Seventeen

Relocating to Britain back in the early-Noughties, one the first major culture shocks I experienced came in the unlikely surroundings of a Chinese restaurant. Forgetting the fact that at least half the pub football team contracted food poisoning that night and we had the forfeit the next match, what actually shocked me most about this insalubrious Oriental eatery at the end of Durham City’s North Road was the lack of General Tso’s chicken, crab rangoon, and beef and broccoli. My studies at university would later encourage me to think of these discrepancies in a post-colonial light, but to be honest no amount of Said, Ashcroft and Bhabha quite explains why American Chinese restaurants stuff crab and cream cheese into wonton wrappers and British Chinese restaurants don’t.

It’s just one of those things. I may consistently struggle to find satisfactory Chinese meals in the U.K., but I'm undeniably spoilt for choice when it comes to Indian food. You just don’t get good curries in Boston and my first taste of the tandoor – along with having my facial bum fluff amount to acceptable ID in bars – was one of the the things I looked forward to most as the plane set off from Logan International each summer.

So what a pleasure it is when I find Chinese food that meets my exacting and geographically biased standards. There hasn’t been much that makes me want to get out of bed over the last ten years, let alone shave and wipe down my trainers. I enjoyed eating at the revered Ken Lo’s Memories of China, but it was so extravagantly priced I felt like the cheque should have come with a return ticket to Beijing. I also really liked my meal at Silk Road in Camberwell. It was the first time I was fully exposed to the brow-mopping delights of authentic Szechuan cooking. In addition to the ball-numbing amount of chili, it cost less than a fry-up at Little Chef, offered something vaguely familiar in the kebab-like skewers, and gave pride of place to tripe dishes on the menu. In other words, it was pretty close to my ideal dining formula.

The food I ate at Seventeen in Notting Hill, where I attended a blogger’s dinner last week, belongs to this fascinating and tempting subset of Chinese cooking. But as a restaurant, it’s a different proposition altogether. Where Silk Road is all loud students drinking cheap lager at communal tables, Seventeen is well-heeled West London couples sipping sexy cocktails in sleek, Hakkasan-like surroundings. On paper, it’s the sort of place I hate. But the food is very good so I am prepared to put aside my prejudices and say that it’s worth a visit.

Cumin lamb skewers arrived first, wowing the table with their heady aromas. The juicy meat was packed with intense spicy flavours, the sort that evolve in a pleasingly slow manner rather than exploding all at once, and so ultra-tender that I’m tempted to think it had been marinated. Whatever the case, these were seriously satisfying skewers

 The meal’s two standout dishes followed. Szechuan-style fish featured something that could have been groper, drowning in a pool of spicy goodness. Our host Mark explained the method of cooking, and while I’ve long since forgotten the intricacies, the gist is that it was slowly poached in the sea of chili oil it arrived in.  Isn’t that fucking awesome? Is there a better way to cook, well, anything? Yet somehow, the heat it offered was pleasantly understated: it came close to satisfying the masochist in me, but was subtle enough not to overwhelm Al like some of the bolder dishes at other Szechuan restaurants. Crucially, it didn’t compromise the delicate flavour of the smooth fish itself, which melted in the mouth while it emitted its fragrant heat.

It was, without a doubt, excellent, but for me the highlight of the evening came next: the thinly sliced chili beef shank. The meat gave a soft, almost erotic mouth feel, and was tantalisingly moist, while the chilli sauce packed another solid punch without causing too many tears and sweat beads. That it came cold and still impressed to this degree was the real star turn. It seemed a bit bizarre at first, but Singaporean Jason, aka Feast of the World, pointed out that the serving of fiery dishes cold makes sense as the different heat sensations balance and complement each other. Whatever the physics of it, I just know I loved it. I was also a big fan of the other cold dish, the chili chicken. It worked in a similar way, with succulent meat bathed liberally in various layers of chili and then left to cool. After these two examples, I gave myself a sharp slap the wrist for ever thinking that serving cold food as a main course at dinner is a bit of a faux pas.

Accompaniments were competent without being revolutionary. Greens beans were slightly crisp without having had all the freshness fried out of them, and the crumbling of pork gave it a nice layer of extra saltiness. Chinese broccoli with garlic didn’t contain any massive surprises but it was fresh and well cooked, while rice was, well, rice. I tend to think that, in the West at least, you shouldn’t ever really take much notice of it and if you do it’s probably for the wrong reasons.

Only the twice-fried pork belly failed to totally impress. Belly is a particularly fatty cut of pig, and in this dish it had been sliced so finely that it ended up resembling a bacon rasher. This was comforting in a bizarre kind of way, but not necessarily pleasant and certainly not the kind of refinement you would expect at a high-end restaurant capable of producing truly stunning dishes. Puddings left the realm of pure Szechuan authenticity and embraced a broader pan-Asian spectrum. While nothing  produced the collective gasp that marked the arrival of the visually stunning fish dish, chewy Japanese mocha was deemed a winner, while the mango jelly won't disappoint many.

Nor will the wine list. Al enjoyed the sauvignon blanc offered with the meal, the acidity and tropical fruit flavours matching up well with the spicy cuisine, and a brief glance showed the rest of the oenological offerings to be similarly well considered. People seem to think that pairing wine with fragrant, often fiery Asian food is a tricky one, and beer is often the default choice.  However, wine can work exceptionally well, especially off-dry whites, and Seventeen offered a number of appropriate options, including Riesling, Pinot Gris, and my personal favourite, Gruner Veltiner. They seemed acceptable value, with many just the right side of the £30 mark, while for the fatter wallets there was some serious kit from Zind Humbrecht.

Seventeen is a very slick operation indeed. Mark made no attempt to disguise that its décor borrows heavily from the more bespoke end of the Alan Yau spectrum and the last thing they could be faulted for is their style. It’s not necessarily my cup of tea, but I appreciate that it’s done well: dark, sleek, and sexy, it has serious date restaurant written all over it and will no doubt appeal to West London’s moneyed types. The average punter will be looking at  a minimum of £50 per head for dinner before drinks. Those on a normal budget should mark it down for a special occasion, and I was pleasantly surprised when I mentioned it down the pub to some non-moneyed mates recently that two had actually been.  Personally, I’d take two or three meals at more proletarian establishments over one with the high rollers. 

