FreakScene - Farringdon, London

91 Cowcross St, Farringdon, London, EC1M 6BH

The world of food annoys me, which is why I've never really tried to elevate this blog above what it is: a place for occasional ramblings about something I ate.

In a way, I'm happy in my annoyance. The food world can do it's own thing, somewhere over there, and I'll do own thing over here.

From time-to-time, it encroaches on me, though. Uninvited.

Generally, it's a classic foodie post that will flash up on Instagram - it's picture perfect angle, lighting, shade, and texture not giving any indication as to the quality or taste of the dish; the text below, some meaningless platitude or name-drop of a chef, including the word 'that' - with strong emphasis.

But, on rare occasions, it'll be someone who works in the industry that catches me, in the real world, pinning me down (not literally) and boring me to death about some trend, food, detail, or knife sharpener.

This time it was a budding young-(ish) chef telling me about a burger.

I don't want to do him down. I don't want to stifle his career (ha ha - as if I have the power). But, if there was one thing I could have been bothered to say to him (albeit from a position of admitted ignorance) it's that you should really listen to your customers.

Burgers are done mate. Snore off. Which, as a potential customer, is the basic gist of my argument.

Yeah, his burger will be the best cut of meat from the happiest cow that ever skipped through a meadow, the best bread a baker can knead, the best cheese from the best milk a different cow shot from its udder, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Well, two things spring to mind. One, if you do that, you're an idiot. Surely, it'll be the most expensive burger that no one can afford, even if they wanted to buy it. So, you're cooked as a business. Two, if you manage to use the best ingredients money can buy and - miraculously - keep the price reasonable, then kudos to you. Still, it's been done. The ‘best’ burger is out there somewhere and people aren’t really that bothered about it. After all, it's a burger. How much better can it really be?

Ah. What am I saying. I shouldn’t do down someone’s dream. We all have them, no? Even if it’s only to run out on the field during a baseball game.

So, good luck to him. God loves a trier and all that. And, who knows, maybe the burger is due another shot in the arm, to boost it to levels I can't begin to imagine, while keeping it cheap enough to suit people's pockets.

Watch this space, I guess. Although, I'm really not sure I'll be visiting, regardless of how great *that* burger is said to be on Instagram.

Anyway, I know all three of you are asking yourselves, how did we even get here? Wasn't this meant to be a review of Farringdon’s latest food pop-up, FreakScene?

Yeah. Sorry. I tend to do that. Surely the three of you know that by now?

I'm sure I can join my rant and this review together, though. So, here goes.

What that chef should have done, is ignore his blinkered obsession with his greatest burger of all time and get his arse over to FreakScene, to see what people really want to eat.

Done! Boom!

FreakScene is how you do a restaurant (although, granted, perhaps not how you do a restaurant name). It's warm, welcoming, has friendly staff, and a menu that you want to order in its entirety (and, if you did, it only costs about £90). Basically, it ticks every box.

They describe the food as pan Asian, which it is. Lots of chilli, lots of pork, lots of rice, you know, Asian food. And, if you know me at all, you'll know I'm not going to run through each dish; more just pick out the highlights, before I get too too bored of my own voice - which’ll happen very very quickly (don't worry).

I can’t go any further without mentioning the beef fillet Takait with onion ponzu. I have no idea what at least two of the words in that description mean, but whatever they mean translates into f-ing deliciousness in your mouth. Seriously, this is one of the best dishes I’ve eaten - not this month, not this year, not this decade; just ever. The beef, so tender, so succulent, so warm but so rare. Whatever sat alongside it was the perfect balance of sweet, spice, and salt. Just all-in-all mouth dribblingly insanely tasty.

Frankly, I don’t know what you’re doing still reading this. Get to Farringdon, get to FreakScene and order three of these - now.

Mild beef induced ecstasy over, let’s move on to the chicken. Vastly inferior to the beef, yet still a 9/10. That’s no slight on the chicken; the beef is just *that* amazingly good. Stick it on your Instagram and smoke it!

Oh yeah, the chicken, fried in chicken (work that out) and served with a peanut soy / satay style sauce, so thick it was like tar, so sweet it was like a pudding, so perfect I started licking it up with my finger (that might be a lie, but you get the point). The chicken itself, so tender you could strip it from the bone with a single stare. God, it was good. Although, the beef was better - get a pen and write that down, so you remember.

Every other dish, great. Marvellous. We finished every one we ordered. I’m not going into detail, though; 1) I can’t remember the detail, 2) you can read the menu above, and 3) I’m now bored of my own voice.

There’s only one thing left to do - plug the heck out of FreakScene and tell you (for the last time) to get there before it closes it doors for good. When you do, order *that* beef (just in case I didn’t say, it's great!).

Quality Chop House - Farringdon

88-94 Farringdon Rd, Clerkenwell, London EC1R 3EA

I have to be a little careful here. Our trip to Quality Chop House was a birthday meal, from me to my girlfriend. Any criticism I deliver, then, surely waters down the present and probably means I owe her something else to make up the difference.

But, I’m nothing if not a hero - and here, I’m going to take a bullet, water down the present slightly, so my audience (hey Mum) doesn’t make the same mistake we did.

Quality Chop House is the sort of small, Dickensian styled restaurant that American tourists fantasise about. It’s all tweed, booths, creaking chairs, dust, and old (empty) bottles of wine. A film set straight out of Dickens’s best work, The Muppet Christmas Carol.

We squeezed in, on a hot evening, next to a really quiet couple who looked seriously, seriously displeased to hear me. Dust blew in the light wind that breezed through the open door, the sounds of traffic and the mating call of drunks carried in from the street, while a clock ticked quietly in the corner.

And God, how it ticked. And ticked. And ticked some more. Counting down the minutes (all ten of them) between us sitting down and ordering a drink - and the further ten between ordering that drink and having it on the table.

Champagne, that was all. The order wasn’t complicated. The order wasn’t unusual (surely). Yet, the waiter told us twice that it was ‘on it’s way’ - Christ only knows how deep their cellars are.

The champagne (it might have been a sparkling wine, actually) was an accident, it said on the menu - discovered when the producer tried to create a different drink. It tasted like one too.

Another accident was the word ‘Chop’ above the restaurant door.

Maybe I have this all wrong, but in my view, a chop house has to major on meat. I mean seriously major on meat.

Mondale to Hart - where’s the beef?

Seriously, where was the beef? Everyone around us seemed to be chomping through some massive t-bone action; the sort of steak that toppled cars 10,000 years ago. It was absent from the menu, though. Not a cut of cow in sight.

We asked and, apparently, QCH has a limited supply - they only order as much as they think they’ll need for the weekend.

