Suka

AND THEY WANDERED IN
FROM THE CITY OF ST. JOHN

When I was at University in…well put it this way, I looked like a Life On Mars extra (think long hair, flares and a love of sticking it to the man) I shared my living space with a man called Thomas. Thomas was from Malaysia and while us Brit students existed on a diet of Pot Noodles or the infamous Full English in a tin, Thomas would have his Malaysian friends round and would prepare Malaysian food. There might be Chicken Curry, a Rendang or a Fish Curry. A Satay or two might make an appearance and there was always steaming bowls of rice. I was lucky enough to be invited to join one of these feasts. Although I always ate well at home, this was a real wake-up call for the tastebuds and the hot, salty and sour flavours are something I will never forget.

I wonder what Thomas and his mates would have made of Suka, a new restaurant at The Sanderson Hotel which promised “modern authentic Malaysian cuisine, prepared with European sensibility and technique”. Not very much, I reckon after my visit yesterday. I went hoping for a Madeleine moment but left with a bad taste in my mouth thanks to a rather unlovely dish of Chinese Brocolli with Dried Fish. The greens had been cooked into oblivion and then doused in something which was very salty (oyster sauce ?) before being sprinkled with the dried fish. The result was salty and sour but not in a good way. I then had a very dry mouth for the rest of the evening. With the greens I had a beef rendang which came as a large of hunk short ribs which had dried out somewhat and so made for relentless eating.

Similar carelessness with the cooking showed up in a couple of my starters of a salad of pork belly and melon. The pork was tough (not a patch on the stuff I got at GEDR) and came with some more pieces of dried pig, in this case Serrano ham. The shrimp Popiah (a sort of non-fried spring roll) and an accompanying salad of leaves and green mango should have been bursting with flavour and general zinginess but was as damp and dismal piece of food I have had in an eastern-themed restaurant.

Mention Malaysian cuisine and you probably think of satay and the examples I tried weren’t too bad, in fact the ribeye one was quite good (as it should have been at a whopping £15). It had a nice smoky char and went well with the small slivers of foie gras interleaving the steak. The Scallop one was less good and would have been helped by a bit more colour on the outside. Both types came with an anaemic peanut sauce and some sad cucumber and rice cakes.

I feel so depressed just writing this that I won’t even mention the ten minutes the staff took to “explain” the menu to me or to describe the tray bearing some bowls of lime, sambal and rock salt (you can squeeze some lime onto the sambal, apparently). I‘ll desist from yakking on about the overloud music and the crappy décor. And I will definitely leave out the fact the service was 15% but they still had an entry for an Additional Gratuity on the bill. Hope, as they say, springs eternal (or should that be Abandon hope all ye who enter here ?). The Paris Hilton wannabes sitting next to me seemed to be enjoying themselves so it will probably be a roaring success so what do I know ?

Incidentally the PR blurb makes much of the involvement of Zak Pelaccio of Fatty Crab fame and other NY eateries but on the evidence of this meal it can't have extended to more than a scrawled note and a ‘Will this do ?” tacked on (allegedly of course).

LOLA ROJA: NUEVO NO NO ON THE NORTHCOTE RD

I am a man of simple tastes. Particularly as I get older. I want simple decent food that has not been fooled around with too much. Food which is a testament to good sourcing rather than an example of the chef’s three years in catering school.

The greatest of all sins is to take a great quality ingredient and then smother it with extraneous ingredients because you don’t know how to leave well alone.

Today was a prime example.

A blousy Glaswegian of my acquaintance invited me to join her for lunch at Lola Roja and relatively new Spanish place on The Northcote Rd (apparently now dubbed “the Ludlow of South London” because of the sheer number of restaurants and food stores.)

It is an appealing, light airy little space and the menu reads well in a slightly “Nuevo Tapas” kind of way with about four each of hot, cold, meat and fish tapas on offer.

