Latymers to The Begging Bowl - a Thai evolution - Jan 2013

A good few years ago now, the food trend du jour was for Thai food in pubs. Don't ask me why, I wasn't involved, though I do remember it involving pre-prepared easy dishes and just enough fried stuff to make sense alongside a couple of pints. In these fast moving days of lusty tattooed young chefs preparing robust local food in every spit and sawdust boozer in zones 1 and 2, that seems pretty old hat.

Thankfully for the food historians, there are still a few working examples of the lazy predecessor to the gastro pub. The Windmill on the Cut in Waterloo is one (though the clientele and the actors spilling from the nearby theatres mean it's still one of my favourite pubs in London, albeit not for the food). Latymers in Hammersmith suburb Brook Green is another. Pre-prepared tasting sauces, frozen veg and factory spring rolls, old sticky rice and tough fatty duck all reared their heads. This is food you'll keep eating for a while afterwards, and not in a good way. 

Thankfully, within London at least, there are enough people out there who manage to cook decent Thai food, taking it out of its inauspicious start to provide a solidly egalitarian lunch or dinner option. Around the capital I'd note a few worth popping into; Rosas (Spitalfields and Soho), The Pepper Tree in Clapham, Thai Corner Cafe in Dulwich, Brixton Market's Khaosarn and Spicy Basil in Kilburn (an old favourite on trips to the Tricycle Theatre). 

And there's now another one to add to that list it would seem. The Begging Bowl in gentrified Peckham enclave of Bellenden Road. 

Its bright, open corner location opens up wonderfully in the early January light and large open windows and outside seating will be a godsend in the summer and will near double its capacity. Fashionably small wooden tables and communal bench seating are lovely, but we were left with little room for the multiple small plates of food (yes, that again) once water and a cute little pot of Jasmine tea were stacked up. 

There's not much delineation between plates that would be starter or would be main other than the price, so it helps if you're happy sharing. Prices vary from £5.50 to £12.50 and with a recommended 2-3 plates per person it can get pricy for a neighbourhood restaurant. Thankfully they include the rice in that price. While there are a few staples featured, there isn't a focus on the thick curries many will associate with the region, instead more is made of subtle and steamed melanges of exotic vegetables, herbs and fruit like galangal, morning glory, krachai and the rarer members of the aubergine family. On our trip there weren't too many dishes on the regularly changing menu, but still enough to construct a reasonable selection from. 

One of the best Pad Thai dishes I've had was a smashing demonstration of how unctuous and satisfying this often bland noodle dish can be. Soft and pillowy pork belly in a light peanut sauce came with a sharp papaya salad, though the portion size was a little disappointing for the price. The only disappointment were a handful of satay pork skewers, cooked, but not charred, and without enough texture or flavour correspondingly. 

There's easily enough here to bring me back, and it's a fantastic new local spot for the local lads and ladies who lunch. Given Bellenden Road's firmly cemented position as an extension to East Dulwich's Lordship Lane, I don't think that they've got anything to worry about.

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Can the Rye satisfy? Not on this showing - July 2012

A semi local of mine for a number of years has had it's most dramatic reinvention, from ugly local duckling to fully fledged gastro pub.

The owners, Capital Pub Co, are no newcomers to the market and (although owned by boozy behemoth Greene King) have form in taking down at heel sites and creating the kind of interesting, smart spaces that upwardly mobile locals don't mind spending their bucks in. They've certainly done it with near neighbours the Victoria, the Florence and the Actress, none of which I object to wasting time in at all. 

Walking into the handsome Victorian space, there's an initial sense that the design team may have done it again. A bustling bar opens onto an extensive beer garden. The big open plan kitchen and a light airy space already full of Dulwich refugees would indicate the design team at least can award themselves another tick.

That being said, there's definitely a lot of settling in to do here. Both behind the bar and on the other side of the pass. If you're going to put burgers on the menu in the former site of a Meatwagon pop up then you'd better make sure that they're blood(il)y good. On examination, these are poor at best. A jerk chicken burger is a neat nod to nearby Rye Lane, but this verged on anaemic. If there was any seasoning to it at all it was a light dust that did nothing for the dry breast. 