This was Friday. At 8pm. At a chop house. How many vegans had they booked in for the weekend? How many people were going to come in and order leek soup? Come on! People want meat! People expect meat, at a chop house. And you’ve run out, at 8pm on a Friday, in central London, a ten minute walk from Smithfield Market - Smithfield, ‘the largest wholesale meat market in the UK’ (thanks Wikipedia).

Not only that, but clearly the chefs are strong with their meat game. The asparagus I had to start was tough, saltless, and boring.

Anyway, with no beef, we went for lamb. Solid, dependable lamb, cooked three ways, served on a big sharing plate, with a couple of sides - and an extra order of potatoes, which they also stored in that deep, dark, cavernous cellar. We tried our best. We chewed slowly. We took deep breathes, big pauses, and talked about the weather. We eked out the meal for as long as we physically could; but, those potatoes had to be eaten, unaccompanied, in place of a dessert.

There’s a few lessons for the restaurant industry here. First, sort your s**t out. It’s Friday night, it’s a popular time for people to eat and spend money, you’re going to busy - bring your A-game; don’t be dithering around, neglecting to take orders, and keeping your champagne and half your menu in the next postcode.

Secondly, get people a drink. Straight away. Demand they have one. Offer them something good from the list. We’re a couple, we’re ever so slightly dressed up and looking a bit tipsy - tip the wine list down our throats; chances are we’ll pay for half of it.

Finally, if you’re a chop house, your menu should rival Noah’s Ark. There should be meat-stacked-upon-meat-stacked-upon-meat - and if you’re buying, cutting, preparing, or whatever on a Friday for the weekend, do double. Last time I checked, meat keeps and sells for more when it does.

Anyway, if you’re in the area, don’t just take my word for it - give Quality Chop House a try; or, walk around the corner to Exmouth Market and the many, many decent restaurants on that street.

Social Eating House - Soho, London

58 Poland St, Soho, London W1F 7NS

This really isn’t a blog, is it? To qualify as a blog, I think you need some degree of regularity in your posts and what are mine? Months apart?

Yeah, the last one was in February, so I’m on for sixth in a month. That’s a pace so far removed from blogging, it’s glacial.

You also need some knowledge on the subject, don’t you? Or - at the very least - a passion for it.

I love food, because it keeps me full (for a short while). I love food, because it’s tasty. And, I love restaurants, because they provide the food. I’m not particularly passionate about them, as an industry. New openings in far-flung East London archways and the latest fad cuisine of an Inuit take on Peruvian street food, I really don’t care for.

So, what you’re only ever reading on this website is an uninformed ramble, by an ill-educated (when it comes to food), passion-less, permanently hungry keyboard jockey, who wouldn’t last five minutes serving tables, frying steaks, cutting up vegetables, or washing up.

Actually, that’s not true. I once washed dishes for 8 months. It felt like prison.

As ever, this is a long winded way of getting to the point - which is this: if you’re a chef, foodie, or a random passerby, someone I know or someone I don’t, please don’t be offended by anything you read here, as what I say carries very little meaning and even less weight.

Anyway, on to Social Eating House.

I have to be a bit careful here. I was taken here for my birthday, didn’t pay a penny towards the meal, and already had a few cocktails before we arrived; so, I’d better be careful what I say.

Hands up if you’ve ever eaten at a chef’s table? Some of you? Yes? Good.

Well, for those who haven’t, it’s simple - you sit in the kitchen, quite near the pass (the bit where the head chef checks the food before it goes out), close enough to see the meat sizzle, feel a little of the stove’s heat, and hear the c-bomb whenever it’s dropped.

And, boy, was it dropped!

Well, twice; but right after I complained (quite loudly) that the chef hadn’t used the c-word yet.

Talk about service!

Social Eating House is one of Jason Atherton’s restaurants. That means it could be excellent, as it was at Pollen Street Social (aside from that awful excuse for a pudding) - or, it could be fairly ‘meh’, at it was at Sosharu; so, I drew a line down the middle and expected it to be good.

And good, it turned out to be. Very good, in fact. Not excellent (that’s a rare score for this skinny Michelin Man wannabe to give); but, a ‘very good’ from me is that kind of score the chef should print out and stick to the fridge with a magnet.

Honestly, he should!

Starting with mackerel and finishing with milk tart, we took in a series of ‘modern European’ dishes of rabbit, sea bass, foie gras, and the like. You know, that sort of English meets French food, all done posh, and served in very small pieces - except for that foie gras.

Man, was that a lot of liver. Too much for me. I find foie gras sickly at the best of times and I was far happier with the root vegetable broth it was floating on. Mmmm...broth. I really am a peasant at heart.

The rabbit, I found disappointing - quite bland in the main, but with the odd burst of a slightly unpleasant flavour I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

The sea bass, on the other hand, was fantastic. If I remember rightly, it sat on mash. Rich, creamy, butter stuffed mash. I really really am a peasant.

To wash this all down was wine - lots of wine and some French pear cider, which seemed to arrive just at my glass was empty. Perfect timing.

And, in a way, that’s the real point of the chef’s table experience. It’s less about the food (although, obviously, that’s still massively important) and more about being treated better than the other customers. You’re not just any old schmuck, but minor royalty for a couple of hours, sitting behind a curtain that says ‘No Entry’ and given a private performance by the entire kitchen staff.

Sure, the rabbit was odd. Okay, the foie gras wasn’t for me. Put all that aside, though, as for two hours this peasant felt way more important than usual - and, better yet, he wasn’t paying a penny.

Sushi Tetsu - Clerkenwell

12 Jerusalem Passage, London EC1V 4JP

It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? A while since I’ve trotted out a restaurant review, that I’m not sure many people will take the time to read.

Why it’s been so long, I don’t quite know. Possibly, because I’ve been eating out a lot less lately, possibly because every time I’ve put ‘pen to paper’ I’ve bored myself within the first five lines - and, that’s never a good sign.

Writer’s block, they call it.

Either that or I’m just not cut-out up for this food writing lark.

Regardless, I decided to struggle through for Sushi Tetsu and - at least - try and write something that didn’t send me to sleep. Let me know if it works for you too.

I’ll confess, right now, I’ve never heard of Sushi Tetsu (but, as we know, I’ve never been a well-informed food writer; if I can even be called that at all).

It seems everyone else has, though. And, everyone else also knew the price.

What a price! A £65 minimum spend.

A massive thanks has to go out here to Steph who picked up a fair bit of the tab. I’ll buy the next one, I promise.

The question a price like that raises, in this instance anyway, is how good can sushi really be? Can something that you can now pick up at almost every sandwich shop, for about £6 really be worth 10x that price?

God, if I was any good at this, I would make a case for, a case against, and draw a line somewhere down the middle.

How good can sushi be? Very. Can it ever be worth that much? I guess so, because enough people are prepared to pay for it.