Szechuan continues to be the savvy option if you’re slightly jaded by the typical, hole-in-the-wall Chinese takeaway, and based on this showing my feeling is that Seventeen should do away with the more crowd-pleasing dishes and focus solely on regional specialities like the ones we sampled. Perhaps if they ditched tired standbys like sweet and sour chicken and threw on more tripe delicacies, or some dishes with really full-on authentic heat, I might be tempted to the occasional splurge. Even if I did get an scary text from the bank the next morning...

Scotch Eggs: The Jugged Hare and The Old Red Cow, City of London

From humble utilitarian bar snack to fully evolved gastro pub status symbol, the recent gentrification of the Scotch egg speaks volumes about our current gastronomic zeitgeist. A bit broke without being totally penniless, the discerning punter now contextualizes the relative expense of their eating and drinking habits. Now, he or she rightly thinks: if it costs more, it should do more. So generic, only vaguely psychoactive piddle of the Carlsberg school has been replaced by potent double IPAs from as far as New Zealand and smoky porters from as close to home as Haggerston. We have come to realise, it seems, that while more bespoke pleasures may cost more, they also tastes twice as good and, crucially, pack twice the punch. 

The same but also the reverse is true of our dining habits: no longer can be regarded as slaves to the sit down meal. Rather, a splash out supper can now comprise a few small plates over some pisco sours at a trendy new joint like Ceviche or, if you’re really ancient, a comparable experience at the relatively geriatric Spuntino. Likewise, for considerably less trendy types like me, it can amount a bit of old school munch at a nice boozer – not the full on sausage and mash treatment so much as that wondrous deep-fried combination of chicken period, sausage meat, and bread crumbs, the Scotch egg. Sure, with some of the better ones approaching £5, it might all seem a bit excessive for a bar snack, but when you consider that Mark Hix would call it a starter, charge close to a tenner for it, and have it served to you by an arrogant turd, you realise that you’re almost approaching the realm of good value.

Because for all our pretensions as foodies - for all our affectations as crusaders of the smoked artichoke - sometimes it still is more about lining the stomach than chasing down the next temple of gastronomic greatness. Until about a year or so ago, I scarcely knew Scotch eggs existed outside of the odd roadside M&S en route to the mysterious territory known as the North. Now, they’re the first thing that cross my mind every time I step into a pub that seems to have an above average air about it. More often than not, I’m disappointed and presented with something that’s about as attractive as a graceless description of its raw ingredients. Occasionally I find myself satisfied, and ever so rarely I’m left wowed. 

The Jugged Hare is one place that elicit the less common response. As you would expect from the ETM Group – also known for the Botanist in Sloane Square and the Prince Arthur in London Fields - the recently opened Hare is a textbook posh pub. The deferential bar staff dress in waist coats and are attractive in a generic kind of way, there are lots of stuffed dead things, and much of the building is given over to full-scale dining. You really wouldn’t fancy your chances of getting served if you wandered in wearing a tracksuit, but it’s not so intimidating that you wouldn’t pop in just for a beer and ales are a real strength. The well-kept selection is focused around London breweries and is served in frosty mugs, a brave move that will no doubt irk traditionalists but one I fully endorse. Inevitably, the pricing is enthusiastic: the handpulls aren't too jawdropping, but bottles, including an excellent house pale ale, are a bit precious for my wallet. Still, so long as you have an ample budget and don't get too worked up by the 'City types' that tend to dominate this part of town, it’s a good spot to get a good beer. 

And a very good bar snack. Crispy skate knobs sound tempting, while chips and gravy seems deliberately out of place on the menu of a City gastropub, but it's really all about the Scotch egg. While the choice of meat filling comes across as knowingly upmarket, there is no question that this venison version is superb. Made fresh – so expect a short wait - it arrives warm, crisp and delicately crunchy on the outside, with rich gamey flavours lurking inside, along with an egg that is crucially still a bit runny. It's big enough to justify it's £4.50 price tag and the accompanying Cumberland sauce is another gutsy decision I thoroughly approve of and a further nod to the more righteous elements of Northern gastronomy. In fact, I would actually venture that it’s a much better partner as hot mustard can be too dominant at times.

Bavarian Beerhouse, Old Street

I’m a pretty cheap date. I can happily point out the redeeming features of a Nando’s, fully understand the cold functionality of a Wetherspoon’s, and even occasionally appreciate London Transport. Hell, I actually really like Pizza Express. But I’ve come to realise that, however much of a gastronomic hussy I may be, I’m just not slutty enough for the Bavarian Beerhouse.

Before accepting to run this particular gauntlet, I did a bit of research. After looking at their website and briefly pondering their menu, every sensible part of me (and there are a few left) was screaming: “Don’t do it!” For some reason though, I felt obliged, perhaps because of the slight flattery that came with reviewing solely on the back of my blog’s name for the first time. So I told myself that I could be wrong about it, reminded myself that the exterior of my beloved Cirrik does itself down by way of a loutish kebab sign, and thought back to an alright meal I think I had in Mallorca once, where the menu was a similarly vulgar melange of cheap photography and flaccid description. But honestly, looking back, I shouldn’t have even been in the bookshop, let alone judging things by a certain clichéd bit of paper.

The best thing I can say about the Bavarian Beerhouse? Well, I can see that it serves a purpose of sorts, just like the Monster Raving Loony Party offer voters a choice, and heroin does exactly what it says on the tin. Slightly more downmarket and dingy than your average Student Union bar, the fact that drinking games aren’t only tolerated but openly encouraged speaks volumes about the target audience: office piss-ups, stag and hen nights, and football fans.

Yet for some reason, I was invited to review the food. Not to try and hit nails with the wrong end of a hammer surrounded by inebriated young ladies, nor to watch the next Bundesliga match and learn rude new songs in a foreign language. God knows why they wanted to self-flagellate on the PR front like this, for the food they serve is so dire, so mind numbingly terrible, it seems like an overt act of political one-upmanship. I’ve never had astoundingly wonderful food in Germany, but never anything this bad and I've certainly never been confronted by a ‘Hawaiian schnitzel’ on a menu - not exactly a good start for a place that bills itself as "traditional" and "authentic." In making even the most average Munich beer garden look like the height of gastronomic sophistication, it also makes England look undeniably shit for playing host to such a diabolical venue. In that sense, what a stereotypical example of efficiency it is.

