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.

El Rancho De Lalo - Brixton

94-95 Granville Arcade, London, SW9 8PS

Five minutes walk from the southern-most end of the Victoria Line stand a host of bandwagon-jumping restaurants and eateries, all desperately praying that their 15 minutes of famed-cuisine proves long enough to be profitable. Outside, an equally long and equally desperate queue of affluent 9-5ers wait their turn; people who long to be the skinny jean wearing, long beard combing, antique furniture from matchstick building hipsters who The Metro speak so fondly of.

Brixton is the trendiest place to eat in London, so say the words in my inbox, and so holler those free rags jamming the escalator of the Underground - disgruntled, of Wapping.

I'm far closer to today's gentrified and vilified Brixton demographic than the one of a decade ago - so close that I own both the denim and the chinos. I could try and feign indignation as the hipster phenomenon sweeps across the borough, lamenting the demise of whatever was here before; but I'd be as believable as a Tory MP claiming to have once ridden the bus.

In truth, I love the development of the place. New places to eat and drink give me something to do on a Friday night and a reason to open my wallet specifically in Brixton. I can't sit there, stuffing my face with the latest pulled lobster and fennel burger, and tut at the destruction of the incumbent culture, while shaking an empty glass and demanding more champagne. I'd be as hypocritical as those UKIP voters who buy Black Forest ham from Lidl. Wow, that's two political slurs in one review and both against the right!

El Rancho De Lalo sits at the heart of Brixton Village, wedged into the crawl space that even an estate agent would have trouble calling cosy, but arranged well enough that every Lib Dem voter, plus his family, could fit comfortably. I'm just throwing that in for balance. It's one of the more 'original' venues of Brixton Village; popular, but not the darling of those seeking shredded pork or ceviche. Instead, El Rancho stays true to it's heritage and serves up a traditional South American cuisine, consisting of 2/3rd meat to 1/3 carbs, plus a token side-salad. Unless, of course, you're brave enough to order the special, where carbs are substituted for yet more meat, pushing that particular side of the equation to around 5/6ths. It's heart strangling stuff, whatever you order.

That isn't to say a meat-fest isn't wanted from time-to-time. I'd been told before of their legendary half-plate steaks and a piece of beef a cobbler could knit a pair of shoes with was what I was after. Fortunately, the analogy with leather stops there. This steak would have made a very soft, tender shoe, far more the consistency of a well-worn slipper (or weak and spineless leader of the Labour Party) than a brogue. Back of the net! And what else is there so say about steak? It was big, it was tasty, it took a good ten minutes to cut through half of it, and another ten before I could stand. Perfect. And the fried plantain, avocado, and plain rice gave the impression of a healthy dish. Double-perfect.

Before the main course, we'd eaten through a thick piece of belly pork, fried to within an inch of it's life, just the way it should be. The fat, enamel-crackingly hard, the pork seared to maintain the moisture, served alongside a flat patty of cornbread. It was all a little dry, even if the pork did contain a thimble of water. Where were the traditional refried beans that dominate South American cooking? A small bowl of those would have been a treat.

Dinner over, we wound our way past the cheese eaters, the champagne quaffers, and the never-ending queues. I'm plagiarising myself to say it, but it's strange that people will stand in line for food when there are perfectly good, although potentially less fashionable, alternatives just next door. That's probably the one area where I and the new trendies of Brixton disagree; I just can't wait that long to be fed. Ever.

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?

Canteen - London

Dodging through the rain in South London on the only day this year close to being 'April', I meant to visit Brixton Village after spending the afternoon drinking a few Doom Bar (4.0%) in The Bedford. Diverted to Canteen under the Royal Festival Hall, I found a surprisingly empty (for a Saturday evening) restaurant sitting behind a drenched and, therefore, deserted cheese and wine market.

Canteen modern, clean, light, glass, wooden, etc. It served pie and mash, which seemed an unlikely option. A squat pie, aside a small portion of greens and scoop of mash. Again, clean.

The one let down? The pudding. A small (a theme here) apple crumble served in a ceramic pot. A bowl would be so much better. I know it doesn't fit the image, but it cools the pudding down in time for you to eat it. Burning the roof of my mouth was an overly sweet crumble topping, a purée of apple, and a flavourless custard.

It's not a good choice for a modern restaurant - homely puddings. Crumble should be the epitome of rustic. Uneven chunks of apple beneath a bobbling surface of crumble. No vanilla custard, nothing fancy. It's one item I just don't think a chef can do better than I could at home.

Eat the pie; go home for the crumble.