The Roundup - 2012

So 2012… I have to say, it wasn't been a classic for many, many reasons. I've done a lot of working (you may have noticed that the posts dry up as the stress levels rise) and not nearly enough eating (well, that's my opinion). Hopefully the balance will sway back the other way in 2013 and I'll be back in the saddle...

Rather than 'treat' you to a top 5 or a top 10 that will inevitably be better written (and certainly better researched) by one of the pros, I thought I'd end the year by mentioning a few of my favourite things and linking to some of my favourite posts that you may have missed. In no particular order...


Opening of the year - Brasserie Zedel: 
The food isn't ever going to win an award, but it's fine, ridiculously cheap, served in the most wonderful surroundings and in doing those things so well in the centre of Piccadilly Circus managed to change the game for London restaurant openings this year. Oh and they do a mean cocktail too... (full review here)

2012 / 2013 - Food trends of note:
Street food, burgers, ramen, ceviche and the no reservation hype machine. Over. Them. All. Now... Next year I think we're going to start with much of the same, though expect the American invasion to continue unabated. Hot on the heels of MASH (Danish but heavily American influenced) and STK on the Strand, we'll be getting a sister to Keith McNally's iconic New York dinner hall and bakery Balthazar, the Standard Grill, the long, long awaited La Esquina and in the biggest news to anyone obsessed with the trend of 2012, Danny Meyer will be opening Shake Shack in Covent Garden. You ain't seen a queue till you've seen a Shake Shack queue. In slightly more interesting news, expect a few more Peruvian / Argentinian openings, a return to London for Eric Chavot and the first international venture from the father / daughter team behind the legendary Arzak in San Sebastian. 

My personal food trend: Dim Sunday

I've had a bit of a Chinese obsession this year (yeah, I know, alongside the burger obsession, the steak obsession and the calorie obsession) which has wonderfully and    reasonably frugally manifested itself in a huge propensity to do dim sum. As a weekend hangover cure, it knows no equal. Freshly steamed parcels of sweet prawn, herby pork and umami filled dumplings arriving in an endless stream to your table. We've mainly been at the redoubtable Dragon Castle and the slightly less salubrious Hong Kong City, both South East London and both highly recommended.

Openings of interest: 

Antico (lovely little Italian on the bottom of Bermondsey Street, great for eating fresh pasta and laughing at the 3 customers in Greg Wallace's place across the road) Ceviche (fresh, loud and exciting Peruvian joint), 10 Greek Street (wasn't too impressed, but I know others are wowed), La Bodega Negra (tasty if pricy haute Mexican) and the Green Man & The French Horn (a grotty Covent Garden boozer given the Terroirs treatment).

The worst things I ate:

Or, things I do in the line of misguided duty... ChaCha Moon was pretty bad and Carluccios as repressively pointless as ever but, the winner has to go to the King's Cross abomination that was Bistro de la Gare. 

Some of the best things I ate:
Damn it, despite declaring an end to my burger reviewing, any list has to include one of the many, many burgers I've slammed down my impatient cakehole… maybe one of the specials at still quality chain Byron (their three cheese is a heady delight), or one of the many MEATempire patties I've noshed, or indeed maybe the exceptional off-menu effort from Covent Garden stalwart Joe Allen, serving poverty stricken actors since Yanni Papoutsis was a lad.

Other than those, I had the best BBQ of my life while in New York recently, slow, soft smoked brisket served alongside headsplittingly strong cocktails in jam jars by Williamsburg hipsters Fette Sau (www.fettesaubbq.com). I may have been a little drunk, but I'd be willing to swear that it's worth the plane fare just for another go on one of their pulled pork sandwiches.

I'd also go a long distance for Jose Pizarro's fabulous croquettes (thankfully I don't have to) and I've been pulled back to Indian street food specialists Roti Chai a couple of times for tender, delicately spiced and moreish chicken lollipops. It's been a good year! Hype aside though, nothing beats the satisfaction of great food, simply and well cooked. And no matter what 2013 brings, it's almost certainly going to bring a couple of trips to perennial favourites like Zucca, Hawksmoor and Andrew Edmunds.

Unequivocally though, the winner has to be the fresh bread and pomegranate sauce starter at FM Mangal, foodie crack cocaine and one of the best kept secrets in South East London (until Rayner told everyone…)

 That Shake Shack burger... coming your way soon!

 A pile of sliders... 

 The most perfect veal chop from Zucca

  And ramen... This one from Bone Daddies 

When you wish a pie would satisfy - The Bree Louise - Dec 2012

As far as quality boozers serving food in the vicinity of Euston, there's not much competition. So wailing on a real ale pub serving fresh, home made food (probably for miles) feels a little harsh, like doing a Simon Cowell routine after a kid's carol service. But, in the interests of integrity...