The Lawn Bistro, Wimbledon

For me, Wimbledon’s culinary renaissance began in earnest when The Lawn Bistro opened last year.  Whatever the merits of the food at Claude Bosi’s revamped Fox and Grapes – and early reports were decidedly mixed – I can’t forgive him for so drastically changing a pub that didn’t have anything wrong with it. It’s now the sort of place where just popping in for a pint seems frowned upon, and dogs are almost certainly no longer welcome. If such a wholesale reinvention were necessary, the pub label should have been dropped entirely: it’s blatantly no longer anything of the sort.

Like the old Fox and Grapes, Lydon’s restaurant was a relic of the old Wimbledon Village. Unlike the Fox and Grapes, however, its loss went largely unmourned. Lydon’s offered a certain nostalgic charm: nearly everything was wheeled out on trolleys – the fish of the day, desserts, cheeses – and the menu was from an era when the prawn cocktail represented the height of sophistication. It really was the restaurant that time forgot, the sort of place where you could imagine the Major from Fawlty Towers stumbling in half-cut to report on affairs at the local cricket club. But the novelty had largely worn off by the time the (sizeable) bill had arrived and you realized that the place’s only merit was to allow people who remembered, possibly even fought in, World War I to have a smartish meal out.  

Exit Lydons, enter the Lawn Bistro and chef Ollie Couillaud. I first got wind of Couillaud when he took the helm at The Hansom Cab in Earl’s Court Road shortly after Piers Morgan bought it and tried to reinvent himself as the Kensington posh boys’ favourite publican. I knew the Cab well: the Oddbins where I worked was just around the corner and the since deceased Kensington Arms, where many of my friends had jobs, was one street over. The Cab’s transformation from non-descript-but-convenient dive into a place with gastronomic ambition intrigued me, not least because I was starting to get more serious about food writing at this point. It’s a shame I failed to visit it at the time because now it’s part of Marco Pierre-White’s empire of overpriced mediocrity, I almost certainly never will: I haven't the remotest desire to pay the best part of £10 for a bowl of soup. But Couillaud’s name stuck in my mind.

Chef Couillaud has quietly developed a bit of a reputation in foodie circles that dates back to his early days at Chez Bruce and La Trompette. The connection with the latter was immediately obvious on my first glance at The Lawn Bistro’s menu, which features a main of cod with vanilla vinaigrette. I remember a very similar dish the only time I dined at La Trompette: this slightly bizarre and overpowering flavour combination was the one bit of the evening I didn’t thoroughly enjoy. While my nineteen-year-old taste buds weren’t perhaps as adventurous as they are now, I feel my opinion on fish-pudding hybrids is unlikely to have evolved too much. So I knew immediately what I wasn’t going to order, because I wanted very much to like The Lawn Bistro.

I didn’t have to try very hard. A smooth operation that impressed to varying degrees at every stage of the meal – even the homemade bread (below, top) was more than an afterthought – the Lawn Bistro’s food isn’t actually of the razzle-dazzle or overly challenging variety despite the presence of vanilla and cod on the same plate. Like the restaurant I most recently raved about, The Empress, it’s more about confident execution of quality ingredients and the odd little flourish, and much the better for it. My starter of mackerel escabeche (below, bottom) was the kind of gutsy fish dish I tend to rave about, the pickled flavours coming through strongest in the accompanying vegetables rather than overpowering the mackerel itself. I’m unsure about the finer aspects of preparing escabeche so don’t know if crisp skin is even possible, but if it is, it would have been an added plus. The accompanying green olive crostini offered a bit of saltiness and crunch and rounded out the plate amply.

Al began with crab and scallop tortellino. Also close to faultless, her only worry was that she opted for the obvious girly option. Looking a bit like a fine sculpture when it arrived, it was lightly bathed rather than swimming in the champagne veloute, the pasta not too soft, and the delicate flavours of the fish melding together nicely with the subtly sweet fennel. Personally, I’ll always cross the supposed gastronomic gender divide – what a load of absolute bollocks it is though – when this is the kind of pay-off I can look forward to. For more alpha male types, the duck hearts would no doubt have sufficed at this stage of the meal.

The Empress, Victoria Park (Hackney)

Those wanting to observe quality sub-editing in action are directed to my sugar daddy: http://hackneycitizen.co.uk/2012/04/10/elliott-lidstone-the-empress-e9-review/

Trading the most prestigious job at a Michelin starred restaurant in an idyllic Berkshire village for the challenges of reinventing an urban kitchen might not seem like a normal career move, but then Elliott Lidstone is no ordinary chef and Victoria Park is far from a typical corner of London. With leafy, tree-lined streets, bespoke shops, and gentile denizens, it possesses a definite air of suburbia, despite the hustle and bustle of Mare Street being less than a mile away. More importantly for Lidstone, whose CV boasts twelve years experience at top rated restaurants, and his newly transformed Lauriston Road eatery, The Empress, it is one of the epicentres of Hackney’s thriving food scene.

This enviable location is exploited to the full, with meat coming from master butchers and neighbours The Ginger Pig and all manner of things aquatic from expert fishmongers Jonathan Norris across the road. The E5 Bakehouse rounds off an impressive list of local suppliers, delivering fresh sourdough (by bicycle, of course) on a daily basis. The quality of produce is evident in Lidstone’s cooking, which, at the risk of wrongly equating his frequently masterful food with shoddy gastropubs across the land, is modern European: firmly British dishes like trout with Jersey Royals and samphire co-habit the menu with Italian-tinged fare like roast guinea fowl with borlotti beans.

Our meal began with some of their nibbles, both of which were the sort of snack that bars with or without gourmet aspirations would offer in an ideal world. Crispy pig’s ears (top), served with a smooth apple sauce, were like refined pork scratchings: moist and chewy rather than dry and crunchy, they maintained the crucial saltiness that is the key to a good drink accompaniment.  Ham croquettes (bottom) were of a similarly high standard. Specked with prosciutto and oozing gooey Béchamel sauce, they were equal to the offerings of some of the capital’s finest tapas bars, even those of the mighty Morito. 

