Mama Lan - Brixton

Brixton Village Market, Coldharbour Lane, SW9 8PR

In January, you want to spend as little time outside as possible, especially in the cold dark evenings. However, after a run (that’s right, I have to burn these calories off somehow) the thought of cooking is equally galling.

Showered, changed, and back down to huddle in the warmth of the tube, Brixton in winter is far removed from the Caribbean heritage it so proudly boasts. A criss-cross of railway bridges and elevated walkways, almost everything in Brixton drips when it rains. There’s always a slightly disturbing smell around Electric Avenue too. The juice of the day's fish hosed down poorly maintained drains.

With three tramps huddled in an archway, shouting unintelligibly at passersby, it’s no wonder that when I first visited Brixton I was back on the tube within five minutes.

Brixton Village is a small beacon of light at the end of the dripping walkway. Quiet on a January weeknight, you have your pick of the vendors who’ve decided to open, rather than the endless queues of the summer months. Still, indoor seats are at premium in the tiny restaurants, so the cold air of the cavernous roofed market has to be braved if you want to be fed.

Mama Lan has been on the list for a long time - although I can’t think of anywhere in Brixton Village that hasn’t. Dumplings and noodles make a nice change from the fried meat of most restaurants in the area. The dumplings are small, plump, meaty bites that steam your mouth and stay hot for a lifetime. The pork and chinese leaf (the only ones I ate) had a real whack of garlic to them and a deep rich meat.

Noodles here are either a soup or a salad. The latter is slightly misleading if you’re expecting the sort of low-calorie nonsense that a stick-thin model might be hunting for. This is a large bowl of noodles, with lush green cucumber sticks laying atop spicy pieces of thoroughly tender chicken, with a sprinkling of peanuts. I’m almost guessing at the last ingredient there. I don’t take written notes when I eat and the hunger from that cold run was too distracting for me to make a mental one either.

A delicious dish, the noodles. Hearty is probably a word I use far too often in winter, but it can definitely be applied here. I left full, satisfied, and well fed for my twenty pounds (including tip). That and the drips from the walkway outside, a small price to pay for not having to cook at home or do the washing up.

When the warm weather finally returns, so will the queues in Brixton. Being so close to the Village’s door, they’ll be ten deep waiting for dumplings at Mama Lan. I won’t be joining, as I hate to queue, but I’ll definitely envy those at the front.

p.s. They also have a restaurant in Clapham.

Tower - Cooking Under Pressure

London Borough of Lambeth

Marge: Goodbye, Homie.

Homer: Goodbye? Where's my clean underwear?

Marge: Check the dryer!

Homer: How often should I change Maggie?

Marge: Whenever she needs it!

Homer: Marge, Marge! How do I use the pressure cooker?!

Marge: Don't!

- The Simpsons, 8F14 - Homer Alone

The pressure cooker sat on the hob, silent. The only noise, a faint hiss of gas. The yellow flame tickled the base of the pan, warming the stainless steel and the water within. Slowly, at first, steam crept from the pan's lid, increasing in volume and increasing in sound - a momentum that began as a trickle, but soon erupted into the deafening rush of escaping vapour. 

I stood at the kitchen door, one hand clutching the broken handle, one hand clutching a limp tea-towel, feet twitching, ready to turn and sprint. For ten minutes, this stand-off continued. My watch buzzed. It was time. Approaching the evil spirit inside the boiler, I switched off the heat and cautiously turned the regulator, leaping back as the remaining steam rushed from the pan in a great mushroom cloud.

As the mist cleared and the lid eased from the body, eyes stared eagerly inside. A miracle. Not ten minutes had elapsed, yet there lay golden-skinned chicken, with flesh - white as an angel - falling from the bone.

A pressure cooker, it seems, is not the thirsty, vengeful, and dangerous kitchen appliance that hastily Googled cultural references would have you believe. Negative connotations must come from the name and the fact that they're no longer a common sight in the kitchen. The words 'pressure' and 'cooker', suggests something stressful and large, while a more accurate and less alarming name would be 'fast cooking saucepan' - catchy, I know.

