"It's not much but it's ours"

Friday, June 29, 2007



Despite the best prejudices of both me and my blowsy Glaswegian host, we both came away really having enjoyed our meal at La Petite Maison and, Lord knows it had all the cards stacked against it.

First, neither of us was in the best fooling. She had just come from the dentist where five or so jabs, enough to drop a charging Glaswegian, had left her unscathed save a frozen mouth which meant she fetchingly dribbled water and wine from her mouth until about half way through the meal. Me? I was, and am, still in the grips of a chill accompanied by a , not annoying at all, hacking cough. As I write this, I am trying to deal with it by spending nearly a whole day in bed sleeping.

Next, is the location. In the heart of Mayfair. It’s bound to be an expensive rip off then, right? A thought added to when you hear that it is owned by the people who brought us Zuma and Roka, hardly known as budget option.

Finally, for me at least, it is in the site which used to be Teca ( now relocated to Marylebone) where I had a “ final straw” meal ten years ago with a self absorbed woman of the “oh, I haven’t brought my wallet, I didn’t think I would need it” type. £150 later ( bear in mind this was 1998) I realised she had never had her wallet with her in the two years I had known her, and I went home with a heart just as empty.

So, for different reasons, neither of us was inclined to think we would like La Petite Maison.

But we were wrong. La Petite Maison turned out to be very enjoyable indeed and, while certainly never going to appear in Time Out Cheap Eats, the bill at the end did not make either of us cry. Particularly not me, anyway, as she was paying.

The people here have gone into partnership with the owners of a well liked restaurant of the same name in Nice. The aim is to bring their regarded brand of cuisine Nicoise to ( a hybrid of southern French and Ligurian) to London.

This begins as soon as you sit down and huge chunks of fresh bread are dropped on the pristine linen for you to dip in superb Ligurian oil from frosted glass bottles left on each table. I arrived early and worked by way through the best part of half a loaf, a glass of Rose and took in what was a very comfortable, light and agreeable dining room.

By the time my frozen mouthed friend arrived with drool coming out of one side of her mouth and expletives out of the other, I had already had time to give the menu a good going over.

It will take time to get it right. Not in the cooking, which is excellent ( more of that later, of course) but in the explanation as the nature of sharing any number of small starter plates and then of main courses seemed to be confusing the chinless at tables all around the restaurant.

It was only their second day and the poor staff were having to give more explanations that a man in A&E at 4am with a traffic cone stuck up his arse.

Still, more than luck than judgement, we battled our way through it and were soon presented with a rather dainty version of a Pissaladiere, topped with micro slivers of olive and anchovy which we both adored.

Next, of course, a Salad Nicoise which had everything it was supposed to and, thank heavens, was made with jarred tuna.

Finally, small fillets of fresh sardines topped with chopped tomatoes, grapes and capers. I am not sure my friend likes this so I finished off two of the three pieces. Beautifully fresh fish with the clean, crisp tastes of the grapes cutting through the oiliness of the flesh.

The main courses are not cheap with a veal chop for £40 to share and, our own choice of, a whole roasted Poulet Noir with foie gras coming in at £35. When, however, one sees the quality of the ingredients and the skill with which they have been prepared, it does move from “ouch” to acceptable.

A slight complaint is that the chicken takes a hour from ordering to come to table. Well, of course it does. It’s a chicken, that’s how long a small one takes. But, I am uncertain how many people are prepared to sit around and wait for the end result how ever good it is. We were perfectly happy, the sun had begun to try and break through the windows into the room, there was some great people watching to be had ( particularly when the owner of the place with his fabulous shock of grey hair walked in) and we were happily sipping on something white and Italian. And, let’s face it, we were unlikely to get any better offers in our current less than decorous state.

When the chicken arrived, it was worth every hacking, dribbling moment we had spent waiting for it. It is hard to ruin an ingredient this good, but man, this was fabulous. A whole moist chicken carved into decent chunks served in a cast iron bowl to catch the juices. Juice in which meltingly good foie gras had been allowed to poach slightly as the chicken rested.

Crisp skin, succulent flesh, bones to gnaw on and juices to be sopped up with a big slab of fried bread which had been placed in the bowl.