But, the value of food really depends on the situation. The venue, the company, the time, the place, your very own mental state. Not just a cost / taste analysis.

A McDonald’s is pretty good, when it’s cold and crappy outside, your useless football team have lost at home (again), and you’re craving an overdose of dirt cheap fat, sugar, salt, and caffeine. Meet me last Saturday and just try to tell me those things aren’t some of the best life has to offer.

Good sushi - or even great sushi - has a subtle flavour. It’s not going to bowl you over, slap you around the mouth, and announce itself like a hideous, bloated, bald racist on his first day as President.

Nope. It’s going to play gently across your mouth and, if you focus too much on anything else - lights, music, booze, the idiots at the table next to you arguing about the bill - then you’ll miss it.

The culinary equivalent of blinking at the Formula 1.

Sushi Tetsu provides exactly what you need here; the perfect scenario to appreciate the quality of each dish. A cross between a massage parlour (a genuine one, not a seedy one), an upmarket bar, and a phone box, it’s tranquil, it’s quiet, it only has seven seats; and, if one of them is occupied by a total gobsh*te, who spends the whole meal yakking away about his life, opinions, theories, and trips to Morganville, then I imagine it’s pretty damn annoying for everyone else.

Yeah, sorry about that.

So, seven seats. Yep, you heard me right. That’s all Sushi Tetsu has. It’s a phone box of a venue and, if you’re looking to book, you need a fast dialling wand, some dirt on the chef, or a slightly geeky friend who can build you a Twitter based alerting system that texts you when a table is free.

I kid you not.

This really is a thin sliver of a restaurant, where even a medium sized-man has to squeeze sideways between a pillar and a post to make it to the postage stamp of a toilet at the back. Seven seats, arranged along a bar, behind which the diligent, patient, highly professional chef works tirelessly to prepare (what looks like) the best quality fish going and serve it directly to the total opposite staring back at him.

The waiting staff, float between the diners, top up their water, answer their ignorant questions with a patience equal to the chef, and try to tempt another drink down their throats.

Why am I boring you with the layout and a description of the staff’s meticulous nature?

Well, I’m trying to portray the atmosphere, because that’s what this place is really all about. The food is great. I’m sure if you know sushi, you’ll say it’s even better. Served from a plastic tray, accompanied by a tiny folk and a small fish of soy sauce, you might not tell the difference; but, that's not the point (have I made that clear?).

Sushi Tetsu is cosy, yet relaxed. A meditation chamber (I think Steph called it) of a place, the lights, staff, sounds (lack thereof) - except for that loudmouthed idiot (sorry again) - create the perfect tranquil state; where time stops, you feel lightheaded, you’re prepared to trip right over that £65 line, go mad and order the octopus sushi.

Which, they didn’t let me have. Damn them. If I shouldn’t have the octopus, why is it on the menu?

Ah, who cares. Basically, if you don’t know your sushi, be prepared for a few mild embarrassments like that.

We tucked into three sashimi, first; oyster, tuna, and sea bass (I could be wrong), each changed on every bite by the application of more or less wasabi, freshly ground from the fat green root sat on the chef’s table.

The first plate gone in seconds - this meal felt like it would all be gone in a few seconds more (and don't worry, this review won't take much longer).

The sushi, though, is more relaxed. The chef works his way methodologically through the orders. Rolling rice, slicing fish, glazing with soy, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, and serving up each morsel with one word and a bow.

Mesmerising, his hands dancing back and forth across the counter stopped even my conversation. The occasional flame joined the dance and licked intricate patterns across delicate, succulent, seared beef-like tuna.

Finally, the sushi rolls of salmon and tuna were beautifully massaged into shape in front of us and finished as quickly as they were sliced.

And, then we were out. Through the door, complete with 20% more bowing, floating back along the dark alleyways of Clerkenwell.

It was like a massage. It felt like a therapy, with a light touch that left a heavy mark. It seemed like a dream. I wanted a whisky and I wanted to sleep (what’s new). Strangely, all that transfixed staring, that distinct lack of chewing, suddenly felt like it had been hard work, reflected in the wallet and the eyes.

Maybe it was a dream. I half expected to turn back and see the entrance replaced by a different shop, selling forbidden objects and frogurt; but, given how many people have since mentioned the place, I'll conclude that it was real. To be honest, it might as well been a dream, as I doubt I’ll be back - wiring up your mobile to a Twitter feed in the hope of a last minute cancellation just seems like far too much effort for a lazy man.

Coco Di Mama - Margaret Street

52 Margaret St, London

My dream, if I have one, is to own my own restaurant. Not because it’ll make money (it won’t), not because I have a novel idea for one (I don’t), and not because I want to hang around with celebrity chefs, newspaper food critics, Instagram stars that overuse the word *that*, or Greg Wallace (who does?). I want to own my own restaurant - an Italian restaurant, incidentally - just so I can become that stereotypical old b*stard, who shuffles in every day, sits in the corner, grunts at the staff, and continues to pickle himself in red wine.

I don’t know why. We all have to have dreams, I guess; and, I suppose, if I can afford to do that with my life, I must have done something right.

Sitting there, pondering this dream, as I stared out of the window at Coco Di Mama, on Margaret Street, I suddenly realised I was pretty much there. I don’t own Coco Di Mama, I’m not *that* old, and they don’t serve wine; but, I have become someone who shuffles into the same place every days, sits in the corner, and grunts at the staff. It’s become such a consistent haunt, that the staff not only recognise me, they know my order before I say it and, once, they even asked me for thoughts on their pricing strategy. One day, I’ll walk in to find someone sat in my seat and, no doubt, they’ll kick him out of the chair on my behalf.

Grazie.

All-in-all, being well-known in a place it’s probably less risk than owning it, to both my bank balance and my waistline. But, why do I keep coming back here? Is it the stella food (it is good)? Is it the consistent experience (it is consistent)? Is it the proximity to the office (it is close)? Maybe it’s a yes to all of those; however, I think the real answer lies in the guarantee of escape.

Lunch is that time when, for just a single hour, you can shut your brain off, sit down, send some texts, read a book, and browse the internet. Sure, you might do all these things at work too; but, this is a legitimate time to unwind, when the boss isn’t going to roast you over a fire when you’re found idle.

To properly relax at lunch, escape is key - both mentally and physically. Pret can be too busy, Itsu too confusing, and in Wasabi they make you stand (what is that all about?). In Coco Di Mama, I can sit, quietly, away from people and noise - it’s just safer this way. Plus, they have a bar to rest your feet on under the stools, which means you can take the weight off (now I’m sounding old) and not have to swing your legs like some bubblegum-blowing ten year old.