The Bree Louise sits on one of those windblown residential side streets that exist adjacent to every hub train station in the Western world, where the patina of train grime is smeared across the windows like a derisory smear of margarine on a First Great Western ham sandwich. 

Despite the unwelcoming approach and the initial, unstructured look, the overly bright, overly heated single room isn't the sort of itinerants' boozer of last resort, filled with dealers, hooligans and the odd poor sod who missed the 5:15 to Leighton Buzzard. It's actually much better (or worse) than that. The Bree Louise is one of those 'proper' pubs. The kind of pubs where men have beards, toilet facilities are 'functional' and it's acceptable to order a half of NoseSplitter or Noggin's Best before comparing fisherman's knit or World of Warcraft anecdotes with your closest (male) friends. For the Bree Louise is a CAMRA pub...

Now don't get me wrong, I love a real ale as much as the next man, but there's something about the nerdier than thou that can emanate from the REAL ale drinker that winds me up. It's the same sort of aggressive apologist behaviour that attaches itself to train spotters, obscure indie music fans and Evertonians. A 'get the digs in now, but we know we're right', folded arms attitude that occasionally makes for a very closed shop. 

Thankfully, as well as 'Award Winning' ales, ciders and perrys (and a couple of lagers), they also serve a range of 'Award Winning' pies (and obviously feature as an 'Award Winning' pub in a guide book somewhere, given the number of confused tourists wandering through…) 

Less thankfully, with the exception of an off-piste haggis effort, the pies we had were fairly sloppily constructed, with that deeply unappealing pub habit of slopping an inch or so of pre-prepared casserole into the bottom of an earthenware bowl before covering it with a frozen puff pastry shell and reheating to order. The cider sauce was far too thin, if well enough flavoured, but there were just four small sad beige chunks of pork floating around in it, several inches below the carapace, like turds trapped under a swimming pool cover. 

I suppose for £8 a pop, it's difficult to complain too vociferously about the food, but it didn't do it for me at all. The pub is recommended if you genuinely have missed the 5:15 to Leighton Buzzard and can't face the Weatherspoons*, or need to regale chums with your latest live roleplaying anecdotes over a pint of Old Badger, less so for anything else.

* Let me make this absolutely clear. The Bree Louise is a HUGE improvement over the Weatherspo'Neill-style sticky floored hellholes you normally find near stations. It's just that isn't saying much...

Dukes Brew and Cue and MEATmission - The Hipster Diaries - Dec 2012

This month, I'm mostly loving the Hipster Express. The whizzy new London Overground train line delivering Camberwell casuals into the dark beating heart of hip Hoxton since, well, Sunday last..

In less than 25 minutes I can be surrounded by all the skinny jeaned architects, students and wanna be design agency head honchos I could ever possibly need. Like exotic aeroplane trips that take you from the safe and known before dropping you unprepared into new and exciting worlds, the new Gingerline has thrown me into the mean streets of Dalston, with no chance to acclimatise from Peckham's green and verdant lands.

And the reason for this unprecedented exploration? Food of course…

Now we may have been travelling to (culturally) the other side of the world, but they still have to eat in Hoxton we scoffed nervously on the tube. Don't they? We'd soon find out.

MEATmission
Day one delivered us to the new home of a former Peckham resident, possibly the equivalent of eating pizza in Shanghai, but I wanted to ease myself in to the local cuisine gently. Much has been written about the might MEAT burger-based empire (some of it by me) and as I've just promised not to write about burgers again, I won't say anything about them, other than they are as you'd expect and hope.

Once you get over the most ambitious of their spaces, a wonderfully deconsecrated Welsh Mission chapel with a Gilbert & George inspired backlit ceiling, you'll be straight into a broadly as expected MEATmenu. The burgers are there, the sides are there and the cocktails are lurking with faint menace.

Not seen before and worthy of note were the Monkey Fingers, thickly battered strips of chicken doused in a hot and vinegary sauce, like boneless buffalo wings, served with a (too) mild blue cheese sauce. We continued onto sodden white submarine rolls filled with succulent slow roast beef and gravy. This was cheap and cheerful wonder-food, tasting like the white bread you'd use to soak up the last of the gravy at a resolutely home style Sunday lunch. Hellishly unhealthy, mopping up the accompanying dish of gravy with salty skinny chips, but after a couple of cocktails truly the food of gods.


Duke's Brew & Cue
Further north, the illuminating light of the Overground has touched parts other gentrifiers couldn't reach and brought hipsters and prosperity (or possibly only hipsters) to Haggerston. I've been assured that there's more to the area than a fixie bike shop and an espresso bar but that was by a man with a handlebar 'tache leaving me dubious to say the least.

