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!).

Boom Burger - Notting Hill

272 Portobello Road, London, W10 5TY

Burgers, burgers everywhere, so let’s all stuff our face.

The relentless burger boom continues a pace into 2015, with a Byron appearing on every street corner and not a cloud in the medium-rare sky.

I like burgers, I truly do. The sweet, meaty, gooey goodness of fried minced-beef and cheese wedged within a solid white bun. It's the simple things in life that keep me going. One day, bust will follow boom though. What goes up, must come down. Etc, etc, etc. Burger vans, stands, and joints will make way for the Hawaiian grills, Bolivian rat 'n' rice balls, or whatever other cuisine next floats the hipster boat.

It'll be a shame, for their owners, but the rest of us can breath a little easier and take the belt back down a notch. Besides, we have plenty of South American rodent to eat.

Boom Burger in Notting Hill is one such 'restaurant' riding the waves (I never know whether to call a burger ‘joint’ a restaurant). Today, one place nestled under the dripping flyover of West London's A40; tomorrow, another nestled under the dripping ceiling of Brixton Village. An expansion from yesterday's hipsterville into today's.

Boom Burger is Jamaican themed. Where their standard burger is concerned, I'm not sure what that means. The burger has meat, cheese, and an onion relish. No Jamaican flavours added here, but as I’ve said before, I’m ignorant of most things Caribbean. Why, onion relish could well be a delicacy there.

Continuing my ignorance, I know not a thing about cooking plantain either. Still though, I know a slightly solid plantain lacking in sweetness when I see one. Perhaps not ripe enough? I don’t know, but I do know they weren’t great.

The burger, on the other hand, was fine. Said to be cooked medium rare, it turned up grey, but wasn't lacking for juice or flavour. The cheese and relish giving a sweet bite, on top of that soft meat. The bread, holding together well in the face of a slight liquid overload.

The premises though. Well, you can't blame the owners for the state of the flyover, the market stalls, or the piles of rubbish outside the door. You can, however, blame them for the shabby interior, the door that kept on banging, and the general untidiness of the place.

Okay, I’m buying a burger from a market in Notting Hill. I still expected a better standard though. I want to feel as if I can sit, eat, and wait to digest my food, not want to gulp ‘n’ blow out of there.

It was a real shame. I’ve wanted to visit Boom Burger for a long time. Now that I have, I don’t think I’ll be running back any time soon.

Pachamama - Marylebone

18 Thayer Street, W1U 3JY

Maybe I'm a soothsayer. No sooner do I write about the importance of good service then life provides a perfect demonstration. If it's true, screw food, I'll write about the lottery instead.

Dinner at Pachamama seemed a little high-brow for our standard Wednesday dinner club - which happens any day except Wednesday. It's a well-raved-about Central London hot-spot in the swankier part of town. So good, I was going to be gracing them with my presence for a birthday meal, according to the organiser.

It's not that we're a slovenly bunch, it's just a Tuesday, not really the day for fine (read expensive) dining. Oh well, when in Rome...or in this case Lima.

Opening the menu, I was surprised. Barely a dish above £10!

Then they arrived.

Ah. I see. It's small plates (note: I rarely research anywhere before I go, once being surprised that Iceland only serves frozen food) . Octopus for £10 did seem remarkably cheap, although at least with that dish it was two solid skewers of octopus, gone in three bites each. The beef was pushing the trade descriptions act: it contained beef - and very delicious it was too - but the plate was mainly vegetable. The crab though. Wow. A strong draught from a passing waiter and you can wave goodbye to your seven strands of crab flesh perched atop the potatoes.

So, the food at Pachamama is small, but it is good. Very good. The lamb belly, the ceviche, the aubergine, the asparagus - I could go on - each and every dish, stellar. There were a couple of complaints, mind you. The broccoli was disappointingly crunchy, as if they'd rush it through the kitchen, and the veal heart was, well...absent.

Yes, an absent veal heart. Absent, as we'd cancelled it. There's only so long you can wait for food and when your hunger starts to take control again, it's time to throw in the towel and leave.

