tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17539566352600931272024-03-13T08:52:29.122-07:00It Ends With Dovi: A London Food BlogA daredevil attempt to eat food from every country in the world - without leaving LondonUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-85112903334249227632011-06-04T16:15:00.000-07:002011-06-05T10:05:08.745-07:00Somalia<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xkonx-Mf9UQ/Teq94pEM3II/AAAAAAAAARQ/RFKtLvG0iuA/s1600/Photo0056.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xkonx-Mf9UQ/Teq94pEM3II/AAAAAAAAARQ/RFKtLvG0iuA/s320/Photo0056.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614508666264542338" /></a><b>Blue Ocean Restaurant</b><div>358 Uxbridge Road</div><div>Shepherd's Bush</div><div>020 8765 6354</div><div><br /></div><div>I am no longer a vegan. I lasted precisely one month.</div><div><br /></div><div>At first my body, unaccustomed to so many beans and pulses, rebelled in painful and occasionally antisocial ways. By the end of the second week I felt good, and after 25 days I had a minor epiphany - there was nothing dead inside me. I was completely alive. Alive, but so damn tired of falafel and bean salads. </div><div><br /></div><div>One reason the veganism had to end was this blog. I flirted with the idea of running vegan reviews, but after dining at <a href="http://www.pogocafe.co.uk/">Pogo</a>, a strictly vegan Hackney cafe and a "positive alternative to the unyielding dominance of mainstream capitalist culture", I decided this was a terrible idea. I could only joke about anaemic, brittle-spined, woolly jumper-wearers so many times before I became one of them. In truth, I quite liked Pogo and its revolutionary battle cries and its impressively cheesy tofu burgers, although they didn't appreciate my lame jokes - "you do accept Visa, yeah?".</div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose I'm just a big ol' carnivore. I broke my fast with a piece of black pudding at the brilliant <a href="http://www.euskaletxea.cat/">Euskal Etxea</a>, a <i>pintxos </i>bar in Barcelona. And to prove I was no longer tempted by a herbivorous lifestyle, I went to El Vaso De Oro a couple of days later and ate <a href="http://twitpic.com/572cvi">this</a>. Now the bloodthirstiness is back, I wanted to choose one of the many countries where veganism is considered a mental illness. Somalia, with its reputation for being the world's biggest basket-case, should fit the bill nicely.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gratuitous joke: the restaurant is named Blue Ocean after the preferred workplace of most Somali males. </div><div><br /></div><div>Blue Ocean, which has a high-quality <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h09IaYr_AGE">commercial </a>on the YouTubes, is a functional, nondescript little place serving seafood, Somalian and pasta dishes - Somalia was an Italian colony for 15 years before WWII. While I have been viewed suspiciously when attempting to visit Somali cafes in the past (one in Cricklewood wouldn't even let me in), the welcome here was very friendly.</div><div><br /></div><div>We asked for traditional food and received a Somali salad (essentially a Greek salad with boiled egg and a sugary Thai-style chilli sauce drizzled over the feta) and two lamb dishes with unpronounceable names. The first was a roasted chop served with red peppers, mashed potato and a spicy sauce. The other was closer to a stew, with small chunks of tender meat in hot sauce. They came with rice and a pot of a fantastically fiery and deceptively white chilli paste. My freshly squeezed mango juice was a treat.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's estimated that there are as many as 100,000 Somalis in London. It's a culture few Londoners know much about, but the food is pretty tasty and Blue Ocean's a good place to try it. Especially if you like meat. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-90667355180325842562011-04-28T13:20:00.000-07:002011-05-04T23:36:35.429-07:00India (Gujarat)<a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/multimedia/dynamic/00502/5073879_502663t.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 200px;" src="http://www.independent.co.uk/multimedia/dynamic/00502/5073879_502663t.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Indian Veg Bhelpoori House</span>
<br />92-93 Chapel Market
<br />020 7833 1167
<br /></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span>At the </span>bottom <span>of a wall-chart of British prime minsters it is written:
<br />Q: What do all these prime ministers have in common?
<br />A: They have all eaten VEGETABLES!</span></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-weight: bold;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; "><span>You can tell it was printed a while ago. As everybody knows, David Cameron only eats human skin.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; "><span>The legendary – and I use that word infrequently and diligently - Indian Veg opened in 1983. I first visited in the mid-90s with my militant vegetarian father, who spent the meal loudly reciting the “quotable quotations” and excitable anti-meat propaganda writ large on every inch of wall space. These range from the obvious to the pathetically spurious:</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span>“</span><span>Vegetables keep the brain young”
<br />“</span><span>Good diets would save 70,000 lives”
<br />“</span><span>Onion bhajis can slash risk of colon cancer”
<br />“</span><span>Research shows that Indian food can be really orgasmic!!!”</span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; "><span>If Harry had met Sally here, that scene would have been so much more believable.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; "><span>After dozens of visits over the years, I'm still sexually troubled by Indian Veg's obsession with orgasms and beautiful women. This time I sit by a poster of “Indian Veg's Bengali Woman of the Year 1995” and opposite a gallery of Miss Asia's visit to the restaurant in the same year. I can't help thinking the grinning woman in the sashay and crown had expected her performance in the swimsuit round and earnest wishes for world peace would have earned her a meal that cost more than three quid. It's a juxtaposition of alarming incongruousness. There's clearly no place for pouting, preening princesses here. The interior has all the sexiness of a Ryanair plane. A shouty, vegan Ryanair plane.
<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span>“</span><span>What is good enough for Miss Philippines is good enough for you!”</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span>But is what's good enough for me good enough for Miss Philippines? I am no longer sure.
<br /></span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span>No other London restaurant is so charming and charmless at the same time. It's a place of great comedy, high principles and surreal beauty, yet it's totally devoid of atmosphere. They never play music. It's the safe haven of the silent solo diner - usually, in this part of the world, a grade-A nutbox - so all you can ever hear is the buzz of the refrigerated drinks cabinet. It's a bloody enormous drinks cabinet.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; "><span>The buffet selection hasn't altered one bean in 15 years. In fact, nothing here has changed apart from the price. It's gone up by a pound, but they no longer hassle you to buy soft drinks with murderous glares. There are three types of vegetable curry, three types of rice, papadoms, <span style="font-style: italic;">bhajis,</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">dal,</span> raita, and a few simple salads. It's basic stuff and you get what you pay for, but I feel helplessly drawn to their evangelical devotion. The Hare Krishnas, with their funky Soho joint, seem slick, cynical and commercial by comparison.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left; "><span>It was while reading a particularly powerful quotation by the actress Olivia Newton-John that I decided to become a vegan. It won't be easy. I have always been a hardened omnivore. I often dream of pork knuckles. In the past, if a mob of animal rights activists had locked me in a cow's stomach to, say, punish me for recommending the foie gras at Gordon Ramsay's restaurant in Dubai in 1994, I would have chewed my way out of trouble, and enjoyed it. Now I'm a vegan I'd just curl up and wait to be returned to the earth. You'd be proud of me, Olivia.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> <meta equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><title></title><meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 2.3 (Linux)"> <style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --></style></div>
<br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/565051/restaurant/London/Angel/Indian-Veg-Bhelpoori-House-Islington"><img alt="Indian Veg Bhelpoori House on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/565051/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-69268161546531360322011-04-21T13:49:00.000-07:002011-04-21T15:52:32.683-07:00Moldova<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kGf3r-nVcBY/TbCY-bL0zkI/AAAAAAAAARE/Bz2YdwNesBs/s1600/Photo0016.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kGf3r-nVcBY/TbCY-bL0zkI/AAAAAAAAARE/Bz2YdwNesBs/s320/Photo0016.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598142535038193218" /></a><div><b><a href="http://www.amurg.co.uk/">Amurg</a></b></div><div>579 High Road</div><div>Leytonstone</div><div>020 8556 9602</div><div><br /></div><div>"How do you know about Moldova?" asked the waiter, a young man from Chisinau.</div><div><br /></div><div>We barely know a thing about Moldova, we confessed.</div><div><br /></div><div>"But how did you hear about Moldova?" He seemed surprised we'd even heard of the country, even if we couldn't remember the name of his hometown, the capital. We raised our glasses of Ursus (Romanian, I'm afraid) to one of Europe's lesser-known lands and washed down yet another forkful of polenta. </div><div><br /></div><div>Amurg used to market itself as a Moldovan restaurant but nobody went. These days it calls itself a Romanian restaurant and, on our visit, two other people went - a glum-looking couple silently drinking Red Bull from cans with straws. It's hardly a date restaurant. It reminded me of the bar at the airport Premier Inn.