The rough wood panelling of Duke's Brew & Cue (in recent history almost certainly a much less salubrious drinking hole) surrounds a new to the location micro-brewery cum bar cum restaurant. It's like a million and one Williamsburg hangouts (Fette Sau in Brooklyn is definitely one of their inspirations) and is currently still a massive hit with the locals. Even on a rain drenched Wednesday early, early evening we only just managed to squeeze into one of the unreserved bar tables.

I've been a couple of times, once for a so-so brunch and a pretty reasonable (and gargantuan) burger, the second for ribs.. As you'd expect with a name like Brew & Cue, you're only really here for the ribs.

We split two orders of the home smoked ribs, one beef and one pork. This was seemingly what most of the place was doing so I'm unsure why they don't offer that as a menu option. Beef ribs sadly were sadly cooked too hot, too quick for me. The well flavoured meat was cut through with just too many strands of hard, unyielding fat to make it as easy as it should have been to stripmine the bone of every juicy morsel. The pork ribs were much better, coming with a lovely deep flavoured meat and nutty hard bones to gnaw.

Sides were a mixed bag too. A cheap and cheerful mac'n'cheese didn't try to compete with the richness of the ribs, complementing them perfectly with a comforting blandness, house fried pickles and okra were just bad. Reminicent of the sort of deep fried generic vegetable sides you'd get in a Harvester or a Toby Steakhouse.

The food promised so, so much. In reality, it delivered some. As a place to hang out with locals, it comes as a strong recommendation. The bar staff were also excellent, though the servers a little harried. The cocktails are great and the brews on tap are also well recommended, strong, punchy and self assured. It's a shame that the kitchen doesn't quite live up to it.

 The roof of MEATmission... try looking at that after too many Peckham Negronis...

    A very bad shot of some ribs... blow it, you know what ribs look like...

Burger off… Dec 2012

On a recent trip to the States, my hotel was near the Upper West Side Shake Shack. I nipped in on the way back from a meeting as there was no queue at 4 in the afternoon. I had one. It was a well prepared, flavoursome, well cooked burger. With cheese. And on a cold, depressing New York afternoon it made me as happy as only a moist fatty meat product covered in cheese and dripping with juice can. However I've also come to the conclusion that there's not much more you can say about the damn things.

It feels appropriate to reach that conclusion in one of Danny Meyer's earliest outposts. After all, Shake Shack has been one of the biggest brands in the American gourmet burger scene since the Madison Square original opened in 2004. And when it comes to London next year, the city will likely reach the sort of frothing fever pitch not seen since the Beatles. (Look at the evidence)

Now I like a burger as much as (hell, much more than) the next man, but I've reached my limit of writing about them. In the last year, London has been swamped in special secret sauce, covered several times over by steamed or brioche buns and beaten almost to death with a variety of soft meat patties. We get it. We really do.

In summary, here are the rules:

• If they don't ask how you want it cooked, or can't serve it below medium, then it doesn't bode well 
• The new wave London chains of Honest, Byron, Burger & Lobster and the various outposts of the MEATempire are generally pretty good 
• Independents (or nascent chains) such as Patty and Bun and Lucky Chip often achieve rabid followings but there will always be low grade impostors such as BRGR (just bland..) seeking to jump on the beef scented bandwagon 
• The Gourmet Burger Kitchen is poor, as is Ed's Diner (and anywhere else calling itself a Diner for that matter) 
• There are a handful of decent pub and restaurant burgers (Chelsea's Admiral Coddrington being the best) but they tend to get pricy 
• The 'secret' burger at Joe Allen has been around for longer than all of them and is the thing I want to eat on Death Row before they wheel the gurney in 
• If you go to New York or Miami then Shake Shack is good (though comes with a ludicrously long queue), if you get to the West coast then you have to try In'n'Out 
• If you ever contemplate Maccy D and you're not either very drunk, or very hungover then please just walk away from me now. 

Other than that, it ends here.

  

New York Tales 1 - A small (taste) test of the Upper West - Dec 2012

A recent work jaunt placed me on the Upper West Side for a week. It's never been an area I've spent much, if any time in, so I'm certainly not going to try and give a detailed summation of such a vast area after a single trip. If you're heading that way, then check out some of the New York food resources such as Zagat, Grub Street or Chowhound. 

Defined as the long strip up from Columbus Circle to the lower reaches of Harlem, it's a glimpse into the residential life of creative but wealthy uptown Manhattanites. Bifurcated by two lane Upper Broadway, wind whistling down Amsterdam and Columbus, on a mournful autumnal afternoon as the shadows lengthen you're stepping straight into the spiderweb of cracked Noo Yoick glamour worshipped by Woody Allen.

