TBILISI: GEORGIA ON MY MIND IN HOLLOWAY

Supper last night with my good chum, Petra allowed me to tick another box in my quest to eat in London restaurants representing all the countries I visited on my recent trip.

Although, I did not visit Georgia itself, I ate at one of Moscow’s top Georgian restaurants, Tbilisi, which at the time was already feeling the pinch as Putin’s desire to consume the former Soviet states back into a new Russian order meant that many of the key staples of Georgian cuisine were becoming hard or impossible to find. Mind you it did not stop them producing a lovely meal nor indeed did it stop them presenting a bill that was equal to the amount I had spent on food for the last month as I crossed from China via Mongolia. But, it was worth it, even if I had to put up with typically Russian service, which invariably makes the response to each little request seem like you have asked them to take poison or kill their parents.

One year and a few days on, I found myself in the slightly less exotic environs of The Holloway Road at Tbilisi, a restaurant that appeared to have little in common with its namesake except that name.

One of only three Georgian restaurants in the capital that I can think of, Tbilisi, on previous experience, provided a better option to relive the past than Little Georgia on Broadway Market and I persuaded Petra to join me in a shared selection of starters.

Piping hot hachapuri bread came stuffed with a slightly salty cheese and provided the ideal vehicle to transport dips from plate to mouth. Petra particularly zoomed in on a plate of Bhaza, pureed beets with walnuts and local herbs (does local mean they came from the Costcutter next door, I wonder?) while I spent more time protecting a plate of smokey aubergine puree.

These were filling enough and with a bottle of typically semi sweet Georgian wine, we could have stopped there and been quite satisfied. We didn’t, of course and Petra moved on to a plate of Ostri, a stew of beef, which came bubbling to the table in a clay pot and was spiked with pickles and chilli to give a sharp bite. My own Tabaka comprised a jointed baby chicken cooked in a heavy pan with another on top to press it down and then served with Tkemali, a sour plum sauce or a garlic sauce blended with more of those walnuts. They kindly gave me a dish of each to try and I can see why both versions are Georgian family favourites.

We really were stuffed by then, Petra asked for a doggy bag and I requested the bill, which came to £50 including wine and tip, less than the cost of my meal for one in Moscow and the service even came with a smile.

No wonder Putin hates Georgians, enthusiastic, friendly service, how thoroughly un Russian.

THE RED PEPPER: I AND I’S POPPING DOWN THE HOLLOWAY RD

There is a lovely little poem by The Restoration
dramatist, William Congreve

FALSE THOUGH SHE BE TO ME AND LOVE,
I'LL NE'ER PERSUE REVENGE
FOR STILL THE CHARMER I APPROVE,
THOUGH I DEPLORE HER CHANGE.

IN HOURS OF BLISS WE OFT HAVE MET:
THEY COULD NOT ALWAYS LAST;
AND THOUGH THE PRESENT I REGRET,
I'M GRATEFUL FOR THE PAST.

I have always thought of this as the perfect description of the amicable ending of a failing relationship.

About this time last year, I was fortunate enough to meet an amazing person and had one of the happier
summers of my forty two years.

Inevitably, by winter time our amour closed in like the darkening evenings and we agreed to go our separate ways just before Christmas. Nothing news worthy there. Just one of the millions of relationships in this vast city that flare up, shine brightly and fizzle out all the time.

Fortunately, although the end, when it came was painful, there were no bad feelings and I came away with a delightful person remaining in my life and a legacy of some blissful moments.

Rather more bizarrely,, I also came away with a knowledge of the eating options on The Holloway Rd where she lived.

There was Bu San, a Korean restaurant which is now closed. Tiblisi, a Georgian restaurant that I never felt the need to set foot in and numerous others.

Best of all however was The Red Pepper, a small Caribbean restaurant I had noticed opposite Mann & Overton (purveyors of Black Taxi’s to people from Essex with oh so interesting ideas on immigration) It was fun, cheap and cheerful and the service was suitably chaotic and affable and, most important, the food was delicious.

Given that it was almost the anniversary of meeting my ex, I thought this might be a perfect spot for a drop in supper tonight. After the horrors of last night’s meal, I am very glad I did.

An early supper, so I arrived straight from work and was the only one in the place which allowed me to sit at a large table and read my paper while the lilting sounds of Lover’s rock filled the air.

It has, for a neighbourhood restaurant, an extensive menu with 15 choices for starters and main courses. There are another ten or so dishes on the specials blackboard too. Not bad for a kitchen that seemed to have only one person doing all the cooking.

The drinks list is slightly bizarre with wines ranging from £11 a bottle to Dom Perignon at £130 a bottle! They also have the obligatory Guinness Punch although I gave all of this a miss and stuck to mineral water given the hammering my liver had taken in the last couple of days.

Unlike The Peasant, everything here sounds so damn good. Lamb broth with dumplings, yams and green banana, saltfish and sweet pepper salad, Fish tea. But, in the end, as a starter I plumped for

Mikey’s Mussels and Prawns in a Rum and Honey Liquor. Plump is exactly what they were. Four meaty mussels and four beautifully fresh prawns ( from Ridley Rd market I was told ) served in a sauce so good I came close to picking up the plate and licking it clean. I mean it. Fiery with chili and thick and sweet with the honey and rum this is the sort of dish I could set up in an apartment and visit at weekends.

Main courses were equally attractive and I was hard pressed to choose between Curried Goat with Rice & Peas, Roasted Butter Fish in an Okra gravy and Jerk Chicken with Plantains.

I went for the chicken. Another fine choice. The best part of a whole bird in a seriously tasty sauce served with a creamy crunchy coleslaw, a huge bowl of Rice & Peas and slices of plantain fried in butter. A mountain of food that tested even my appetite.

I was a good boy though and cleaned my plate. But, there was no chance I could face a slab of Jamaican Ginger Cake with rum custard. Next time, perhaps.

Including service and a litre bottle of water, the bill was a mere £21. Exactly half what I paid at The Peasant

Is it haute cuisine? Of course not. What it is, is a great neighbourhood place that knows exactly what its clientele wants and provides it at a price which offers quality and fabulous value for money.

He knew a thing or two that Congreve fellow. Finding a little treasure like The Red Pepper certainly means I am grateful for the past.

Now all I need to do is to con some poor unfortunate into sharing the present with me