We, and by we, I mean she, had gone all out of the expense front and we ordered a macaroni with summer truffles to accompany the chicken. The chef, the owner and the manager all came over to apologise when it appeared that their delivery from Italy had not arrived. So, we substituted the dish for gratinated potatoes topped with the same truffles. I am glad we did. This is one of “ those” that happen all too rarely. Creamy, buttery potatoes that, on their own would make someone swoon were topped by a liberal shaving of truffly goodness. Let’s say, when it came to clean the bowl, words were spoken.

We could not finish the chicken and half of it sits now, wrapped in tin foil in the DH fridge. I am very happy at the thought of getting to try it again.

We split a bowl of mixed sorbets and gelato from a standard looking list of deserts and skipped coffee.

Which, brought us to a bill of £120 for two. Now, that is not cheap by any stretch, but for a meal of this quality with this quality of ingredients, two glasses of rose, two glasses of red and a bottle of white, I think it is well within the acceptable level.

Not one for an everyday visit, but well worth a try for that chicken and potato combo alone

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Wednesday, June 27, 2007



Let me get this first line out of the way because it sounds, and is, impossibly wanky.

I just had lunch with my publishers. Told you. But, there you go, the good people of John Murray have taken a gamble that not one of the people I meet along the way on the rest of the EAT MY GLOBE trip will want to beat me to a lifeless pulp after spending elongated amounts of time in my company.

They have also decided that EAT MY GLOBE may just make a fun story that one or two of you saps, suckers and ne’er do wells may want to read at some point. Go figure.

Publication May 2009 and, don’t you fret, I shall be imbedding the ISBN as a subliminal message for the next year or so.

So, anyway, there I was having to think of a lunch location with the delightful Eleanor and Nikki. A place to ponder matters of literary import

“ of course, I think it is important that I retain my true voice, Eleanor. But, the real question is, will this book make me more likely to pull any decent sorts?”

That kind of stuff.

Kobe Jones seemed to meet the necessary criteria. Dark inside (no point scaring them at this early stage) Light food of the California ruins Japanese type and not far from their office.

If you weren’t looking for it, you would walk past it without a second glance. Hardly a good start for a new-ish place. If I am not mistaken, when I was a sales rep way back when, their entrance used to be the entrance to the car park under the YMCA which reeked with a piss & vomit perfume that stays in my mind to this day. Again, not a good start for a new place. A La Recherche Du Vom Perdu.

Still, once inside, the room is quite pleasing in a sub Hakkasan kind of way and the sweet front of house showed me to a booth while I waited for my new chums. Odd thing, the booths. The table did not seem to have been fitted an equal distance from the two seats so, while I was a good arms length away from the edge of the table my companions, would have to suck up huge gulps of air to squeeze into their space on the countering side.

So far, a bit of a hodge podge as my good mother used to say. So too, was the food.

You can’t ruin edamame beans. Buy ‘em frozen, steam ‘em, put too much salt on ‘em and whack them out for a £5. They got that bit bang on the money. Same with a bowl of miso which was suitably restorative for me as I tried to talk without hacking my guts up following a chest infection.

The rest was a mish mash of tired ingredients, poor execution and sloppy presentation.

An order of mixed vegetable and seafood tempura had far to thick a covering of batter which tasted more like a chip shop bag of scraps than the light bubbly magnificence of good Japanese frying.

Dragon Rolls and Spider Rolls were all a bit messy and fell apart between hand to mouth which I think, in Cal fusion Japanese leads to calls to “do a Mishima” The ingredients within were equally limp and we left most of them, even when Nikki joined us.

Nigri Sushi was better, with the fish being fresher and Hamachi and Uni both hitting the taste spot even if the plate was sloppily presented. The Unagi though was as mushy as a Catherine Cookson mini series.

Kobe Jones is an Australian enterprise, I think and has branches in Melbourne, Sydney and Bangkok as well as London. I am not sure if this level of sushi would pass muster there, but even here in relatively sushi rube London, it is a good few levels below what has become acceptable and it is little surprise that there were few other people in the place.

The service was lovely, which counts for a lot but not enough to make me rush back.

I was being treated to lunch, so don’t know what the final bill would have been. I am guessing too much.

A place as hard to find as Narnia with food of middling standard at top prices. It is not a heady mix for long term success.

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Tuesday, June 26, 2007



It will come as a great surprise to those who read the blog and imagine me to be an amiable, tolerant, happy-go-lightly kind of guy who strolls around with a hat on his head at the most jaunty of angles, thumbs in his braces and constantly whistling a happy refrain, but I am not really a people person.