The too solid, too gray steak burger came without the cheese ordered (at an extra quid) but after a 50 minute wait we didn't send it back. Buns were workmanlike and nothing to write home about. Neither burger was hideous, but there was definitely an air of disinterest about them. Accompanying chips were prepped like mini skinless roasties but had spent too little time in direct heat and glistened, pale and uninteresting, on a cliched chopping board. Bread and olive oil was frankly random. The oil and (very cheap) balsamic came served in a tiny teacup, necessitating drowning the bread in oil to get any balsamic. We didn't finish it, they didn't ask why...

Service is another area of early concern. It's hurried, harried and amateur, if at least charming. A perpetual bugbear of mine, none of the staff knew who was next, picking punters at random and raising the temperature the other side of the counter. Despite there being four behind a not very busy bar, we still had a ten minute wait. Guys, you've got some really competent staff in the group, surely you could have shipped a couple in and not had an entire crew of newbies on at a new pub? 

Sure it's a local boozer, and they've only been open a few weeks, but I think it's a fair comment if you're going to charge me £17 for two glasses of wine and a lager, and push food out at Michelin prices in Peckham. Admittedly the pricing is Arbutus rather than Ducasse but the point still stands.

Despite this, I know I'll be back. It's close by, convenient for mates and the allotment and I hope it will settle down, but they need to really up their game on this showing.

   

Ganapati - Less a review, and more of an advert - July 2011

Where: Ganapati, Peckham
How much: 2 courses for under £20 and a reasonably priced, if short, drinks list. Some excellent London lagers make an appearance


It's taken me a long time to write this, for very obvious reasons*. Sometimes a positive review of a hidden local gem is a blessing, especially for those that need a kick early days to help them get going, I'm hoping that The Crooked Well keeps up at it's current rate of knots. At other times raves are a pain in the arse, particularly when one of the most popular and authentic South Indian restaurants in South London gets one and is somewhere, despite it being on your doorstep, you already find it difficult to get a table.


Ganapati has an endearing 'make do and mend' style design that runs from the charmingly quirky light fixtures and decoration made from found objects, presumably bought in Kerala on one of the many trips to the region that owner and chef, Clare Fisher, has made. It would be easy to scoff at the homely, homemade and welcoming attitude, it's almost too wholesome at times, like dining in a commune kitchen, but it'd be like kicking a puppy, and a particularly sweet one at that.


The menu is short and regularly changing, there are a few constant staples but go with recommendations from the friendly staff (and often chipped in comments from fellow diners) or one of the Thali platters if you're unsure. The poppadoms are worth getting purely for the tamarind and beetroot chutney, sweetly and divinely astringent.


From the mains, I've recently been weaning myself off the thali platter. Don't get me wrong, there are some good flavours in the tiny metal bowls, the deep and aromatic lamb curry is perfectly flavoured and the mustard cuts through the dry fried potato with a wonderful zing, but I've been there too many times before. With a rolling menu of Keralan delights, that way food envy lies. 


On recent visits I've sampled hot Thattu Kada lamb, joyful tingling crunches of green firecracker chilllies poking out of the dish like vibrant fish in the wall of a coral reef. The Pudina chicken is milder, despite a slow heat from the black pepper, and comes on the bone with a fresh mint and coconut masala served with tomato rice. I've even had one of the veggie pieces. Hunks of sweet potato, cauliflower and okra, cooked a dente in a rich fragrant coconut broth, not enough to convert me, but good enough for a second go.


Whatever you have for a main, just make sure that you leave room for one, or more, of their heavenly parathas. Butter drenched whorls of unlevened bread, hot and fresh from the oven, demand attention as they arrive but are best saved to soak up stray sauce.


I've never managed a dessert. Actually, that's a lie, I once managed a mouthful of sticky carrot and sultana halwa, fragrant carrot cake batter with notes of cardamon, but I've never eaten a whole one. The lassi is a good option, and one of the few things I can stomach after a distending session of paratha. They also sell their beetroot chutney, and a delightful box-set of recipe cards from the kitchen. I suggest you pick both up if you are lucky enough to go, you need it for the times when you have a craving for that paratha, but just can't get a table.

   

* and like a giggling country idiot, I thought I'd already reviewed it on here...