I don't know what went wrong. Pachamama wasn't busy, nor was our order complex - just three extra dishes alongside three puddings.

At the time, the waiter blamed the chef. Later on, the restaurant blamed the waiter. I don't really care. All I know is, we left hungry, pit-stopping on the way home for a pudding.

It was a real shame and I'm not encouraging a witch hunt, but perhaps poor service is to blame. The little things brought into sharper focus following the debacle with the extra dishes. The waiter rarely wrote anything down. Only one drinks menu was ever handed out. Another waiter didn't understand my request for water and couldn't pronounce the word 'sprouts' - the latter isn't a problem, just funny, so I thought I'd mention it.

Ultimately, it was the failure to deliver those extra dishes in a timely fashion that let Pachamama down. The rough edges could easily have been overlooked with the quality of the food on offer - although, the quantity of some of the key ingredients was also a disappointment. Once one card falls, they all do (or something like that), and the long long wait was a big card (the analogy makes no sense now) that couldn't be righted with a round of pisco sours.

I'll be back to give them another try, maybe. Some wounds heal with time and that lamb belly would definitely make a good plaster.

Conrad's Beer - The Best of 2014 and other awards

Various (many London)

At this time of year every chef, restaurant manager, and restauranteur pays close attention to the broadsheets and their 'Best of 2014'. The most savvy among them keep a keen eye this way, though.

The Conrad's Beer Best of 2014 is THE make-or-break list for restaurants looking to attract my Mum as a customer. Without a good word in here, they'll never win her business.

To feature in the Best of 2014 list, the restaurant has to be one I've visited for the first time in 2014 and (for reasons I can't really explain) can't be located outside of the UK, so San Sebastián is out.

There's also one or two awards going for those who fail to make this list, for reasons both good and bad.

The Conrad's Beer Best of 2014

8. Eyre Brothers, Shoreditch

"A place like Eyre Brothers, with it’s refined dishes, crisp white napkins, and lack of craft ale shows that Shoreditch can offer cuisine above that of the half-foot burger, the bucket of diablo wings, and child-sized steak."

7. Mezcal Cantina, Dalston 
"A firm favourite on Instagram, the prawn tostadas were in the words of hipster culture, epic."

6. Carioca, Brixton

"Carioca is (a) culinary delight. Carioca serves up Brazilian delicacies, including a perfectly balanced lime-filled caipirinha."

5. Cafe Murano, Mayfair

"The food perfect, the portions a tad small, but all the more reason to order more courses. The vegetables crisp and fresh with tangy ricotta and a helping of someone else’s beef carpaccio."

4. Silk Road, Camberwell

"At £20, including beer and tip, Silk Road is a crazy steal. Try as you might, you couldn't spend more than £30 there, nor could you come away hungry."

3. The Bunk Inn, Berkshire

"With well-balanced flavours and a delightful presentation carried through every dish, you might find yourself taking a room, waiting for breakfast, and perhaps staying again for lunch."

2. Roxie Steak, Clapham Junction

"Roxie’s is...a destination for steak. A higher quality, higher value steak, you are unlikely to find in the capital."

1. House of Ho, Soho

"It's so good, we ordered more. A second helping is testament to the quality of the food, rather than any gaping hole in my stomach."

--- --- --- ---

The Conrad's Beer Alternative Awards 2014

The Plastic Basil Plant Award for the Worst Restaurant:
Yard, Shoreditch

"Halfway through the meal, we noticed a couple on one table clearly going through a break-up. It must be hugely depressing to be dumped while eating at a restaurant this bad, although if Yard is the sort of place he brings her on a regular basis, she was probably hugely relieved."

The Deer Hunter Award for the Strangest Dining Room:
Mien Tay, Bethnal Green

"The room upstairs...was empty, save for two flies circling the lightbulb, but it was definitely a room ready for something suspect, and if not roulette then storage for an ill-gotten whale or some unfortunate's bedroom. The duvet sticking out of a cupboard strongly suggested the latter.

