San Sebastián - Spain

San Sebastián, Spain

The car wound through the hills along a smooth empty Sunday afternoon motorway. In the back, gripping the handle, yet sliding across the leather seat, staring out at the blue sky, bright sun, and hilltops of grey rock and yellowing grass. Here and there, a lone stone house clung to the cliff, a wandering sheep or three grazing the garden. The driver spoke of food, food, and more food. A proud Basque, advertising his home like a verbal billboard.

San Sebastián is a quiet city of sun, sand, food, and a ferocious sea. The towering rocks flanking the bay are battered both jagged and smooth by the relentless waves. The picture perfect promenade shines white with salt and a shimmer of spray. Everywhere, pensioners sit while everyone else runs, cycles, or surfs. Anything to burn the fat of a city built on calories.

As the light fades, the chatter continues inside. A touch back from the harbour, cobbled streets and shear houses arranged in terrace touch the sky. Downstairs, the frantic bar, piled high with pintxos and flooded with tourists, marshalled by staff fluent in every language. Plate and pint balanced on a table's corner, the rounds of bread and sweet, savoury, salty toppings are consumed for a round price. 8 euro, 10 euro, 15 euro - mental arithmetic calculated from an imagined memory and the crumbs.

Lubricated by beer, wine, and cheesecake, the walk home is a stumble. The harbour and bay both black as the sky. The sound of waves crashing against rock and wire against mast the only warnings of the water. The silence is golden. The odd car, the odd bike, the odd jogger. The occasional window glows yellow, the occasional orange tip dances in the dark. Leaves crunch underfoot along the unlit pathways of the park and the calf-straining steps of the hotel stairs.

The next morning is fresh. Sunlight and cloud, rain in bursts. Trainers on, it's a length of the bay, touching opposing sculptures and slipping on the wet paving. A last drink in the church of the glutton and a final dance with the cheesecake. It's back home tomorrow. Back through those winding hills, back to rainswept England and it's mat grey clouds, back carrying memories flooded with the scents of food, wine, and scenery.

Next stop, Scotland.

Koya - Soho

49 Frith Street, London, W1D 4SG

‘So, which is the best restaurant in London?’ is an unanswerable question. I doubt anyone has eaten in every restaurant, for one thing. For another, tastes ebb and flow. One minute the bandwagon is carting ceviche, then pulled pork, eel fed duck, and lemongrass served on a bed of candied orange peel. Each time it changes, a different restaurant is the new found star, while the others are shunned like a leper colony.

A better question would be, ‘what’s your favourite restaurant in London?’ It’s still not an easy one though. Aside from the fact that I don’t really know what I’m talking about, my tastes change depending on the time of day. Foie gras makes for an unappealing breakfast, while a kebab looks mightily tempting at 2.00am, and a McDonald’s breakfast is just thing after you’ve had more pints than sleep the night before.

At a certain time of the day – specifically between the hours of 5.30 and 6.30pm - Koya is in my top 5. At any other time, the queue for this small noodle bar on Frith Street, Soho, stretches to the ridiculous lengths of an iPhone launch. I’m not one of those ‘don’t queue on principle types’. I don’t queue because it’s dinner time and I’m hungry. I’ll just go somewhere else.

As well as a certain time slot, Koya is best be visited on a cold damp Autumnal day. Scarves tightened to eleven, brown wet leaves underfoot. It’s not like we’re short of those, hence the constant queue. They serve noodles in a broth, with various meat and vegetables floating in it. A sweet, salty nourishing dish that tests the dexterity of diners. Thick udon noodles easily slip from chopsticks, spoons, and mouths, dribbling down chins, and sending broth splashing on to the po-faced couple who share the same small, intimate table for four.

Koya also serve an interesting array of ever-changing sides. Last time, it was hay smoked venison. This time, slices of pickled carrot and turnip, tempura pumpkin with a honey cured egg yolk and chilli salt. The pickles, firm, smooth to the touch, with a delicious bitter tang. The pumpkin, wrapped in its crisp blanket, hotter than the sun. Chopped, cooled, and dipped in the warm glowing egg, with a dusting of the spiced salt. Fantastic.

So, what’s my favourite London restaurant between 5.30 and 6.30pm on a cold September Monday evening? Koya. Next question…