</div><div><br /></div><div>As it wasn't Friday, when a Moldovan pop band performs live ("We just sacked the Romanian band," we were cheerily informed), entertainment came from a music channel with an unfortunate focus on R&B. On more than a couple of occasions I zoned out of our conversation about Nick Cohen, Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins, and ogled close-ups of thoroughly shaken female booty.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are two Moldovan main courses on the menu and we greedily ate them both. But first we ploughed through two exemplary specimens of Romanian stodge. The Transylvanian <i>bulz </i>(pictured) is a lump of polenta topped with a runny fried egg and a pond of sheep's cheese, with three further squirts of fromage and some jauntily-angled bacon flaps on the side. It looked like an idiot's attempt to draw the sun. We also had the misleadingly-named "aubergine caviar", an unluxurious but moderately tasty dip served with unsightly slices of cheapo toast.</div><div><br /></div><div>The <i>tochitură moldoveneas</i>că (Moldovan stew to any non-Romanian speakers out there), a garlicky mix of pork and spicy sausage, was served with another slab of cheesy polenta. The other dish, cabbage stuffed with minced pork, was more subtle, a rustic take on the Turkish <i>dolma</i>. Unsurprisingly, it came with a huge slab of cheesy polenta. We didn't have enough room to take on the Romanian doughnuts, which almost certainly come with cheesy polenta.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before leaving, we spoke to our friendly waiter about his homeland. </div><div><br /></div><div>"It's very poor and there isn't much to see," he said. "You shouldn't go there." </div><div><br />Shame. I like polenta. </div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-71209992595651601422011-03-29T14:19:00.000-07:002011-04-21T15:42:38.764-07:00Sri Lanka (Tamil)<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mcM3zuhDIiQ/TZJOjnaSfkI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/SITmeoubDbw/s1600/IMG_6718.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mcM3zuhDIiQ/TZJOjnaSfkI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/SITmeoubDbw/s320/IMG_6718.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589616461301841474" /></a><b>Jaffna House</b><div>90 Tooting High Street</div><div>020 8672 7786</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's the sort of meal you'd get at a <a href="http://www.impactphotos.com/Preview/PreviewPage.aspx?id=1250572&licenseType=RM&from=search&back=1250572&orntn=2">bus station</a> in Jaffna," said my friend. She was right. It was filling without being fun, cheap without being cheerful. Bus station fare. </div><div><br /></div><div>I visited Sri Lanka in December 2005, a year after a tsunami killed 35,000 people and displaced half a million. I was tagging along with my ex, a guest of the tourist board. Every time she met a marketing manager for dinner at a posh hotel, I ate at a cheap cafe with our driver. The food was simple but delicious - no cutlery, all flavour. I recall one meal, eaten somewhere on the road from Colombo to Galle, a winding circuit of flattened houses, overturned cars and temporary tent cities. And terrifyingly bad driving. At this small roadside eatery, I pushed <i>sambal </i>round the plate with my fingers to mix up the flavours and textures, and almost wept when my first bite revealed psychotic levels of spiciness. </div><div><br /></div><div>While some parts of Tooting look like they've been hit by a natural disaster*, the food here's not good enough to bring back the devilled memories. We started with two weighty deep-fried balls of dough; one made with bananas (<i>vaaipan</i>) and one made with onions and chilli (<i>vadai</i>) - they tasted similar. <i>Pittu, </i>a brown and white-striped blend of rice flour and coconut, resembles a Birds Eye arctic roll that's spent a week inside a vacuum cleaner. It's another dry, doughy, heavy dish, which didn't go swimmingly with vegetable <i>kotthu </i>(made from bread) and fried string hoppers (rice noodles) with chicken. A couple of small bowls of <i>dal </i>couldn't counter the fact that everything was dry and heavy, and the flavouring lacked subtlety and variety.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've had plenty of great Sri Lankan food in the past so I have faith that the Sinhalese meal will be an improvement.</div><div><i></i></div><div><br /></div><div>*A gratuitous joke because things were getting a little heavy. I actually love Tooting.</div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/565182/restaurant/Tooting/Jaffna-House-London"><img alt="Jaffna House on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/565182/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-63418440642500211012011-03-27T12:01:00.000-07:002011-03-28T15:29:25.940-07:00United States of America (New York)<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ditXmwKBiOM/TY-KfjRHfmI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/7BipKKx7yCQ/s1600/IMG_6713.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ditXmwKBiOM/TY-KfjRHfmI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/7BipKKx7yCQ/s320/IMG_6713.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588837937237687906" border="0" /></a><b>Big Apple Hot Dogs</b><div>Outside 239 Old Street on weekdays (and sites including the Chatsworth Road Market at weekends)</div><div><br /></div><div>Last night I ate something special. It was a portion of <i>badrijiani </i>- fried aubergine with walnut paste - served with foie gras. While at Vong, one of the best restaurants in Tbilisi, I also devoured <i>jonjoli</i> (a native plant) with tuna tartare and rainbow trout, <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khinkali">khinkali </a></i>gyoza and magnificent shrimp <i>dolma</i>. The dishes had been created by Tekuna Gachechiladze, a hugely talented local chef, and these dishes form part of her pioneering attempt to create a contemporary Georgian cuisine.</div><div><br /></div><div>What does this have to do with hot dogs in London, you ask. The answer, apart from a tenuous New York link in the next paragraph, is almost nothing. I wanted to use this little forum to thank Tekuna and urge everybody who likes food to visit Georgia. </div><div><br /></div><div>But this new wave feast did make me think about how you can't beat eating food in its place of origin. Tekuna wants to open a restaurant in New York, but in Manhattan you wouldn't have had the whole city instantaneously go nuts when the national football team score a last-minute winner in a Euro 2012 qualifier against Croatia. Oh, it was a great night.</div><div><br /></div><div>No matter how good the hot dogs are at Big Apple Hot Dogs - and they're very, very good - Chatsworth Road in Clapton isn't New York. To me, New York and hot dogs just seem inseparable. In September, I ate the Recession Special <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tomeij/3498444805/">here</a>, at Sixth Avenue on Eighth. If anything, the hot dog wasn't as plump and juicy as the fine specimens on offer at Big Apple, but the setting is amplified NYC - an open-24-hours weirdo-magnet round the corner from Times Square, where $3.95 gets you two dogs and a drink, and signs behind the counter spuriously spell out the nutritional benefits of hot dogs - "good enzyme supplier helps digestion". Yeah, right.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back in Clapton, the big dog (£3.50) is excellent - fat, firm, explosively juicy and sandwiched in a good quality bun, although it was missing grilled onions (I'm told these are usually available). French's mustard, tomato ketchup and BBQ sauce are available, and Big Apple's self-styled "sausage-meister" is a nice bloke who deserves success. The only thing missing from Big Apple, unfortunately, is New York. </div><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/1563741/restaurant/Shoreditch/Big-Apple-Hot-Dogs-London"><img alt="Big Apple Hot Dogs on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/1563741/minilink.gif" style="border: medium none ; width: 130px; height: 36px;" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-43633621925363370912011-03-13T11:36:00.000-07:002011-03-27T15:35:23.348-07:00India (Delhi)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blog.groupon.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/IMG00131-20100918-1905-700x525.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 700px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 525px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://blog.groupon.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/IMG00131-20100918-1905-700x525.jpg" /></a><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)" class="Apple-style-span"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none" class="Apple-style-span"> <div><b><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blog.groupon.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/IMG00131-20100918-1905-700x525.jpg">Delhi Grill</a></b></div></span></span><div>21 Chapel Market</div><div>020 7278 8100</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to attempt to coin a new phrase. I'm going to start talking about the New India Cuisine as if it's a real thing and see if it catches on. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the not-so-distant past, Indian restaurateurs in London had to make a choice between pandering to the bhaji-and-beer, masala-and-farts British palate or make Indian food for Indians; all laminated menus, strip lighting and steel <i>katoris </i>on Formica tables. There have also, of course, been ill-advised experiments in faddish fusion (wasn't Indian tapas meant to be <i>the </i>food of the 21st century?), and there still exist some colonial throwbacks that unashamedly hawk Last Days of the Raj experiences to Last Night of the Proms audiences. The overrated Bombay Brasserie comes to mind.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the New India Cuisine is different. It's not just about the food. It's about confidence, humour, pride, nostalgia and a sense of what it means to be Indian in the 21st century. When it comes to food, the NIC trio - Mooli's, Dishoom and Delhi Grill - aren't exactly ripping up the rulebook. Mooli's doesn't strive for authenticity - a mooli is essentially a burrito made with <i>paratha </i>or <i>roti </i>- but the Soho eatery is guided by the principles of good, old-fashioned Indian cooking. Dishoom takes its culinary cues from the old Irani cafes of Bombay, and the cooks at Delhi Grill are sworn to traditional recipes. They want to run a <i>dhaba</i>, an honest, straightforward local restaurant. And as any in-the-know Islingtonite will tell you, they're succeeding.