A starter of pearl barley and cauliflower risotto was a particularly thoughtful vegetarian option, streets ahead of your average stuffed mushroom in terms of creativity and not ruined by lazy lashings of truffle oil. Not just an imaginative triumph, it was wonderfully executed as well. The risotto was appropriately creamy, while the pearl barley offered sufficient bite, and spring onions perked up the taste buds. Crunchy hazelnuts and crispy fried shallots finished the dish and added extra layers of texture.

Tastes of the Nile, Swiss Cottage

Swiss Cottage, where I am currently spending a couple of weeks with the fine folks at the Islington Gazette, isn’t exactly a gastronome's delight. Its main claim to fame is that, ten minutes down the road near the South Hampstead overground station, there is a sushi bar outpost of the venerable Atari Ya group. It is beyond outstanding, so watch this space for a fawning review of them sometime soon. Other than that, it’s what you would expect of an area that is, for all intents and purposes, a large road that takes you to the more interesting parts of North London.

Chain fast food joints abound, there are plenty of chicken shops, and lots of dubious looking cheap cafes and sandwich bars. I’ve heard that the rather grimy looking little Chinese place on Finchley Road, Green Cottage, is something of an institution and it’s definitely on my gluttonous hit list. So too is Eriki, an Indian restaurant which garners generally good reviews – not even Morleys could get less than three stars from Time Out – but puts me off because of its overly spacious, airport lounge interior (they actually have a second branch at Heathrow).

What a pleasant surprise then to discover a little farmers’ market last Wednesday. Of course, farmers’ markets are typically visited mainly for their produce and, in all honestly, I’m not actually a fan of most of them, especially those that fall under the official London Farmers’ Market (LFM) banner. I find them inferior to independent local markets like those found in places like Brockley, Hackney, Deptford and Dalston, which tend to be less expensive, more vibrant, and crucially offer a diverse range of quality street food.

I suppose LFMs serve a purpose in so far as they encourage people who are a bit intimidated by other cultures and the non-familiar to make an effort to support small producers rather than just running to the nearest Whole Foods, but damned if I’ve ever had anything other than burnt burgers and sausages – top quality Organic Freedom Soil Bio-Sustainable burnt bangers, mind – to eat at these bag-for-life bashes. Apologies to Millwhites and Kush Cuisine, who are well worth seeking out at these events and for whom I will happily swallow my pride (though I might choke in the process), but on the whole I just can’t see the reason to shop at these places, let alone go to them with the intention of finding something to eat.

Until a few days ago, that is, when I encountered an interesting little stall called Tastes of the Nile at the farmers’ market in Swiss Cottage. Elaine El-Essawy serves Egyptian-style food here as well as at a little cafe in Camden and it’s a simple enough concept at the market: you choose a freshly prepared meat or vegetarian main option that is then served with various salads and sauces. What makes it special is the staggering range of accompaniments they manage to fit into one tray. Normally, my memory is pretty good when it comes to recalling the components of a meal, despite my best efforts at university to compromise all my cognitive abilities. But this was one of those times when I just had to take notes.

Brew Dog Bar Bad Ass Burgers, Camden

The lack of interest in the burgers at London’s Brew Dog bar surprises me, if only because their menu – which also features a small selection of pizzas – was designed by Tim Anderson. Tim was the slightly nutty, totally loveable American Japanophile and craft beer fiend who triumphed on last year’s edition of Masterchef. With sliders. You read that correctly: he won the most prestigious amateur cooking competition in the United Kingdom with mini-burgers.

They were hardly ordinary sliders, mind, with his tribute to Los Angeles including a German smoked beer to invoke the city’s smog on the palate. It was his ability to create this kind of bizarre gastronomic nostalgia and his madcap but genius deployment of unusual ingredients in even quirkier ways that helped him on his way to becoming the show’s youngest ever winner. So you would think that the prospect of burgers conceived and endorsed by the wacky Wisconsiner, accompanied by some of the finest brews in the land, would have London’s burgerholics flocking to Camden Town faster than the Great Red Donkey Andy Carroll would rewind to last season's January transfer window if he was able to.

Yet to date, only Burger Anarchy seems to have launched an investigation into the state of affairs in NW1. Are bloggers and beef patties falling out of love? Hardly. One needs only to witness the success of new arrivals like Brockley Market’s Motherflipper and Street Kitchen’s recent pop-up venture, Patty and Bun, to know that this is a gluttonous liaison with some serious shelf life. The blogospheric neglect is even more surprising because, in more ways than one, it’s a pretty decent burger. 

  

I’ve munched Brew Dog’s ‘Bad Ass’ burger on two occasions now. The first was following a lunchtime knees-up at the new Camden Brewery bar not long ago and was not the most instructive experience to judge by. Not only was I was I gradually becoming over-refreshed, but it’s kind of cruel to pronounce on food after yamming down two Big Apple Hot Dog’s in the sun. So a second bit of ‘research’ was clearly in order and while somewhat surprisingly I hadn’t missed anything too important, I was able to clarify a number of points. The three main ones were: it’s extraordinarily good value, the patty and its accompaniments – especially the sauce - are better than fine, and the bun is absolutely fucking awful. 

Alley Katsu, Hackney Central

With the original burger van maverick, Yianni Papoutsis, looking forward to a second bricks and mortar joint, Lucky Chip soon to set up shop in Soho, Big Apple Hot Dogs popping up everywhere, and The Ribman slinging his infamous Holy Fuck hot sauce as far as America and Australia, London’s street food scene certainly isn’t short on success stories to inspire would-be purveyors of pavement-based gastronomic goodness. Of course, this also means that new arrivals have a certain standard to live up to and, fortunately, the latest wave of mobile eats pushers has, like their predecessors, got the good shit on lockdown.