The fact that the place is empty could be a worry for them. I doubt it. They seem to have a constant flow and, sometimes, a long queue of suited customers, who’ll immediately return to their desk, hunch over their screen, and spray partially chewed food across their keyboard as they laugh as ‘fat woman falls down hole’ on YouTube for the 78th time. Or whatever. Basically, I don’t understand why people eat at their desks. It’s disgusting, uncomfortable, and you don’t get paid for doing it.

So, where are we going with this laughable ‘review’? Oh yeah, the food. Coco Di Mama sell salads, sandwiches, and some other things that sit in the fridge. I’m sure they’ll all lovely; but, they're a totally needless distraction from the delicious, steaming hot pasta, that costs less than £6, and is served in less than 6 seconds, sat steaming away behind the counter. You’re an idiot if you order anything else. I’m sorry to say it, you just are.

The pasta comes with different toppings, which makes it sound like an ice cream, but I’m not quite sure what the correct word is. I always go off menu (I’m just *that* annoying). Half pomodoro, half bolognese. Sometimes, I mix it up with a half of sausage and sage or chicken and chorizo, instead of the bolognese - what can I say? I’m an unpredictable maverick. Always ask for olive oil and always ask for cheese. They come as standard, so why not? Take a seat and, if you’re a loyal customer like me, they even bring it to the table and don’t expect a tip. Boom.

Coco Di Mama have branches across London (mainly in the City).

Postscript: I just remembered that Mark came here and ate a sandwich. He’s not an idiot, so I blame myself for not writing this review sooner or advising him to choose pasta. Sorry Mark.

Bar Boulud - Knightsbridge

Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park, London, 66 Knightsbridge, London, SW1X 7LA

Sometimes, you just have to treat yourself, don’t you? Lording it up in the smarter parts of town: brogues polished, trousers pressed, shirt ironed, notes spill like rain from your solid gold crocodile clip, while the largest, pimpinest cubic zirconia, sparkles atop your walking cane.

Or, you can lord it up in a slightly different way. A clean-ish pair of trainers on your feet and a £19 shirt hidden beneath your least stained sweater, you jump from the bus, sweeping through the doors before anyone can turn you away, passing a host of mid-ranking celebrities, before talking a table for two and pretending you might consider ordering something other than the cheapest item on the menu - the burger.

This isn't any burger though: it's the burger at Bar Boulud in Knightsbridge. A burger that many/some have named the best in London.

Now, I've ranted with the rest of them about how good a burger can realistically be. Mashed mince, seasoned, grilled, and slapped in a bread bun will only ever attain a certain level of excellence and is never going to be the sort of food that reduces all others to ash.

Disagree? Okay, answer this: steak or burger? Yeah, thought so. Argument over.

My, this is a tasty burger, though. Not cheap at £17; but, when the next cheapest main course on the menu is almost twice the price, you can't complain. Seriously, you can't. You're eating in Knightsbridge, in a restaurant where they offer you a £24 glass of wine on arrival - which, you obviously say no to - where the service is impeccable, the toilets clean enough to eat off, and the napkins more luxurious than your own bed sheets. Around the corner, about ten doors down, President Obama is dining with the royals. Crane your neck and you might see him through a window. Yes, all this for just £17!

For those who still have their eyebrows raised at the price; drop them, immediately. Think about it, a fantastic burger, splendid service, and two hours renting a square metre of Knightsbridge real estate, all for just £17. You can’t - legitimately - park your arse in such an exclusive part of London for less £. It's the deal of the century.

The Yankee is the only £17 burger on the menu (£18 with cheese). It's a tall stack of a burger, with a serious slice of pickle and thick rounds of tomato, perched upon a solid inch of beef that sits on the rare side of 'medium-rare'. The bun, perfectly toasted. No hint of stale bread, no touch of a burnt edge. Slice it in half, squeeze, lift, and eat with your fingers, watching as the ooze of meat juice and ketchup dribbles dangerously close to the cuffs of your white shirt.

Again, do I need to spell it out? You're eating in Knightsbridge with your fingers, surrounded by people wealthy enough to drink wine at £24 a glass and there’s juice dribbling down your chin, all for just £17. This is the culinary equivalent of manning the barricades - a big meaty middle-finger to the establishment. All for just £17.

And then we have the chips. Sure, some people don’t put much stock in fries; a carbohydrate filler, playing second fiddle to the main act. But, honestly, how disproportionately disappointing are rubbish chips? Or, worse still, rubbish chips served in a miniature frying basket or fake newspaper cone? There’s many a chef and/or restaurant manager out there, who thinks the sophistication of a chip can be increased by the receptacle it’s served in. These people need to leave the business, now.

The chips at Bar Boulud aren’t served on a plate. Instead, they’re served in a small metal bucket. But, wait! Here it makes sense. Here the bucket is hot, so the chips stay warm well into the second half of the burger. Genius! Take a bow. This is what a novel receptacle is for - function, not an awfully misplaced attempt at ‘style’.

So, finally, this is what you get for your £17 - perfection. A perfect burger, in a perfect bun, served with perfect chips, in a perfectly warm bucket, by perfect staff, alongside a scattering of celebrities, piped piano music, and Obama eating next door. Did I mention, all for just £17?!

Go on, find a better meal in London, for the money, and I’ll eat those clean-ish trainers of mine.

Sosharu - Farringdon

64 Turnmill St, London EC1M 5RR

I haven’t written a review for a long while. Partly, it’s because I’ve been busy; partly, it's because I’ve suffered from mild writer's block; but mainly, it’s because I’ve fallen somewhat out of love with the food scene.

I was never really a food scene kind of person anyway. I was invited to the odd opening, sent the odd press release; but, I never had the time or energy to keep my nose firmly pressed to the scent of all that’s happening in London. Kudos to the people who do and who fill my Instagram feed with endlessly delicious looking dishes. Without you, I wouldn’t keep remembering all those many many places I’ve forgotten I wanted to visit.

It’s exactly here - on Instagram - that I’ve fallen out of love with food. Everything on Instagram is so pretty, everything on Instagram is so perfect, everything on Instagram is only ever described as being AMAZING. In the past few years, Instagram has killed the honest review - turning the food scene into one massive backslapping, navel gazing, race for followers and pictures of ‘that’ dish.

I love the pictures, don’t get me wrong; but, I hanker for the truth. Not everything is AMAZING - far from it - and plenty of dishes, places, and plates that I’ve eaten and would describe as mediocre, I see slapped with a thousand thumbs-up and smiling faces.

Or, perhaps, I’ve misread this situation entirely. Maybe everyone is happy with everything they post on Instagram, maybe to them everything is amazing, maybe I’m just a miserly, picky git, who looks for fault in everything, rather than just sitting back and enjoying the fruits of someone else’s labour.

Nope, it definitely can’t be that.

Anyway, on to Sosharu - Jason Atherton’s newest venture; a Japanese inspired restaurant, metres from Farringdon Station.

