Franco Manca Chiswick

Franco Manca is one of those places on the list I've been meaning to check out, but I've never got around to making the Pilgrimage to Electric Road in Brixton to try the award-winning sourdough slices.

All my foodie friends rave about it, so I was delighted to be invited to the launch of a sister restaurant in leafy Chiswick, minutes from my flat. Why the invite featured a picture of a young Margaret Thatcher shoving a pizza into a brick oven remains a mystery. Perhaps she's a loyal patron?

Pizza is taken so seriously in Italy, they have set up the equivalent of a wine AOC, the Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana, to maintain standards. For a pizza to make the grade, dough must be allowed to rise for a minimum of six hours. Franco Manca leave it for nearly a day.

Rocking up to the restaurant on Chiswick High Road, the place was buzzing with gesticulating Italians. A band of middle-aged mafioso types wearing open shirts and gold medallions belted out jittery jazz, while plates of mini pizzas circulated.

The brainchild of Neapolitan Giuseppe Mascoli, Franco Manca's secret weapon is its wood-burning Tufae brick oven. The eight ton beast cooks pizzas at a scorching 500 degrees for a mere 40 seconds, giving the crusts the perfect balance of crispiness and chewiness. Olives come from Spain, while the Chorizo is sourced closer to home, from London-based Spanish deli Brindisa. The tomatoes, of course, are from Italy, and the house lemonade is made from Amalfi lemons.

Wine comes courtesy of Ottavio Rube, owner of the Valli Unite cooperative in Piedmont. Rube runs a self-sustained vineyard that produces a range of organic, non-sulphite wines. He had flown in for the launch. Tall and wide, with a mop of shaggy blond hair and huge hands, he looked like he'd arrived by way of Middle Earth.

He didn't speak a word of English, but my friends and I raised a glass to his impressive Barbera 2006. It had an opulent nose of rich black cherry, vanilla and smoke. Super dry with racing acidity, the palate was soft, rich and delicious. A 2009 red made from Nebbiolo and Dolcetto also did the rounds, along with a refreshing Cortese.

Suddenly, plates of pizza began to emerge from the kitchen. The waitress bypassed the party people and plonked it in front of an ancient guy who looked like he'd just stepped off the set of the Godfather. We looked on with envy. Why did he get his own pizza and not us? A few of his flat cap wearing friends pulled up a chair and pulled off a slice.

We soon got a slice of the action, as a siege of pizza-filled plates started flying out of the kitchen. Fresh, chewy and juicy, it was dangerously moorish. I managed five slices, stopping before any buttons burst. Surprisingly, the Chiswick branch haven't put their prices up – pizzas range from £4.50 to £6.80 and a 125ml glass of wine only costs £1.80. I have no idea why Mascoli chose Chiswick, but I just might have found my new favorite haunt.

Brindisa ham carving school

I'm an unashamed hispanophile and relish every opportunity I get to indulge my passion for Spain. Last year I went to a tasting of the 2006 and 2007 vintages of Joselito ham, paired with Dom Perignon 2000. It was heaven.

This year the lovely people at Brindisa invited me to one of their ham carving workshops at the Brindisa shop in Borough Market. Held every first Thursday of the month, the classes are proving incredibly popular and sell out well in advance, despite the rather hefty £85 price tag.

An email beforehand advises me to wrap up warm, and arriving at the open-air shop under the arches of London Bridge, I can see why. I'm seated round a long table with fellow jamón lovers, and given a blanket and water bottle to cuddle. Before the class starts, we have to sign an 'exclusion of responsibility' disclaimer that ends: 'Brindisa will not be help responsible for any accidents or injuries that may result from the tutored ham carving activities'. Gulp.

Assistant manager Alberto then takes us on a tour through the history of jamón, which dates back to Roman times, when they used to put Serrano ham legs on coins. A massive 50 million legs are produced each year in Spain for us greedy ham guzzlers. We're each given a plate with four different hams to try, to compare the different styles. They're all surprisingly different, from the chewy Jamón de Monroyo Reserva, to the smokey bacon like Jabu Recebo.

The last two hams are the highest quality, made from the prized Ibérico pigs that roam the acorn-filled plains of Extremadura in north west Spain. Pictures of black pigs frolicking in fields are dutifully passed round. The third ham we try, Jamón de la Dehesa de Extremadura Bellota, is darker than the first two, with a strong, rich, almost sweet flavour. The delicious strips dissolve on the tongue. Last up is the Joselito Gran Reserva Bellota. Joselito prides itself on being the top Ibérico ham producer. The Joselito estate is so expansive, their pigs have 3.5 hectares of land each to run wild in. The resulting flavour is more elegant and subtle.