Best Use of a Pig Product in a Drink: 

The Bayou Soul, Camden

"Cocktails at Bayou were of the more complex and refined variety. A bacon and maple syrup Old Fashioned was everything I’d expected and more - sweet, salty, smoky and sour; a well-balanced drink with a small ice-bowl of bacon pieces balanced on top."

The I Can't Believe It's Not Vodka Award:
Unnamed

An bar in Kensington, where the barman tried to pass a shot of water from a display bottle off as a shot of vodka. Apparently, this vodka is so smooth, you can't taste the 40% alcohol. Yeah...right.

--- --- --- ---

That concludes the awards for 2014. A big 'Well Done!' to the winners - and get your £10 in an envelope to the usual address asap. Cheers.

Le Relais de Venise L’Entrecôte

5 Throgmorton Street, London, EC2N 2AD

To my left sat four colleagues. Strangers to me, they clearly knew each other well, as why else would three of them put up with the loud noise emanating from the fourth?

Not just loud, but incessant. A constant stream of deafening drivel that suffocated all other sound from the air.

When the bill came, she left for the toilet. Now's your chance. Run. Run away before she returns. They couldn't. They were trapped by a need to pay the bill and, perhaps, the blissful relief of silence, not wishing to disturb that perfect fourth course of peace.

Before long, she was back, but thankfully coats were all on and they left quickly. The panes of glass trembled as she turned the corner and disappeared along the alleyway, into the dark night of the City.

Silence.

The sounds of the restaurant drifted back into focus. The clink of metal on plate, subtle laughter, murmured conversations, a few in French - a good sign. We were in Le Relais de Venise L’Entrecôte, a name I'm glad not to pronounce. Red booths, wooden panels, and Mr Creosote sat in the corner. The bedrock of a good French meal.

L’Entrecôte serves food in that most traditional of French ways: a small table, not large enough for the smallest of orders; fast, well drilled staff; and no concern to the preference of the customer.

It's good. One menu, one meal. Green salad, again served in that traditional French way - swimming in a bath of dressing - followed by steak and chips. That's chips, not frites. We're in England, dontcha know.

Okay, there is one choice. The steak can be cooked how you like, from the choices of either medium or rare. No chargrilled coal for my Mother then. If you're mad, you can also choose not to have a second helping of steak and chips; but, they probably ask you to leave if you did.

I have absolutely no problem with L’Entrecôte. I'm sick of choice. There are too many options on most menus, and a lot of them I discount anyway. No, let someone else choose for me and I'm a happy man. Besides, if the chef thinks he's best sticking to one thing he knows well and cooks well, who am I to complain? And it's steak, after all - thinly sliced, pink tinged steak, drowned (again) in a green garlic-herb-butter sauce. Who needs anything else?

The complete meal of 5 courses - I added a creme brûlée and very French it was too; although, almost £6 for burnt custard is a little cheeky - with a bottle of wine, came to a nice £70-odd quid. Simple to split with the person sitting opposite you and one of the best value meals you're likely to find in the City, without barging through the crowd at a Wetherspoons.

As the creme brûlée arrived, so too did another table of guests. Two men this time, sitting even closer, talking even louder. Girlfriends, wives, weddings, and infidelity - a conversation of such City-stereotypes, it was hard to gauge if this wasn't just put on as part of the experience. My ears began to ring, had I not scraped that pot of custard clean in record time, they'd have started to bleed.

Time to leave. That brief window of enjoyment, over. The food at L’Entrecôte cannot be faulted, especially at that price. The company on neighbouring tables, most certainly can. Go, please go, just take a pair of earplugs.

Paesan - Exmouth Market

2 Exmouth Market, London, EC1R 4PX

I don't like the term food blogger. It's meaning seems to be changing - evolving into a phrase that implies knowledge, understanding, and qualification to talk on the subject of food. I know and follow some food bloggers to whom that description fits, but the standard of their writing is so high they really should be known as food writers.

'Writer' is a step up, in my hierarchy, although perhaps you have to be paid to achieve that status. I don't know, it's all too confusing.

