Billy & Me Quest for Eats

26-27 Lisle Street, London, WC2H 7BA
Telephone: 0871 0752925

I’ve been reading Orbital by Ian Sinclair recently and so have decided to do this blog in the style of a near-random-train-of-thought. I’ll just keep typing for a few minutes and when I stop for more than 3 seconds I’ll post it up unedited. How exciting…

Searching for food through London’s cheaper options. Behind bars. Corridors of greying brick; having stood accepted for years are now upstaged by gaudier new rivals. Amongst the last of these narrow passages. Kintaro. Dodging black-cabs. Shuffling restuaranters. Chinatown’s attic where the backward cousins live. A bucket of fishheads a week. Sushi to our western palates. And all the more agreeable for it. Crammed seats. German sharp words hitting the ribs and nudging the headrest. Bento ordered and delivered. Wasabi hot. Miso revitalising. Mackerel swimming in sweet Terkiyaki like some Lea survivor pushing to the freedom of the Thames. Freedom just means you have no choices left. Tea and beer in equal quantities. The great bridge between East and West was beneath our feet all along!!! The bottoms of our glasses just obscured it. How were we to know; nurtured on Hawksmoor, Constantine and sarnies? This new wave no/know better. Memorising phonetic codes and suggestions to validate ties and shiny shoes. Asahi! Kirn! Stella!?!?!!?!! You know only compromise. But compromise is good enough surely; if the new natives do it. If their standards are trustworhty and they surely are then there is no argument. None. It passes all tests. Imported qualities of vim and vigour for our pallid euro forms. Beers offered to suit every adventure, every fear. Quantities for my invertebrate friend. Best Value!!! Recommended.

Billy: 6
Eoin: 8
Googlemap here

So we’ve been asked to comment upon Rummers (apparently not a reference to spirit soaked drunks), a fairly unassuming pub in Cardiff by.. well I suppose I should refer to him as a friend (this chapee here:)…. But we’re not entirely sure why…

We had stopped over in Cardiff to see Joe, our former flatmate, on our way to the camping holiday in the Brecons. We hadn’t seen Joe for a while and had a genuinely lovely morning walking into Cardiff centre via a riverside walk and, after a good hour or so in the National Museum looking at stuffed seagulls, hearing the booming voice of a whale condemn us and our earth-raping kind, and lingering over the stunning sketches of DaVinci, we were kinda peckish.

There was some genuine nostalgia for Deptford days as I dragged us from place to place; refusing to enter a franchise I recognised and eschewing all things chrome… searching for Authenticity. Even the faux authentic would do. I’m not hard to please; write up your menu with chalk, put a stuffed animal over the bar and call your sliced pan ‘rustic’ and you’ve pretty much got me fooled.

Rummers delivered.

Now the food wasn’t that great. A bowl holding a chicken breast wrapped up like some Egyptian prince in bacon slices and draped generously in a tomato sauce… a thick slice from a steak and ale pie; black pie-juice oozing out to be eagerly mopped up with fries and peas… It was all perfectly fine.

But… nice relaxed staff, crazily uneven wooden furniture, names scraped like schoolyard compass graffiti into the table tops, old skool prices… It had me at hello.

Eoin: 6
Billy: 7
Googlemap: I actually can’t find the address of the place online… Errr… it’s near the castle… beside the Millets with the cool action-pants on sale.

I’m unsure if it indicates the enticing nature of this surprisingly large Indian in this small Welsh town or the lack of any alternatives but the scent of their kitchen drew us in from three streets away. Having had a similar time again; being turned away from three restaurants who (of course!!!) do not serve any food after 8 in the evening and having turned ourselves away from two particularly dodgy pubs where the locals stopped the dusty tape deck to stare as we ventured over the mantle of the door;

The service, as is common in East Aisan restaurants, was polite and curt. On a tangent. this prompted a conversation concerning the relative manners of different eateries from different cultures; the typical overbearing servitude of Americans, the well-mannered and clipped nicities of East Asian curry houses, and the wide spectrum of manners in European establishments; ranging from the perfect blend of distance and informal humour to the downright rude. As we swapped stories of reasons for skipping out without paying we were presented with a good sized menu of interesting dishes.

I opted for the lamb gohst and our companion for the biryani with chicken and, oddly, potatoes. There was, of course, …. selection of beers; a pint of Cobra or a half pint of Cobra. After some deliberation we selected the former.

The meals were well presented; kept warm on small grills. the gohst was a standard fare and perfectly fine. I had tentatively asked for it to be served hot; something that, from the Brick Lane curry houses, usually has me weeping with every toilet visit for days afterward. Here, while it was perfectly tasty, it was milder than Clark Kent visiting his in-laws. The biryani was quite unusual in that the sauce was served seperately so the diner could add it as required to what was essentially fried rice. I wonder if this reflects on the local folks’ taste or the perception of us as muddy booted sun kissed stoopido tourists… which wouldn’t be too far off the mark.

