Ripe London

The Scent of Surrender

Last time, I wrote about the obstacles we’re willing to endure and overcome – sometimes again and again – to get to something that’s worthwhile.  And how, in fact, something like distance can actually be a source of joyful anticipation when that which we crave is at the other end.  But it’s also true that what we need is often right under our nose.

Jamie in Kingston is truly worth the trip.  He opened me up to the refreshing possibilities outside the Smoke in the same way that leaving behind the madness of Manhattan for the bliss of Brooklyn turned me into a real New Yorker.  But I recently met another Italian that re-connected me to the treasures right here. 

I had passed by Sirena countless times and never gave it a second glance.  It looked tacky from the outside and unwelcomingly bare when I peeked through the window.  Snuggled on a strip too close to Selfridges, I reasoned it lacked substance and was purely there to trap tourists.  I had merely looked at the cover without flipping through the pages.  To say I was critical is to let me off easy.  But on this particular evening I was with two good friends I met while training at Le Cordon Bleu, and I was outnumbered.  One look at the menu, and they seemed instantly eager to check it out.  I kept quiet and followed along, sceptical.

Once inside, I was dismayed by the almost unfinished ambiance of the place.  We each ordered a different pasta dish, and I was already waiting for my doubts to be confirmed.  How good could linguini primavera, rigatoni with sausage and lamb ravioli be in a spot like this?

Well, if they gave out prizes for al dente, Sirena would take gold.  I didn’t try the lamb dish, but as we swapped plates I became almost possessive of my primavera and its carefully julienned vegetables swirled together with absolutely perfect pasta.  We were so overjoyed that we ordered a mushroom risotto to share, and when it emerged a good while later we were convinced the chef at Sirena knew what he was doing.

I would never have tried this little jewel of a place had I not followed my friends’ lead.  Sometimes we know what’s best for us, but life becomes more delicious when we open up, let go and hand the reigns over to someone else.  As Einstein said: “No problem can be solved from the same consciousness that created it.”

Have a very merry Christmas, resting in the knowledge that 2009 will bring you just what you need, even if it’s not what you think you want – yet.

Sirena is at 44 James Street, W1U 1EY. Such a nice surprise.

Old Times' Sake

When does the past become the past?  That’s the question I’m asking myself as I walk into M.Manze, the oldest pie and mash shop in London.

The place went up in 1902 when eels and even oysters were cheap, so tells me my lunch companion.  And it’s still serving the same simple menu of pie & mash and eels & mash together with liquor, which contains not alcohol but rather specks of parsley in what appears to be a gravy base.

My friend is nervous about introducing this American to her first original East London working-class lunch.  We order one each of pie & mash and eels & mash while I survey the place – a time warp, and a busy one at that. The sloppy plates emerge, and the bill comes to £7 for both of us including two bottles of miscast Evian. We go over to the benches, still decked out with the original tiles, for my first bite.  I learn that the custom is to put some chilli vinegar in the mash, so I gingerly add a few drops. 

The pastry is so good I could eat it just on it’s own, but if I’m honest I’d rather have it snuggled around slivers of Bramleys.  I fantasise about trading the smooth mashed potatoes for spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream.  I’m pathetic about the eel and manage just a few nibbles.  I can’t recall ever having eel, and I can’t say this was a life-altering experience, but I am ever grateful for the initiation.

I wonder how much of the allure at Manze’s has to do with preserving the past.  Would the food here draw the same crowds if it didn’t elicit a connection with days gone by?

Last night as I was walking home a man trailed me belting out Unchained Melody. But he sang those sad, yearning lyrics in such a comedic tone, that it actually made me smile: “And time, goeeees byeee!  So sloowleee.  And time, can do sooooo much!”  Similarly, taste to me is so much about context – whom you’re with and what you’re feeling – which is why I take restaurant reviews with such a grain of salt.  It’s the total experience that counts, and if the past & present blur when it comes to eels & pies & mash, so be it.