</div><div><br /></div><div>The India of the NIC trio isn't deferential, diluted or embarrassed. The British palate is becoming more adventurous - we can no longer order a chicken tikka masala without it feeling like an attempt at irony - and as India becomes a major global player in the 21st century, there's greater confidence in the quality of Indian goods and services. Opening an Indian restaurant in the UK is no longer something only first generation immigrants did because their options were limited. These are second- and third-gen British-Asians choosing to open Indian restaurants because they're passionate and proud of their heritage and their food.</div><div><br /></div><div>The chaps behind these restaurants are in their twenties and their thirties. They communicate with their customers through blogs and through Twitter. While the Brick Lane bunch slowly comes to terms with the downfall of Geocities, the NIC have the sort of gorgeous websites Shoreditch design firms would be proud of. And their restaurant interiors are equally stylish; they're not shy about reclaiming Indian kitsch from the stuff of tourist board cliché, with Bollywood posters, street signs, <i>Times of India</i> front pages and Hindu paraphernalia creating a sense of playfulness and fun.</div><div><br /></div><div>The food is excellent at all three NIC restaurants, but Delhi Grill might just be the strongest of the bunch. The titular dish, featuring chicken <i>tikka</i>, <i>sheekh </i>kebabs and lamb chops, was glorious. The kebabs fizzed and dazzled with a marinade of garlic, coriander and garlic; the slow-cooked chops were tender to the touch, and the chicken <i>tikka </i>was tastier than chicken ever has the right to be. The chicken <i>makhani </i>was thick, buttery and subtly spiced, while the rice and bread were spot-on. We paid £17 for two - great value for money. </div><div><br /></div><div>All hail the New India Cuisine. You heard it here first. </div><div><br /></div><div>* The photo was taken by Libby, whose <a href="http://ravenouslibby.com/">Ravenous Libby blog</a> is marvellous.</div><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/1535970/restaurant/Angel/Delhi-Grill-London"><img alt="Delhi Grill on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/1535970/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-39336504535093632062011-03-06T06:56:00.000-08:002011-03-27T15:34:29.693-07:00Argentina<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wjDVE999NOM/TXfxD91hNHI/AAAAAAAAAQY/SMj9r61i5y8/s1600/menu.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wjDVE999NOM/TXfxD91hNHI/AAAAAAAAAQY/SMj9r61i5y8/s320/menu.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582195313589957746" /></a><b>Buen Ayre</b><div>Broadway Market</div><div>020 7275 9900</div><div><br /></div><div>Revenge is sweet. Which is why my enjoyment of writing a review is more or less inversely proportional to my enjoyment of the meal I'm writing about. The most fun I've ever had writing about food was in Dubai after a meal at Baku, a pretend restaurant on Jumeirah Beach Road. My review began: "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," partly because everything this Azeri served us was practically inedible (oil and tomato soup was a lowlight), but mostly because the place was probably a front for the Mafia and I was slightly scared of being killed a few days after publication. I still am. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's a compliment to say that writing about Buen Ayre is a chore. It's a cute place, if somewhat un-Argentinian-looking, and it's staffed by friendly people. Most importantly, John Patrick Rattagan, its Irish-Argentinian chef, knows how to work the hell out of a charcoal grill. The beef and chicken <i>empanadas </i>are both delicious, slightly spicy starters, and £12.80 is a very fair price for a wonderful 8oz sirloin steak. Our side order, chips with garlic and parsley, were fantastic too. Only one complaint, and I can't joyously vent spleen over this - the wine and the food arrived too quickly. Slow down, amigos.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm bored. Let's go somewhere shit next time, eh?</div><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/561539/restaurant/London/Buen-Ayre-Hackney"><img alt="Buen Ayre on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/561539/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-169892211835927672011-02-16T14:04:00.000-08:002011-02-17T00:55:47.177-08:00England (16th-19th centuries)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3JqdL82pkGs/TVxLInsnXxI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/z3_a6Dd6LOk/s1600/IMG_6676.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3JqdL82pkGs/TVxLInsnXxI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/z3_a6Dd6LOk/s320/IMG_6676.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574413050244980498" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dinner by Heston Blumenthal<br /></span><div>Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park</div><div>020 7235 2000</div><div><br /></div><div>Being the King of England five hundred years ago must have been bloody brilliant. When the glugging of ale by the gallon demanded new lining for a bloating stomach, you could instruct your cook to make you one of those "rich men's tangerines" lifestyle magazines kept going on about, knowing you could pluck off those fake leaves, flick them into the air like confetti, and let every gluttonous bite take you to a bunga-bunga party where barely legal Tudor hotties lap-danced to a tasty tune in your multi-chinned royal cakehole. With hedonism like this on offer, it's no wonder Henry VIII was a fat fuck with five dead wives.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to famed molecule molester Heston Blumenthal, the good old days are back again, and the oligarchs, sheikhs and assorted grade-A anuses who splashed up to £140 million on One Hyde Park penthouses can now have meat fruit (£12.50), salamugundy (chicken oysters and bone marrow, £15) and other olden-daysey indulgences hand-delivered to their garish wank-parlours by hotel staff whose hourly wages wouldn't even buy them a bowl of fluffy tipsy cake (£10). </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, who am I kidding? As much as I'd love to be the first blogger to shit all over Heston Blumenthal's new history-themed restaurant, it wouldn't be very journalistic of me. This place is very good. Granted, it's about about as charismatic as its Knightsbridge location; the theatricality of The Fat Duck is nowhere to be seen. The open kitchen is impressive but while watching master craftsmen drizzle red wine jus onto plates with millimetrical precision is educational, Hot Wok on your local high street has the better pyrotechnics. And the smooth, efficient service and gimmick-free food - meat fruit excluded - ain't exactly Bray-style sweetbreads with headphones.</div><div><br /></div><div>From the a la carte menu we ate meat fruit (hedonistic) and tipsy cake (fluffy) with spit-roast pineapple (fruit meat, almost), but we're not aristocracy so the rest of our meal came from the set lunch menu (£28 for three courses). I started with shredded pigs' ears, ably assisted by anchovy, onion and parsley in a stirring sauce. I then had the tenderest roast quail one could possibly ask for (and, Christ, the number of times I've asked...) with smoked parsnips and thyme, and I rounded Dinner off with the highlight of the feast, chocolate wine, which tasted exactly like wine made out of chocolate. As Heston stalked the kitchen, quietly inspecting the food being made in his name, we slowly, joyfully savoured wow-inducing Earl Grey ganaches. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was very, very good. But it wasn't Fat Duck <i>gosh-heck-fuck-wow-jeez-FUCK-oooooohhhhhh!!!! </i>life-changing. But yes, it's very, very good. </div><div><br /></div><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/1568588/restaurant/Knightsbridge/Dinner-by-Heston-Blumenthal-London"><img alt="Dinner by Heston Blumenthal on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/1568588/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-29808388746328955202011-02-06T05:10:00.000-08:002011-02-06T11:02:41.184-08:00India (Mumbai)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TU6fJVA6sJI/AAAAAAAAAQI/JdA62yB6lvM/s1600/Joe_Winter.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TU6fJVA6sJI/AAAAAAAAAQI/JdA62yB6lvM/s320/Joe_Winter.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570564771712512146" /></a><b>Dishoom</b><div>12 Upper St Martin's Lane</div><div>020 7420 9320</div><div><br /></div><div>In November 1998, I forced down half a plate of hairy cow innards at the main bus station in Johur Bahru (I'd ordered beef) and promptly threw up. It wasn't a pleasant experience but I now see the silver lining. I became one of the few people to actually learn something on their gap year. I learnt the 200-yard rule.</div><div><br /></div><div>1) Never eat within 200 yards of a major train or bus terminal.</div><div>2) Never eat within 200 yards of a major tourist attraction.</div><div>3) Never eat within 200 yards of Leicester Square. </div><div><br /></div><div>The third clause was added in 2002 after an unsavoury incident featuring a cafe, two slices of bread, half a can of tuna, a squirt or two of mayonnaise, a slice of tomato and a piece of somebody else's nail. I'm not sure of the distance between <a href="http://dishoom.com/">Dishoom </a>and Leicester Square but it's enough to arose suspicion that "London's first Bombay cafe", ranked 9th in<i> Time Out</i>'s new Best Restaurants in London list, is not to be trusted. It quickly became clear that there was no need for concern.</div><div><br /></div><div>According to our hosts, there are fewer than 30 Bombay cafes left in the Indian metropolis now known as Mumbai, down from almost 400 in the 1960s. There's an informative piece <a href="http://www.cnngo.com/mumbai/eat/dishoom-londons-own-bombay-style-irani-cafe-020071">here </a>about how the chaps behind Dishoom got inspired, did their research, and made sure they had the details right. It's not meant to be a faithful recreation of an Irani cafe. It's an homage, aimed subtly and sophisticatedly at both tourists and Londoners, and it's seriously good.