Billy: 7
Eoin: 6

Google map location is here

Having narrowly avoided releasing flocks of sheep hell-bent on automotive suicide and skirting through small lakes of crimson muddied waters we arrived at the Black Mountain Campsite. The name is something of a misnomer as its actual location is perhaps a hours drive from the mountains. But close enough to begin our weekend of walks and outdoor fun in Wales.

The campsite appeared well poistioned for walks and with excellent facilities…. at least according to their website… But also, to be fair to our naivety, according to reviews on VirtualTourist and TripAdvisor.

Drawing information from the stoic man in reception was akin to my drawing a warm welcome in Cork. As he kicked his dogs to aside, the dialogue unfolded like this…

Man: “… ”
Us: “… Hi, we’d like somewhere to pitch our tent tonight”.
Man: “… ”
Us: “…Ermmm…. would it be okay to pitch it here… in this… campsite ”
Man: “Yes ”
Us: “…”
Man: “… ” (he moves to close the door)
Us: “Oh! Excuse me! Where would we set up the tent?”
Man: “Over there (note that he does not signal any location) or in the high field”
Us: “Errrrrrr”
Man: (Again the man moves to close the door)
Us: “Sorry! Where?”
Man: ” Over there” (this time he nods to his left)
Us: “…. And where is the High Field”
Man: “Drive back the way you came and take the left instead of the left you took”
Us: “…”
Man: (He finally succeeds in closing the door)

We are about to knock on the door again to ask about the facilites but decided against it thinking we should be able to locate them ourselves. Shortly afterward as we set up our tent on the raggedy unkempt lawn we noticed that the equally raggedy denizens of the campsite who emerged from their trailers to gather in small groups to peer, alluding somewhat to the mise en scene of David Lynch’s earlier works.

So onto our reason for this adventure; walks and picnics. These were, to give the locale its due, lovely. The lakes around the Brecon’s are well worth your time. The way-marked trials are easy to follow, none too crowded, and very scenic. What the surrounds lack in drama they make up for in tiny treasures. Bursts of bluebells beneath sagging old oaks; lines of silverbirch sketched sharply in the dark under the pine trees; fascinating little treasures of owls and foxes sculpted into tree trunks dotted along the path; all rather lovely.

After our jaunt, we drove on back to our campsite; relishing what the Curry Night sign by the pub door promised. Relishing in vain!! We rocked up to the bar, eyes wandering over the menu, to be told that we had missed the closing of the kitchen by 10 minutes. Asking for just a basket of chips or even some toast was met only with apologetic smiles. So… we accepted it as being our own fault and settled down with pints hoping to mask our hunger before returning to our cold tent.

… What led us to into a simmering hunger-fuelled rage was our spending the next 40 minutes seeing every table around us being served heaped portions of lasagne, fish pie, steak and the like. Their mild irritation at being served some three quarters of an hour after ordering didn’t quite meet ours as, again, we were told that the kitchen had closed an hour ago and we would have to try again tomorrow night.

These kind words of advice unsurprisingly failed to cheer our spirits as we tucked into our peanut dinners…

The following morning we decided against spending even a few coins on the battery operated showers; the dank unlit rooms with no shelves and crooked doors failed to entice. We simply packed our tent and headed on our way.

Billy: 0
Eoin: 0

Google map location here
Black Mountain Campsite: http://www.blackmountainholidays.co.uk/

So… Amsterdam… After our horrific journey we really did have a rather nice weekend.

Falling prey to the malicious advertising utilised by cheap long term parking companies we were forced to journey from Streatham to Heathrow where we missed our plane (if you’ve ever had this happen, you’ll understand the mystery of actually trying to get out of the airport… oddly no one, even the security guards can tell you how to leave). So, leaving poor little Neville (our dishevelled Citroen) behind we made our way to Gatwick (ironically a half hour from our flat), waited around for three hours as our minds turned to dust and then were on our way!!

So… I like Amsterdam a lot. I often forget what a pretty city it is. With wonderfully eccentric buildings slowly collapsing against one another framing wide open picturesque canals, housing such friendly and warm people.. it’s a wonderful destination for a short city break.

… Food however they just don’t do. For your consideration I present Amsterdam’s fast food.

Brilliant notion. A half-assed filthy kitchen partially obscured by a wall of glass shelves.

Where for a mere 1.20 EUR you can get this:

Wonderful, by inserting coins into a weird kitchen/wall; I recieved a tube of odd curry-flavoured cheesymeatypaste covered in hard crumbs of cheesymeatypaste.

Hours past and still I could taste it lingering like a slow death on my every breath.