Needless to say, I'm not a expert on food. Far from it. I don't know what half the words on the menu mean, while the other half I struggle to spell. When it comes to reviewing restaurants, I have no direction, no editorial calendar. I go where I'm invited, I go where I'm taken, I go to places that take my fancy. I don't chase the latest craze. I don't chase the latest fad. My Instagram isn't curated. My reviews are generally just a collection of anecdotes and ramblings, with an opinion of the food left until the very end.

(So far, this piece is fitting the bill perfectly)

That's the point though. I'm not setting out to win Best Read Food Blog of 2014 or cover every single burger vendor in London. I'm not looking to sweep my cape up and down the street, destroying restaurants with a single utterance, while the maître d' lies in a puddle to stop my feet getting wet. If I achieve the latter, that's just a 'nice to have' really, not something I'm actually aiming for.

I write this, sat with a fictional glass of whisky at midnight on a Friday, as I enjoy doing it. That's it. And, if anyone enjoys reading it - that's good. Thanks, and I hope it's helpful the next time you eat out.

This is the best way to write. No pressure, no deadlines, no cares. So, on to another glass of fictional whisky and a quick mention of Paesan, on London's Exmouth Market (which is confusingly a street, not a market). Go there, it's very good!

Although, perhaps more than a three word review is needed this time...

They must put something in the water in Exmouth Market - the street has more top eateries than you could shake a fat bloated belly at. If I lived within a five minutes walk of the place, I'd be close to death. And what an incredibly well-fed, big-smile-on-my-face death that would be.

The problem is, with so much fantastic choice, expectations are high before you've even read the menu. Anyone dining at Paesan for the first time needn't worry though. As I said, it's very good!

A starter of burrata - a cheese filled with cream, that can cause an artery to harden from sight alone - with a sweet, spicy caponata, and cracker like flat bread, is a dish that has you questioning your attraction to your date. Do you really like them enough to share this fairly? What is fair anyway? The government say a man needs 2,500 calories vs. 1,500 for a woman. Technically, fair is a 62.5% share of this burrata in my favour. Gimme gimme gimme!

Best to go to Paesan with someone you don't really like, who doesn't eat a lot. Or just eat alone. I wouldn't judge you. Again, it's very good.

Next, pappardelle with beef shin ragu. Long strands of slurpingly good fresh egg pasta, covered in a sweet tomato sauce and beef cooked for so long, tender doesn't begin to describe it. Seriously, this meat had been boiled down to a plate of DNA, or whatever it becomes when meat has broken into strands thinner than, well, strands. Do I really need to say it? 

It's very good.

Then we hit the pudding and, perhaps, that three word review doesn't quite hold true.

I'm just never sure about Italian restaurants and pudding. It might be heresy to say, but there must be more to Italian desserts than panna cotta and tiramisu. Both dishes are usually a pile of cream, shoved in a glass with as much care, attention, and love as a parent gives a dead hamster. It's then left at the back of the fridge until someone hears the scratching and realises there's still life left in the damn thing.

Not that Paesan's pudding had any trace of rodent, you understand. It's just a bit dull. I blame myself for ordering the panna cotta. Perhaps it's a 'must have' for the English on an Italian menu, but it's their choice to put it on the menu and having followed the preceding two courses, it should light up my mouth like a marshmallow on a sparkler, not have all the excitement of a pot of Elmlea...or that dead hamster.

I'll throw down the gauntlet then, to all Italians (or Italian restaurateurs) who may never read this review - please point me in the direction of a good Italian pudding!

In summary, issues with Italian puddings aside...Paesan - it's very good.

The Canton Arms - Stockwell

177 South Lambeth Road, London, SW8 1XP

'And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made'

- Genesis 2:2

It was a hard week for God. He’s a divine being, so you may think nothing can be that difficult for him; but then building Ikea furniture is fairly tough and he built quite a bit more than that. Cut him some slack.

The question of what it means to be divine settled, I can safely say God must have been pretty tired from that first week of work. Not only did he work six days straight, building the heavens, the earth, and all the other add-ons, he also worked the first week of work ever. Imagine that? The first week back from holiday is bad enough, but the first week ever, with an extra day on top?! A commendable effort.