M. Manze has three locations.  We went to the one at 87 Tower Bridge Road, SE1 4TW.  A different kind of ghost.

At Steak

It had been 20 minutes and still no sign.

“Well, better that they’re taking their time with it, getting it right,” I tried to rationalise.

But I couldn’t ignore my rumbling stomach.  Or that I needed to be back in the office in half an hour.  I was hungry, and I was paying.  So why wasn’t it coming?

I was at Café Rouge waiting for steak frites.  It was my first visit in the nearly five years I’ve been living in London.  It’s not that I actively tried to dismiss the chain of brasseries; only that I had been a vegetarian when I first arrived, and steak remains an occasional tryst.  But it was the middle of the week and I was in the mood, a place I could disappear behind a book and the undisputed comfort of meat and potatoes.  And, well, I could see it out my office window.

Except I was already six pages in and still nothing.  Enough justifications.  It was time for a nudge.

“Two minutes,” waved the waiter.

Not wanting to make a fuss, I slip back into my book.  Or try to.  The dining room is emptying.  Several plates float toward and then past me.  Frustration follows elation.

I go up to the bar.  At that moment my dish appears and is brought to my table, together with ketchup, mayonnaise and a murmur about the kitchen.

At under £10, I can’t really say I went wrong here.  The steak was the right shade of pink and the fries were as slender and salty as they should be.  And, despite the inattentive service, the experience served to remind me of something else: hold out for Le Relais de Venise l'entrecôte, or L’entrecote for short.  Steak frites is the only thing on their menu, and it comes out in faithful, dependable stages; so not only are you not waiting around for the first bite, another hot helping comes around not long after.  It may be a bit pricier and a little out of the way, but that only helps keep it special for that rare rendezvous.

Café Rouge is all over the UK, most likely not too far from your window.
Le Relais de Venise l'entrecôte is at 120 Marylebone Lane, W1U 2QG.  You can’t book ahead so you'll have to queue, but the wait is worth it.

Your Pad or Mine?

I can’t help it, but every time I go to a Thai restaurant I end up having Pad Thai.  I used to think the popular noodle dish wasn’t really Thai food but a Western concept like Chicken Tika Masala.  And then I went to Thailand and had the best Pad Thai from a street vendor for only 30p. 

30p.

I also learned to make the dish during a cooking class in Chiang Mai.  The chef showed us how to roll it up in the egg like a big stuffed omelette. Rice noodles, egg, tamarind, fish sauce, sweet chilli, soy sauce, peanuts.  Those are the basics, but I’m constantly amazed by how such a simple recipe can turn up in so many different ways.

So it’s my first time at the curiously-named Boys in Chiswick, and I’m with Debbie.  She’s like my big sister, and as usual, we are talking about…boys: Debbie’s husband, four-year-old son and what dating was like before the invention of texting.

The menu is varied and modern.  I giggle at the “Boys platter,” a shareable starter.  I didn’t try it, nor did I go for the spicy fishcakes that almost nudged me away from my usual.  Turns out the Pad Thai at Boys won me over, and it’s now head-to-head with the one from Reun Thai over in Hammersmith.  Both come with big fat prawns and just enough sauce to keep the noodles nimble and the tongue tickled.

They’re both so good, I could send a text.

Boys is at 95 Chiswick High Road, W4 2EF
Reun Thai is at 100 Fulham Palace Road, W6 9PL

Si, Señor

Well, it’s about time: a Mexican place that truly measures up.  I had despaired, having tried all the wannabes, posers and false starts.  But damas y caballeros, I believe we have a true contender.  And of course, I found it when I wasn’t looking.

There I was on good 'ole Goodge Street, heading for the familiar flavours of Salt Yard.  But the wait was one-and-a-half hours.  I like Salt Yard, just not that much.  And what a delight to spot Benito’s Hat next door – fun and festive the way Mexican should be.  I was with two other Americans, and we were immediately hooked.