Eoin: 1
Billy: 5

Papageno Restaurant
29-31 Wellington Street
London WC2E 7DB
Look for their map here: http://www.papagenorestaurant.com/contactus.htm

“It’s called chronic healing.. it’s all about meditation and your chakras; it’s very important to meditate every day” the words come repeated again and again and AGAIN from the table beside us… All delivered in the most ‘fingernails being drawn slowly over a blackboard’ of eastern US accents. Yet, even this (nor the slightly sinisiter extra from the Soprano’s eyeing my companion) can detract from the sheer opulent delight to be found in our surroundings.

Papageno is just plain fun.

Tacky gold wraps of material, gold painted exposed pipes, and sprayed gold classical instruments cleverly disguise peeling walls and filthy brickwork. It’s a delight visually.

… and the food ain’t bad either. I had the Big Boss Seafood Selection (I shit you not; I was the biggest boss of all) for starters with the Monkfish for my main course. It reminded me very much of Eastern European fare; very simple dishes served up to a reasonably good quality. Nothing particularly praiseworthy in either skill or innovation. I think the only thing that really bothers me about this style of food (which, to be fair, almost always leaves me satisfied) is that it can only ever be so good. New potatoes, monkfish and steamed vegtables reach their taste event horizon at a an early stage and, once the bill over-reaches that mark, I start getting annoyed.

Papageno cuts it very close but, with the surroundings being as ludicrous as they are, we can forgive it.

Billy: 7
Eoin: 7

The Delhi Brasserie
44 Frith Street
London
W1D 4SB

Well… you can’t beat the tableside entertainment at least…

Oddly the Europride festival was timed exactly alongside the England match in the World Cup. It was difficult to tell who was who as virtually everyone there was a barechested male skinhead… We took to spotting either Red Bull or Stella Artois in their hands, which was a reliable method. See: http://www.flickr.com/photos/waxydan/180575295/

The food that arrived was perfectly adaquete; prompt, plentiful and fairly tasty, as you can see…

… but nothing to really write home about.

So I won’t.

Billy: 6
Eoin: 5

I went in with some friends to see Cabaret last night in an open-air cinema.

It really does drive home how Liza Minnelli became such a star. She is, much like her character Sally, phenomenally talented. She has an engaging charisma onscreen. Her voice is astoundingly joyful and she raises laughs with just a quiver of an eyebrow or a wrinkle of her nose.

The venue, of course, accentuated the theatrics on screen. Scoop are running a series of open air events by Tower Bridge and, with the setting sun tinting the dramatic London skyline with pinks and golds, it’s a rather wonderful stage.

The crowd were very appreciative; singing along to the increasingly grotesque cabaret performances, but knowing just when the movie had finally turned that corner and was no longer suitable for camp karaoke. A slow uneasy silence settled over the initially rambunctious audience perfectly in step with the growing Nazi presence in the movie. Of course, the final number brought that lustful singing back from the crowd.

Go and rent it, it’s a wonderfully tragic film.

But… to bring it back on theme. The picnic!

If you happen to be in London Bridge station and you happen to be looking for a bag of snacks to nibble upon; head down the ground level and follow your noise to the food courtish area. There you will find a small stand selling dried foods. Dried Razchenberries (that have a peculiar taste reminiscent of a jellybaby made with real fruit), sugared mango strips, chocolate covered espresso beans and, best of all, chocolate covered stem ginger. Go, it’s rather tasty.

Littl’ Billy though was rather disappointed with the lack of either carbs or quantity. I couldn’t stand to see him like that, so cheered him up with fish, chips and mushy peas.

Eoin: 8
Billy: 2
Link to Googlemap: here

Another entirely unrelated blog entry I’m afraid (perhaps I should just start a “here’s some crap I found online” blog)…

But I had to post this, I was left with no choice.

MyCatHatesYou dot com

Mint in Streatham was a very pleasing find last Saturday night. Having recently moved into the area we haven’t really had much of a chance to explore as of yet. Poor litt’ Billy’s been gnarling and gnashing indignantly.

Oddly it seems that I’ve discovered one of the best kept secrets in London, or I imagined the entire evening. As the bar fails to make an appearance on beerinthe evening, fluidstyle, viewlondon or any of my usual mainstay sites. But this looks like the only mistake the management have made as everything else is spot on.

We arrvied back from the West End after a day of serious shopping. I always find shopping for glasses or shoes stressful and, having spent hours doing both, I was in the mood for beer, and a lot of it. Thankfully Mint provided.

We popped off the 159 early to see more of our new area; full of high hopes for Streatham High Street (recently voted the worst high street in Europe). We weren’t too dissappointed spying a few places to try out again: Bar 61, Perfect Blend and Chico’s among them.