To set the scene, Sosharu isn’t the finest of fine dining, nor is it the sort of place you drop in for dinner on the way home. It’s clean, crisp, angular, filled with tables and chairs that cost more than the average salary, with a slightly snooty vibe, and staff who greet you with eyes that suggest they’d rather you were somebody famous. This is the sort of restaurant that attracts couples on dates - one of whom is looking to impress - and tables of tie-less, overweight businessmen, who pay on expenses and talk loudly about the people they know, wines they’ve drunk, and money they claim to have earned.

To start, head downstairs to the dark, sleek, brooding basement of a cocktail lounge that can’t decide if it’s a karaoke bar, a brothel, or both. The drinks here are phenomenal; the service, the same. My drink - the unappetisingly titled Gastown - smoked with layers of whisky and cynar, offset by a sweet hint of maple syrup, and glided across the tongue far too easily. I could have stayed for another.

Outside the cocktail bar there’s a row of Japanese toilets (in cubicles, I’ll add). They raise, they lower, they spin, blow, wash, and probably put on a light show if you press the right button. It’s all very impressive; a spectacle of busyness that doesn’t achieve very much. An almost perfect analogy for what was to come.

The dining room at Sosharu is cool, super-cool. Thin dark wooden beams - like a sea of bamboo in the night-time - divide the space, hiding some tables, leaving others exposed, while an army of brown-booted waiters hurry, scurry, and flit backwards, forwards, and sideways beneath the seriously scowling eyes of suited maître d’s. Behind the long length of bar, glittering with the glass of every bottle under the sun, more waiters polish glasses, pop corks, and pour an endless flow of wine into ever more intricate looking decanters. The atmosphere is frenetic, yet calm, precise, yet chaotic, busy, yet not, and all the while, exceedingly slow. Our drinks order disappeared, the first course did laps around the tables. The service charge, justified by the boot rubber worn to the floor and the repeated squiggles on the paper.

So far, so much style over so little substance - and that theme continued.

Sosharu is a Jason Atherton restaurant. Jason Atherton is a top chef at the top of his game. Previously, at Pollen Street Social we were served exquisite dishes packed with clever flavours, exciting textures, and a massive dollop of sparkle. Everything was AMAZING; apart from *that* pudding that looked as if the chef had kicked it onto the plate. Sosharu wasn’t any of this. The menu was short, yet complex, with an explanation from the waiter only making the latter worse. The dishes, however, were simple. The first; fried chicken. Large chunks of white meat, in a salty batter, lifted straight from the fryer of a local Chicken Cottage. Two piece chicken and chips is about £2.99; this was closer to a tenner, minus the chips.

Following the bland pop-corn chicken, were a series of mildly diverting dishes that I wished and willed to be better. I didn’t take notes - I never take notes - and the memory of these dishes passed me by before the fork left my mouth. The octopus, was just octopus. The tonkatsu, was just tonkatsu. The bowl of steaming rice covered in egg, was just a bowl of steaming rice covered in egg - such a sticky glob of glutinous gloop, that having eaten only three forkfuls, I’m probably still digesting it now.

The disappointment here wasn’t the taste, it was the expectation shattered by a lack of invention. Maybe I didn’t read the script, but with Jason Atherton’s name and Jason Atherton’s prices, I expected something really interesting, really mind blowing, genuinely creative, with each dish being a talking point to endlessly deconstruct and discuss. As it was, we were left talking about the obnoxiousness of the table sitting next to us, pondering on where our wine was, and wondering if the stern looking maître d' would be decapitating a member of staff for forgetting our order. I really hope not, but someone really needs to do something to up the productivity around here.

A beautiful rice bowl with pork - Leather Lane

Leather Lane, London

Lunch, it can be a difficult meal. Often, it's the same old, same old; the same coffee shop, the same cafe, the same Turkish wrap. Of course, discovering new and exciting options requires research, energy, faith, and carries the very real risk of disappointment - so most of us don't bother.

Sure, the usual option is dull, boring, and mediocre, but at least we know just how mediocre it will be.

After discovering a mountain of Pret receipts stuffed in a desk draw and realising that there was little on their shelves that I hadn't tried, I vowed to risk disappointment more often.

First stop, Leather Lane. Around the corner from my parliamentary second home (or girlfriend's flat, as it's also known), this street is a quarter mile of stall selling complete and utter tat, out of season vegetables (asparagus, in December?!), and street food.

This is real street food. Not the hipster type, cooked by young people who selfishly jacked in their soul-destroying jobs at various blood-sucking ad agencies, to learn new skills and bring impressive cuisine to our doorsteps for under a fiver.

No, this is the other type, cooked by grizzled looking old-school cooks, who've sliced the same cut of meat ten thousand times, and whose skin has absorbed every type of weather the British climate can produce - equal parts wind and drizzle, topped up with a dash of sun.

Actually, I lie. There's plenty of both sort on Leather Lane. The young fresh-faced variety, whose energy, passion, and skill makes you sick; and the old long-in-the-tooth types, whose wisdom, experience, and tenacity also makes you sick.

As ever, a 'journalists' (ha!) narrative is far better when it strays from the truth, so I view Leather Lane firmly through the wrinkled spectacles of a hammer seeking an old grizzled chef-of-a-nail.

Today's lunch fits this narrative perfectly. A bowl of rice, on top of which sits three carefully selected wilted flowers of broccoli and a handful of the butteriest, fat-rendered, cracklin' crunchin' pork you're ever likely to find. The rice, merely a plate for this eye-wateringly delicious meat; while the vegetables, just a distraction and a token nod towards the green end of the food health wheel.

Each bowl is served at breakneck speed from four Asian vendors, who work the stand like a military-run production line. Eyes down, pork chopped, chicken turned, rice spooned, vegetables vegetabling. Five pounds fifty, a set of chopsticks, and you're gone - the smell of rendered fat still tingling your nostrils in the best possible way.

I can't tell you what the stall is called, just give a vague description (outside Pie Minister, in the street, just to the left of the entrance). These guys don't have a Twitter account, Snapchat, pork filtered Instagram pics, and a Pinterest mood-board of kittens, piglets, and their favourite office space. Well, they might, but (again) why break a perfect narrative with needless research? They do have a tarpaulin, four solid-ish looking metal beams, an oven, and a cleaver. The only tools they need to deliver near-endless pork-filled bowls of joy to us salivating dogs, queuing in the cold along Leather Lane.

Pret will have to work mighty hard to prise me away from this tinpot shed, I can tell you that much. They'll need a miracle - something akin to that inch of charred pork skin, for under a fiver - before I return.

That said, I'll probably swing by tomorrow for my usual ten o'clock coffee and gingerbread break. Two quid for both, leaving two pence for charity; there are just some habits even I can't kick.