Keen for me to learn the truth about pressure cookers, Tower Housewares equipped me with a 6 litre model to try out at home. Here was a chance to free an evening from restaurant reservations, roll my sleeves up, and invite some friends to chance their health with my cooking.

With rum on the menu and Brixton only a ten minute walk away, jerk chicken seemed the most appropriate option. Free range chicken thighs and legs, rubbed with a mixture of oil, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and jerk chicken mix, then placed in the fridge for 8 hours. 

Then came the pressure cooker. I was nervous. This isn't something I've done before and those old stereotypes came flooding back. It really is very simple though. Three inches of water placed in the base of the pan, brought to a boil, then the chicken added (on top of a steaming tray), and the lid locked-shut. The intensity of the cooker is regulated by a small dial on the handle. The tighter it's turned, the less steam comes out and the quicker the food cooks - or such is my understanding.

When cooking with a pressure cooker, you have to have faith in the clock. It said ten minutes for the chicken, it was ten minutes for the chicken; but, you can't check during cooking, as you can't see inside, and once under pressure the lid can't be removed until all the steam has vented. It's like cooking a cake though. Just trust the appliance and sit there tweeting for as long as the thing takes to cook. Simple.

Served with spiced cabbage and rice and peas, the meal was on the better side of edible. I should have cooked more chicken and I should have browned the skin in a pan first. Neither points the fault of the cooker, clearly.

As the night wore on and rum drained down, the conversation turned to pressure cookers and the revelation of the range of dishes that could be cooked. A whole chicken in under twenty minutes? Pasta in sauce in under six? This is a new faster culinary world for me, albeit one that's been around for a couple of hundred years. It's time to curtail the meals out, protect the bank balance, and eat in a little more often.

Satay - Brixton

447 Coldharbour Lane, London, SW9 8LP

There are certain conversations you should steer clear of at the dinner table, especially when eating out. Kidneys, for instance - the human kind, not those found on the menu - are a subject best avoided, yet that didn’t stop two fellow diners at Satay talking at length about various issues and disorders, with a particular focus on the symptoms. And yes, those symptoms weren’t pleasant. The issue with a conversation such as this - aside from the subject matter - is that it hooks the ear, each and every stomach churning word heard with absolute clarity and imagined in crystal-clear definition. Were this a discussion on interest rates, a cricket match, or tomorrow’s weather, my ears wouldn’t have twitched once. 

While the conversation of diners in a restaurant can’t possibly be taken as a comment on the restaurant, the proximity of those diners can. Satay, on Coldharbour Lane, is clearly a popular place. Attempts to book before for a Friday evening have been met with laughter - not actual laughter, but the sort of reaction which suggests the request is a strange one - and even on a Monday night, most tables were rubbing shoulders with their neighbour. Feeling slightly befuddled from a birthday weekend, the noisy, busy atmosphere was not appreciated and the dim lights made my eyelids droop. Again, hardly the fault of the establishment, but an indication that this isn’t a venue for ‘all seasons’. The service was quick and pleasant though, with some advice given when a selection dilemma arose; although the suggestion that two bowls of rice were required for two people was way off the mark - there was another left to serve to the next table, providing their kidneys could take it.

Satay serves up South-East Asian cuisine: Thai, Malay, Chinese, Japanese, and more. There’s a lot of overlap with these cuisines, certainly; but there’s also enough of a difference to create confusion when they’re brought together in one place. I think of Thai as simple and fresh, with scattered sliced chillies; Chinese focusing more on dry spice and sauces; while Japanese is an abundance of raw fish. Satay was more of a mix of everything, together, on one plate. There really is a distinct lack here of the refinement found in the upmarket South-East Asian restaurants of Central London. That said, at £12 a meal (once rice has been added), Satay aren’t competing in the same market.