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dishoom gets nearly everything right. Apart from the waiter suggesting we order three or four plates each when half that amount was more than we could manage, we had no complaints. The chicken berry <i>biryani</i>, slow-cooked in the <i>dum pukht </i>style (a clay pot sealed with a dough lid) was soft and gooey and bursting with flavour, and the calamari deep-fried with chilli and lime was perfectly textured and zestily spiced. Our lamb tikka <i>roomali </i>roll was tasty enough, but a notch or two below those at the brilliant<a href="http://www.moolis.com/"> Mooli's</a>. The chai, <i>raita </i>and nan were all solid, and the <a href="http://www.coca-colaindia.com/brands/brands_thumsup.aspx">Thums Up</a>, India's undistinguished answer to Coca-Cola (and owned by Coca-Cola) tasted awful, like something created by a SodaStream user being stingy with the syrup. </div><div><br /></div><div>At £30 for two it's good value. I really want to try their bacon nan roll for breakfast, which I doubt appears on many menus in Bombay, while the <i>pau bhaji</i> (mashed spiced vegetables on buttered bread) and chilli cheese toast will have me heading back to Dishoom for seconds, measuring the distance from Leicester Square to see if my trusty old rule still applies. </div><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/1536690/restaurant/Covent-Garden/Dishoom-London"><img alt="Dishoom on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/1536690/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-56155890680439355182011-02-01T14:59:00.000-08:002011-02-01T16:06:07.013-08:00Thailand (Issan)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TUiQoiJfqHI/AAAAAAAAAP8/Cn1upxMOjCc/s1600/IMG_0535.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TUiQoiJfqHI/AAAAAAAAAP8/Cn1upxMOjCc/s320/IMG_0535.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568859965279414386" /></a><b>Esarn Kheaw</b><div>314 Uxbridge Road</div><div>020 8743 8930</div><div><br /></div><div>The pleas of the photographer have fallen on deaf ears; my deaf, alarmingly red ears, which were captured for piss-poor posterity halfway through this meal, glowing like a red-hot poker, subtle as a fire alarm. No, picture taker, I'm not uploading your side-on portrait. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is not a website where people come to laugh at me. It's where people come to laugh <i>with </i>me. But apart from a vintage PR mishap on the menu (Thames Water: 50p for a glass, £1 for a jug - oh you're so friendly, little local restaurant...), an amusing conversation with a Yemeni shopkeeper on the street (Me: "Good luck getting rid of your president!" Him: "You too!"), and a spotting of Adrian "I'm An Average Bloke You'd Find Down The Pub Drinking A Pint Of Beer" Chiles down the pub drinking a pint of beer, it wasn't an evening for laughs. It was an evening for serious - and thanks to Groupon*, seriously cheap - Thai food. </div><div><br /></div><div>My ears turned red for the following reasons, listed in order of detectability: chilli, coriander, garlic, lime, onion and fish sauce. But mostly chilli. Daintily sprinkled over the northeast-style papaya salad, the red stuff menaced my mouth receptors like a whip to a masochist's backside. I purred.</div><div><br /></div><div>Strictly adhering to a northeast-only diet, we ordered and adored the chicken marinaded in lemon and lime juice, onion, chilli, coriander and fish sauce. Purrrrr. And despite our calculations hinting at a mark-up of over 1,600%, we loved the son-in-law eggs, and not only for the silly name (something to do with your wife's mother threatening to use your genitals instead of eggs next time she cooks if you misbehave, so careful now, chaps). The deep-fried eggs came drizzled in a garlicky, lobe-glowingly sweet and sour sauce. Crispy sundried strips of beef and a pot of sticky rice rounded off the meal. Purrrfect. </div><div><br /></div><div>Esarn Kheaw is a great little restaurant on a road full of Dovi possibilities. Nearby there's Mr Falafel (Palestine) and his eponymous stuffed snack, Red Sea (Yemen/Somalia/other failing states), Nepalese Tandoori (clue in name) and a bunch of Middle Eastern places including Dovi veteran Abu Zaad. I'm going back to Esarn Kheaw tomorrow - another Groupon** voucher to use up. I'll be the one with the red ears. </div><div><br /></div><div>* Can I have £6 free credit for this plug?</div><div>** And the same again for this one please.</div><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/563519/restaurant/London/Shepherds-Bush/Esarn-Kheaw-Shepherds-Bush"><img alt="Esarn Kheaw on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/563519/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-59940338602713078372010-12-18T17:00:00.000-08:002011-02-01T16:07:03.062-08:00Italy (Venice)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TQ1h7UpwjJI/AAAAAAAAAKI/eeAr_2omrSs/s1600/DSC00445.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TQ1h7UpwjJI/AAAAAAAAAKI/eeAr_2omrSs/s320/DSC00445.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552201587401723026" /></a><span><div><b>Polpo</b></div></span>41 Beak Street<br />020 7734 4479<br /><div><br /></div><div>Polpo is popular. We arrived at 6.20pm and waited at the bar for seats. Peeking into the restaurant, I wondered if they were hosting a speed dating event. There's a long row of tables for two, with the teeniest of gaps between each one. Every woman faced the restaurant and every man faced the wall. We were a boy and a girl not on a date, and I felt the itch to upset the collective chivalry. I sat facing the wall. I'm a sheep. </div><div><br /></div><div>Polpo is popular because it knows what it's doing. Service is friendly and informal, the décor is dimly-lit and moody, the food is bite-sized and perfect for sharing. Date service, date décor and date food. They played pre-<i>Teen Dream</i> Beach House. I can't help but be impressed.</div><div><br /></div><div>We started with <i>cicheti</i>, bites of crostini, croquettes and polenta mixed with chicken liver, anchovies, cheeses, figs, cured meats and various pestos. There are ten <i>chiceti </i>on the menu. Ten boys, ten girls, ten plates of <i>cicheti</i>. Sorry, I keep thinking this is a speed dating event. </div><div><br /></div><div>Polpo is popular but its portions are small. That's how we managed to eat a plate of <i>taleggio</i> cheese, a fennel and endive salad, a platter of cold meats and, the star of the show, a cuttlefish risotto - and still leave a little peckish having spent £25-30 per head. But it's hard to find fault with any of the cooking. </div><div><br /></div><div>They handed me the bill. My friend took it and paid with her card. I must have looked like a terrible, terrible man.</div><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/1480291/restaurant/Soho/Polpo-London"><img alt="Polpo on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/1480291/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-9084255010266383752010-11-07T11:43:00.000-08:002010-11-13T22:14:43.700-08:00England (Lancashire)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TNcJivRYDfI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/Zggfb9GTNVk/s1600/IMG_5960.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TNcJivRYDfI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/Zggfb9GTNVk/s320/IMG_5960.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536904759284862450" /></a><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TNcJTqLIP8I/AAAAAAAAAJ0/i0l2oWhZbQw/s320/IMG_5963.JPG" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536904500218445762" /><b>Masters Super Fish</b><div><b></b>020 7928 6924<div><div>191 Waterloo Road</div><div><br /></div><div>The biggest names in showbiz eat at Masters Super Fish. Look at the photo. See? We sat next to an autographed photograph of Danny Blue!!!!!!</div></div></div><div><br />I'm not shitting you. We quite possibly sat at the same table <a href="http://www.dannyblue.co.uk/">Danny Blue</a> once sat at. Danny "Blue Comedy" Blue, the former member of the Monster Raving Loony Party. The rebel who screams "bollocks to political correctness". The patriot who knows what the REAL national dish is ("bollocks to chicken tikka masala," he possibly says). The radical comic who's not afraid to make mother-in-law jokes. The adult entertainer who's "rude but not crude". The legendary comedian who's <i>literally </i>shared a stage with Jim Davidson. The proud defender of the British sense of humour. The archetypal lad's lad who hosts stag shows with busty British strippers. The man who, in his immortal words, is "innocent until proven filthy". It's Danny cocking Blue!!!!</div><div><br /></div><div>Blue, along with numerous other Cockney micro-celebrities, eats fish and chips at Masters Super Fish. And from this day onwards, so do I. For less than a tenner, we received an eminently shareable portion of fish and chips, mushy peas, bread and butter, pickled onions, gherkins and fried prawns. The cod was perfect: crunchy, crisp and ungreasy batter, and flaky, fresh fish. The chips and tartare sauce were spot on. If I hadn't been sitting opposite a lady, I would have consumed the sensational pickled onions in a undignified cutlery-free frenzy.</div><div><br />I love the food here, but not as much as I love everything else about Masters: the clientèle of pensioners on their ten-thousandth visit, ravenous cabbies refuelling, net-savvy tourists taking photos of mushy peas, and middle-class theatregoers incongruously sipping red wine; the yellowing newspaper clippings and dog-eared wallcharts of fish species; the David Brent poses and Alan Partridge desperation of Danny Blue and his photo-opping, arse-end of pier, Davro-worshipping Z-list pals.</div><div><br /></div><div>I love the tragic, funny, timeless, wonderful Britishness of it all. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, by the way, the first ever chips to be fried in the United Kingdom, hit oil in Oldham, Lancashire, in the 1860s.</div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/566761/restaurant/London/Masters-Super-Fish-Waterloo"><img alt="Masters Super Fish on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/566761/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-10270448367502252442010-10-30T03:19:00.000-07:002011-02-01T16:08:32.884-08:00England (Yorkshire)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TMv1t71Yg6I/AAAAAAAAAJE/npsb-YOyXW0/s1600/Hawksmoor_Steak.