My fine dining food map of the affluent West Side of Central Park starts with the likes of Per Se, a brace of Bouluds, the legendary Picholine and other treats for the wealthy attendees of the squat Lincoln Centre complex before petering out as you head further north. PJ Clarkes is a fine bar and diner to be propped up against in low 60's and there seem to be decent neighbourhood places a plenty (generally Italian and Asian) and a plethora of delis (this is New York after all) but I certainly wasn't confronted with any real list of must do's.

This was no problem for the first night. On a cold snapped and mizzly Monday evening straight off a flight, all I could think about was checking in and slobbing out. Post roach motel check in (the joys of start up life) I eventually ended up in Blondies, one of the many beer based, sports focussed dive bars that line that unlovely diesel engorged artery of Amsterdam Avenue.
 
There's nothing more lovely for a solo traveller than finding a decent bar in a strange city. I've never had a problem finding a decent scattering to tide over on the nights when I haven't rustled up a working dinner and don't want to deal with room service. The secret is to check with the bar staff where they go in the area when not on shift that's a little more lively / laid-back / foodie / sporty (without sounding like you're propositioning them if you can!) and use the same trick in that recommendation. You'll generally end up having the night of your life.

That particular trick took me from The Blind Poet (too quiet), to Jake's Dilemma (nice enough, but a little too loud and only NFL playing) to the Dublin Castle (a freezing cold depressive miss-step) before I ended up in Blondies for those wings and the Nets v Knicks game. A couple of mugs of nutty brown Sam Adams under my belt, a plate of hot wings and the basketball on the big screen. Good evening New York.  
 

 

The Americans like their bar foods big, fried and accessible. Sticky wings, Gordian knots of deepfried poultry, doused in various grades of slippery orange hot sauce ranging from mild to 'let's screw up the Brit' are served in most places. Sliders come in fours, bigger than the burgers and sloppy meat sandwiches they replace. Ideal for sharing? Yeah right, but these babies are all mine… 

My other night of freedom in the area followed a similar pattern. After a few more pots of Sam Adams at the Gin Mill (fine, but no classic and with some pretty pappy bar snacks) I ended up in a lovely little place called Jacob's Pickles, more a restaurant with a bar, a few blocks north with one of the finest craft ale selections I've had the pleasure of sitting in front of. While some of the soul food coming out of the kitchen looked excellent, sadly my wild catfish tacos were overpowered and oversoaked by a mass of astringent 'slaw. A beer side of hot and sour pickled pickles were sheer spicy heartburn inducing pleasure.

The lack of TV in JP was more than compensated for by the friendliest barman in New York (an Irishman called James. A top fellow with an amazing recommendation for dirty BBQ food in Williamsburg - my destination for the weekend). We were also kept entertained by a hilarious online first date. I couldn't help listening… It wasn't going well from the outset. Him, "I've always worked in restaurants. Always been anti the whole banker, money thing.. What do you do?" Her, "I'm an equities trader". Damn it… Good night New York.

   

MASH Steakhouse - There's gold in them there basements - Dec 2012

After Brasserie Zedel, I thought we might have turned a corner in the 'restaurant-prices-like-phone-numbers' debate. A Regent Street restaurant with appropriately sky-high rents and rates offering top drawer scoff you'll struggle to spend £25 a head on. Surely everyone would be onto this?

Now the joint genius of restaurateur team Corbin & King manage this pricing at Zedel with few reservations, lots of tables and very high customer churn, turning tables three or four times a service generating many more, albeit smaller, checks.

So surely, applying that rationale, a similarly ambitious venue next door which has just undergone an equally sumptuous redesign in another vast subterranean space should (if they turn twice in a service) mean that things only cost twice as much? Sadly not. We're back to £100+ a head territory now, as next door neighbour MASH sells steak, and not much more.

The opulent (and obviously masculine) dining room feels designed to appeal to the international expenses crowd: without a view, you could easily be in Dubai, Chicago or Singapore instead of London. Deals are to be done here gentlemen... over steak, expensive wine and casual misogyny. That's a tad judgemental and almost certainly untrue but, being only a Rolex-throw from Mayfair, it is at least plausible.

It has a vaguely Mid West American inspired opulence, though my descriptor is as lazy as the broad theming. Call it essence of robber baron... Thick, plush, arterial-red carpets? "make 'em plusher". Gilded, glowing fittings? "make 'em golder". Bulging list of rare American varietals in a leather-bound list? "make 'em rarer, and add a zero on..."

