TOFF'S:MATZO'D IN MUSWELL HILL

Another trip to the outer reaches of the known Universe, well Muswell Hill, to try and find London’s best Fish and Chips. Luckily, there was a bus to take me from my doorstep and drop me off right outside Toff’s in Muswell Hill Broadway (and luckily a downhill walk all the way back).

Toff’s has been around for about forty years or so and on my visit on a Saturday morning it was bustling and packed with a mixture of locals and the odd camera-toting tourist. I was asked by one of them about the origin of the fish knife but my rather hopeless reply was that it was to lift the flakes of fish rather than cut them and that it was historical. I could have said that fights were always breaking out in chippies and the blunt oddly-shaped knife was less likely to inflict a mortal wound, but that would have been just cruel and unusual treatment of tourists. I leave that to HS.

The menu covers all the usual fishy bases and this being North London you can get your fish cooked in Matzo instead of batter. I’d had a good experience with the Matzo method at Nautilus a few months ago so I’d decided to give my Haddock the same treatment again.

To get things going I tried Toff’s Fish cakes. Anthony Bourdain, during his world travels, talks about mystery meats, the non-specific meat that appears in local dishes of stew or pie (hmmmm…pie). I’ve a new category, mystery fish, as in it’s a mystery what sort of fish is in my fish cakes. As well as not really tasting of anything the fish cakes also had a rather tough coating.

The matzo had done the job of protecting my Haddock which was firm and flaked nicely. Unfortunately, the coating was very dry in texture and so was the fillet. Maybe because it was a little thin. Nothing wrong with the fish though which was fresh and tasty.

The supporting acts were a bit of a mixed bag: chips were very good, peas were ok and pickles came in the form of a couple of those long dill pickles (another North London regular). Tartare sauce was too heavy on the mayo. Tea was weak.

I doubt there’s much competition in the area but Toff’s, although a nice enough joint to spend an lunch hour in struck me as overpriced for what it delivers – a trip westwards to Nautilus would yield better.

PS And please note I didn't use a single limp pun about the place. Shit.

HERMANO SEGUNDO LOST IN LA LA LAND: DAY THIRTEEN

Despite the fact that she is so short she looks like she should be protecting a ring somewhere and so slight she looks like a strong wind would sweep her off her feet, Sybil has a gargantuan appetite as witnessed when she demanded that we rush from her apartment for a mammoth breakfast at L.A.’s legendary Roscoe’s House of Chicken N’ Waffles.

The notion of combining those two ingredients, particularly when the latter as smothered in syrup, remains a mystery to me even after the meal, but it was mother’s milk to Sybil as she vacuumed up a plate of crispy chicken, collard greens and waffles leaving me to discover the delights of deep fried “popcorn” chicken giblets. In fact, I was quite delighted, these things are like poultry crack cocaine and I cleaned up over half a plate of them leaving little mounds of sawdust on my plate.

A breakfast like that needed some walking off, so Sybil pointed her car in the direction of uber-swanky Rodeo drive where we spent a happy hour or so people watching while guessing how much plastic surgery they had endured and on which body parts (Vagina as chin dimple, anyone?)

By some unfathomable method, Sybil was now hungry again and dragged me into a place called “Sprinkles” for something called a “cupcake” It displayed everything that is appalling about American food, basically being a means of raising insulin levels while bypassing taste. The yanks seem to love them though and were buying them by the tray load. Strange, strange people.

The afternoon was spent watching at taping of The Craig Ferguson Late, Late Show where Sybil had procured green room tickets and then we headed over to Korea Town to meet some more of her friends for supper. I do like American girlies. They too have huge appetites and there seems to be little desire to prod a few leaves of salad around a plate when they get together for food and, although they talk at a pitch which is likely to scare the neighbourhood dogs, I was happy to sit and listen to them talk about mascara while they left me alone to concentrate on a rather splendid Korean BBQ.

The wafting smells of marinated meat from neighbouring tables made me rediscover my appetite and thin strips of beef, chicken and pork cooked to a pleasing crispness were soon melting happily on contented tongue along with copious side dishes and a slightly stodgy seafood pancake.