That is, of course, if it was truly the first week ever and we aren’t just another in a long line of pointless pet projects. Who knows how many other heavens and earths he might have lying around, strewn across the floor like so many unfinished Lego sets on Boxing day. An unfinished state would explain a few things - war, famine, climate change, Nigel Farage. And it’s likely that as a bachelor he can get away with leaving things unfinished and untidy - another point for the prosecution. It’s not like his pacifist of a son is going to complain either.

If we say he did work that week, if we say it was hard work, if we say he rested on the seventh day, I imagine, aside from praying (to himself) that Sky Sport’s Super Sunday wasn’t 2,000 years away, God ate. 

Religious or not, Sunday is a day for feasting. Preparing the body and mind for the week ahead by stretching your stomach beyond its limit and drinking to excess. While the house is a fairly good place to do this, eating out is better. For one thing, there’s no washing up. For another, God’s left his latest misfiring planet in pieces on the kitchen floor - cooking that roast isn’t looking so appealing.

Local pubs do a roaring trade on a Sunday. None more so than The Canton Arms. It’s an early bird that gets a table here for more than two people. Luckily, being only two of us, we managed to sneak in at the last two stools, pulled up tight against the bar. Sitting there, drinking orange juice and chewing on freshly baked bread, while sneering at the suckers in the queue, up just slightly too late to beat us to the front. They probably stayed in to help God find a new lightbulb.

I think of the Canton as the perfect pub. It lacks pretension, just a good chalkboard of specials, beer from decent sources, and everything made of old booze-soaked wood. I’m sure some purists would cry heresy that half the pub is dedicated to food, but screw them. It’s the 1530s again and we’re starting a new perfect pub religion. Besides, pubs in the wilds of South London aren’t going to survive on drinks alone; well, not if they’re also going to remain habitable. 

Another thing that makes this pub perfect is its use of round plates. That’s right, round plates. I don’t like eating from square plates, tiles, chip frying baskets, buckets, hammocks, or miniature urinal troughs. If the food is beyond excellent, then by all means waste time in Habitat buying something ‘kooky’ to serve it on. If it’s anything below that, spend my money practicing in the kitchen, not staring at a potter’s wheel.

I made my choice almost immediately. The Canton serves up a slim menu of ‘traditional’ roasts. Beef for one, duck for two, and lamb shoulder for five. Arrgh, is the noise I make when I read the word lamb on their chalkboard. I never visit with enough people to tackle that monster though, so fish it was. That’s right, fish. I’ve had the beef before. It’s pink, moist, tender, delicious, and filling. Today, I wanted three courses, so beef wasn’t an option. Instead, a whole lemon sole, drowned in butter, and hollandaise sauce. So delicate, so sweet, so fresh, so perfect. I’m going to make that noise again. Arrgh.

The fish followed a portobello mushroom, baked with spinach cheese and breadcrumbs. It’s good food for a cold day. Smokey and sticky, a cheese not too heavy on the nose, but lacking salt. With a mushroom that size, you’re going to need a fair amount to seem adequate once cooked.

The fish preceded a flourless chocolate cake darker than the night and twice as bitter. It’s a trick this dessert. Like a dwarf wrestler, it might not look tough, but it is. A deep richness and condensed calorie content that makes the accompanying honey and yoghurt ice-cream look healthy by comparison. Following the beef with this dish would be an error. Following the lamb with this dish would be fatal.

Three courses, bread, and no beer. As we left, the sun shone through the almost ornate original windows that line the perfect pubs front wall, illuminating the queue of would-be-diners still waiting for their loaves and fishes. Clearly, God had found his torch and if this demand continues, The Canton Arms might have to employ his son in the kitchen.

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.

Silk Road - Camberwell

49 Camberwell Church Street, London, SE5 8TR

Another day, another meal. Sometimes it's hard living this middle-class dream of visiting restaurant after restaurant after restaurant. Of course, no-one wants to do the washing up, but sometimes you tire of yet more rich food, yet more fried meat, yet more time spent analysing rather than just enjoying a dish.