The shock is that it's not American, but Danish. Despite channelling Smith & Wollensky or Chicago Cut, it comes from the land of stripped pine and Arne Jacobsen chairs. The only sign of this Scandinavian heritage on the menu came with a trio of Danish-origin 70 day dry-aged steaks. I'm not averse to the Stilton-like joys of aged steak, but a 45 day aged piece I had recently from the Ginger Pig bordered on overpowering at times, and anything getting close to 70 is going to be considerably and challengingly funky.

Diving straight in, bypassing a relatively uninspiring starter list, we shared a surprisingly petit USDA Prime Porterhouse. It was wheeled up to be carved on a butcher's block. I was hoping for a lot from an expensive if troublesome cut. Advertised as fit for two or three, in truth it was probably only enough for one and a half or two with sides and starters. The problem with porterhouse is that you have two different cuts, sirloin and ribeye, separated by the thick T bone. Lesser chefs risk missing the balance and pushing the sirloin to a med/well, or leaving unforgiving ribeye fat un-rendered. As far as steaks go, this was a good 'un. Rich, buttery and with a decently deep flavour, it did everything a good steak should.

Along with that hunk of prime meat, sides were measly for the price, and fine, generally just fine. Like supporting dancers in a meaty musical. Chilli fries came with a crunch and a crackle of heat, while a soothingly bland mac n cheese ticked our other carby box. You can't object to either, but at £4.50 a pop, I want to have the best darned carbs in the city.

With a cocktail before, a digestif and a one of the cheaper wines (the leathery New World spell book unsurprisingly offered little below £40), we managed to splash £225 for two, certainly more than I'd expected.

Tangentially, I remember being told by the International Man of Mystery, no stranger to the jet set, that this bland luxe internationalism is welcomed by many who spend half their lives in assorted high-end business hotels. "They want reassuringly expensive stuff they recognise, with the odd plain local speciality, because it's impossible to know how an authentic, highly spiced x, y or z is going to go down when you don't know which continent you're on and your body thinks that it's 4am..." With that in mind, MASH fits the bill perfectly. Just don't expect to see me back without the expense account.

Rossopomodoro - an Italian tale in two halves Nov 2012

I got called out recently. Challenged by a restaurant PR keen to prove that not all Italian chain restaurants are the same. I must admit that I wasn't overly keen but it was such a charming invite that I succumbed with my usual provisos*.

Admittedly bowling up at 2.30 on a Friday afternoon wasn't a particularly fair start. Slap bang on a busy Covent Garden junction, they'd obviously been hammered by a long lunch rush and the staff were slightly on the back foot, if delightful, throughout.

Bread and olives were definitely not good. The slightly over dry ciabatta had obviously been sat toasted for a while, left over from the lunchtime rush, and a too liberal glug of oil pre-delivery made for a chewy and teeth squeaking start. Olives likewise we're nothing to write home about.

Porky meatballs to start were fine, though any subtlety in the meat was overpowered by a brash tomato sauce that shouted over the top of them. They were, to be fair, better than a Frito Misto bowl of calamari and courgette. While it was a hearty portion, after too much dry and cloyingly thick batter, quantity became part of the criticism. We soldiered on and finished it, though mainly as it was a late lunch and we were starving.

I have to confess to not being entirely well disposed to the food by the time the pizza arrived. Expectations suitably lowered, they were wonderfully and unexpectedly knocked into a different league by the pizza. I went for simplicity itself, a humble margherita, topped with a simple smear of fresh tomato, sweet mozzarella and a wisp of basil. The other one was a Carmelo, slightly overbearing smoked mozz - leaving both of us feeling like we'd just nipped out for a fag - and lovely, if too sweet, Neapolitan pork sausage. 

The toppings were secondary, it was the bases that were special. Really special. Chewy, toasty moreishness with a light char and the lightest sour tang. By dint of that, and the simplicity of it, the margherita is one of the best pizzas I've ever tasted in this country. It even edged ahead of my last visit to to Franco Manca, a real touch of Naples in the most unlikely of spots. 

So did it change my preconceptions of the Italian chain? Well not really. Other than that pizza, there wasn't anything here that would make me run back. That being said, I've got a new place for a quick pizza in central London, if I can get past the tourists. 

 
* When I get an email from a PR representing a restaurant that I think I'd enjoy, I tend to send something back along the lines of: "Thanks for the interest, I'd be happy to come along, on proviso that I can book in myself, eat anonymously and choose if, when and what I write anything about it." If it's a cut and paste email, I send a cut and paste response, if they've read and engaged with the blog and sent me a personal note, then I'll respond personally. I've never solicited an invite and I've turned a lot down (sorry Strada... I really wasn't interested in your new autumn menu tasting).

The Crooked Well REDUX - Nov 2012

See first review here

In operation for over a year and with a stack of plaudits and good reviews under the belt, I'm delighted to say despite very minor quibbles, the Crooked Well has settled into its place in the neighbourhood perfectly.