Cheap Eats: Part 1 - Three Michelin Starred Restaurants

Three Michelin Starred Restaurants, London

What a contradiction of a title. Cheap eats and Michelin starred rarely, if ever, go together; especially if the latter has the number 3 slapped in front of it.

Well, perhaps that's not entirely true - relatively speaking, anyway.

Visiting a restaurant with a single star a couple of months' back, I was told that they offered a two-course lunch for £19. Add in a drink and a tip and you're on for a £25 Michelin starred lunch. That's bang for your buck!

That conversation had me thinking (Buzzfeed style), where else that holds those famous stars could you eat cheaply?

Again, that's relatively cheaply, before you get too excited. Unless you're some high-flying City type, you're not going to be eating at any of these places for less than your hourly wage.

However, you'll be surprised at how cheaply you can eat at some of the best places in London. Save up the cash from a couple of Byron visits and you're well on your way to dining at the very best of the best of the best.

So, here we go: the best deals a little research could find at three Michelin starred restaurants in London...

Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester
53 Park Lane, W1K 1QA
The Lunch Hour Menu: £60

Okay, £60 ain't cheap, but read the small print: it includes two glasses of wine, half a bottle of sparkling water, and tea or coffee. It's a full feast, for £60. A full three Michelin starred feast, for £60! I've paid more than that for a meal (granted, not lunch) and been very disappointed. Surely, here that would be impossible.

Me, I'm going for the pot of snails, the cod, and the hazelnut eclair. Just to note, they only offer this up Tuesday - Thursday, but just chalk it up as a dentist appointment with the office and ask for a mint at the end.


Restaurant Gordon Ramsay
68 Royal Hospital Road, SW3 4HP
Lunch Menu: £65

I forgot this guy still cooks to be honest. Most of the time I see him shouting on TV at people who can't cook - and how! We're back here for a lunch sitting - well, what did you expect? There never going to be a cheap option for Saturday dinner.

£65 now, so up by a fiver. No wine, no water, no coffee. Come on Gordon! Alain's looking the better option to replace my three visits to Byron now. That said, there are more words on his menu, so logically it must be better. Smoked mackerel and charred fennel is tempting, while I'm a sucker for rabbit and the strawberry and custard tart sounds sweet and summer-like.

Now, I wonder if he'll remember that time I served him up a beef stroganoff in Manchester?


Le Gavroche
43 Upper Brook Street, W1K 7QR
Business Lunch Menu: £54.80

So these guys no longer have three stars. Sue me. It's my blog and I'll include Burger King on here if I like.

Reasons for including Le Gavroche, in no particular order: 1) They did have three stars, once; 2) Michel Roux Jr is one of the best celebrity chefs going (when he's not banging on about potatoes); 3) their YouTube channel is basically my porn.

What do you have for us Michel? A very specifically priced menu, that's what. At £54.80 this is the cheapest of the three, but we are losing a star here, yet gaining back the wine, water, and coffee - in your face Ramsay!

The biggest problem for me is that everything's in French - le grille?! What the hell is that?! I'm going for the pork, followed by de boeuf. It's French, so meat-tastic! Shame about that pudding board though: ice-cream, cheese, or sorbet? Whatever, I'll just take a glass of milk...from that cow.

Up Next: Two Michelin starred restaurants in London.

Andina - Shoreditch

1 Redchurch Street, Shoreditch, London, E2 7DJ

Every cuisine seems to get its fifteen minutes of fame. I'm sure I've said that many times before, but it's true. Peruvian had it's spell of glory last year and/or the year before. It's on the wane now - or at least it is based on anecdotal Twitter evidence.

Andina is a Peruvian restaurant that appeared at the height of the glory. A very sensible thing to do: strike while the iron is hot, way before ASDA start selling Peruvian microwave meals and the hipsters flee faster than Lib Dem voters on polling day.

If I wanted to be a proper food blogger, I should go to these place when they're at their hippest, queue in the wind, rain, and boiling-hot sun just to get some pics up on Instagram way before anyone else.

But I'm not, so I didn't.

By the time I finally visited, the wave of euphoria had swept through and most people I know had been and gone.

That's probably for the best.

Perhaps during the height of the hype these guys were on fire - or that hype was so great everyone was blinded to any issues. Regardless, I was fairly disappointed by Andina.

For a start, the staff seemed a little clueless - not for the first time in a Peruvian restaurant, I might add. Our waitress either couldn't hear us or couldn't understand us, we were bombarded with drinks and dishes that weren't ours, and getting hold of water was like trying to squeeze it from a stone.

Not great really, on what was a reasonable quiet Tuesday night.

The food wasn't fantastic either. I expected some flare to the dishes - something to really set them apart and justify the wealth of praise. I didn't find much.

The duck ceviche sounded interesting, but it could have been any meat really - the delicate taste overwhelmed by whatever the sauce was.

The octopus delivered some wow. Served as a whole tentacle on a small plate, it captured that look of an alien that only an octopus can manage. Impressive and tasty. Is that too much to ask from the other dishes?

I didn't photograph much of the rest and I'm not going to write about it either. Meh sums it up pretty well. The Pisco sour was very good - the best I've had, in fact - but I'd recommend anyone visiting to stick to the drink and skip the food.

Do I have to summarise? I'm not sure. I'm suppose I do for those one or two who scrolled to the bottom of the article. Overall, Andina was average at best - and I really really wanted to like this place, especially after all I heard. Parking was ample.

Zoe’s Ghana Kitchen - The King & Co, Clapham

100 Clapham Park Road, London, SW4 7BZ

“The only bad review you gave was to a slice of pizza you found under the couch.”

- The Simpsons, AABF21

I sometimes worry that one day I’ll run out of things to write about. Then I come to my senses and realise it’s unlikely for a loudmouth like me, who can’t resist telling everyone everything.

I mean, I once wrote about a 99p Pret coffee and today was tempted to review a bag of Wotsits. Does that sound like the behaviour of someone running out of things to say?

Given the dull subject matter, possibly is the answer -  but I’ll take it as a sign that my brain will always find something to spew out on a page. If it doesn’t, I’ll just follow the popular blogger trait of describing my dinner with ‘AMAZING!!!!!’ inserted as every sixth word.

On this lazy bank holiday that consisted of nothing more than working and staring out of the window like a bored cat (AMAZING!!!), I resolved to leave the flat at least once.

Dashing out of the door late and stepping over the mounds of rubbish that litter the streets of South London, I noticed an empty bottle of Glenfiddich 12 year old rolling about on the floor - a clearer sign as any that this area is on the up.

That’s a lie - the bottle was actually there today, but it’s as neat a segue as I can think of after a glass of that same whisky and I’ll be damned if I’m letting the truth stand in the way of a half-good half-baked story.