Recently, I grabbed a cheeky chunk of Al’s lunch from the Well Kneaded Wagon, who offer a kind of flatbread-style twist on wood-fired pizza. In this case, it was a simple yet subtly imaginative and ludicrously effective combination of beetroot, parsley pesto, watercress, and goat’s cheese. Fresh, light, and zingy beyond belief, the quality of the sourdough base and the effect of a proper oven really brought out every last flavour. Similarly, Chula Fused Foods offer a fresh take on that street food classic, the burrito, staying true to the formula but infusing each aspect with well-spiced sub-continental warmth. But while the Well Kneaded Wagon enjoys a fairly wide audience as a result of their eat.st @ King’s Cross appearances, and Vinny of Chula puts in a gruelling four day shift at various locations, it is perhaps the unassuming Alley Katsu that has impressed me the most of late.

Currently trading only on Saturday at the new Hackney Homemade FOOD market, I first encountered their wares a couple of weeks back and was immediately smitten. It really blew me away, so much so that my subsequent tray of Buen Provecho tacos seemed almost lacklustre by comparison. The premise is simple enough: Japanese katsu curries with chicken, prawn, or pumpkin, served in a wrap or with rice. Yet the attention to detail elevates this otherwise humble concept to the upper echelons of London street food.

Al went the more authentic route, opting for an ebi (prawn) katsu wrap. It was one skanking fat rolled up sandwich and she faced a Herculean task trying to enjoy it whilst fending off unwanted attention from both myself and my camera. Readers please note that I only get away with this shit because she’s resigned herself to it after two years. In reality, trying to photograph then eat half of a date’s meal must be a fast rising new entry on the list of Most Bell Endish Ways to put off a romantic interest. That said, I couldn’t really help myself. Proving that street food really is the new crack, I was craving more after just one bite and had to preserve the memory.

The subtly spiced curry sauce was notably deep in flavour and luxuriously silky smooth, while their homemade sweet chili sauce fully highlighted the benefits of composing foodstuffs from scratch. Bearing no resemblance to the sickly sweet, nuclear orangey-pink sludge that accompanies prawn crackers from shady take-aways and otherwise good restaurants alike, Alley Katsu’s version was a much darker, deep red colour and actually packed an OK punch, fully deserving to have the word ‘chili’ in its title. It was enough to pep up my bulldozed taste senses whilst not overwhelming Al’s far more sensible palate.

Mushu, Warren St.

During my brief spell under the tutelage of Time Out’s Guy Dimond at City University, I remember writing up a little place called Wagamama, my first ever review. Either London’s dining scene circa 2004 was at an all-time low, or my recently relocated teenage self was overly excitable when it came to flavours not commonly found in chicken wings or clam chowder. I was reminded of this wide-eyed Massachusetts yokel moment the other day whilst on a lunch date with Al. Chowing down on dumplings and other assorted pan-Asian goodies at Mushu, I remembered how eye-opening a Japanese meal that didn’t feature raw fish seemed back then. As is often the case, this sense of nostalgia existed solely in my over-fed mind – the only tangible resemblances it bore to Alan Yau’s 21^st century Japanese Wimpy Bar was the communal seating and the availability of karaage. 

For Mushu is far superior to the large room above Urban Outfitters on Kensington High Street where I had my first encounter with katsu curry and gyoza – not that that’s saying much. It’s not fine dining by any stretch of the imagination, but it is some of the better fast food I’ve had in this or any other city, the sort of place I wish was on every street corner and in every neighbourhood. The dumplings arrived in less time than it takes McDonalds to accommodate a ‘hold the tomatoes’ request and they were very good dumplings indeed. Possibly not quite on a par with Silk Road but still better than many a dim sum joint in this town. Classic pork and cabbage (top) were reassuringly simple and pillow soft, while beef and kimchi pot-stickers (bottom) had developed the right, slightly chewy texture on the underside and the filling was rich enough to hold its own against their special Szechuan hot sauce. Though the sauce wasn’t as authentically spiced as I would have liked, it was a pleasant, light brow-mopping heat that complemented the fuller-flavoured dumplings whilst not overpowering the more delicate ones.

Real Ale and Rockin' Blues Festival, Sebright Arms, Bethnal Green

One of the hazards of formally announcing the arrival of Britain’s craft beer revolution is that it puts heaps of pressure on the business and small upstarts in particular. It’s a double-edged sword. Healthy competition and a desire to stand out by way of genuine innovation is obviously a good thing, but there’s also a danger of stagnation: either dozens of Brew Dog clones announcing themselves, or long spells with nothing worth shouting about because potential brewers don’t want to risk paling into comparison to the Scottish mavericks. At present, these are thankfully just minor unfounded fears to bear in mind for the future, as a recent tasting of three new London microbreweries revealed the next wave of the capital’s craft brews to match the quality of their predecessors.

The star of my Saturday afternoon spent drinking – ahem, researching - at last weekend’s Real Ale and Rockin’ Blues Festival at the Sebright Arms near Bethnal Green was undoubtedly the Weird Beard Brew Co’s Single Hop No.7 Summit IPA. Lightly hazy in colour due to the dry hopping process, its subtle nose belied a truly explosive palate: slightly sweet and delicately floral, it was packed with exotic fruit flavours. Perhaps it’s just my imagination, but I was getting serious hits of kiwi and guava from that bad boy. Comparisons are lazy but inevitable: its quality couldn’t help but remind me of some of Kernel’s single hop offerings, but don’t get me wrong, this was no mere knock off. It was as fresh, unique, and vibrant a bottled beer as I have had the pleasure to sup in a long time, and if this effort is anything to judge by, then Weird Beard Brew Co look a good bet to take a seat in Britain’s pantheon of elite craft brewers.

The London Drinker Beer and Cider Festival, nr King's Cross

Most people who have shared a drink with me will know that I have an ambivalent attitude towards CAMRA, something that inhabits a bizarre psychic territory somewhere between a classic love/hate relationship and a blatant case of biting the hand that feeds. Frequently deriding those who help enable you to obtain something you desire – a quality pint - is contradictory at best and a bit mean, not to mention arrogant, at worst.  Perhaps it’s the fact that the real ale ultras are so opposed to keg beer, or maybe it’s just that my frequently sozzled mind needs on-going sources of light-hearted amusement. Much like Hackney’s hipster contingent (if they’re so offensive, why exactly did I move to East London again?), the CAMRA crew are a good bunch to poke fun at, especially when you moonlight as a bartender at a reputable pub specialising in cask beer. 