While being not quite pubby, it is still perfectly acceptable as a venue for drinks only. There's a loose divide between bar and restaurant and they're equally welcoming. The tiling, light oaks and muted colours could make it cold here, but the lighting makes enough of a difference.

An enormous cannonball scotch egg is heavenly and huge. Thick quilted layers of spiced pork blanket envelop a perfectly soft centred egg. God knows why they serve it with a Heinz Tomato Soup 'dip' but we left that well alone...

Of the mains, a pub stalwart lamb shank looked right, but was strangely lacking in flavour. I've never been a massive fan of a fairly unsophisticated dish, and would always prefer to see a decent chef (and they definitely have at least one of those scuttling around) put mutton on the menu instead. Ricotta and lemon verbena ravioli were a little one note for me, served with a slightly cloying butternut squash type sauce and too many toasted almonds but Dr Vole yummed the substantial portion down. My bream was excellent, certainly the best of the mains, the two note sweetness of the accompanying crayfish and butternut squash purée providing a soft and elegant bed for an almost muscular piece of fish, breaking pleasingly into pearlescent flakes.

A sharing dessert of chocolate pudding was fine, though just fine. I can envisage few puddings where molten, thick chocolate isn't a winner but it plays to the crowd a little too much and was a touch overcooked. Serving the accompanying ice cream on a slate doesn't work too well either. We spent a good amount of time scootling it around the slick surface. If you're going to do something that simple and charge me £12 for it, it needs to be much better than fine.

Good beer, good food (with a kitchen capable of going up a gear) and a great atmosphere... I'm pleased to say that the Crooked Well has grown into its skin and is now a fully functioning (cliche alert) gentrifying neighbourhood gem. Rather than being a destination restaurant you'd travel across London for, the Crooked Well is the place you feel deeply envious that a good friend, ie me, lives round the corner from.

Tonkotsu - souped-up super noodles in Soho - Nov 2012

A year or so ago, a place called Koya opened in Soho. It's a stripped back little place with a sparse menu focussed on their highly revered house noodles, a few dumplings and the odd daily special. It's good, very good, and used to be a real favourite for lunch when I worked locally.

Ramen noodle bars are a pretty big deal in similarly multicultural New York, their equivalent of the recent London burger explosion. However unlike other ultra-successful food trends here it seemed to start, and stop with Koya. The queues, growing nightly out of the blue curtain swagged door told any chancy restaurateur that this could be the start of something big. It's taken a while, but it seems that there are a few others springing up now. A caveat at this point, it could be that there are a load of decent noodle places around that I don't know about, so if you have any other recommendations, drop me a note.

I have to say that Ittenbari didn't wow me as much as Twitter told me it would, the slow braised pork slices were strangely flavourless, though the snaking queues of silently anticipatory Japanese expats gave some clue to the popularity of the place. The most recent to open, the chillingly named Bone Daddy, is on the list.

In essence, it's simple. Pick your base stock and key ingredient, add extra noodles or soft boiled egg if you will and serve. This simplicity is what for some can elevate the humble ramen noodle dish to an art form.

Here the soft egg was burnished bronze perfection, lightly gelatinous white leaking golden savoury depth into the clear stock, thickening and enriching almost like butter. The noodles were perfectly cooked with a slight snap to them (though I'm no expert on the subject) and sank into the life giving, clear and umami packed stock. With expertly crisped chicken karaage alongside, it's a simple, satisfying and savoury lunch.

   

J Sheekeys - A breathy and slightly pretentious review - Oct 2012

Going to J Sheekeys for their fruits de mer platter is for me the equivalent of walking into a spa. A brief respite of pure unadulterated luxury, a heady healthy hit that generally goes a long way towards improving my state of mind. The definition of a treat in other words.

It hasn't changed here in years, an I mean that in a very good way. Nicco Polo and I settle into a luxurious banquette with a self-satisfied sigh entirely at evens with the surroundings. Acres of luxurious linen cloths, a friendly and superbly well drilled FOH team and an awesomely good selection of shellfish. Nothing else needed.

Given my frothing tone so far, I should stress that while Sheekeys is luxurious, there's nothing pretentious about it. Seeing that we were struggling and wasting time with the faff of peeling the succulent little brown shrimp, our waiter gave a handy seaside tip, pinching head and tail together to pop out the sweet, fresh goodness. If I were a newbie contemplating attacking a platter, then this level of thoughtfulness would be even more appreciated.