Another sign that a place is on the up is the number of decent eateries within a couple of tube stops (segue or what?! Boom!). The King & Co in Clapham has added itself to that list with previously excellent pop-up kitchens from Donostia Social Club and BahBah Persian Kitchen. Where DO they get these names?

Now it’s time for Zoe’s Ghana Kitchen to impress the locals of South West London - or a local and his mate who lives over East somewhere. There we sat, at the back of the pub, ciders in hand, eating our dinner over candlelight. A picturesque scene, if it weren’t for us two in it.

Zoe’s Ghana Kitchen is a proper sharing experience. Small plates cover the table and you’re forever leaning across each other’s laps, dipping your elbow into some sort of red goo. All very continental. Adam’s a vegetarian though, so I had little chance to share, instead stocking up on two meat dishes and splitting a rice.

Peanut butter stew with mutton. You’re not going to find that in many places, granted; but you should. A bowl of deep earthy flavours, the mutton fell apart into tiny strands, so small you could probably hide them in a vegetarians jollof rice and get away with it (joke!). The heat here is a builder - not the tongue flashing tang of a fresh chili, but the complex spice of an assortment of powders, cooked and left to stew - AMAZING!!!. Bring me two bowls of this and I’m done.

I wasn’t done though as the mutton was joined by a friendly pig, whose belly had been slow-roasted until it too fell into thin delicate strands. The sauce looked hot. That fiery red colour of intense spice covered in a layer of oil that burns instead of lubricates. It wasn’t though. There was heat here, yet it was another builder. Drink a pint of this and you’ll struggle; eat a single dish and even I (yes Jacki, even I) had barely broken a sweat.

I could have eaten more and more, and more, and more. For once, I was actually paying for this meal, so woah woah woah! - rein it in!

All the same the meal had to end with a pudding: banoffee pie covered in chin chin. What in God’s name that is, I don’t know. Some sort of crumbled biscuit, that they dusted across the top of my creamy, bananery, toffee goodness. I’m not sure it added much, but then I wolfed the whole thing down so fast I would never have noticed. Delicious the pudding was and not one to be eaten slowly - as if a pudding ever is.

Zoe’s Ghana Kitchen is here for a little while longer before she opens up a place in Brixton. Go here, go there, it doesn’t matter, just go - it’s AMAZING!!! And I do genuinely mean that.

The Manor - Clapham

148 Clapham Manor Street, London, SW4 6BX

Now, I have to be very careful with this one. Firstly, my girlfriend brought me here for my birthday. Secondly, they gave us a free glass of something fizzy.

Well, freebies have never swayed me before - if they did, this blog would have joined the 'fantastic!!!!' crowd a long time ago - but my girlfriend's choice can't be criticised. Not if I want to keep both my relationship and my large nose intact.

So......what do I write?

The Manor is a restaurant in South London's Clapham area. It serves hot food and a range of alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. It has tables. It has chairs. It has lighting that's a little too dim for my ageing eyes.

Ah damn. That's definitely a criticism. But honestly, it'll be the only one!

The Manor specialises in the sort of food that you might describe as gourmet hipster. It's not burgers and double-milk-glazed free range chicken, but it is that fennel-seed-this and whipped-fish-eyes-that type of menu, where every dish is one you won't have eaten before. Guaranteed.

To list the food is pointless - I can't remember it all. To show you a photo is equally pointless - it was too dark and it was my birthday, so I wasn't working. Not that I often am, some might argue.

Let's just say the food is fun. Interesting ingredients in interesting combinations, served on a range of interesting ceramics (God, I am officially old). Plates are around £7-8 and you're going to need at least four or five each to fill a hole. It's best to share too, otherwise one of you will have to eat a plate of BBQ'd kale, while staring longingly at your dining partner's dish.

Vegetables are a key feature at The Manor; in fact, you could say there's a definite oversupply. I'm not complaining too much - I'm on a sort of half-arsed health drive - it's just that, on occasions, the meat advertised on the menu was lost in a sea of green shoots and leaves.

The meat that was on show shone, mind you. Tender octopus, bright pink pigeon, soft melt-in-the-mouth beef. And, as much as it pains me to say it, sometimes an over-supply of meat is unnecessary. Better to get your calories from carbs and vegetables, every doctor will tell you.

The same quack will probably say that a small pudding is a good thing too. Well, The Manor don't do small puddings; instead, I had a half-plate of crumble, steaming with ice. Does ice steam? Maybe. Whatever, it was an impressive delivery and there's some photos on Facebook of me looking like a happy fool shortly before tucking in.

I say shortly before, as after all that visual drama, I expected something a lot tastier. This was really just a pile of sweet crumble. I'm not averse to that, but it just slightly boring for a restaurant that offers up such adventurous dishes as BBQ crispy chicken skins & kimchi (I've bothered to read the menu now).

So there we have it, a review which promised no criticism and probably ended up delivering three. That's pretty good and The Manor shouldn't be judged on these alone. Perhaps a little less drink and a little more focus would have led to a stellar review - but it was my birthday!

If I were to be asked for a recommendation in South London, The Manor would certainly be towards the top of that list - and you can't say fairer than that!

p.s. A massive thanks to my girlfriend for such a brilliant choice of birthday meal - and for scoring us some free drinks :-)

Macellaio Roberto Costa - South Kensington

84 Old Brompton Road, London, SW7 3LQ

What do you want from steak?

A thick, juicy, tender slab of meat, larger than your head, cooked to perfection, and served with scant regard to the sides.

Sure. You definitely want that. But you also want the majesty of the steak matched with an equal dose of theatre.

At Benihana, for instance, the meat is fried centimetres from your fingers by a seemingly unhinged chef, who wields a cleaver and shouts incoherently, while his hat is on fire.

In a steakhouse in Sao Paulo, the steak is wrapped around a steel spit and sliced almost directly into your mouth.

At the Paternoster Chophouse, the meat arrives on a chopping board, held up at eye level on a metal rack.

While in Romania, four men at the head of a torch-lit procession carry the steak in a coffin.

Theatre. See. It's what everybody wants.

Macellaio Roberto Costa in South Kensington has theatre before you even open the door. A window of hanging beef sings to the world outside. It stops people in its tracks - honest! This isn't an ordinary butcher, with an array of meats, flanked by fake grass and box of eggs. This is a pure butcher, offering up a single piece from a single animal that needs no introduction.

Where's the beef? There's the beef.

Inside, tables, chairs, and a chandelier constructed from wine bottle  - just what you expect from any restaurant. The waiter (impeccable) explained the menu, offered some advice, delivered the food, and stabbed steak knives into the table bolt up-right.

Boring, boring, boring, THEATRE!

Think the Psycho shower scene.