We all went for burritos, though Benito’s also spins tacos, soup or salad. In the end, it’s what’s inside that counts; and Benito’s definitely has it going on.  It’s all set out and assembled in the usual way right in front of you, so you can bet my eyes were on the state of the black beans.

And oh, yes!  These were rich and creamy – none of that watery stuff.  I added the grilled veggies with free guac (chicken, beef and pork are also on offer) with rice, lettuce, cheese and mild salsa; and the whole thing was so generous I had to stop halfway and employ a fork. The flour tortillas are steamy and soft, and they throw in some real tortilla chips, too – a nice touch.  And all for a fiver.  What’s more, the service was so amiable it was shocking, and the ambiance so spic-and-span and colourful that I’m sure it’s making every other “Mexican” out there cringe.

My only complaint is that the food station is totally exposed to the public (there should be a glass panel), but it moves so quickly I can’t see a problem.  Now the real test is whether this new arrival will continue to rock, so let’s hope Benito’s doesn’t drop the ball. Next time I’m finally going to try a Pacifico, though I hear the margaritas are quite special.

Benito’s Hat is at 56 Goodge Street, W1T 4NB.  Hats off.

Something's Brewing

You don't drink, don't smoke
What do you do
The subtle innuendos follow
There must be something inside
– Goody Two Shoes by Adam Ant

“Oh, go on, Jess.”

There was that little voice again.  The one on my right shoulder.  The one with the pitchfork.

This is how I found myself saying yes to coconut beer at Belgo Centraal this past weekend, despite the fact that I don’t really like beer.  Except for an odd Guinness phase circa 1999, I can’t remember the last time I had a pint.  It goes back to my thoughts on eating’s cheating.  As always, I’d rather eat my calories than drink them.

“Oh, go on, Jess.”

And then I did the unthinkable: I let someone choose for me.  And to my relief, the word was “coconut.”  I like coconut ice cream.  And coconut shakes.  Especially because they remind me of Koh Phangan.

This thing was sweet, piña-colada sweet (not my words).  I drank it slowly so that it stretched all the way across the roast cod and spinach mash, and then some.

Then the monk came to see if we wanted dessert.

“Oh, hold on, Jess.”

There was that other little voice.  The one that sometimes knows better.  The one that knew something extra tempting was just around the corner.

Belgo Centraal is at 50 Earlham Street, WC2H 9LJ. Oh, go on.

It was either a cold shower, or this

It’s so hot in London you have to sleep sprawled out like a starfish on top of the duvet with the windows wide open.  This hasn’t happened since 2006.  We love it, we hate it; and when it’s like this, everyone heads for the nearest patch of grass during lunch.

And so I’m sitting in Spa Fields, behind Exmouth Market, proudly polishing off the last bit of mixed salad from the healthy stall.  A party of three – two guys and a girl – sluggishly pass by.

    “Oof, I’m feeling weary,” says one. “All that food.”

    “Yeah, I think we need some ice cream,” says the woman, of course. “Gelato.”

They pick up their pace.  I pack up and follow.  Gelato, in Clerkenwell?  Where oh where?  I keep a safe, non-stalkish distance but see that I keep catching them up.  Not the first time I realize I have a hasty gait.  Especially when in pursuit of ice cream.

To my surprise, we wind up at Gazzano’s, a little Italian deli I’ve been in many times before.  It’s no wonder I never noticed the gelato – there are only five containers, and they’re discreetly tucked beneath the glass.

I can tell good or bad gelato just by looking at it – if the shade doesn’t occur in nature and it’s pressed so hard it looks like it came out of a supermarket freezer, it’s no good.  This assortment is setting off alarm bells.  But I’m in Clerkenwell.  I’m hot.  There are no other contenders around.