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TMv1t71Yg6I/AAAAAAAAAJE/npsb-YOyXW0/s320/Hawksmoor_Steak.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533786736659301282" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">Hawksmoor</span><br />11 Langley Street<br />020 7856 2154<div><br /></div><div>It says this on the menu: "Our steaks come from Longhorn cattle that have been lovingly reared in North Yorkshire."</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm legit with this one. I needed an excuse to briefly gush about yesterday's sensational dinner at Hawksmoor and the fact that the cows we ate were Yorkshirewomen works nicely. More to the point, I was never going to find a specialist Yorkshire pudding restaurant. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, first came the rock oysters - sniff, slurp, smile - and then came the chips. One portion was triple-cooked for extra crispiness and the other was cooked in beef dripping for extra meatiness. Carrots and spinach dissolved on tongues like cream. The pork belly ribs were stupendously delicious. The bone marrow even more so. I split 800g of porterhouse, medium-rare, and quarter of a lobster with the bloke opposite me. Sharing is rarely such a competitive sport. We measured each other's intake while failing to regulate our own. After scoffing my 400g, I polished off a strip of chateaubriand a tablemate had incomprehensibly failed to eat. Soon afterwards, I made light work of a cornflake ice cream sundae. On nights such as this I'm a greedy bugger. </div><div><br /></div><div>The plain-clothed staff, indie music (who knew Belle & Sebastian and meat go together so well?), open kitchens, and meaty shades of brick, oak and cast iron is perfect for the cool carnivore vibe. The food, most importantly, had me purring. </div><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/1556962/restaurant/Covent-Garden/Hawksmoor-Seven-Dials-London"><img alt="Hawksmoor (Seven Dials) on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/1556962/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-42370497403944233532010-08-24T14:06:00.000-07:002010-09-02T10:11:57.003-07:00Egypt<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TH_PENENHFI/AAAAAAAAAIs/ObIBhsqoNKI/s1600/IMG_4826.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TH_PENENHFI/AAAAAAAAAIs/ObIBhsqoNKI/s320/IMG_4826.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512352140058500178" /></a><b>Ali Baba</b><div>32 Ivor Place</div><div>020 7723 7474</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm flabbergasted by today's food discovery. It's got nothing to do with the boring Egyptian restaurant described below. It's got everything to do with a Zimbabwean stall I found in Elephant & Castle. OK, they weren't selling <i>dovi</i>, the ceremonial peanut and chicken stew that will be eaten with a golden ladle in front of the world's media while fireworks explode in the sky at the conclusion of this project, but they could possibly make it on request - and that changes everything. </div><div><br /></div><div>Knowing Zimbabwean food, the one cuisine I'm not permitted to eat, is available in London has given me a target. All I have to do now is eat every single one of the world's cuisines, including regional cuisines within countries, before the two blokes at Elephant & Castle market realise there's no market for Zimbabwean food in London and close the stall down. At this rate I'll be eating there in 2024.</div><div><br /></div><div>Like Zimbabwe, Egypt's an African country that's been driven to the ground by an old dictator who just won't fucking die. Ali Baba's a likeable, family-owned place, but the food's as tired as its orientalist cliche of a name would suggest. I went there with a couple of Muslim friends for the <i>iftar </i>meal, the breaking of the fast. I'd eaten a big lunch. The hugely popular Arab TV show<i> Ramadan - Live From Mecca </i>was on the telly. It's such a ratings smash they show it on all the channels at the same time. The Libyan chap sitting next to us was lonely and pretended to have heard us talking about his home country.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What's happened in Libya?" he asked with a jolt.</div><div>"Nothing much," I replied, pausing a few seconds for comic effect. "Although, you know, Colonel Gaddafi has just died."</div><div><br /></div><div>He looked like a man who's just found out he's out of a well-paid job. He didn't appreciate our sense of humour. But there's so much fun to be had joking about the death of old dictators who just won't fucking die. </div><div><br /></div><div>A voice from the TV started praying. We ate dates and supermarket flatbread dipped in <i>tahina</i>. We ate the infamous Egyptian carb-fest <i>koshari </i>(rice, lentils, pasta, fried onions, spicy tomato sauce), <i>molokhia </i>(jew's mallow) with chicken, <i>bamia </i>(lamb and okra stew) and <i>ta'amiya</i> (Egyptian falafel). With the exception of the falafel, which was crispily moreish, everything was underflavoured. Everything needed more oil, more garlic, more stock, more spice.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted to like it. It's a no-frills, to-the-point, friendly-owned restaurant - and I've loved some of the local food I've had in Egypt - but Ali Baba just seems so staid. It's unatmospheric to the point of being oppressive and the food is bland. Bring on the dovi. </div><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/560293/restaurant/London/St-Johns-Wood-Lisson-Grove/Ali-Baba-Marylebone"><img alt="Ali Baba on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/560293/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-5161517042519095092010-08-18T14:32:00.000-07:002010-09-02T10:13:06.402-07:00Kyrgyzstan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/THQt8jQ7F5I/AAAAAAAAAIk/Pau4VckVNHQ/s1600/IMG_4732.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/THQt8jQ7F5I/AAAAAAAAAIk/Pau4VckVNHQ/s320/IMG_4732.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509078762462582674" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Kazakh </span></span></b><em style="font-weight: bold; font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Kyrgyz House</span></span></em></span></b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Pasha Hotel</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">158 Camberwell Road</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">020 7277 2228</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"This is like being in Dubai," observed my dinner companion, who used to sit next to me in an office in that shithole. She was right. It was like a hotel in the poor part of town: neon lights and big windows, narrow corridors and red carpets, dubious-looking cosmetics on sale from reception, and a restaurant </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">with Russian pop music and a fake plastic lake running through it. I felt right at home.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">There's Kazakh, Kyrgyz and Turkish food on the menu, but we stuck to our guns and only ordered dishes you'd find in a neighbourhood restaurant in Bishkek. This included </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 15px; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">borsok,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> a fried doughnut made of eggs and honey and accompanied by sour cream and hummos, and a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">baklajanovaya ikra, a</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> stewed aubergine dip with tomato, onion and garlic<i>. </i>It was the high point of the meal.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 15px; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I hoped the</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> beshbamak</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> would contain horse, but due to the unavailablity of such exotic meats in Camberwell Green, we had to settle for beef, which arrived boiled to the point of tastelessness and floating with pasta in a nondescript broth. The </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">lagman, </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">a nicely spiced stab at spaghetti bolognaise, was much more interesting.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It's fair to assume that until six months ago the majority of Londoners knew nothing about Kyrgyzstan. Almost 100 deaths in demonstrations and riots opposing Kurmanbek Bakiyev's government have put the country on the map for all the wrong reasons. Perhaps, we wondered before our visit, we would unearth a brilliant cuisine that had the potential to make Kyrgyzstan famous for something other than violence. It's highly unlikely.</span></span></span></div><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/1430469/restaurant/London/Pasha-Kyrgyz-Kazakh-Restaurant-Camberwell"><img alt="Pasha Kyrgyz Kazakh Restaurant on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/1430469/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-7384753959185132412010-07-28T14:32:00.000-07:002010-08-10T14:55:27.933-07:00Guyana<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TFCktnA5kvI/AAAAAAAAAIU/IFYKcgDu_vI/s1600/IMG_4699.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TFCktnA5kvI/AAAAAAAAAIU/IFYKcgDu_vI/s320/IMG_4699.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499076248493200114" /></a><b>Umana Yana</b><div>294 Croxted Road</div><div>Herne Hill</div><div>020 8671 8227</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hello sweetheart!"</div><div><br /></div><div>At least I <i>think </i>that's what the lady at Umana Yana said to me as I walked through the door with my earphones plugged in. It's a simple place, a takeaway with a single table by the window, but welcomes don't get much warmer.</div><div><br /></div><div>The charming lady behind the counter, who, if the health and safety certificates on the wall are to be believed, is called Deborah, listened patiently as I expressed my delight at finding food in London from a country with a smaller population than Bristol. She then gave me a taste of everything in front of her. There was <i>poulourie</i>, a deep-fried split pea fritter; doubles just like those<a href="http://london-food.blogspot.com/2009/11/trinidad-tobago.html"> I found at Roti Joupa</a>, and a <i>channa dal</i>, an Indian chick pea dish.