We began with a plate of Jamon, naturally. Paler than most Iberico, but beautiful and beautifully carved with layers of fat and marbling. A perfect start.

Croquettes were evidence of excellent frying but slightly dry inside as were small balls of cod which cried out for something to dip them in.

Majorcan bread topped with anchovies and olives reminded me of a pizza I once made from a recipe on Blue Peter.

All standard enough to this point, but it was when the more substantial plates began to appear that the inability to leave things be became apparent with swirls if this and splodges of that leading to improbable combinations which failed to convince but succeeded in masking good main ingredients.

A confit of mackerel plopped tasty slabs of fish on top of an unlikely combination of mushrooms, aubergine and sun dried tomatoes. Good fish, the rest entirely pointless.

Suckling pig had a lovely tasting piece of soft pork with excellent crispy skin entirely swamped by a vanilla apple sauce and a bizarre Thyme sorbet all sat on a sprinkling on vegetable crisps. Hurrah for innovation.

The only dish that worked was a coulant of octopus with crushed potatoes, rich with olive oil, surrounding a soft poached egg topped with Galician style pulpo sprinkled with paprika. It worked, the others did not. Simple as that.

Puddings were an equally odd mix. I left most of a white chocolate soup to my companion because it was cloying and I made sure she got the salty bit of that most odious of combinations, chocolate, salt and olive oil, a dish I have never quite got my head around.

I half expected them open the bottle of red from Navarre and mix it with Tizer just to see what would happen, but thankfully, it was one of the few elements of the meal not messed around with.

We ate quite a lot and my chum thought the bill for £81 represented good value. I didn’t. The service, while friendly enough, was haphazard and we had to remind them more than once of things they had forgotten and, while we certainly ordered enough dishes most of them were, well, not very good.

After lunch, we strolled along looking at the myriad other restaurants on Northcote Rd. Some of them even looked worth visiting. Lola Roja,unfortunately, isn’t one of them.

IT’S FUN TO EAT AT THE INDIAN YMCA
There are very few places in London where you can eat for under £6. Go on try to think of a few.

If you go to Pret (and why the Hell would you? Their sandwiches all taste the same to me whatever they say on the packaging) and buy a butty, a drink and a bag of crisps, you will spend more than that. If you were dumb enough to go to one of the fast food places, you would spend even more.

That’s where The Indian YMCA in Fitzrovia comes into its own. For as many years as you care to remember, it has been dishing out dirt cheap canteen style Indian grub to a motley assortment of tourists, students and Indian businessmen.

Lined with communal Formica topped tables, the system has remained unchanged for as long as I can recall. You collect your cutlery, your tray, a glass and a few paper napkins, you walk passed the large open serving area where polite staff spoon out rice and breads and tell you what different dishes are on offer,you help your self to small bowls of what you fancy and you walk to the pay counter where you realise it is going to cost about half what you expected.

Today, a big mound of pilau rice, a fiery mackerel curry, some restorative dahl and a few pakora came to a grand total of £5.60. Just the job on a day that was turning increasingly chilly.

Unknown by many, but one of the great treasures of London dining and well worth searching out for lunch or supper when you want a change from the bog standard curry houses that litter this part of town.

TUBBY ISSACS: WHELK OME TO MY WORLD
Let it never be said that I am not a man of the people. Admittedly, my people are the literati and glitterati of London’s fashionable society but, I still like think that I am credible, if not on a street level, at least on a leafy avenue in Surbiton level.

Today, after splendid lunch of pork loin with greens wilted in goose fat, I was all set to sit back, read the papers and do a little work on my EAT MY GLOBE trip.

I had forgotten, of course, that I was, as part of my community service order, due to take my annoying Australian friend, Chelsea for a walk.

As we strolled down towards Tower Bridge, she began whining about being hungry. At least that’s what I think she was on about. With her broad, almost incomprehensible Melbourne accent, she could have been on about anything. But, she usually only gets in touch when she wants free food, so I made an educated guess.

