as the meat of a sheep no younger than one year old and no older than two, between lamb and mutton—from Yew Tree Farm, once the property of Beatrix Potter, came cut in thick, tender pink slices, accompanied by a small pot of chanterelles and barley, suggestive of earth and woods. The word that kept coming to mind to describe my lunch was poetic, which felt hopelessly corny for a meal eaten just downstairs from Wordsworth’s sometime office.

I spent that night in Hawkshead, a serene and picturesque village of whitewashed cottages and low stone buildings, a handful of fine pubs, and numerous trailheads. I had tea on my terrace at Walker Ground Manor, a bed and breakfast just five minutes’ walk from the village. A small brook gurgled just beyond; behind it the deep, dark green of Grizedale Forest stretched. Between the village and Walker Ground was an entrance to a trail leading to Tarn Hows park, which Frank and I had once hiked together, and which had struck us as an apt symbol for the district as a whole. Regarded as one of its most stunning natural features, the relentlessly photographed Tarn Hows lake is not so natural as it seems: It has been touched and shaped by the human hands that merged smaller lakes into its larger whole. This is a trick the district often plays, this commingling of nature and artifice into something that feels like interdependence.

Freakishly, unaccountably, the weather had not yet failed me. The lake was still, the air nearly warm, the sky lit by blazing sunlight as a restored, steam-powered Victorian gondola ferried me to Brantwood, the onetime home of John Ruskin, the 19th-century artist, author, critic, social reformer, champion of painters including J.M.W. Turner and the Pre-Raphaelites. Ruskin pioneered ideas for which words hardly existed in his time—environmentalism, sustainability, and social justice—and his unusual and splendid home is built into the hills just across the lake from the village of Coniston. It’s hard to describe this house, which began as a cottage typical of the district’s vernacular architecture, but which Ruskin adapted and added to until the effect was nearly Italianate, with a few turrets almost in the Tudor fashion. It is entirely its own strange, singular place—not a mansion, not stuffy, not formal, only reflective of the deeply personal, discerning taste of its onetime owner and presiding spirit. The London-born, widely traveled Ruskin felt most at home in the Lake District. He was offered burial in Westminster Abbey, and declined it in favor of St. Andrew’s churchyard in the center of Coniston village.

After visiting with him there, I sat outside the Black Bull Inn and ate an unfussy, satisfying dinner of crisp, fatty pork belly on a bed of roasted vegetables and drank a few pints of Coniston Brewing Company’s famous Bluebird Bitter ale, spicy and tart and faintly floral. I thought I’d spend the evening in solitude, reading Ruskin and writing postcards and drinking, but the Black Bull is as popular with locals as it is with tourists, and pretty quickly my table filled up with Coniston characters: high school girls just after a run, a pub chef in his off-hours (his mother showed up, too), a waitress from another pub. I put the book and postcards away. They had plenty of friendly questions for me. “I’d give anything to live in New York,” one of the girls said with a big, dramatic sigh. I was tempted to offer her a trade.

L’Enclume is regarded as the best restaurant in all of the English north, and from the second I entered it, I fell in love. Bright and airy, with exposed timber beams and pale slate floors, it has a mix of rustic charm and modern refinement that imparts an enveloping sense of calm.

I opted for the six-course lunch rather than the seventeen, and each bite yielded exceptional pleasure. A plate of short-horn beef tartare was more than merely meaty: The surprise of charcoal oil, a flavor entirely unfamiliar to me until then, made the dish new. Every mouthful of guinea fowl with runner beans and beets delivered a multitude of textures—soft and crunchy, smooth and rough—and contrasting flavors, yet was ingeniously comforting. Most memorable of all was L’Enclume’s salt-baked carrot swimming in a vivid carrot broth with a small, rich, pork-fatty dumpling at the center and a few savory slices of hen-of-the-woods mushrooms rounding it out. It was both beautiful to behold and astonishingly excellent to eat. Desserts, too, were both strong and subtle. One was an ice cream made with sweet cheese, its tanginess amplified by apricot and raspberry sauces applied to the plate like bold brushstrokes; a few edible flowers added to its painterly appeal.

I had planned to stay in the district one more night, but that was no longer possible. My lunch at L’Enclume had to be the last thing I tasted in the Lakes. The best food in the Lake District shares its most prominent and memorable traits with the Romantic poetry for which the area has been long celebrated. Even at its most sophisticated, it is tightly bound to the region’s natural majesty; Im thinking here, especially, of that carrot at L’Enclume. Even at its most cultivated, a streak of wildness cannot wholly be subdued.

But there was still that one thing I had to do before getting on a train to London: I had not been back to Wordsworth’s beloved Grasmere. He called Grasmere, located in the center of the district, “the loveliest spot that Man hath ever found,” and the poet lies buried in the small churchyard beside Saint Oswald’s, a modest stone building where worshippers still convene on Sunday mornings. I could not leave the Lakes without revisiting his grave.

I wanted to thank him for writing, among other things, the poem that comforts me most, and which I reach for often. For introducing me to this sanctified corner of the world before I’d ever even stepped foot on it. I’d probably never have eaten lunch at L’Enclume were it not for Wordsworth—or fallen in love with Frank, with whom I’ll always share the Lakes. I’ll quietly recite this cherished portion of his Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood—

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, or glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind

—strap my pack on my back and head for the next train out.

Recipes From Wordsworth County

See the recipe for Roasted Guinea Hens with Spring Beets and Runner Beans »
See the recipe for Sweet Cheese Ice Cream with Apricots, Raspberries, and Honey Granola »
See the recipe for Huntsman Pies »
See the recipe for Full English Breakfast with Cumberland Sausage »
See the recipe for Crisp Pork Belly with Roasted Vegetables and Applesauce »

How to Eat the Lake District

The Black Bull Inn and Hotel
1 Yewdale Rd, Coniston
+44 1539 441 335

The Coniston Brewing Company
Coppermines Rd, Coniston
+44 1539 441 133

Holbeck Ghyll Country House Hotel
Holbeck Lane, Windermere
+44 1539 432 375

L’Enclume
Cavendish St, Cartmel
+44 1539 536 362

The Old Dungeon Ghyll
Great Langdale, Ambleside
+44 1539 437 272

Old Stamp House Restaurant
Church St, Ambleside
+44 1539 432 775

The Queen’s Head Inn
Main St, Hawkshead
+44 1539 436 271

The post Go Walk (and Eat) in England’s Wordsworth Country appeared first on Saveur.

This simple but delicious dessert, served at L’Enclume, features ice cream made with a fresh mascarpone cheese that is lightly sweetened and set without eggs, which makes for a lighter texture. Syrup-soaked apricots and fresh raspberries add some sweetness.

Featured in: Go Walk (and Eat) in England’s Wordsworth Country

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