In fact, if truth be told, I don’t really like people at all. A bothersome lot. Oh, I tolerate them, of course. You have to. Society, for some reason or other, frowns upon the perfectly natural urge to inform people of their unique levels of idiocy for the betterment of life in general and my life in particular.

So, I keep myself to myself and the medication I am obliged to take calms those voices in my head which tell me that skinning some irritating little tit alive would be the best thing for them and me.

Mind you, I was pushed to the very limit today.

I am still feeling as rough as a navvy after a week long binge on the turps. Partly because of chill caught while hiking in Padstow and partly a reaction to the last of my jabs for EAT MY GLOBE which had me had me in bed most of the weekend quivering like a badly made blancmange.

Not a good start and added to by the stress of realisation that I have only three weeks before I fly to Japan and about four weeks worth of organising still to do.

Still, I managed to do some writing this morning and organise a lot of my currency (Yen, Deng, Dong, Wang, Bong. God knows what else?) for the trip and I felt like I deserved a nice, if quick, lunch.

I had been wanting to try the food at South American caterers, El Vergel, for ages. People I know who work in the area swear by it and I have been to a couple of business lunches where the people there provided the excellent catering.

Open from 8am for breakfast through until 3pm. Everything in El Vergel ( means The Vegetable Patch, they tell me) is prepared fresh every day and the menu has daily and seasonal tweaks.

The light and airy dining area has high stools around the side and one long bench seat in the middle. It was empty when I arrived and I was perfectly happy to plonk myself down at the end of the bench with my paper and listen to the constant but amiable Spanish chatter from the rather lovely staff.

The food is rather lovely too. Simple, but well done. A fresh crisp salad, came with a large chunk of hot fresh green bean tortilla and, while it went a bit long on raw pepper for my liking, it would have satisfied on its own for a mere £3.25.

But, I needed a bit of protein, so also ordered a Churrasca Con Queso which involved grilled slices of rump steak marinated in chilli with cheese served in home made “village” bread. For £4.25 it would also have made a meal in itself and, when slathered with some of the salsa they leave on the table, was very good indeed.

With a tip and a beer, it came to about £13, but lunch there could be had for little over a £5 which is not bad in these days of chilled pre-made sandwiches.

The place was still empty by the time I finished eating, so I made the mistake of ordering a hot chocolate. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, the chocolate was that all too rare a thing in London, hot and tasting of chocolate.

But, the moment, I took my first sip, the place began to fill up and my hackles began to rise in direct response.

The take out menu of El Vergel says that it is “ one minute from The Inner Law Courts, five minutes from The Tate Modern and Eight Minutes from South London University. Something like that anyway.

And, Lord, can’t you tell it? Within ten minutes the place was filled with pinstripe wearing barrister types competing with satchel wearing design types to see who could bray loudest about matters of the least consequence.

From a peaceful little Latin American enclave to the seventh level of hell in as long as it takes to say “guacamole”

If they were competing to see who could drive me away quickest, the lawyers, for once, lost. A profoundly white twenty something next to me was wearing a t-shirt with Peter Tosh on the front and thought this gave him licence to exclaim everything, including his order, in an estuary version of Jamaican patois when patently the closest he has ever got to Babylon is a club in Notting Hill.

When he turned to his pizza faced friend and said “one more ‘ting” I knew that I was in danger of letting the voices in my head win and asked for my hot choc to be put in a takeaway cup, paid up and scarpered.

Don’t get me wrong. The food at El Vergel is very enjoyable indeed. Fresh and reasonably priced. The service could not have been more sweet and, when less full, the room is a great place to enjoy a nibble.

Next time though, and I am sure there will be a next time. A takeaway, I think. For my sake and theirs.

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Monday, June 25, 2007



Hands up. Who knows where the The Frontline Club is? Hands up anyone who has even heard of it.

Nah, me neither.

That was until last night when a mail from an old college chum called Kate,confirming lunch had me pondering on “somewhere decent within walking distance of Paddington Station” not what the sports commentators would call " an easy ask" where it's easier to get crystal meth than a piece of fruit.

Kate, bless her, was always pretty demanding back in the old days and it is nice to see that she has changed not a jot in the ten years since we last set eyes on each other.