So I get a scoop of chocolate, shunning the Technicolor pistachio, the too-uniform chocolate chip, the bland-looking hazelnut and the manila vanilla.  And you know what?  Not bad.  It’s not Matteo’s magic, but when in need…

G. Gazzano & Sons is at 167 Farringdon Road, EC1R 3AL. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Wild, Wild East

A blogger needs to watch her back these days.

Who knew that a few days after I posted my latest alert on the state of Mexico in London, Natalia – make that Doctor Natalia now – would run into Brandon Stephens, the man who runs Tortilla in Angel.  Yep, the very same one whose black beans I blasted.

Doctor Natalia, helpful as she is, connected us over email.  Shortly came the “invitation”:

I'm interested to get your thoughts on what constitutes an ideal burrito and I can tell you about my burrito experiences in California, the limitations of tomatillo pepper availability on an island in the Atlantic (ie, Britain), etc.

Etc.  Even as I read this, I could tell Señor Stephens was ablaze with fury, his email no doubt delicately edited from whatever he had furiously typed at me first, removing a few extra jalapeños in the process.

I was right.  When we showed up at the appointed hour, Brandon’s eyes fixed me like a cowboy in an old Western.  He had a sidekick, too, a Brazilian banker from his days in business school.  And I had mine: Doctor Natalia.  Yin versus yang, which is, of course, an innate impossibility.

“I’m ready to fight,” he said.

“I’m not,” I told him, “I’m just a writer who happens to eat a lot.”

I had told Brandon in an earlier email that I had never been able to successfully re-create my family’s black bean recipe since moving to England and had put it down to lack of talent, not ingredients.  I’m not an expert, I told him, and if you read the blog you’ll see I’m not a food critic, either.  Love through food, food through love.

We ordered naked burritos, which is everything but the wrap.  I went with red rice, black beans (which Brandon insisted were the real deal), guacamole (nicely done with lots of fresh cilantro), pico de gallo, lettuce, cheese, onions and peppers.  As we got to work scooping it all up with tortilla chips, I could sense Brandon putting away the ammo as he picked up his Dos Equis.

“I love burritos.  When I went home to San Francisco one time, I had eight of them in one week.”  He wanted to get all the subtle differences from each place, storing the memories in his taste buds.  This is the kind of thing that should be on his site, I told him.

Meanwhile, the Brazilian banker kept up a running commentary as Brandon shuttled between our table and the kitchen.  "Look, there's Brandon cooking.  And look, free refills!  What's your blog, by the way?"

Two growing Aussie boys joined us on the bench with their massive orders: large (Tortilla offers two sizes), each wrapped in foil and nestled in a basket.  “I feel like it’s going to explode.  It’s like there’s a baby in here.  Look, it’s a crib.”

I noticed the guys didn’t say a single word to each other as they chomped through their new arrivals.  There’s yin and yang for you again.  I asked them what they’d think if they took out a girl and she downed the whole burrito.  “I’d be impressed,” one said as he cautiously dipped a chip in the smoking hot salsa Brandon had brought over, “but then I’d think: ugh.”

Tortilla is at 13 Islington High Street, N1 NLQ.  Tell him I sent you, and see what kind of look you get.

California Dreaming

We interrupt this broadcast to bring you another update on the state of Mexico in London.  Ay yay yay yay, canta y no llores!  So goes the famous verse which literally means “sing, don’t cry.”  I’m trying. I really am.  Because Mexico is under fire over here.  Dangerously so.  It’s not that the food is too spicy.  I only wish.

This week freelance life took me to Islington, so I finally got a chance to try Tortilla opposite Angle tube station.  The sign outside promised California-Mexican cuisine.  That’s a big promise.  The only place that does Mexican better than Mexico is California.  The food there is so good, competition drives prices way down and £5 can get you a week’s worth of burritos. 

To me, the mark of a good burrito is good beans – beans that aren’t swimming in water but rather the thick sopa they’ve been marinating in.  So, when the guy asked “black or pinto?” I said to give me whichever they make best.  I got black beans, or rather black water with a few beans.  I’d hate to see what the pintos look like.