If there's something vaguely erotic about the eating of an oyster, then fruits de mer is the culinary equivalent of no holds barred, hanging from the lampshade sex with a fruity, nubile and entirely innapropriate ex. A plethora of succulent, juicy little nubbins, blushing creamy pink morsels and taut sinews, each begging to be sampled next. Like the aforementioned illicit tryst, there's a wild menu of differnt styles, types and positions, everyone has their favourites and it's all so borderline lewd that nobody wants to imagine their parents at it.

After that, an ice cold buttery white wine and something to mop up the juices (see, I said you didn't want to imagine your parents at it...) we collapse back into the banquette. Perfect, absolutely perfect.

   

Extra time at the Hampshire Hog - Oct 2012

I didn't dislike the Hampshire Hog, well, not much. But I certainly didn't like it enough to venture back, at least not without very good reason. There for a business meeting on the recommendation of a couple of locals, I'd had a fleeting thought that I'd found a new local gem.

The decor manages to channel Jamie Oliver and Laura Ashley at the same time, but the shabby chic rustic air of a country tea room is likely only to fool those who haven't left zone 2 for a very long time.

It's a radio edit Mumford & Sons sort of place... The homely farmhouse look might come into its own on a sunny weekend, when I can imagine locals flocking to the lush beer garden, but on a random weekday lunch, other than a few Bugaboo toting mummies, we're almost alone in this West London 'Chiswick borders' pub.

Alongside a sanded down pale wood bar serving a reasonable selection of ales to the local Henrys and Jemimas, is a dining room and a 'parlour' with a few odds and sods for sale, nothing too risky, a couple of shelves of groceries and breads alongside posh 'bits' and locally sourced tracklements (or pickles as normal people refer to them) and the like.

It's in the dining room that you really start paying the price for this unfettered rusticania. If you're stupid enough to buy your bread from the local pub then you deserve to be charged through the nose for it, but £2.50 for a few slices in the adjoining restaurant feels sharp in anyone's book. It's pretty good bread (unlike the acrid oil it's served with), but it's been a while since I've even seen a cover charge, let alone one that steep.

This sharpness continues with the salads. You can have it unadorned for £12 (really?!) or 'add' salmon or ham, allegedly supplementary ingredients in a salmon or ham salad, for £2 a pop.

They're at the upsell again with the sides, slightly more to be expected I suppose, but adding £3.50 for frankly poor chips is frustrating. The fact we are told that most of the mains need an extra something takes the average main course price past the £18-£20 price point and into the "it better be bloody superb" mark.

So (finally) to the food...sadly, with the exception of that lovely bread it just didn't achieve for either of us.

"This is why people originally made fish cakes of course," ventured my guest of his solitary desiccated puck. "it's definitely the old, dry fish they couldn't use elsewhere.."

I was slightly more pleased with a reasonably sourced piece of ribeye from O'Shays. It was a nice piece of meat sadly marred by that capital sin of not being rested, arriving still taut and virtually still crying after it's recent application of heat. The salted chips were too rested sadly and clumped together sullenly on the side.

I don't want to labour the point, but given that you can pick up 2 course lunch menus for £20 at many Michelin starred places in arguably more expensive locations, and would pay less than £9 for 2 courses at Zedel, this pricing for the level of quality delivered verges on the ridiculous. Lovely beer garden though...

   

Cote in the City and Mishkins - The Grumbling Gourmet goes solo - Oct 2012

I've never had a problem with eating on my own, partly because I'm lardy, and partly because I think that there's something perversely romantic about solo dining. Just you, the thoughts in your head and the flavours in front of you, with no distractions. The idea of sitting at the bar in a solo reverie makes me feel more like the be-hatted guy in Edward Hopper's Nighthawks than a lonely businessman refuelling after a long day. 

I've spent amounts of time travelling for work over the last few years and so have got used to it, now sitting at a random bar has become one of the highlights of a trip, particularly when the basketball is on. 

Cote St Pauls 

Surprisingly, given my thoughts on most chain restaurants, popping into a Cote brasserie for a bite to eat at the bar isn't an issue. I don't mind the Covent Garden and Soho branches, having used both as a passible lunch or afternoon meeting spot previously. However the one in the City doesn't have a bar, just a large basement space, and a set of tables along one wall, facing out into the main restaurant and occupied entirely by single, middle aged men. Before I realised my mistake it was too late. I'd been identified as one of them and led gently to be deposited in the arctic of solo dining. 

I'm not sure who was more on show; us or the inane works party we were facing. A works party dinner on a Tuesday night, oh what fun! I won't go into detail, suffice to say that they were definitely having a wilder time than the banquette of solo diners in silent judgement opposite. 

The menu is generic brasserie, the quality matches, tonight at least. I tried first for a steak hache, before being informed "we can't serve below medium rare I'm afraid..." glad at least that they acknowledge why they're unable to serve that simplest of brasserie dishes served at anything less than a medium rare (you're not allowed to serve at less than medium rare unless it's minced on the premises...), sad because it was all I was looking for. 