After our comparative tasting, master carver Zac Innes steps up to teach us some knife skills. He compares the shape of the Serrano ham to a guitar and the Ibérico, with its slim foot and black trotter, or pata negra, to a violin. He then whips out a 'jamonero', a long, thin, carving knife, but recommends removing the fat with a bread knife. Each ham has to be checked for defects before carving, like a sommelier would a wine before pouring. To do this, Zac uses a 'cala', a tiny stick made from beef bone. He plunges it in the Ibérico leg and has a whiff. It's perfect.

After a few expert slices are shorn, it's our turn to carve. I don a navy apron and a gladiatorial looking sliver chain mail glove to protect my right hand while I carve with my left. I'm nervous; knife skills are not my forte. We get to take home whatever we carve, which adds a sense of urgency to the proceedings.

I pick up my jamónero and start pulling it through the meat, conscious of the fact that I'm against the clock. Zac turns to help the carver to my left, and I'm left to my own devices. I start making dramatic sweeping movements with my knife, like an orchestra conductor, through the marbly flesh. Zac turns around, looks at the ham and gasps. 'What are you doing? You've massacred it!'

He seems horrified. I drop the jamónero and look down the length of the leg. What was once a smooth plain of flesh is now a jagged mess. I apologise to Zac for my over-zealous approach and he assures me he's seen worse. I'm given a second chance and try my best to keep the knife straight, cutting in a short, quick, sawing motion.

I find my rhythm and cut a couple of perfect strips before being asked to step away from the ham. Alberto bags it up for me, and I'm given a goodie bag with jamón tacos (great for stocks), a tub of ham fat for cooking with, and a generous portion of the Jabu Recebo. Making my way home through the flower-filled market, I pass the Brindisa restaurant on the corner. It's so full, diners are spilling out onto the streets. London, it seems, is also in love with Spain.

José Pizarro: Seasonal Spanish Food

On Thursday night I was invited by the Ambassador of Spain to celebrate the publication of Seasonal Spanish Food by José Pizarro, head chef across London's three Brindisa restaurants.

Making my way to the Spanish Embassy with my i-pod blasting out flamenco to get me in the mood, I was expecting the evening the follow the format of most book launches - a small intimate gathering in which to enjoy a glass or two of fizz and a sprinkling of canapés. I had clearly underestimated the size and scale of the event.

Spilling from the open door of the embassy was a long queue of smartly dressed human traffic that snaked around Belgrave Square. Party dress codes are something of a sartorial minefield. Should you err on the smart side of casual or the casual side of smart? The invitation said 'Lounge Suit', which is almost untranslatable for women. I began to panic as I notched up the number of evening dresses on display. Would my frilly dress cut the mostaza?

At the door the PR told me that the original guest list had started at 800 but had to be slashed to a mere 300. The best thing about these events is that you get to go behind closed doors and sneak a peek into realms that would otherwise remain forever closed. The interior of the building is breathtaking, with chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings.

Grabbing a glass of Cava, I entered the main room. It was heaving. It took me back to my days as a reporter for Pandora, the diary page of The Independent. Walking into a packed room where everyone appears to be in glittering conversation with one another can make for an unnerving minute or two, as you penetrate the room with an air of purpose, until that wonderful moment when you spot someone you know.

I spent my awkward minute admiring the goliath paintings adorning the walls of lords and ladies with hounds at their heels indulging in country pursuits. No sooner than I'd spotted some familiar faces a glass was tapped and the speeches began. Pizarro, looking jovial in a pink shirt, spoke of his childhood in Extremadura and how growing up in Spain all food was seasonal. The message of the book is about going back to basics: if you stick to fresh, good quality, seasonal ingredients they will speak for themselves.

After the speeches we got to try a selection of his creations. A modest 19 courses did the rounds. Standouts included the mushroom and chestnut soup, scallops with crispy ham, deep-fried goats cheese with orange blossom honey and Brandy-filled figs. When the Cava ran dry we were ushered out and given a goodie bag full edible treats - Ibérico Chorizo, sweet pimentón and vials of olive oil. A huge number of us then carried on the party into the early hours at Casa Brindisa in South Kensington.

Judging from the colossal turn out and the reaction to his speech, Pizarro is a much-respected figure who has been pivotal in putting quality Spanish food firmly on the London restaurant map. 

Photo credit: Seasonal Spanish Food by Jose Pizarro (Kyle Cathie, £19.99) with photography by Emma Lee