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.

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.

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.