'that' burger at the Rye - July-Sept 2011

Surely everyone has become bored with hearing the story of Yanni 'Meatwagon' Papoutsis and his rise, fall and second coming? If you're not or have been living in a culinary hole for the last three years, have a read up on it somewhere else. In short; Man researches burger, Man creates burger, Man sells burger, all pronounce it good.

Yanni seems to have settled down now, other than occasional forays to appropriate festivals and food fairs, and I really can't complain, as he's settled just round the corner from my house...

There's something almost noble about the life of a legendary travelling meat slinger and setting up a residency at The Rye, a refurbished refurbishment on the edges of Peckham was either a genius redefinition or as self serving and money-grabbing as Celine Dion's residency in Vegas.

It's certainly an improvement on the two hour queues in edgy carparks and pubs that I've experienced before to get Yanni's good stuff, but on the last couple of Sunday lunchtimes visited at least, the steady supply of on of the finest meat based snacks known to man has slowly turned its host pub into a creche. The dodgy as hell history of great, cult burgerdom, has been subsumed into some sort of family friendly post pool party treat for the weekend folks of Dulwich willing to speed ("not in that way darling, I haven't touched the stuff since before Imogen was conceived") over the Rye for it.

The menu is extensive, if you like burgers. There are 6 or so styles with rotating specials. The base of them all is a medium rare patty of 28 day aged chuck steak and a soft, yielding sourdough bun that soaks the juices while keeping shape till the last sticky bite. Toppings include the Dirty Hippy, a pair of mustard fried patties with a processed cheese slice broiled into the meat, the Green Chili burger, a tongue stinging tribute to New Mexico's Bobcat Burger, allegedly one of the finest on the planet, and a self explanatory bacon cheeseburger. Recent specials include a mushroom swiss that took me back to childhood and a dirty plate of chili cheese covered fries, oozing amber juice over the utilitarian tin plates. There isn't any sense of accomplished presentation, but you'll find it difficult to care as the main event, the burgers, have maintained their standards well in the transition from outdoor wagon to pub kitchen. A touch of chopped iceberg gives crunch, the rest is a delicious mingling of flavours and soft texture, a meaty taste explosion.

The only problem I have with the food here is the sides. They've not improved from the early days, despite the static kitchen. Over cooked and over greased in the case of the chips and onion rings and over salted in the case of the last coleslaw I tried. It's not the end of the world though, you can manage two burgers instead. It's probably much better for you.

Does the fact that you're now slamming it down surrounded by rug rats rather than New Cross hipsters take away from the experience? Somewhat, I have to say. It's beyond middle class hell when you can't even hear Minnie Ripperton over the scream and the gurgle of little Ollie and Arthur let alone the shout of your order. Weekday nights have to be the way forward, I don't think I can cope with a Sunday like that without getting fighty...

So will I come again? Of course, the burger is still worth a trip, if not across town, then certainly from the neighbouring postcode. And if you have kids, you need feel no shame here, they'll be welcome, with their mewling and puking, while you can sample the burger you couldn't get the buggy through the crowds to before.

The Dogfather at The Rye - May 2011

I'm a bugger for a burger..

I can bang on for hours about the ideal combinations of meat, the perfect cooking method, the multitudinous possible accompaniments and the side I'll take in the schism between proper cheese and the processed American slice (go for the slice, every day, ideally melted into the burger during the cooking). I'm not alone with this, in certain circles, the conversation on the perfect burger is one that can go on for hours.

Unfortunately, there's just not enough to play with when it comes to hot dogs... at the end of the day, the fundamental ingredient just isn't enough to get me excited. A good burger patty is something you can define, argue about, explore and worship. A good hot dog (rather than a sausage) is a bland smooth tube waiting to be doused in a supporting sauce.

Which is a massive shame for the Dogfather. A simply lovely gent by the name of Cooper who, with his dog Blue, travels South East London bringing the gospel of the gourmet 'dog to the masses. And boy does he do well with such an unpromising base.