Starting with edamame and prawn crackers, there isn’t anything that can go wrong. Again, the portion size was impressive. The prawn crackers lasted well into the meal and wouldn’t have looked out of place at a party for twelve. The main was a left-field choice, chosen purely to satisfy a strange craving of the past few weeks. A whole sea bass sat on a bed of stir-fried vegetables, and seemingly stuffed with a handful more. The plate the fish arrived on was grossly undersized making more difficult the already intricate process of extracting the flesh. Needless to say, the table and floor were quickly strewn with mushrooms and peppers, although being with such low lighting no-one could have noticed. Unfortunately, the star of the dish was disappointing. The delicate flavour of the sea bass lost amongst some over-sauced, over-flavoured, and pretty much unnecessary vegetables. It’s instances like this that immediately bring to mind the overused adage about good ingredients - let them do the talking. Completely accurate though; a good sea bass can sing for itself and needs only hints of tampering - excellent examples are on offer at Etta’s Seafood Kitchen in Brixton Village and Mien Tay in Shoreditch.

Desserts in Asian restaurants are usually not something to stay for and given the nature of the conversation wafting over, that remained the case. The menu at Satay is tempting though, even after a dose of spice. English desserts - well, the sort found in the pub - were on offer, sticky toffee pudding, cheesecake, and brownie. Again, a chef that spends their life cooking with lemongrass, chilli, and a variety of spices, I would wager isn’t the most adept at producing these more post-Sunday dinner puddings, but I could be wrong and wouldn’t pass judgement until I’d tried.

With so much on offer in Brixton, including a couple of entries in the Good Food Guide 2014, Satay wouldn’t be a choice placed high on the ‘must eat’ list. It’s perhaps wiser to stick with the less adventurous dishes of green curry, pad thai, and Singapore noodles if you do visit, or make use of their bar and near endless cocktail list - especially during ‘happy hour’. 

Bickles - Brixton

423 Coldharbour Ln, London, Brixton, SW9 8LH

The streets were deserted, filled only by the lights that danced atop a fortnight's rain. This was December 30th, the twilight zone, the witching hour extended to a day; a day when everything shuts down in preparation for the carnage to come. We should have known better. Door after door closed and Brixton looking like a suburb from far further south on a typical Monday night. Even Brixton Village - that bastion of middle class foodie delight - was locked down, it's roller doors tightly gripping the floor.

The mood became slightly frantic. A troupe of drinkers, their tolerance for each other worn to a nub by Christmas festivities, hungry, thirsty, and cold. The orange glow of Bickles was missed once, but after a string of pubs promised little more than a drink and a lukewarm reception, we retraced our steps, took the punt, and crowded six around one of their five tables. From the outside, Bickles has the look of a takeaway first and a restaurant second. Never judge a book by it’s cover, of course. The staff were on hand to offer friendly advice to those for whom jerk chicken is not an everyday occurrence and to point out that a bottle of marinade from a display cabinet is not a condiment for customers to try. Unfortunately, they weren’t quick enough with a warning on the hot sauce - cue profuse sweating to the point of tears from one of the party. All his own fault. This was clearly a liquid of pure spiced evil: blood red with a sheen of chilli infused oil floating on the top. The banana sauce on the other hand was just warm enough for my tame tastes.

I have little experience of Jamaican food - maybe something homemade with Reggae Reggae sauce or a friend’s attempt at jerk chicken - so I can’t say whether this was good, bad, or indifferent compared to the other options in Brixton. What I can say though is that I found it very very tasty. The oxtail took some picking to strip the bone bare - always a ringing endorsement of a meat. Tender, sweet with spice, but not too hot. The rice warm with flavour and the peas well textured: a great accompaniment for shovelling down with the small scraps of meat. The salad - a token gesture to one of the five-a-day - I overlooked. The other dishes, the classics of jerk chicken and pork, seemed equally good choices and all were a firm filling for the £7 or so they cost.

Empty at first, full when we left. Bickles is a popular spot even on a quiet night - a sure sign of quality. If you visit, carry your own alcohol as they don’t offer anything to drink and steer well clear of that hot sauce unless you have a mouth of wax.