But whatever easy jokes and bold statements I make at their expense need always be mitigated by two admissions. Firstly, that they a thing or two about good beer, a beverage I am quite partial to. I have never been served a dud pint at a CAMRA endorsed or frequented establishment and I don’t believe I will anytime soon. And B, that it is entirely likely my beer belly will have one of their membership cards or t-shirts glued to in the next twenty years. A third indisputable statement is that they put on bloody good drinking events. 

The Great British Beer Festival is one of the highlights of any beer enthusiasts’ calendar, whatever stance they take on the Great Carbonation Debate. The selection of rare American bottles alone is enough to keep me going back year in, year out. Now, I don’t know whether the London Drinker Beer & Cider Festival is a long-standing occurrence or a new invention and frankly I don’t care. But what must be said is that it’s as comprehensive a selection of top-quality ales as the capital is likely to see until SW5 in August and a must visit for all crusaders of the pint.

Granted, when CAMRA members congregate in such large numbers, the atmosphere often makes me wish I was locked inside an abattoir with a mentally unstable, pissed up pig farmer. And the venue itself, like the Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre, isn’t exactly character personified. In fact, if Earl’s Court resembles an abandoned sweatshop, then the Camden Centre is somewhere between a dilapidated masonic lodge and a slightly grand AA venue. But the epic selection of beer enables me to happily relax in this otherwise unremarkable environment.

Camden Town Brewery Bar

Along with the venerable Brew Dog, Camden Town Brewery is one of the leading ambassadors for Britain’s burgeoning craft beer scene, their wares now commonly stocked in good London boozers. Fortunately for the capital’s microbrew fanboys, a full range of their beers will soon be available straight from the vat when they launch an on-site bar later this month. Saturday they opened their doors to offer a taster of what is to come, and while it was evident that a few finishing touches were needed here and there, the space and concept itself seemed well thought out. For one, they had gone through the trouble of recruiting the inimitable Big Apple Hot Dogs to sling stomach liners on the day, something that you cannot help but hope becomes a regular feature.

The outdoor space under the arches near Kentish Town West is hardly scenic, but it’s got bags of potential on a pleasant day, which Saturday was. There’s something reassuringly simple about supping a fresh brew seated on top of a keg near DIY wheelbarrow fires, the basic set up inviting you to focus on your drink rather than what pretentious song choice the Skins wannabe behind the bar is contemplating. Of course, the centrepiece of the day was the beers and, more specifically, their new limited release USA Hells. We managed to get through nearly everything on offer, from their supercharged Ink stout to their beautifully cloudy and floral Gentleman’s Wit by way of the perfectly refreshing American-style pale ale. Yet it was the USA Hells that I kept coming back to. Unfiltered and unpasteurized, it bore about as much relation to commercial lagers as Russia does to a democratic nation.

The lack of meddling, along with the juicy American hops, meant it almost resembles a kind of strange pale ale, wheat beer hybrid – tropical fruit flavours, especially grapefruit, were dominant and complimented amply by the subtly spicy hops, with a hint of bitterness on the finish reminding you that, yes, keg beer can be real beer. There’s little question that Camden Town favours more approachable styles of beer and this isn’t at all a bad thing. Not least, it encourages a more egalitarian drinking experience: more women tipped up to enjoy a bevvy in the early afternoon than probably pass through the Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre during the entire four days of the (totally awesome) Great British Beer Festival.  

That’s not to say that cask ale is or should be the sole preserve of obese middle age men - just that more where traditional methods and styles dominate, said demographic tend to congregate in especially large numbers, flocking to the dark mild end of the bar like paedophiles to playgrounds. Nor is the fairer sex inherently put off by the cask. Indeed, there's some great, forward-thinking real ale coming out of Britain at the moment, with Dark Star consistently good and Redemption a new favourite. But there's also a lot of lazy choices being made by brewers, publicans, and punters alike. So the growing diversity of the craft brewing scene can only be a positive omen as more and more drinkers - male and female - will be lured away from the tight grip of Carling. People can get hung up about technical distinctions between different kinds of beer and methods of brewing, but it really is as simple as good beer is real and real beer is good - presence or lack of carbonation is largely irrelevant.

Similarly, the range and inventiveness of somewhere like Brew Dog is pretty mind boggling, especially when you consume more than a couple of them. But sometimes you just want a tasty, easy-drinking beer – a lager even - that isn’t going to leave you knocking over chairs at your local and thinking that the rather special bottle of Icelandic porter you bought is a great match for a chicken doner. Camden Town Brewery fills this niche in style, their combination of classic German and more modern American influences proving an inspired synergy. Their new bar looks set to be a stellar addition to London’s reinvention as something of a discerning beer drinkers’ paradise.

Citrus and herb panko crusted red tilapia with bastardised nasi goreng

Weekends are a special time for culinary fanatics. Without the hustle and bustle of the working week to distract us, we are able to dig deep into the larder to eat something special or try something new. It’s when we whip out the liquid smoke, fire up the blow torch, and share our passion for food with those closest to us. In the Scavenger Gourmet kitchen, there’s inevitably a bit of tug-of-war that goes on: I crave fry-ups, steaks, and game stews, while Al usually wants something along the lines of poached seaweed with an air jus. Our efforts to compromise and maintain a relative amount of domestic harmony – as well as our passable environmental awareness – means that I find myself cooking a lot more fish these days.

Now, I’ve never been one of those people who always seems to fall back on the tested but tired routine of salmon with new potatoes and rocket salad: mackerel, sardines, monkfish, cod, swordfish, mussels, prawns, and scallops are all well within my comfort zone, and I like to think that I’ve got an especially deft hand when it comes to tuna. Even beleaguered salmon has its place as a quick mid-week supper – it is fantastic perched on top of some nice and light, primavera-style pasta and also works very well with couscous. But the fact that my at-home diet now almost resembles pescetarianism means that my weekend exploits are typically a matter of finding new ways to pervert the simple pleasure of fresh fish.