The hot dogs are as promised, both beefy and juicy made from the finest quality purest meat, with a range of wildly, wonderfully original toppings ranging from the Mexican Elvis (pinto bean sauce, jalapeneos, cheese sauce and grilled onions) to the Snoop Dog (BBQ sauce, streaky bacon, green onions and cheese). The imagination behind these, I'm going to leave you to guess what's in the Cactus, the Collie and the Slum Dogs, is undoubted. The care and attention to detail behind them also unquestionable.

The pair of them are now regulars at East Dulwich's Northcross Road Market and have recently started appearing on Sundays at the recently reopened Rye pub on Peckham Rye. If you're in the neighbourhood it's well worth stoping by to say hello.

A review of Frank's Campari Cafe in Peckham - July 2010

Where: Frank's Cafe and Campari Bar, Peckham
With who: Whatever the collective noun is for a gathering of actors, clowns (really. He made balloon sculptures), ex-theatrical types and the odd accountant. A cackle maybe? More than I can name but The Vole, The Masticator, Ginger Prince, Nice Guy Eddie, Orange Crush, Queen Bee and the Art Tart were all there.
How much: £20 each (including food, an amount of lager, white wine and a number of Campari cocktails).


"If you carry on like that, you'll end up swigging spirits in a piss soaked carpark". It's the kind of thing my mother told me fairly regularly though my teenage years and for this summer and last, it appears that she's not far from the truth.


I blame it on the students. Since I stopped being one, I've blamed most things on them; queues in bars (even ones without happy hours and garish drinks), noise and general happiness on the night bus, the resurgence in fashions that we thought were shit at the time and my inability to have more than a bottle of wine in a night without feeling like crap the next day. All of the above came into play at Frank's Cafe last weekend.

Frank's is cool.. it's an art installation cum pop up bar on the top three floors of a Peckham multistory just round the corner from an art college. It was born cool. Like the arty kid who joined in the sixth form with the right band t-shirts who smoked French fags and snogged the girl you fancied.


And I'm not cool. Categorically. And I couldn't have felt more out of depth in this bastion of hip, so what did I do? surround myself with people who are. We went for the Costume King's birthday, a too rare raggle-taggle night ending late with whooping descent of drunken stairwell into piss infused alley. 

For a group who find it hard to be on time for a piss up in a brewery, we'd done well to get there early enough, but already food was disappearing from the chalkboard screwed to the reverse of the portaloo faster than we could fill our table. The staff clucked artily and fixed us jugs of Campari based punch and frosty beers while we raucously dived around the benches. Those of us who hadn't eaten (other than a late afternoon Mooli, but you can't hold that against me) raced to get to the menu before another item was scrubbed away. The rough hewn benches run from the bar, free of the tarpaulin roof, to the edge of the carpark and some amazing views over London. From this height even Peckham looks pretty. 


Eyeing the rapidly diminishing chalkboard, we went for a selection of dishes to share. This  caused The Masticator no end of pain. A born Yorkshireman, he finds it nigh on impossible to share his food and flees tapas on sight. It's a plain and simple menu, nothing flowery (or descriptive) in the descriptions ("cheese - £5") and this carried through into the cooking. A prosaic plate of 2 or 3 haphazardly chopped heritage tomatoes was nice enough, and saltily studded in a manner pleasing to us old 'uns but pricey at £6 a go. A feta and tomato bruschetta affair was similarly simple. A good portion of crackle glazed porchetta came with salty, tasty stewed green beans and sprinkled with toasted almonds. A hefty slice of pig, and worth the £10 price tag. Mackerel made a late substitution for  Sardine, the latter scrubbed from the chalkboard just before we ordered, likewise simply and competently cooked served with a lovely mustardy coleslaw style salad and served with orange to cut through the rich oil of the fish. 
We finished with a large dish of (slightly under) stewed gooseberries served with a slightly stingy portion of cream. Perfectly adequate though, and spying the mystical cheese (which appeared as a single large lump of what looked like Port Salut served solo) I think we went for the best option.


In any case, it's not about the food at Frank's. It's about being able to (legally and without fear of the Salvation Army) sit on a multistory rooftop in the summer, drinking cheapish beer and slightly camp cocktails, surrounded by groups of art students having far too much fun, dressing up in 90's retro neon and "partying like it's 1990, because that's when I was born". Who needs Hampstead Heath and the views from Parliament Hill? I've got a carpark in Peckham, until September at least...