As the sound of tiny violins subsidies, I have to say, it's not all bad. The reason my Sainsbury's bill is so low each week is for the love of food and the search for a great eating experience. Silk Road in Camberwell proved one such delight, a reason to lift my chin and keep on eating.

I'm not knowledgable when it comes to food in London. I don't really follow trends or read endless copies of TimeOut and Observer Food Monthly. I'm lazy and rely on spoon feeding via a combination of Twitter and friends. Silk Road has won many plaudits and awards, but I'd never heard of it. Instead, adhering strictly to the rules of Supper Club, I headed out through the dank, dark drizzle to a pub I'd not been before, knowing not what I was about to eat. This is the best way to dine. No expectation really. Just the excitement of stumbling across a gem, without any of the legwork in researching the restaurant and booking the table.

Silk Road is a small-fronted, condensation covered Chinese restaurant in the heart of Camberwell, a place that seems to have more pubs, restaurants, and eateries than transport links. As a rule, Chinese restaurants are styled in one of two ways: overly ornate opium dens from the 1920s, where the menu is expensive, and the chairs are carved from the bones of pandas; white-washed rooms, with cheap laminate flooring, even cheaper food, and benches and tables stolen from a 1950s primary school. The latter is always the best and it's exact description of Silk Road. No airs, no graces, just staff in t-shirts taking orders, delivering food, and telling people they'll have to wait half-an-hour for a table.

A table of three, we ordered quickly and were delivered a conveyor belt of food within minutes. Cold roast belly pork, smothered in garlic and chilli was both first and my favourite. It was real roast pork, that tasted like leftover Sunday roast, chopped, and added to a marinade long after it was cooked. Lamb skewers, chilli covered aubergine and pak choi followed. The real winner was yet more pork, this time with black fungus, served in a light broth with greens included. So fresh and so moreish.

Finally, a medium chicken with noodles landed on the table. Who knows how big the large version is. Jay Rayner said it could feed two, the waitress was adamant that the large dish was overkill. To be honest, regardless of it's size, I couldn't quite grasp the fuss - and that wasn't the only thing. It's a tasty, spicy sea, with chicken, potato, and noodles floating in it. A frustrating dish, the noodles seem to come as one long entrail, leaving you fighting with chopsticks to make them small enough to extract from the pot. The chicken, with the bone, required too much fiddling and picking to make sure the small splinters were all removed. The potato was just filler. Again, a tasty dish, but not quite the hyped dish I'd read about and certainly not something I'd be fighting my way onto the number 36 bus for.

At £20, including beer and tip, Silk Road is a crazy steal. Try as you might, you couldn't spend more than £30 there, nor could you come away hungry. The dishes are cheap and generous and the service fast. The fact that's it's full of Chinese diners and trendy South Londoners is fairly revealing - they're clearly a restaurant appreciated by all. Just be a little careful on the spice rating, however. The one chilli seemed hot enough to melt my mouth (which doesn't take a lot, to be fair), who knows what the three chilli would do.

The Fish & Chip Shop - Liverpool Street

Dashwood House 69 Old Broad Street, London, EC2M 1NA

What do tourists eat in England? That's right, fish 'n' chips. Great big pieces of questionable white fish, lathered in a thick soggy batter, and fried in oil so filthy it could pass for crude. They'll pay dearly for the privilege and leave thinking England's culinary excellence is as overstated as its football team. A big 'Thank you!' to every chain-owned pub around Covent Garden.

It doesn't have to be like this and The Fish & Chip Shop shows how it should be done. Delicate white fish, encased in a light crisp batter. That's it, nothing else needs to be said - on the fish at least.

The Fish & Chip Shop 'chain' have two restaurants, one in Islington and one in the City. Tucked along an alleyway just off Liverpool Street, next door to the picturesque lawn of a church, and opposite the old Dollhouse Gentleman's Club, this new branch sparkles warmly through an L-shaped wall of glass. Inside, an oval bar is surrounded by small round tables for four and booths for a couple more. It's clean, crisp like the fish, and very welcoming - the theatrics of the guy on the door would please the tourists too.