Mint is simply a nice place with nice people. The staff are attentive, chatty and quick-witted and the customers seem chilled and good-humoured. Even the security carry out their job with inobtrusive efficiency and humour.

We order a steak sandwich. Always a risky venture as you’re never quite sure what will be served up to you. Billy was delighted as the meat came as steak always should; seared, rare and bloody. The large fleshy portobello mushroom and the thin layer of strong cheddar worked a treat.

A moment should also be taken for their cocktails (happy hour from 5 til 7). The aptly named Lychee Love Machine is composed of ground fresh lychees, lemongrass, something else that I’ve entirely forgotten, vodka and topped off with cinnamon bark. It’s an interesting and varied cocktail menu, and not too pricey.

In short, Mint is something Streatham needs; somewhere with good food and service with comfortable surrounds where you can sit, chat and relax.

On a tangent, I’ve read recently that Lambeth council plan to take action against the bar as its shopfront is breaking the conservation order placed on the area. I find this startling as the street is simply ugly: plain and simple. Rows of bookmakers, takeaways and franchise stores do little to add to local character. It would be something of a disgrace if one of the few businesses to add at least something to the appearance of the high street with well-designed and welcoming front was taken to court for its efforts.

Billy:7
Eoin:8
Location: As mentioned above, this bar is impossible to find online so I don’t have an address for it. You’ll find it on Streatham High Road, opposite Streatham Hill station.

First off, deepest apologies for the long absence (Billly says sorry too). In short, buying a flat in London has proven to be one of the most trying experiences of my life. If you’re interested you can read a more in-depth report of our trial here (http://www.43things.com/people/progress/Waxy_Dan/1512187).

Anyways, now that we’ve spent a good month on cheese toast, we’re ready to get back into action with a whole new area to explore.

(just on a note of honesty: my last entry was the slow cooker, anything coming after that, I’m back-dating)

I think this is a pub that deserves a lot more attention (though not too much; then Billy might not get through the crowds to get his Friday night feeding).

In an area often derided from being devoid of any daring dens of.. okay, I’ve run of of ‘d’ words… New Cross isn’t exactly famed for its tempting array of eateries and bars. To be fair, that’s not without reason; the A2 snakes through the area covering everything with a thick lair of soot. Many of the shop-fronts on the street are boarded up and there’s always some hassle by the train stations. In New Cross, the sirens never stop.

But, I have to point out, having lived there for well over a year; there are some fantastic places to go and things to see. While, you might have to put more work into finding them then you would in Brick Lane or similar; I’ve found that there are often of more genuine worth and sincerity. Whether a gallery, a cafe, a market, or, in this case, a pub.

The Walpole is, simply put, a bloody good pub.

On a Friday evening, you can usually get a seat with after a short wait at the bar. On a Sunday you can stroll in and there’s still some hustle and bustle to keep you alive and entertained. The crowd’s a great mix of students from Goldsmiths across the road, market traders and locals. There may even be a gig on and, should it be the guy we saw a week or so ago, you’d be very lucky. Somewhat reminiscent of Billy Bragg, the singer-songwriter had string of lyrics both cynical and loving of the area.

The food is unusual in two distinct ways: 1) it’s New Cross and it hasn’t been deep-fried and 2) it’s thai food and it’s varied and good. We’ve had chicken-on-a-stick with satay (good sauce; rich and nutty), pad thai (the thai staple; served hot, very spicy, and with that fresh bite that Thai food should always have), green curry (this, frankly, wasn’t all that hot), and beef fried in basil (which was excellent). I’ve been served far worse in Bangkok… and I was never served bad food in Bangkok.

Billy: 6
Eoin: 8
Locations:
407 New Cross Road
SE14 6LA
Google it here

(Image is stolen from http://www.fancyapint.com/main, sorry guys).

Oooh yeah… that’s the good stuff

We strongly advise everyone who reads this to run out (right goddam now this instant) and get a slow cooker. While Billy is happy with pretty much anything; it was once commented that one could spear a sewer rat to a wall and Billy would happily peel it off and chow it down with a nice side salad; at this chilly time of year, Billy is delightedist of all with a thick meat that falls off the bone like socks after the elastic has worn out. With tender stodgy vegtables that have had hours to soak up the meaty flavour. Basically by things that are impossible to cook as they take hours and hours.

Which is where the slow cooker comes in. Pop in your stuff; set the timer and head off to work. Lamb shanks in red wine with sweet potatoes, broccoli, garlic, thyme and a big mix o’ herbs. Niiiiice.

Even better was last night, when the meat had all been devoured the night before, we threw in some more wine, lentils and some chilli and put in on 5 hour slow cook during the day.

It’s an amazing device. Great winter food that cooks itself and awaits your arrival back from the cold tubes.

Again, niiiiice.

Billy: 8
Eoin: 8
Locations: In our bellies