This weekend I wanted to distance myself from the usual suspects. A fun but gastronomically atrocious meal at Huong Viet in Dalston as part of the annual JT staff lash-up the weekend before left my mind flirting with exotic ideas. While I didn’t know exactly where this would lead me, a quick Google turned up a good guide for nasi goring, or Indonesian fried rice. Now, all I had to do was totally bastardize it.

As much as this post is largely driven by the fact that I was quite pleased with the relative success of my culinary exploits, it’s completely dependent on the Fin and Flounder fishmonger in Broadway Market, one of the jewels in Hackney’s gastronomic crown. It is the best urban fishmonger I have ever set in foot in by an Irish mile: the crustaceans are still moving, the fish have that awesome ‘I’ve just been whacked’ look in their eyes, and staff are effortlessly helpful as well as knowledgeable.

My aquatic local, The Fishery on Stoke Newington High Street, is highly commendable and great to have down the road. But comparing it to Fin and Flounder is like equating Huong Viet with Viet Grill. The Fishery isn’t nearly as bad as Huong Viet, of course, but the gap between the two is comparable. If you haven’t been, you owe it to yourself and whoever you’re frying Blinky up for to make the trip to London Fields. They’re open most of the week so you don’t even have to run the risk of being blinded by a hipster’s beard at the weekend. If these words of praise don’t convince you, then the following picture certainly should…

The Bell and Brisket, Soho

I'm not trying to make a habit out of it, honest, yet I can’t help but notice that my blogs frequently extend beyond the boundaries of linguistic decency. Two thousand words might be fitting for an obituary to Marie Colvin but possibly not for a post that can essentially be summarised as “Pitt Cue Co good” or “Newpub in East London bad.” In the end, it turns out that there are things in life more important than eating, even if people like me are generally loathe to admit it. So in the interest of not punishing reader’s attention spans – and the fact that a ‘waste liquid removal’ is presently encamped next to me outside The Euston Tap – here’s an exercise in marginal brevity.

The Bell and Brisket is a new salt beef pop-up run out of the The Queen’s Head in Soho and it is very good indeed. At £7.50 for a sandwich or around a tenner including chips, it’s not the cheapest sandwich in town, but it is one of the best and a reasonable price for a sit-down lunch: an overly generous pile of juicy, well-seasoned brisket spilling out of one of the UK’s better attempts at rye, topped with liberal amounts of gherkin and an ample spreading of English mustard. American mustard, of course, would have been preferable as it is mild enough to be applied in industrial quantities, but after the first bite I honestly forgot about my lone compositional quibble. 

The pub itself was a more than ample venue for London’s latest great pop-up: a small but well-kept establishment that featured a very good guest ale and a decent take on the capital’s latest drinks craze, the pickleback. Not quite up to the standard of Pitt Cue’s dangerously moreish beetroot brine version, but nevertheless a thoroughly enjoyable if potentially inappropriate lunchtime digestif. Of course, it should really have been a bourbon rather than Jamesons, but possessing the shamrock streak that I do, I’m hardly one to complain.

There's no doubt that I'll be back. Not only is the simple concept of a proper sandwich in a proper pub such a rarity on these shores, but salt beef is an especially hard number to master, especially if New York delis are used as your benchmark. Perhaps pop-up formulas are the remedy because these guys got it seriously right. The last eye-opening meat-and-bread combination I got in a pub was at The Jeremy Bentham, one of my former employers, where the Kiwi landlady knocks out an audacious meatloaf, mustard, and beetroot number. Thankfully, it looks like she’s finally got some real competition in the centre of town. Here's to hoping there's more to come from intrepid sandwich artists like The Bell and Brisket this year.

The Hunter S.: Fear and Loathing in De Beauvoir Town

There’s been a lot of excited Tweeting lately about the opening of a new pub, The Hunter S., in De Beauvoir Town, so as I was heading down that way to check out the new Honey Drizzle cooking school in Hoxton, it seemed natural to pay a visit. Given the concept, I was expecting to love it: Hunter Thompson was one of the first literary voices I connected with, his work helping to instil in me the idea that journalism was about more than just reporting three-car pile-ups. While I’ve long since given up my futile attempts at gonzo writing, I’m nevertheless instinctively pre-disposed to like a pub in his honour. What a surprise, then, that I’m writing my first negative review. It’s not just that I can’t really see what the fuss is about – I actually actively dislike the place.

Let’s start with the beers. Beer is the single most important thing about a pub. Great beer can be found in run-down establishments generally frequented by borderline sociopaths and featured on Danny Dyer programmes, while bad beer can be found, well, pretty much everywhere. To be fair, the beer at The Hunter S. wasn’t exactly bad - there just wasn’t enough of it. Not counting the myriad lagers, each one as predictable as the next, there were two cask ales available on the night and space for a third. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, as having three well-kept, regularly changing ales is more than enough to satisfy the grumpy old man in me. Unfortunately, the ales were both Sharps. You know - the Cornish brewery that was alright way back when but then got bought out by Molson Coors and started appearing as the token ale in every second-rate boozer in the south of England? 

Having a contract with a multi-national brewer (or the distributor for a multi-national brewer) means that these two hand-pulls are unlikely to come up for air very often and, given the close proximity of breweries like Redemption and East London Brewing Co, it’s hard to fathom why they haven’t opted to go a more local route. Likewise, having imported lager isn’t deplorable in and of itself, but how many trendy Asian and continental imports do you really need? A couple would suffice and free up space for more interesting concoctions like those emanating at an alarming rate from Aberdeenshire.

That said, my Doom Bar was OK. Fairly bland as usual but it seemed to have been kept reasonably well and didn’t offend. Still, it’s a lazy ale choice and what’s even more unforgivable than underestimating the curiosity of the punter’s palate is overcharging them. In this, The Hunter S. seems to be aspiring to new heights. £1.90 is a lot for a half of ale. Doing the maths, that would beg the question as to whether they are charging £3.80 for one of the most bog-standard, samey cask options on the market. Maybe not, as many pubs inflate half-pint prices, a practice the government might want to look at the next time they’re having a whinge about the Great British Binge. It’s not just mean, it’s irresponsible to penalise people who are trying to take a more responsible approach to drinking.