It seemed appropriate that, given that we had tracked each other down via Google, that I use the same method to find somewhere for lunch and, at the top of the page, was The Frontline Club.

As the name suggests, the two and a half year old restaurant is found on the ground floor of a private members club which counts amongst its membership people from all aspects of the news media and dedicates itself to the memory of those who have lost their lives in pursuit of intelligent news coverage in battle torn places.

All this is worthy enough but has precious little to do with having a good meal. However, the menu also shows signs of intelligence with a very British selection set at a notch or two about gastro pub level.

Pricing is pretty smart too with starters, at £4-8 including London Particular (a thick pea soup) light salads, Scallops and Crispy Pork with Hot Tewksbury Mustard & Watercress. Main courses, ranging from £10-14 offer up Pork Chop with Pan Haggerty, Cottage Pie, Skate with brown shrimp and caper butter and Mersea Fish Cakes.

Given the tendency of the news these days to be a triumph of style over substance, it is about right that the meal itself was better in the reading than in the eating. Not bad, but not quite living up to expectations

While I ploughed my way through slightly tough breaded pork whose flavour was drowned out by too strong a mustard, Kate kept herself occupied by gnawing on some frighteningly large Gordial olives and bread ( £2.50 extra, but not brought to the table unless ordered which is rare these days )

I was in full pork mode and went for the Citrus Pork Chop with Pan Haggerty. The chop was full of flavour and backed up the restaurant boast to source everything from small independent farmers. The Pan Haggerty reminded me of why so many British regional dishes are dying out. So many are f**king disgusting. I left most of it.

Kate’s fish cake was about the size of a soft ball and she seemed to enjoy it as she did the inevitable “triple cooked chips” which although leading to a weary eyebrow raise, were rather tasty and suitably crispy.

Puddings come in at £4 which is reasonable and we split something called a “champagne rhubarb whim wham” I had a couple of bites and left the rest to Kate who scraped the large martini glass in which it was served, clean. I suspect that means it pushed all the necessary buttons for a pudding.

The real joy of The Frontline Club is, however, their wine list. It may surprise a lot of you to think that journo’s like a drop in now and then but this place has, arguably the best wine list I have ever seen in a mid range London restaurant and at some incredible prices.

The list was constructed by Malcolm “superplonk” Gluck which means that you do have to wade through some irritating chatter to get to the heart of the list, but once you do, it is incredibly varied, unusual and well priced with wines from £13 upwards and at least 30, I think, by the glass.

Glasses of Beaujolais and a suitably pissy New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and some fresh mint tea brought the bill to about £40 a head including service which is depressingly average for a two and a bit course meal with wine and coffee, in London these days.

They are open from 8am for breakfast, through afternoon tea and right on until 11pm for supper. So, I can see myself popping in again if I am in that part of town and the only alternatives are the dodgy kebab shops near the station

Definitely a worthy place and, while the food does not make for attention grabbing headlines, the wine list is definitely excellent breaking news.

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Friday, June 22, 2007


When I last mentioned the thing of beauty that is The Salt Beef Sandwich, it was in relation to The Salt Beef Bar at Selfridges. Perfectly pleasant it was too, but at £10+ for a sarnie and a drink, it had bloody well better had be.

I was in town today for the latest and last ( thank you lord) of my jabs for the EAT MY GLOBE trip and, afterwards, wandered down Charing Cross pondering and musing as one does on matters beefular.

Someone (Silverbrow, I think) mentioned Gaby’s last time I put out a call for suggestions as to where to find the best Salt Beef in town and I realised that I had not set foot inside the place for years.

Mind you, not that much has changed. The same yellowing pictures of theatre stars of years past and the same two guys behind the counter looking just that little bit older. But then, aren’t we all?

I recalled that they also used to have excellent falafel. So, I ordered a Salt beef sandwich and an order of those chickpea beauties.

“That’ll be too much” the guy behind the counter said

“ It’s ok, I’m very hungry” I countered with Shavian wit

“No, it’s still too much” he said as if to brook no further argument. “have the salt beef, if you want more, I will bring you the falafel”

Can’t say fairer than that. So, I slunk into the back of the empty café and waited.

Well, he was right. A large sandwich with layers of moist fatty salt beef came with some sharp pickles and sweet mustard. Not too much. As I said, I was hungry. But, just enough.