The starter - beef carpaccio - was no less dramatic. Thin blood red beef, layered across a small tile on a large chopping board, presumably to keep it cool. The steak - tagliata - is possibly the smallest thing they serve here, weighing in at a measly 250g. Pre-sliced, so you don't burn unnecessary calories with the cutting, it's a perfectly cooked piece of meat.

Remember what I said? Juicy, tender, thick? Okay, two out of three boxes ticked, but the choice of thickness was down to my need for something that at least pretended to be a little healthier.

Of course, a pre-sliced steak left the razor sharp knife more or less redundant, but I amused myself by stabbing it in the table a few more times. It just seemed rude not to!

As we left, the butcher was doing something similar. Only he using an anvil-sized cleaver to smash through meat, bone, and hopefully not his own fingers. On the tray to his left sat steaks as large as house bricks. Honest to God, house bricks.

Macellaio Roberto Costa. What a theatre. What a performance. What a dinner.

Bonnie Gull Seafood Shack - Fitzrovia

21A Foley Street, London, W1W 6DS

The ideal of winter is a misnomer. Those crisp cold bright days relished by everyone are a rarity. Instead, the season is dominated by a damp, drab, joy sucking greyness. The sun doesn't set as it never rose. Curtains stay closed as days merge into days merge into days merge into days.

Spring is the saviour. Just one mild day of shimmering sunshine casts out the misery from people's minds. Everyone is happier, cheerier, more positive, with at least one idiot wearing shorts.

Nowhere is better than London in the spring sunshine. The tube isn't yet too hot, the streets aren't yet too dusty, the buildings seem to glow, and even the taxi drivers have a smile.

Whether it was the blue sky and the sun or the lengthy amount of sleep that night before, there was a bound in my step as I made my way along Market Place, north from Oxford Street towards Bonnie Gull.

If there's a better place to be on a sunny day than London, it's the seaside (sorry London, relegated within two short paragraphs). Bonnie Gull - described in a style only Kevin McCloud does best - brings the seaside, inside, to London.

Sign me up Channel 4!

A small, neat restaurant of driftwood benches and various fishing accessories wound across the walls, Bonnie Gull is like a beachside shack - but better. There's no sand in the bread, no salt on your fingers, and no procession of children screaming like the possessed as they're lead to the toilet. Although there is still that idiot in shorts.

Let me correct that. Bonnie Gull is like a imagined beachside shack. One from the 1920s, where service is polite and competent, and the food of the highest quality and immaculately presented. There's no micro-chips here and a styrofoam cup of cockles, all served with a good dosing of sand blown in by the wind, and those damn children screaming as they're led to the toilet. It's only March! Why is that guy wearing shorts?!

Our starters at Bonnie Gull were to share. A scotch egg, a plate of squid, and a mackerel pate. It all sounds so simple written down, but it's not. Look at the pictures for the Lord's sake and tell me you don't want to eat the screen. That's good food. Really good food. Tasty food that you'll eat a plate of and wish you had more. Why bother describing it? Delicious. That's the only word you need.

My main continued in the same vein. Flaky white cod with mash, broccoli, and a langoustine reduction. That perfect balance of flavours: the plain fish, veg, and carbs, brought to life by the intense sweet reduction of seafoodie goodness.

I'm always slightly worried about the lack of carbs in such a finessed main course. Chefs of a high standard just don't consider the needs of the carb dependent man. But a sharing starter, a fair piece of fish, and a pudding mentally selected prior to starting is always likely to be more than enough, so I wasn't overly concerned - and banoffee pie is never going to fail to fill a hole, is it?

A thin wedge of a deeply rich dessert crumbled under the fork and clogged the arteries in the way a good pudding should. It makes me feel full and nauseous at the very memort. Yet, I'm still clammering for that next hit of sugar and dairy, like all addicts do.

Salvia inducingly good. Just like the rest of the food and what more to put a spring in my step than perfect food on a spring day, bouncing my way along the Oxford Road to witness the inevitable defeat of my football team - the Lord's good work (and the chefs), all undone in an afternoon.

Still, if your Saturday contains guaranteed misery, a visit to Bonnie Gull is far from a bad way to dull the pain.

10 Greek Street - Soho

10 Greek Street, Soho, London, W1D 4DH

Apart from some suburban idles, 38 long delays south along the District Line, and the area immediately outside Loftus Road, my outsiders vision of London was mainly based on Soho. Hours wandering around in the cold and dark, like a bunch of sore thumbs in a world we didn’t quite understanding, looking for a bar that we knew wouldn’t let us in. To my mind, London extended in this direction from King’s Cross until it hit the river and then further east than I was prepare to venture.

I’ve since learned this isn’t the case. London isn’t wholly a city of bicycle rickshaws, brightly lit sex shops, angry taxi drivers, overpriced pubs, dodgy looking clothes, and bars that won’t let three ‘lads’ in after 10.00, 11.00, 9.00, or whatever other round hour we happened to arrive after.

Soho isn’t either, it turns out. Well, it is mainly, but there are some decent bits, particularly tiny restaurants, with never ending queues spilling out into the front of those same angry taxi drivers.

10 Greek Street is such a place. So small, you’ll miss it, especially if that damn queue is there. Arrive early on a weeknight, that’s the tip with Soho and it’s definitely the tip with this place. Even better, send someone else and deliberately show up late - sorry Alex.

I’d like to say we began the meal by discussing Wichenstein over a game of backgammon; instead, we drank negroni’s and rambled about wine, addiction, and the corporate-shafting that is Valentine’s Day. The hot-topics of the day.

Starters were off the list for this meal, so the negroni and accompanying bread had to do. The beef was singing from the chalk-board: all £60 of it. It screamed my name and bullied everything else. When there’s £60 of beef to be had, who wants to know about the lesser animals of the farm?

This dish didn’t arrive, it landed. A monstrous plate of longhorn beef, cooked pink, and sliced into inch wide strips. The gorgonzola potato gratin and heap of kale acted as foundations to the main stage. It was a dish wellworth it’s price-tag. Succulent beef, sticky potato, buttery kale (or perhaps that was just the juice from the meat) - what more could you ask? The chalk bully, entirely justified it’s position.

When riding a high, any down is more crushing than it should be. Take the post holiday blues: work isn’t all that bad, but it feels terrible when you can’t just stop at 11.00am for a beer. The same can be said for a poor pudding after a cracking main course. The culprit here was rice pudding with rhubarb, so lacking in sugar it could have been a lemon. Pudding is basically a conduit for the sweet sweet sweet stuff, but if it’s removed and replaced with rhubarb it’s a recipe for a lip-suckingly tart dish that’s hard to enjoy.

Oh well, I suppose you can’t have your cake and eat it all the time. Or have your cake, eat it, and find it’s deliciously sweet...all of the time.

Next time, I'll just order more beef.

Like Soho? Read about the Pink Chihuahua.