Chula Fused Foods, London

So-called fusion food rarely impresses me. Partly, this is because it’s a label that is abused nearly as badly as the gastropub designation: liberally distribute sweet chili sauce, coconut milk, and harissa across your menu and apparently you’re serving up a culinary revolution. Yet at its best, fusion really can work and is capable of elevating food to new heights. One of my most memorable dining experiences in London was at The Providores, while probably the best restaurant meal I can remember (admittedly, there are some I can’t) was at Paris’s Ze Kitchen Gallerie.

Balancing flavours that don’t normally happily co-habit the same kitchen, let alone plate, is a delicate art. As a result, it’s something that you’d think is ill-suited to the rough and ready street food scene. Yet anyone who has sampled a Korean-style slider at Kimchi Cult will tell you that this is not an iron rule. Sticking to the basics and doing the simple things very well, anything is possible anywhere. If ever this conviction needed validation, then my experience last Saturday at a slightly bitty new churchyard market on a mind-numbingly miserable afternoon provided it in droves.

Like burgers, I have a bit of a fetish for burritos. And like the market for beef patties, London’s burrito scene is getting increasingly saturated. That’s not at all a bad thing – I’d honestly like it so saturated that there was a Burger & Lobster or Lucky Chip on every corner. But it does mean that the excitement value that came with, say, the brief appearance of #Meateasy in New Cross is slightly diminished. So while I’m itching to get me a Mother Flipper down in Brockley, too many more bright young burgers and I won’t be able to make the most of finally having Ben Denner’s creations on my doorstop. So too with the great Tex-Mex export. On the street, it’s pretty much neck and neck between Luardos and Daddy Donkey; in the bricks and mortar realm, there’s a plethora of options, with Chilango and Benito’s Hat being particularly memorable, and Tortilla especially bad, of late.

I don’t eat as many burritos as I do burgers, so I’m less assertive when it comes to declaring what kitchen produces London’s best. At the same time, my wet-socked Saturday afternoon jaunt through the new Hackney Homemade FOOD market and, more specifically, my munch at Chula Fused Foods may just have provided me with the answer, or at least an opinion on the matter. For sure, Vinod Patel, Chula’s head honcho, makes a mean-ass burrito. It showcases both his Indian roots and his appreciation of the form, which he developed in San Francisco and honed during a stint at Chipotle in London. More than that, it’s a thoroughly well-developed concept. If you think about it, there’s no reason why the burrito, when you strip it down – rice, beans, and slow-cooked meat in a tortilla – wouldn’t translate perfectly to an Indian reinterpretation, as all the ingredients are staples of (or closely related to staples of) the sub-continental dinner table.

Pitt Cue Co, Soho

One of the problems with being an aspiring food and drink writer is that you devote so much of your time to food and drink. Of course, this sounds both hypocritical and contrarian – surely that’s the bloody point, isn’t it? Let me explain. Writer A may know a bit about food. He may have eaten at some great restaurants in his time. He may be able to impress his less gastronomically-inclined friends at dinner parties. His opinion, therefore, on matters culinary may be considered mildly educated, even occasionally fit for consumption by the general public. The problem arises when you realise that you are so into food that you no longer eat at bad restaurants. You read so many blogs, reviews, restaurant guides, and Top Ten/Best Of lists that going out to lunch or dinner on a whim seems, well, very 90s.

So until the time comes when you are respected enough to be invited to review a restaurant – which in my case is likely to be somewhere between a cold day in hell and the end of the world – why would you gamble a sizeable chunk of change on an unknown entity? Partly, this is a by-product of having an obsession with food. Partly, it’s also basic recession economics – we eat out less, so we take more care when we do so. Of course, you can still have a bad experience at what is considered a good restaurant – Burger & Lobster dramatically overcooked my burger, for instance, and in retrospect I am less than enamoured with the downstairs restaurant at Roti Chai. Still, it has become increasingly apparent that my gastro-obsessive nature often unwittingly compromises the vitality of my critical streak. Sorry – ‘Writer A’s’ critical streak.

Why is such a preamble necessary? Because two nights ago I went to Pitt Cue Co and a gushing review is imminent. It was everything I expected, wanted, craved and so much more. BBQ is like crack to me. Though New England is hardly the BBQ capital of the States – that would be Texas, North Carolina, or Kansas depending on who you ask and where they’re from – it’s still full of Americans and where you find Americans you inevitably find a healthy tradition of grilling and smoking various hunks of flesh. So while I’ve never travelled far enough afield to be considered a total guru on matters of the pit, my palate is still trained to detect quality smoked fare – whether it’s at a classic backyard booze-up or on a trip to a delicious dive like the Blue Ribbon BBQ in Arlington, MA.

The Rise and Rise of Hackney's Street Food Culture

The unedited version of my article on Hackney street food that appeared in Feburary's print edition of the Hackney Citizen...

From the streets of Cairo to a cathedral in London, 2011 was a year that will be remembered largely for its revolutions and rebellions. Always evolving rapidly, the gastronomic world was not to be left behind. The start of a new year is the classic time to reflect on what has come to pass and what is still to come, and those of us who live life on a fork’s edge have plenty of tasty developments to mull over.

With English wine now more or less an established entity, 2011 became the year of the microbrewery. Scottish-based Brew Dog grab a lot of the headlines – be sure to venture out and check out their new bar in Camden – but closer to home the London Fields Brewery and Redchurch Brewery both bring the pleasures of craft beer to our doorstep. Redchurch’s rich Hoxton Stout is particularly well suited to the grimmer side of the calendar, while the crisp London Fields Lager is one to get us dreaming of sunny days lounging by the lido. It’s a trend that’s likely to continue well into 2012 and beyond.

But for many of us with ever expanding waistlines, 2011 will be most remembered as the year of the mobile food vendor. Street food in less pretentious terms, it’s a movement that can be traced to the beginning of the century and the cult surrounding a car park in Peckham and Yianni Papoustis’ Meatwagon. Last year, the London scene came of age. Of course, there’s a still a fair way to go before we can honestly claim to match somewhere like New York in terms of widespread quality and diversity, but our capital seems to be rapidly rising to the challenge.