I was, however, always one bite behind Sybil who was attacking the plates with her usual considerable gusto. I guess the fact that Middle Earth is now safe has helped her appetite no end.

HERMANO SEGUNDO LOST IN LA LA LAND: DAY TWELVE

Here is a little warning for any of you who may decided to come and spend some time in LA LA Land. Never, and I mean never start a conversation about sushi. Never.

Bugger me can they bore the arse off you about it and how good it is here and how bad it is in the rest of the world (Japan, anyone?) particularly New York a place with which the people of The City of Angels seem to have a slightly unhealthy fixation and not in a good Mother Theresa “let’s help the poor bastards out because they live in New York” kind of way, more in a Tobe Hooper “let’s skin the bastards alive” kind of way.

So when, Sybil suggested a supper of raw fish after she returned from a day at the office, I quailed slightly at the barrage to come particularly when she told me that her local “joint” Sushi Zo had just been awarded 1* in the brand new Michelin list.

You certainly would not mark it down as a Michelin place from its location in a slightly grim strip mall nor from the room itself, which hardly barked star standard, but the array of fish on display at the sushi station did give a clue that something different was on offer. So too did the announcement of the host, as we sat in front of Keizo, the serious faced owner/chef, that there was no longer any menu being offered, just “omakase” where the choice was to be left to him to keep feeding us until one side gave in.

The quality both in ingredient and execution was apparent from the first plate of sashimi, one of tuna and another of Kampachi (amber jack) and the following small dish of uni (sea urchin) coating a “noodle” made of shreds of squid, but it was the sushi that Sybil was really looking forward to.

Unlike so many places I have visited, where too much cold rice is used to bulk out smaller portions of fish, here the small and correct amount of rice was warm and infused with the perfect amount of vinegar. The texture was correct too, so the fish could be removed and dipped in soy sauce if instructed and replaced on the rice before transferring to mouth by hand or chopstick as preferred.

Few pieces needed added soy as many had received a dressing before serving and the quality of the toro (fatty tuna) was some of the best I have encountered with only a small amount of gari (pickled ginger) needed to clean the mouth before the next offering. If I had one criticism, and I usually do, I would have liked more of the sushi to have been served clean and without dressing so that the exemplary quality of the fish had chance to shine, but this is a minor weakness in an otherwise major experience and the fishy space dust pop of plump salmon roe in a small roll alone would make me forgive any other failings

By the time we had finished our last bite of a blue crab roll (picture of Sybil eating it removed to protect those of a nervous disposition) we had racked up a bill of $165, a lot to pay, but still worth it for sushi of a quality that we could only dream of in London (I will leave the people of New York to state their own case)

So, the people of L.A may well bore the backside off you talking about sushi but, based on the one experience in this neighbourhood “joint” they probably have good reason too.

You have been warned

HERMANO SEGUNDO LOST IN LA LA LAND: DAY ELEVEN

I guess at heart I am a pleb, a commoner, a serf and an underling.

Despite my best efforts, it is not the swanky restaurants which attracts me it is the down home and the simple. Oh, I can enjoy a meal such as our recent one at Providence as much as anyone, you would have to be a bit simple minded not to admire the chef’s ability to turn exemplary ingredients into the utterly fabulous. But, while others may sit and parse their dishes of fish, foams and fancies, I can’t help but feel that somewhere out there there is a pile of BBQ ribs, a plate of fish & chips or a hamburger with my name on them.

My new chum, John Haskell, is obviously a man after my own heart or heart attack. As we sat having a wonderful supper on Saturday, drinking astonishing wines and eating the food of a soon-to-be Michelin 2* chef, his wife, Liz was making copious notes and bringing all her considerable dining experience to bear on the dishes in front of us. John was playing along with good humour, but when I mentioned that one of the best things I had eaten so far was a hot dog from Let’s Be Frank, his eyes lit up and he began to talk with genuine passion about L.A’s great hamburger and hot dog joints.