A few weeks ago, I took a chance on Mexicali in Notting Hill.  Both Mexicali and Tortilla claim to have the best burritos in town, which is of course impossible – they’d actually have to be burritos to begin with.  On a similar note, I should have walked the other way when I saw blueberry pancakes on the menu at Mexicali.  I love blueberry pancakes, but at a Mexican restaurant?  Still, having learned my lesson on first impressions, I forged ahead.   But as soon as I got inside, I knew.  Too fancy, too slick.  Here we go again.  Chilles rellenos (at an astounding £12) were drenched in cheese while the black beans, although creamy, were served in tiny froufrou pots.  Again, I like Mexican food that requires a bib, served in cheap and cheerful surroundings that scream fiesta.

For all this and more, Taqueria still wins with flying sombreros.  On my last visit the guava juice was fresh and frothy, the plantains were perfectly caramelised, I could stand a spoon in my beans and the tacos were turned out to a T.  The food keeps improving, so maybe next time they’ll surprise me with LA-style fish tacos and a lunch deal that’s really something special.  A girl can dream.

Tortilla is at 13 Islington High Street, N1 NLQ
Mexicali is at 147-149 Notting Hill Gate, W11 3LF
Taqueria is at 139-143 Westbourne Grove, W11 2RS
What do you say, amigos?  Let me know where you’ve been getting your "best" Mexican these days.

In Due Course(s)

I’ve talked about time before – both its relevance and relativity – but not so much about timing.  You don’t plant a seed in the ground and dig it up the next day to see why it hasn’t sprung.  There’s an innate intelligence there that makes it happen.  Yet we ignore this all the time in our lives: pushing and prodding so that we stunt things before they have a chance to bloom.  Why do our species believe we are beyond the laws of the very nature we are inextricably a part of?  Patience is not merely a virtue; it’s vital.

And then there’s timing.  At a group dinner at Haozhan in Chinatown, the conversation turned towards meeting “the one.”  I put it in quotes, because most everyone agrees that the idea of there being a single match is a fantasy, and a destructive one at that.  It’s both encouraging and completely self-defeating when you’re single.  When you’re coupled up, believing the one you’re with is the only one for you at once drives you to commitment and sets up expectations that are impossible to fulfil.   You can’t win.  And, given the fact that the only constant is change, the idea of “the one” becomes even more preposterous.

Chilli soft-shell crab arrives.  I zone out of the conversation for a bit.  The batter is airy and sea-salty; the crab pulls apart without resisting.  In one mouthful my mind fills with memories of both South Thailand and Tomoe in New York. 

“It’s all about timing,” says a friend.  The crab is crumbs now, and I’m chasing them around the plate with chopsticks. “Yeah, you can meet the right person at the wrong time,” adds another.

Pause.  I’m not sure about this one.  In my mind, there is no wrong time.  Life gives you exactly what you need when you need it.  Every moment is the right time.  If not, it’s not the right person.  And even that’s not entirely accurate, because “the wrong” person was still exactly right for you at that time in your great journey.

I’ve read that soul mates are the people who come into our lives to mirror what needs changing, and the connection is so intense it’s naturally short lived.  These are the people you’ve been with where the fire burned so bright you eventually have scars to show for it.  It feels like pulling teeth, because it is – it’s your old self making way for the new – and then there’s more pain when the new teeth grow in.  You’ll remember these connections as the hot stuff in your life, and they’re your greatest teachers – somewhat like my crab, which pales in comparison to the truly searing stuff I had at Bar Shu in SoHo. 

Had I not met Bar Shu before, I might have thought Haozhan was the deal.  It was Bar Shu that showed me I could do spicy without a glassful of water between every bite.  But it was Haozhan that proved to me there’s no need to prove anything at all.

Haozhan is at 8 Gerrard Street, W1D 5PJ and Bar Shu Bar is at 28 Frith Street, W1D 5LF.  Take your pick, any time.