Served promptly and politely, with two courses polished off in an hour, there aren't many complaints from me really. The insistence on bringing my food in separate bowls is a slight gripe. The fish looked lonely and less than impressive sat on its own. This is a hearty meal and I want to see a piping hot plate, spilling over as chips fight fish fight peas for the precious space of the enamel. The chips are the wrong sort too. They're fat, but they crunch. Where are the soggy chips that fall apart in your hands as you overload them with ketchup or curry sauce?

The minor gripes aside, plus an additional one for glass of ice with my beer (really? I don't know what that's about), I'd give The Fish & Chip Shop a healthy seal of approval, if I gave out such things. Definitely worth a visit if the queue for Poppies is too staggeringly huge, which it always seems to be.

Pret a Manger - London

Everywhere

Working freelance exposes you to the ghosts of the day time. Dashing between meetings, you cross the path of lost tourists, mid-morning drinkers, and a whole host of lunatics in-between. There they stand (or lie), lining the pavement, clogging the escalator, asking bus drivers nonsense questions, all with the aim of slowing your day down or sideswiping your drink into the gutter.

On the plus side, you become an expert on coffee shops; particularly where to get the best coffee, at the lowest price, with the fastest internet. Pret a Manger - that lunchtime staple of office workers and crayfish sandwich-munching mayors - offers up a brew at 99p. That's correct, a single pound for a coffee, with a penny change. Daylight robbery or proof that only a fool pays £2.20 for a latte?

A significant reduction in price usually correlates with a significant reduction in quality. Not so with Pret's filter. It's a dark, earthy coffee, with a slight citrus note (am I reading the press release correctly? Joke). An Autumnal drink, perfect for cold days sat snug behind a desk or leant against the doors of the 55 bus. Weak enough to be drunk by the pint, but with enough strength to see a caffeine addict through to the Spring - it's the perfect all-day-every-day kind of drink. There's no tastier way to rent Central London office space, for rural backwater prices, plus you have a penny leftover for the guy sat at the door.

House of Ho - Soho

57-59 Old Compton Street, Soho, London, W1D 6HP

Shopping is always more chaotic than you think it'll be. Even with a fixed list, you get sidetracked buying jeans you didn't know you needed and held up while shop assistants lazily look for the trainers you really do. No matter the weather, the basement changing rooms are hot and humid, dripping with sweat. Two hours later, two hundred pounds down, and in possession of two damp armpits, you're ready to quit.

Thank God for lunchtime deals and thank God for Twitter for altering me to them. House of Ho, a Soho restaurant that comes highly recommended, are selling dishes for £5 between twelve o'clock and four. Do my eyes deceive me?

No. No they don't. And no queue either. I waltz through the door and glide effortlessly to a table for two at the window. Or rather, I drag seven heavy bags across the threshold, pant unintelligible words towards a scared looking barman, and throw myself down next to the open window, with the tramps, dead bicycles, and sex shops of Soho beyond. It's not a nice view.

Fortunately, inside, this is a pleasant restaurant with incredibly good food. Chilli squid - fast becoming a favourite of mine - is tender with a hot hit of chilli and a dip to match. The lobster - that's right, lobster, for £5! - is served in perfect small bites on top of a bed of glue-like noodles. I can forgive the noodles. It's £5 lobster! A sweet and salty duck 'salad' comes overflowing with nuts, chilli, and noodles - delicious. The real surprise was a plate of 'heavenly flowers'. I've no idea what this is. It looked like a pile of tiny flower heads, devoid of petals, with a small garnish of fried shallots sat on top. It tasted incredible.

It's so good, we ordered more. A side of edamame and a bowl of noodles, with green leaves and slices of seared beef. A second helping is testament to the quality of the food, rather than any gaping hole in my stomach.

I'll be back to House of Ho. Definitely. Although it may just be back for lunch, this time armed with an even larger roll of five pound notes, in place of those seven bags of shopping.