At the end of the evening he promised me a trip to his favourite of all, Marty’s on the corner of Pico & Overland and as promised was sitting outside Sybil's flat waiting for me at 11am sharp. Well, in fact he was a little early, John being a man who realises that prime beef waits for no man.

Marty’s is everything you want from a hamburger joint and Angel, who has been working there for over twenty years was cooking away a storm in preparation for the lunchtime rush. John is a regular and his request to “double my regular order” saw us head back to the small dining area a few moments later each carrying a tray laden down with a chilli dog, a cheeseburger, fries and onion rings. Yes, that is all of that for both of us.

“fast food does not have to mean junk food” John mumbled between slow, considered bites, alternating between dog and burger and he was right. Marty’s hamburgers are made from decent beef and cooked perfectly to order, rare in this case, with lots of toppings, which compliment rather than detract from the main event. If the hamburger was good, the chilli dog was a revelation with a decent frank slathered with slow cooked chilli with a bit of a kick. I finished it off in about three bites, prompting John to ask me if I wanted another. Damn, yes I did, but with a bowl of decent onion rings and passable fries to contend with and a stadium size diet Coke to wash it down ( I am on a diet don’t you know?) good judgement got the better of a good appetite.

After a poor start, L.A’s eating scene is finally growing on me and I guess it now says as much about me as it does about the city’s restaurants that the one place I want to return to before I leave is a small hamburger joint where a meal for two costs about £12.

But then, as I say, I am a pleb. No apologies offered, none necessary.

HERMANO SEGUNDO LOST IN LA LA LAND: DAY TEN

Tuk-Tuk is just a neighbourhood Thai restaurant, but it is the sort of Thai restaurant that I wouldn’t mind having in my neighbourhood.

We both woke up a little jaded the morning after our blow out at Providence and persuading ourselves reluctantly that noon was late enough for us to lounge around, Sybil drove the few short blocks to her favourite little Thai joint for us to have a restorative lunch.

Tom Yum soup immediately hit the spot with its plump shrimp, shreds of chicken and classic hot and sour flavours. The Bengali boy in me craved a bit of extra spice, so I spooned fresh chilli into my bowl to take it up a level and the combination began to perk up my overwrought palate straight away.

More solid dishes followed. Spring rolls were a little doughy, but deep fried, too, helps combat the consequences of the night before, I find and I ate mine and Sybil’s fair share, while she tucked into her own favourite, chilli, crab noodles. Only a bowl of red curry let the side down with the duck tasting like it had been cooked the day before and the presence of enough pineapple for Carmen Miranda to make a nice headdress.

Still, for a little over £15 a head, it was a perfect way to kick start the day and, to be honest, we would have left it at that had we not already made plans to join two of Sybil’s friends at a great L.A institution, Mastro’s Steakhouse, for supper.

There is nothing on earth to compare to a great American Steakhouse, the wood panelled walls, the clubby atmosphere, the chintzy music, the unfeasibly large wine lists and, of course, the equally unfeasibly large chunks of flesh.

Mastro’s ticks all the buttons and the tinkle of the piano player’s efforts hits your ear the moment you enter through the door “remember, folks, be good to your parents, they’ve been good to you”

My companions have a different take on eating here than many, eschewing starters in favour of diving headlong into a wide variety of Mastro’s famous and gargantuan side dishes. So, for once, after choosing my steak, an 18oz Bone in Kansas Strip, I left the ordering to them. They were right when they warned me not to fill up on bread as the table was covered with enormo portions of spinach, sauteed mushrooms, lobster mash potatoes, onion rings and Mac & Cheese.

To be honest, I was less impressed with these than the ladies who dived in with noises I seldom hear from women when in my company and the love of Mac & Cheese in particular remains a great American mystery for me. The steak however was perfect and perfectly cooked with a crisp char and a rare centre.

It is not a cheap option, your average steakhouse and, after some desserts which substituted size for taste, we wandered out of there the best part of $100 each poorer but with enough left overs, beautifully packaged, for another couple of meals.

My night’s dreams were an odd combination induced by chilli, red curry and chunks of digesting beef. Many involved Natalie Portman, If only I could remember them.