Gremio de Brixton - Brixton

The Crypt, St Matthews Church, Effra Rd, London, SW2 1JF

Is it sacrilege to transform a church into a restaurant? Those who paid for the memorial plaques that now adorn the wall of MEATmission in Shoreditch would probably say so, overlooking as they now do tables of lairy people forcing wads of beef, cheese, and chilli through their teeth. The crypt at St Matthew’s in Brixton is a different story though, and I for one would convert to the cult of Gremio de Brixton and their delicious tapas. Hallelujah and praise be to the chef. Besides, upstairs is still a working church, rather than a nightclub.

I expected more of a Christopher Lee’s bedroom feel from Gremio, given the location. A Disney themed restaurant, where dust and bones litter the floor, upturned coffins are used as tables, and the kitchen is hidden behind a wall of cobwebs. Disappointingly, Gremio is a clean well-lit space, with velvet on the walls, and an exposed kitchen showing chefs hard at work preparing various meats. Half the floor space is given over to a lively bar with loud music. The clear segregation worked well on a Friday, preventing the music from ruining diners’ meals and our loud conversation from ruining drinkers’ drinks. Whether our conversation ruined dinner for other diners, I can only guess.

This being a Friday, sangria and red wine were - mistakenly it later transpired - ordered in vast quantity. I know sangria is a summer drink, but it’s warm in the crypt and the lightness of the drink helps clean the palate between dishes, of which there were a great many. Tapas is always hard for the English, we’re not great at sharing - too polite to stretch across our neighbours dinner and take without asking. English tapas generally descends into awkward requests for things we don’t want and the feeling that you’ve not had quite as much as you’re going to pay for. The word sorry reverberates around the table with comic frequency. Of course, the drink helped ease tensions, but so did the order of four sharing platters, bread, and all 18 of the warm tapas dishes on offer - most of which landed on our table at exactly the same time. This was an overwhelming amount of food and more than enough to keep each of us from feeling cheated. Although, we did order another ox cheek once we cleared the last plate, that being the standout dish of the meal. The ox cheek tasted like the velvet of the curtains were it cooked for fourteen hours. The words soft and creamy wouldn’t begin to describe it. This was smoothness I haven’t tasted since I cut a steak with a spoon in Argentina. Unbelievable and worth ordering two, even if every mouthful thrust the dagger of glutton further in to my stomach. The rest of the tapas was equally well cooked, but always limited by not being the cheek. Classic tapas of small succulent prawns dripping in oil, tiny calamari, cheese croquettes, ham after ham, cheese after cheese, delicious warm bread drizzled with a sweet olive oil - the list continues. And, for the accurate Spanish experience a dearth of vegetable, except for the two lettuce leaves served with each dish - purely for decorative use I understand. But who needs anything green though when you have an ox cheek that tantalising and enough wine to keep Holy Communion running for two months.

Honest Burger - Brixton

4a Meard Street, London, W1F 0EF

It might surprise people to hear this: I don't often take photos of my food. Maybe I lack confidence or restraint, but there is just something ever-so-strange about being delivered a meal and whipping out a camera before you dig your fork in. Also, without Instagramming the s**t out of my photos, I don't feel I can do the food justice.

Today was different. Dropping in to Brixton Village attempting to find a sandwich, I noticed no clear queue at Honest Burger. This was my chance! Three times so far the queue has beaten me and I've ventured to find something else. Not bad decisions either time, given that the alternative was The Joint and then El Panzon.

So there I sat, on my own. No one else to distract me and no waiting staff near me. Another chance had come. I pulled out my camera and snapped at the burger, fries, and diet coke behind. I think a worthy photo of some very worthy food. Honest(ly) one of the best burgers I've ever had. They don't mess around with this one. Very simple: beef, bun, and some onion chutney, served alongside rosemary-ed chips. And the best part? The whole thing cost £9! Leaving a tip of a quid, and I'd still paid over the standard 10%. Win-win. If I stay at home any longer, it'll be mightily tempting to make each day a burger day. Do they do a loyalty card?