In the absence of home chopped steak I went for the onglet frites, served with a garlic butter and little else. Not bad. The solo diner in me couldn't complain at a single mouthful. Sure it wasn't the best steak i've eaten in my life, but nor was it meant to be. For the price, I could definitely have done with a thicker or more substantial slab. Served with a passible fruity Pinot Noir, it wasn't a bad experience, but the atmosphere leaves something to be desired for the solo diner. 

Mishkin's in Covent Garden 

It's been a while since i've popped into Mishkins, Russell Norman's Jew(ish) Covent Garden diner. If his other sites channel Venice or Brooklyn, then Mishkins wouldn't look out of place in the Lower East Side or the up and coming bits of New Jersey. It's a little louder and a little brassier than the others, and that's not necessarily meant in a bad way.

The beautifully designed 'found' space has settled in well, though you'll struggle to see anyone in the evening gloom. It'd be the ideal place to have a central London affair. I also had a slight quibble about the pounding baselines we're put through, but I'm probably the only one. Certainly the smiling staff don't seem to have a problem hearing. I put it down to my age, grateful for their pleasantries. I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does. 

The ubiquitous tattoligan behind the bar is a friendly enough cove, more of an Eton Rifle than an Enfield Charger though. It takes guts to get a tattoo just to get a job, so one can only hope that double inked sleeves were part of a life plan prior to hearing about Russell Norman and his cheeky chain of diners. 

I started with corn dogs as good as I've had either side of the pond, beef franks encased in a grittily accurate coating of corn, served with a piquant tomato salsa. Desperately seeking carbs mid one of those weeks I went for a mac 'n' cheese to follow; a sizzling skillet full of all of the right ingredients. It's a dangerously dairy affair, ideal for two, but physically too much cheese for my British stomach. I didn't quite manage to finish it, and it was a solidly single noted affair that needed a salad or a spicy meat to loosen it up a bit. 

Other than the pumping tunes, is there any fault with the place? I have to say that the house Merlot was truly execrable, a surprise for these boys, but regardless of that, the lovely service and the comfortable food made me vow that it wouldn't be long before I sat at the bar again.

The limp disappointment of Cha Cha Moon - Sept 2012

Alan Yau's 'other' chain attempt Cha Cha Moon could well be described as The Danny De Vito to Wagamammas Arnold Schwarzenegger. It's like a pop up restaurant in a municipal leisure centre, and I certainly don't mean that in a good way.

Stumbling round Soho after a number of drinks we'd singly failed to find anywhere available for food and I'd singly failed to remember quite how perfect Brasserie Zedel would have been at a time like this until it was way too late.

After umpteen false starts, we finally rolled into Cha Cha Moon, somewhere I remember as a reasonable if innocuous local lunch spot from my time working in the area. Not amazing, but not bad, and at 9pm on a Friday night it was somewhere, finally, that had space for us.

The whole experience isn't one I'll be repeating, a courtesy that the food didn't extend to me.

The 'concept' and execution are frankly both lazy. A selection of generically South East Asian dishes dropped indeterminently into seemingly random categories and served as ready (seconds after ordering or minutes after we'd finished in the case of one sorry starter).

Despite the presence of a small army of wok bothering chefs in the open kitchen, the whole operation had the stench of the microwave. Nicci Polo's seafood ho fun arrived, barely lukewarm, minutes after ordering, as if it'd been hanging around from a previous mis-order. Frosty's halfhearted bun noodles were a pale and forlorn imitation of an impossible to screw up staple.

My Crispy Duck and Noodles managed to be both flabby and dry, with almost no redeeming feature except quantity, though that merely extended the torture. The noodles served alongside were undercooked and coated in a coagulating salty brown sauce, like the bastard child of a BBQ Pot Noodle and an elastic band ball.

We shared a selection of small plates, squabbling over who would (dare) finish them off. The chilli squid managed to hit every level of wrongness and thick, doughy potstickers came stuffed with what I can only describe as budget brand sausage meat. The less said about the Sichuan red chilli oil wontons the better, resembling swamp dredged body parts and putting back the cause of regional Chinese cuisine by several years.

At £20 a head including a single acrid cocktail each this isn't cheap fare. Finally seeing sense and retreating to Bar Americain in Brasserie Zedel, I was roundly mocked for not bringing the party here first. They were right.

If it was an attempt to recreate the flyaway success of Wagamammas then God knows it fails, and badly, on so many levels. It has the feel of a chain being readied for rollout but 4 years after this one arrived it's clear that this plan has fallen by the wayside. What's not clear is why this one, surrounded by some of Soho's finest eateries, has not.