</div><div><br /></div><div>A week earlier at the Lambeth Country Show I'd relished a chicken and pumpkin roti wrap at the Umama Yana stall. On that occasion it had been prepared by Deborah's daughters; this time it was her son cooking soft, spongy rotis at the back of the restaurant. Again it was delicious, a blend of tender chicken breast and stewed pumpkin in what Debs unhelpfully described as "many different spices". There's certainly a blast of curry powder in there and perhaps some jerk seasoning, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>A look at Guyana's history explains the eccentric nature of its cuisine. The Spanish, French, Dutch and British each had a go ruling the country, and between them imported African slaves, plantation workers from China, indentured labour from India, and Portuguese settlers (used by the Brits to bolster the white population). This ethnic mix has blended with a dominant Caribbean culture, and the flavours and recipes of Trinidad and Jamaica are very evident. </div><div><br /></div><div>Umama Yana, named after an iconic thatched hut in the capital Georgetown, may not be the world's prettiest restaurant - there are no plates to be seen - but it's the only place I know of serving this great little cuisine.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-46664882241659284312010-07-13T14:08:00.000-07:002010-07-14T00:00:29.171-07:00United States of America<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TDzgrWqLHcI/AAAAAAAAAIM/fTeG7ETmBHI/s1600/IMG_4563.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TDzgrWqLHcI/AAAAAAAAAIM/fTeG7ETmBHI/s320/IMG_4563.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493512680906628546" /></a><div><b>The Meatwagon</b></div><div>The Florence</div><div>131-133 Dulwich Road</div><div>(and other places too)</div><div>themeatwagon.co.uk</div><div><br /></div><div>Until my first bite, I had my reservations about the Meatwagon. In spite of (or perhaps because of) its infrequent appearances in the wild, this plain white van has been cooking up a cacophony of fawning tweets and retweets and blog posts that have had me trying to wipe away the saliva from the inside of my screen. Its devoted followers willingly travel to obscure parts of the city (i.e. South London) and endure long waits before receiving their dinner. I couldn't see myself jumping on the Meatwagon bandwagon. I suspected an internet fad, a fast-food fantasy as disposable as a flash mob. I was so wrong. This is great street food, done the American way.</div><div><br /></div><div>The thing I love most about the Meatwagon's cheeseburger with bacon is that it's <i>not </i>a gourmet burger. It's sold by a bloke in a van and served on a paper plate. You don't need a knife and fork to disassemble it before consumption. It doesn't come with a side salad. It is never - never! - made out of beans or tofu or lentils. You can't pay a pound extra for beetroot or blue cheese or, for shit's sake, baba ghanoush. I love being able to hold it in two hands, give it a firm squeeze, and taste <i>the whole of the burger</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's stacked, layered, precisely as tall as the space I can make between my upper and lower lips. The flavours reveal themselves one at a time, like those jawbreaker sweets I taunted my teeth with as a kid, but in rapid succession. The first bite releases the pheromones, a swell of blood and oil softening the bun, some dripping off the edge, giving my plate a rosy translucency. The cheese and mustard, at the top and the bottom respectively, are as American as corn dogs and root beer. Apparently it's not a Kraft Single, this sliced cheese, but to me it looks and tastes just as cheap and yellow and nasty and perfect. The mustard coalesces with the gherkins, the onions and the salty, streaky un-British bacon. As for the main attraction, the protagonist, the star of the show, well, you should read about <a href="http://willeatformoney.blogspot.com/2010/04/meatwagon-peckham.html">here</a> because Ibrahim does a much better job of describing it than I ever could. And I fear I'll win a Bad Sex In Non-Fiction award if I even tried.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let's stop here. I can't see for the saliva on the outside of my screen. </div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-2343352635521293482010-06-09T14:18:00.000-07:002010-06-09T15:21:00.194-07:00Ecuador<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TBAHYX9eDkI/AAAAAAAAAIE/zmAOBA8JIJ8/s1600/IMG_4052.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/TBAHYX9eDkI/AAAAAAAAAIE/zmAOBA8JIJ8/s320/IMG_4052.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480888861839986242" /></a><b>El Rincon Quiteno</b><div>235 Holloway Road</div><div>020 7700 3670</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It was the hottest day of the year and every pore in my body begged me not to go to a cramped eatery on Holloway Road and gorge on meat, beans, plantain and rice. But a voice inside my head decided it was necessary to paraphrase Homer Simpson. </span></div><div><br /></div><div>"You don't win friends with salad, you don't win friends with salad, especially when vast quantities of meat, beans, plantain and rice are on offer from a cramped Ecuadorian caff on Holloway Road," said the voice. </div><div><br /></div><div>My lunchtime companion, who can put away an impressive amount of meat for her small stature, ordered the<i> fritada con mote y maduro frito</i>, which<i> </i>loosely translates as pork cooked in pork fat with fried plantain. "Ask them to make one with extra pork," the voice inside my head said. I ignored him, but did make it absolutely clear to my hungry tablemate that we were doing a 50/50 split on this meal. Assured of hog-happiness, I ordered the <i>seco de chivo con arroz </i>(lamb in white wine sauce). We sipped head-spinningly oversweet soft drinks from Ecuador and Bolivia while waiting for the food to arrive.</div><div><br /></div><div>El Rincon Quiteno, meaning "A Corner of Quito", fails to live up to its name - it looks like any other London caff. The dishes listed on the main blackboard are bog-standard fare such as jacket potatoes and sandwiches. Only a person with severe mental health problems would come to a place like this and order a jacket potato or a sandwich. </div><div><br /></div><div>The <i>fritada </i>was as wonderful as you'd expect from a dish built from pork, pork fat and a flame. Each piece offered a perfect fusion of crispiness, juiciness, tenderness and smokiness. The token non-artery-destroying dish was also delicious, although it possibly wasn't what we ordered. It was lamb and it came with rice, and the sauce may well have contained wine, but it was suspiciously red and tomatoey for a white wine sauce. We saw no cause to complain. </div><div><br /></div><div>After the meal, I walked out into the Highbury sun carrying a doggy bag. Saturday night at home with microwaved fried pork? Fuck yeah. </div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/1440334/restaurant/London/El-Rincon-Quiteno-Holloway"><img alt="El Rincon Quiteno on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/1440334/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-67836247798698636542010-05-22T12:46:00.000-07:002010-08-24T13:51:54.446-07:00Zambia<span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S_5aQ2Nt_nI/AAAAAAAAAH8/U-bupozI3c4/s1600/IMG_4047.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S_5aQ2Nt_nI/AAAAAAAAAH8/U-bupozI3c4/s320/IMG_4047.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475913442406563442" border="0" /></a></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">BB's (aka Fredor)</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Forest Gate, call 07947 106 429 for address</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> The lights were on and the sign in the window said open, but the door was firmly shut. Auntie Dorothy, who'd we read so much about on the Zambia UK message boards, was nowhere to be seen so we retreated to a Pakistani kebab shop to kill time.<br /><br />An hour later, Fredor was showing signs of life. Just. Two elderly gentlemen were seated, one of them cheerfully gnawing on a lump of meat. We walked in, sat down, and glanced at the unfamiliar words on the menu. The man not holding meat handed me a phone. It was Auntie Dorothy! She was in a nearby house, she explained. And if we headed over right away she'd cook us Zambian food.<br /><br />We entered the building gingerly, ambling down the hallway towards a Tardis-like surprise, a venue with a bar, dancefloor, DJ and kitchen. After chatting to Dottie, who was every bit as delightful as billed, we ordered Kenyan beer and what she said was 'Zambian Fanta' (in a retro glass bottle). She went off to cook. We never saw a menu.<br /><br />At the weekends, we're told, some serious house partying goes down here. But on our visit, when we were the only customers, the atmosphere wasn't exactly electric. The Nine O'Clock News played silently on a wall-affixed screen and the DJ eschewed Zambian pop to play some of the worst music we've ever heard. Unbreak My Heart, the Muzak version, was a lowlight.<br /><br />The staple of Zambian cuisine is </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">nshima,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> a solid porridge-like substance made with maize flour. In Zambia they eat it three times a day. Since it's almost entirely tasteless, I'll eat it once. We also had what Auntie Dorothy called "tiny fish from a lake that's half in Zambia and half in Tanzania", which I've since worked out is whitebait from Lake Tanganyika in a spicy tomato sauce.<br /><br />There was grilled beef brisket, refried beans and - how's this for a revelation? - a bowl of tasty sweet potato leaves. The most delicious dish, we agreed, was the </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">boerewors</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">, a spicy South African sausage that's made its way north. The only dish we didn't like was the dried fish, a bowl of bones, skin and guts, as if the fish had been filleted and the wrong pile had been thrown in the bin.<br /><br />It turns out that Fredor, where we originally went, is a Zambian restaurant by day and a Barbadian restaurant by night, which means Dorothy swaps kitchens in the evening, working non-stop to give Zambians in the UK a taste of home. And at ten quid a head for a huge amount of food, she can't exactly be raking it in. Before we left, she invited me to her birthday party in early June. I'd love to go.