Better than the “world famous” effort at Selfridges by far and at £6.50 including a drink and the pickles, not bad value.

Definitely one to keep in your mind for a lunch on the run.

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Sunday, June 17, 2007


Yi Ban has two branches.

One in Chelsea and one in Docklands. Both far enough from civilisation for them never to enter my radar when Dim Sum calls.

However, when two chums, John & David, who I had not seen in over a year begged for my company over lunch, I thought it was only fair to head out to Royal Albert on the DLR and give it a go.

Oh dear. An experience so wretched that it makes me profoundly wary about ever leaving fashionable SOSHO again.

I was looking forward to it too. There are few things I enjoy more on a Sunday than good Dim Sum. Actually, that’s not true. There are lots of things I prefer but they are not things I wish to share here or anywhere where I am not under subpoena.

Plus John & David are top people whose opinions on food I consider worthy of note (and I don’t say that very often) and they recounted any number of good meals here. On top of which the positive view was reinforced by an encounter with two more friends with good taste at Spitalfield in the morning who declared it “excellent”

So far so good. So what went wrong?

First, the wait. Now, I know that when you go for Dim Sum, unless you are there, as DH normally are, as soon as the restaurant opens, you have to wait a while. But, well over an hour probably takes one to the edges of endurance for any self respecting Londoner. The trouble is, you are literally in the middle of nowhere and, unless the bistro at the Excel Ramada takes your fancy, there is little option but to sit a spell and wait. So we did.

We put our name down on the list and sat in the corridor with David clutching the small raffle ticket they offered like a man waiting for a flat pack bookcase at Argos. We waited and we waited and we waited. Finally, just as we were about to give up the shout of “435” went up, we gave a weary little cheer and wandered in to a restaurant filled to the brim with noisy punters and staff looking increasingly harassed.

Actually getting to sit down was the high point. Things went downhill from there. We handed over our little sheet on which we had dutifully marked out the dumplings we wanted and the waitress started attacking it with red pen as if she was my old maths teacher marking logarithms homework. “This gone. This gone too. No more this” I am surprised she did not write “see me” on the bottom.

Then we waited and we waited and we waited. One dish arrived, some slightly stale pork puff pies. Then we waited and we waited and we waited. Another dish arrived, some half decent ribs.

Then we, well you get the picture. By this time, John & David were feeling a bit embarrassed. They had no reason too. None of this was their doing. But, I know how they felt. You take a friend to a place you like and it lets you down at every level. It can be soul destroying.

Almost as soul destroying as the wait for the next morsel of food. Finally, a handful of steamed dumplings arrived. They were fine. No better than an average mid range Dim Sum experience, but by now we were so hungry we greeted them as if the chef had come to the table to prepare the food himself while stuffing £20 notes into our top pockets with the words “ buy your self something pretty”

There were still five things on the order to come, but another twenty minutes later, the wait just got too much for us and, when I popped off to the bathroom, John & David got the bill and treated me to lunch which they had no more need to do than to feel embarrassed about the whole debacle.

All in all, nearly two and a half hours to eat about half a dozen dumplings. Roughly twenty minutes a bite.

I can fully believe this place is capable of better. But, experiences like this make me pretty determined never to find out.

Yi Ban apparently means “ First Class” I wonder what “ Second Rate” is in Cantonese?

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Friday, June 15, 2007


Well, Featherstone St actually, but you see where I am coming from.

At last. At long last. For the last three months or so, DH have regularly been seen pressing our noses against the glass window of the site of Pinchitos waiting for the day it opened. We have even tried to chivvy them along by sticking our heads in every now and then and saying “ when the hell are you going to be ready?” We are like that. We love to help people out.

But, given the fact that co-owner, Jason seems to have done most of the work himself (with his old man) the fact that they only took that long is a pretty remarkable feat.

Another challenge came on opening day yesterday when they found out they had no gas which left the restaurant with a truncated menu and the punters with an assault course of road works to overcome before the two could meet.

It tells you something about the future success of this place that, despite all of these setbacks, the place was packed at lunchtime on its second day and, based on the food I tried today, it is going to be packed pretty much all the time.

With a handful of tables and plenty of counter seating, the room is an agreeable place for casual group dining or a solo snack. I was having lunch with my new chum, Andrew and we sat at the bar next to the appealing refrigerated display of montaditos and sipped on a chilled Fino.

Pinchitos has taken the best elements of mothership, PinXo People in Brighton with a good cocktail list and a menu of light nuevo tapa based on well sourced ingredients. Excellent ham with strips of acorny fat, sharp meaty boquerones came in the Madrileno style on top of potato crisps, small glasses of Gazpacho topepd with a slick of peppery olive oil, a decent portion of Pimientos Padron suitably charred and salty and a good selection of both cured Iberico meats and cheeses.

Given that they were very definitely not cooking on gas, It was a good effort from Miquel and his team.

Regular readers will know that I am no great fan of Barrafina/Fino school of restaurants and the bleating from critics about how Barrafina was “ just like the real Spain” made me want to hurl my tortillitas de camarones. No, it looks like Cal Pep and costs you the best part of £100 for two if you have the stomach to queue for an hour to sit at the counter.

Pinchitos is a lot more to my taste.

Casual, well priced (with tapa about £5) Cruzcampo on draught and Mahou in bottles, a decent wine list and what I am told was great coffee I can see it is going to be a regular haunt for Chocolate and Churros in the morning, a snack at lunch or a cocktail in the evening on the days when Tobias is up from Brighton.

It wont be for the faint hearted. The small space is going to get hellishly crowded with post work revellers from nearby offices. the music is loud and I suspect the large glass windows will heat up the crowd nicely.

But, these are small quibbles for a very welcome addition to the neighbourhood. Particularly my neighbourhood.

It is a soft opening and next Thursday will be their first evening session with the full menu. If you go in there on that night and see a bald man licking a plate clean of ham juices, it’s probably going to be me.

Welcome to the big city guys.

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Wednesday, June 13, 2007



OK, Another of our irregular pop culture quizzes. A huge prize for anyone who can tell me in relation to which TV programme and which episode, my title for today is an homage. Form an orderly queue folks.

Anyway, after a tiring day of popping from pillar to post talking to the great and the good of publishing with only the merest plate of Jamon Iberico to keep me going, I was, quite frankly in need of a some comfort food and plenty of it.

So, I arranged to meet my sometime dining partner, Gavin ( the bastard son of Bill Nighy and Bela Lugosi) at The Dog & Duck for a swifty before heading off to Mr Jerk

Owned, I think, by the good folk at Jerk City, Mr Jerk is a little more spacious and sedate than its shriekingly loud neighbour, but offers more or less the same menu to, what seemed to be, a predominantly West Indian and African Crowd

The menu is short and a little confusing in the sense that the list of appetisers actually only contains two dishes that could be counted as a starter and the rest (coleslaw, plantains etc ) being side dishes. But, there is plenty of stuff there to attract.

We began with orders of fried fish (flying fish I think) which fell off the bone and had some pleasing crispy bits alongside plantain which had the suitable combo of crunchy outside and meltingly sweet insides.

We went ordered three main courses. Curry Mutton with Rice & Peas, Jerk Chicken and A Prawn Roti. They mixed up our order and forgot to bring out a main course portion of the Jerk so, substituted with a single starter portion. This would, under normal circumstances, have caused an international incident where a hungry Hermano is involved, but the portions of the other two dishes were so huge that, as it was, we barely finished what we had.

The curry mutton was so much better than my own attempts a few months back with the meat falling apart at the merest fork pressure and giving up wafts of Jamaican curry spice. The “dirty” rice was great too and we both scooped up spoonfuls of it with the rich gravy.

The roti was enormous and filled with a sweet spicy sauce with both large and small shrimp enough to feed at least two people.

The Jerk Chicken, when it arrived, was suitably sticky with sauce and the meat remained moist. Not as good as that at the Red Pepper on The Holloway Rd where I have been known to pick up my plate and lick it clean with loud slurping noises while the lady owner nods approvingly and says “dat’s a good boy”. But, good all the same.

The service was sweetness itself and with a well deserved tip and a couple of pints of draught red stripe ( as gassy and horrid as I recall it being at the 1982 Notting Hill Carnival, the last time I drank it ) brought the bill to £40 for two. Very reasonable for a meal that could have fed another person without any trouble at all.

All these Caribbean restaurants opening up, they will have to start calling SOHO, “ The Jerk District” for a whole ‘nother reason.

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