</span><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-74831636661185549762010-05-02T02:56:00.000-07:002010-05-13T14:26:25.231-07:00United States of America (Southern)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S91ODEdgubI/AAAAAAAAAH0/Y22jdbbowKY/s1600/IMG_3992.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S91ODEdgubI/AAAAAAAAAH0/Y22jdbbowKY/s320/IMG_3992.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466611337341745586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Spot Soul Food</span><br />58 Willesden Lane<br />020 7372 1972<br /><br />Rumours of this blog's demise are greatly exaggerated. I went to Georgia and Armenia, ate cartoonish quantities of <i>khachapuri</i>, and became utterly stuck in Yerevan (thanks, Eyjafjallajökull). I turned 30, went to Berlin, got the flu and spent a week feeling like crap. I took on two full-time jobs and a load of freelancing. But in between the coughing, ageing, toiling and cursing Iceland I managed to take my hungry little Norwegian brother to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.thespotfood.com">The Spot</a>.<div><br /><a href="http://www.thespotfood.com/page2.htm">The Spot</a> claims to be London's first soul food joint. I have little doubt that it's London's first Islamic soul food place - the menu is Halal. By opening on Willesden Lane earlier this year, it bolsters my claim that Kilburn is the centre of the universe. This place is great.<br /><br />It's as no frills as can be; five tables, a few stools and a TV tuned to MTV Base. The walls are covered in colourful cartoons of a matronly mama carrying pots of gumbo and plates piled high with steaming cornbread. When the door to the kitchen opened, we saw a woman who didn't look unlike her. According to the man at the counter, she's a bona fide American from the southern states. The lady knows her mash from her mac 'n' cheese.<br /><br />After a wait of nearly 20 minutes - The Spot could do with some extra help in the kitchen - our food arrived. The chicken in my gumbo had a browned, caramelised glaze and the sweet, honeyed sauce was densely packed with okra, chorizo and cornbread that crumbled at the touch of a plastic fork. I didn't have room to finish the Cajun fritters, made with saltfish in a spicy batter. The Norwegian plumped for the beef gumbo, which wasn't quite as delicious. Both portions were huge.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't wait to return to try their fried chicken and sweet waffles, a dish I've only had once before. My meal <a href="http://www.roscoeschickenandwaffles.com/">here</a>, back in the heady days of summer 2001, was one I'll never forget.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-18684015031423142912010-03-29T14:34:00.000-07:002010-03-31T01:52:49.343-07:00Venezuela<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S7J15UYpUVI/AAAAAAAAAHs/BlYck7bmlpM/s1600/IMG_3130.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S7J15UYpUVI/AAAAAAAAAHs/BlYck7bmlpM/s320/IMG_3130.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454551726284165458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Arepa & Co<br /></span>Boiler House Food Hall<br />Truman Brewery, Brick Lane<br />Sundays 10am-5pm<br /><br />In the summer of 2003, I told my then-girlfriend I'd very much like to meet a Venezuelan. It seemed like a random utterance at the time, but being a determined sort it was only three months before I had a nice young man from Caracas living on my bedroom floor. If I hadn't been living with my parents at the time it wouldn't have been a problem.<div><div><br /></div><div>He had been in the UK on a work trip and had decided to skip the flight home, fearing a civil war. In enthusiastic Spanglish, he told me all about the history of puppetry and physical theatre, the political situation in Venezuela, a bizarre new sport he'd invented called <i>Fireball</i> (like Dodgeball with an actual ball of fire) and how he was going to get it in the Olympics, and how he missed <i>arepas</i>, the national dish of his homeland.</div><div><br /></div><div>Arepa & Co are the only people selling Venezuelan food in London. This, they said, is because it's bloody time-consuming to make the cornbread properly. I can't vouch for these <i>arepas</i>' authenticity, but I thought they<i> </i>were fantastic, like a <i>carnitas burrito </i>substituting a <i>tortilla </i>for a sweet, flaky cornbread pitta. Black beans, grated cheese and lots of spicy, juicy pork - delicious. The Hungarian CouchSurfer I was hosting, photographed here dutifully holding my tasty <i>arepa</i>, realised she'd made a big mistake ordering the Chinese dumplings. </div><div><div><br />I wondered what had become of the man who used to sleep on my floor. The last time I saw him was in September 2003 at Victoria train station. His girlfriend had flown from Caracas to Amsterdam and then taken the ferry to Harwich so she could hop on the train to London. My friend was going to propose to her at the station and they were going to live happily ever after in the UK. He was carrying the ring in his pocket. But she never made it past UK border control. </div><div><br /></div><div>He took the first train to Holland the following morning to be with her. I was so sad for them. And I was pretty sad for myself. I'd been told she made one hell of an <i>arepa</i>.</div><div><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-27462092437563554792010-03-20T16:32:00.001-07:002010-03-22T03:49:13.141-07:00Hungary<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S6VhZverUOI/AAAAAAAAAHk/A27rkT3ZZQc/s1600-h/IMG_3124.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S6VhZverUOI/AAAAAAAAAHk/A27rkT3ZZQc/s320/IMG_3124.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450870018871611618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><b>Toldi Catering</b></span><div><span style="font-size:100%;">Brunswick Food Market</span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">Saturdays, 11am-5pm</span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">I didn't think I was going to find authentic Hungarian food in London. Several people had warned me that the <a href="http://www.gayhussar.co.uk/index.asp">Gay Hussar</a>, once considered one of the greatest Hungarian restaurants in the world, was utterly cack. London's other Hungarian eatery, <a href="http://www.louis-hungarian-patisserie.co.uk/Louis_Hungarian_Patisserie/Welcome.html">Louis Hungarian Patisserie</a>, is a) Polish, and b) closed until further notice, which is enough to rule it out.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">The food market at Brunswick Place was a pleasant surprise. Toldi is the stall with a <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;font-family:sans-serif;" ><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">bogrács </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">(cauldron) hanging from a </span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal;font-family:Georgia,serif;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">tripod, full of brown splattered stuff. I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;font-family:sans-serif;" ><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal;font-family:Georgia,serif;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">t's goulash, and it's awfully good. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;font-family:sans-serif;" ><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal;font-family:Georgia,serif;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">It was served it on </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;font-family:Georgia,serif;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">tarhonya</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal;font-family:Georgia,serif;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">, a chunky egg pasta, and with a helping of salad. It was really tasty. </span></span></i></span></span></span></i></span></span></span></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal;font-family:Georgia,serif;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;font-family:sans-serif;" ><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal;font-family:Georgia,serif;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></i></span></span></span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal;font-family:Georgia,serif;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;font-family:sans-serif;" ><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal;font-family:Georgia,serif;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">I asked the owner what the key to a good goulash is. "It's a closely-held secret," he told me, before conceding that "it's all down to the paprika". So now we know.</span></span></i></span></span></span></i></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-51868624078747650692010-03-20T09:23:00.000-07:002010-03-20T10:27:00.317-07:00Malaysia (Peranakan)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S6T-noibSUI/AAAAAAAAAHc/Q8yAWEidwDA/s1600-h/IMG_3136.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S6T-noibSUI/AAAAAAAAAHc/Q8yAWEidwDA/s320/IMG_3136.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450761405875308866" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">NP Star</span><br />Pacific Plaza<br />Wembley Park Retail Park<div><br /></div><div>I'm thankful the Pacific Plaza's food court was almost empty. Anybody who saw me eat would have witnessed quite a spectacle. Earlier in the day, I'd injured my back attempting a ridiculous squash shot. For the first few hours, the damage seemed insignificant, but somehow the act of going to Zone 4, sitting down and eating curry <i>laksa </i>triggered waves of intense pain. </div><div><br /></div><div>At this point the <i>laksa </i>did what <i>laksa</i>'s paid to do and the double trouble of steam and chilli had me sweating like an Englishman. I removed my coat and my jumper, and reached for my bag to take photos of the food, the whole time clutching the left side of my lower-back, grimacing and sweating torrentially. I hobbled down Wembley Way afterwards.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>If this had been a duff meal, I would have left traumatised. But the curry <i>laksa </i>from the unassuming NP Star stall was delicious. Before I gave it a good stir, the broth resembled a lava lamp in miniature. Yellow bubbles and red bubbles, forming and fusing. Coconut milk and chilli. Fire and ice. Yin and yang. Slices of slippery fish cake, straggly coriander, soft and supple king prawns, and brown strips of puffy tofu that absorbed the broth and - bang! - exploded upon contact with the teeth. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fireworks in the sky. A sweaty forehead. Muscle spasms. Ouch. Yum. Ouch. Where's the ibuprofen? </div><div><br /></div><div>Two tables away, a middle-aged Chinese woman shielded her child's eyes from the sweaty paraplegic strip-show. </div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-60113471330297164142010-03-14T13:48:00.000-07:002010-03-14T17:31:54.346-07:00Slovakia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S513N7WB-YI/AAAAAAAAAHU/8Q8ZkWh9hJU/s1600-h/IMG_3110.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S513N7WB-YI/AAAAAAAAAHU/8Q8ZkWh9hJU/s320/IMG_3110.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448642205340268930" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S51oFzgLN3I/AAAAAAAAAHM/Kku4leol8wQ/s1600-h/IMG_3120.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S51oFzgLN3I/AAAAAAAAAHM/Kku4leol8wQ/s320/IMG_3120.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448625573121963890" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;">Czech and Slovak House<br /></span>West Hampstead<br />74 West End Lane<br /><div>020 7372 1193</div><div><br /></div><div>Wonderful and miserable in equal measures, Czech and Slovak House is communist to the core. We were led into an empty restaurant, reminiscent of crap embassy waiting rooms and dilapidated seaside B&Bs. "I feel like we're about to eat a hotel breakfast," my friend said. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the wall are pictures of Vaclav Havel, the Queen, some Pope and that's your lot. In the next room hangs a large map of Slovakia and nothing else. The first page of the menu inexplicably features a cartoon-chef-child molester with half a tie, a monster's hand, a scarred forehead and flapping rabbit's ears made of burnt skin. We would proceed with caution. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our waiter assured us that Czech and Slovak food are exactly the same, but <a href="http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Halu%C5%A1ky">my research</a> suggested otherwise. <i>Halusky </i>is the Slovak national dish - not much of a hit in the Czech Republic, but a number one chart-topper since forever in Slovakia and in big letters at the top of the menu here. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's a remarkably unsophisticated piece of work: a yellowy-white stodge, copious in carbs, positively <a href="http://www.molvania.com/molvania/">Molvanian</a>, guaranteeing obesity in 30 minutes or your money back. It combined Spam-like smoked sausage with a vast quantity of <i>bryndna </i>(sheep's cheese) and tiny potato dumplings like miniature gnocchi. I liked it, and felt guilty immediately. </div><div><br /></div><div>We shared an outrageously indulgent starter of fried bread with melted cheese and garlic, a gut-tormenting classic. Oh, the deliciousness. And we enjoyed our main courses, too. We had half a portion of wild boar with cheese sauce and dumplings, and half a portion of roast pork with sauerkraut and dumplings. Czech/Slovak dumplings, we discovered, are what we know as bread. It was comfort food at its most comforting, and the <i>pilsner </i>is cheap, froth-topped and excellent. </div><div><br /></div><div>This place is unashamedly retro, a Soviet bloc time-warp. I love it. And I've still got <a href="http://www.restaurantuvrany.co.uk/index.php?ln=uk">here</a> to Czech out. Sorry. </div></div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/562875/restaurant/London/West-Hampstead/Czech-and-Slovak-House-London-Borough-of-Camden"><img alt="Czech and Slovak House on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/562875/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1753956635260093127.post-57790914018901816842010-02-21T09:39:00.000-08:002010-06-09T23:41:26.307-07:00Colombia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S4Fwx7XPyxI/AAAAAAAAAHE/ejFCdGdPixY/s1600-h/IMG_2869.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kzoIa6RC3K8/S4Fwx7XPyxI/AAAAAAAAAHE/ejFCdGdPixY/s320/IMG_2869.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440753827891366674" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">La Bodeguita</span></b><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Elephant & Castle Shopping Centre</span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">020 7701 9166</span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;color:#333366;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></b></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333366;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Apologies for the wait. I've been in Saudi Arabia among other places. There's no Saudi food in London I'm aware of, so in</span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333366;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Riyadh I excitedly guzzled handfuls of camel </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">kabsa </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(chewy chunks of prime Arabian dromedary in spicy basmati rice)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. The portions were so large we barely made a dent in them. And judging by the size of the lads (there wasn't a woman in sight), my Saudi companions rarely stick to salad. If I lived in Riyadh, I'd eat myself to an early grave too.</span></span></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333366;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333366;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's possibly because I'm a glutton, or because I enjoy the communal experience of eating, but I get far more pleasure from vast plates of shareable food than the dainty slithers and barely-there foams they charge the big bucks for in London. I've craved the </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333366;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bandeja_paisa"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">bandeja paisa</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333366;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Colombia's national dish (a speciality of Antiquia in the north of the country)</span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333366;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333366;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333366;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, since reading on Wikipedia (where else?) that you're not allowed to serve it on a normal plate. It </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">must </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">be served on an oversized oval dish, perhaps because </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">bandeja </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">means </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">platter</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. My unconditional love for this evilly calorific fry-fest</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">increased thirtyfold when I saw the link to a website called </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333366;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><a href="http://thisiswhyyourefat.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This Is Why You're Fat</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> at the bottom of its Wiki entry. It was going to be a challenge.</span></span></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></i></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></i></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></span></b></span></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was a challenge we failed. I'd eaten a particularly well-stuffed tuna sandwich already that day and my companion is hoping to run a marathon later this year, so at </span></span><a href="http://www.labodeguita.co.uk/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">La Bodeguita</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> we meekly </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">ordered a single </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">bandeja paisa,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> a feast of beans, rice, avocado, minced beef, fried egg, plantain, pork rind and a single </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">arepa</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. It wasn't sophisticated, but it was very satisfying. We also had an </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">empanada </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">each, a (disappointingly cold) pastry stuffed with spicy beef. Like prime losers, we couldn't even finish a meal for one. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The other guests appeared to be Colombian; there's a big South American community in Elephant & Castle. It's not the most atmospheric restaurant, but I imagine live </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">salsa </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">and </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">cumbia </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">would turn the place into a theme park. The Royal Court is </span></span><a href="http://www.royalcourttheatre.com/whatson01.asp?play=579"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">staging four plays</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> around the corner from La Bodeguita, so I'll be back four times to try the fantastic-sounding </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">dulce de guayabo con queso</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> (sweet guava with homemade cheese) I couldn't fathom eating on this occasion.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To celebrate La Bodeguita's success, here's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCxe4r6SjH0">the greatest moment in Colombian history</a>. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span></div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/52/565737/restaurant/Borough/La-Bodeguida-London"><img alt="La Bodeguida on Urbanspoon" src="http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/565737/minilink.gif" style="border:none;width:130px;height:36px" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3