Fortunately, we were just coming down towards Aldgate East so it was the perfect opportunity to introduce her to the world of Tubby Issacs, one of the few remaining Eel stalls in London. There used to be hundreds of these in London and, with a handful of exceptions they have all but died out. A great shame if, like me, you are a fan of jellied eels, cockles, pints of prawns and, best of all, whelks

We ordered a tub and shared them as we strolled along. The meaty whelks went well with large amounts of vinegar I sloshed on them. Like a taste from ages past and unfortunately, unlikely to be a taste for ages future as these places reach their natural end. Shame really.

Chelsea seemed to quite like them and there was the added benefit that the slight chewiness of the whelks stopped her talking if only for an all too brief time.

Only an other 200 hours to go. Mind you, it will remind me never to try and take a surreptitious leak in the Turner Room at The Tate Britain again.

BENJA: THAI BOXING IN BEAK ST
We all have our little peccadilloes and mine is an unhealthy love of boxing. Shameful I know in this politically correct day and age, but there you go. The sight of two men bashing lumps out of each other for my pleasure still fills me with a worrying level of excitement.

Years ago, I used to even think I had it in me to be a bit of a boxer myself. I soon, literally, had that silly idea knocked out of me when I went to a gym and did some sparring. The trainer said they were going to sew dusters to the seat of my shorts so I could polish the canvas when I was down there as I was most of the time. Ho hum. Cue change of career plan from multi millionaire sports superstar with all the best lasses and that to a man who, up until recently, flogged books for a living.

I thought about this last night as I walked down Beak St towards what used to be the Lonsdale Boxing Store where I went to buy my gear for my short lived stab and sporting excellence. If I am correct, it is now the site of Benja, the latest attempt at “authentic” Thai dining in London.

My GF, Dawn and I did a walk in last night and, although it is a tiny room, the staff were sweetness itself and managed to find a small table for two right by the entrance where the heavy bags used to be kept if I recall rightly (there is a joke in there somewhere)

Like Indian food in the capital, I still think that most Thai restaurants are like looking through a glass darkly at the cuisine, a slurred vision of the real thing with hints towards the real tastes but muted for western tastes.

They admitted as much here while explaining the menu. But, while I am as far from an expert on such matters as it is possible to get, I came away with this impression that they are trying to come up with a close approximation of the real deal.

Small amuse were called Meng Kham, betal leaf filled with a mixture of dried shrimp, garlic, chilli, lime juice and a few other bits and bobs which, when chomped in one go, gave a pleasing, mouth cleansing taste.

Standing in loco Primero, Dawn joined me in upholding the tradition of three starters. Minced lamb in garlic wrapped in betal leaf resembled dolmades, and were slightly chewy if tasty enough. The other two were more successful. A mound of fried, crispy vermicelli with fried shrimps was good enough for me to take the last bits from the plate with a licked finger and, best of all, minced curry chicken puffs with a tangy cucumber dressing which the waitress disarmingly described as being like “mini Cornish pasties” No they weren’t. But, they were very good and, Dawn being a good girl allowed me to finish the third one.

Main courses, were much more standard. A Yam Talay, was a seafood salad of mussels, shrimp, monkfish and squid in a sharp, hot dressing of lime and chilli seemed to me to represent everything I like about Thai cooking. Clean tastes with an underlying heat and the savouryness of fish sauce. A mussuman beef curry was less appealing. The sauce a bit muddy and the beef a bit stringy and a “four seasons vegetable" could have been found on any menu in Chinatown.

I am not drinking for a few days after my over indulgences in Spain (which probably explains the slightly shaky images as my body spasms from the effects of detox) so just drank mineral water and a fresh Pineapple juice. Dawn had a couple of glasses of an unexpectedly drinkable Thai Columbard which brought the bill to £78 for two including tip for service that was almost puppy like in its eagerness to please.

I don’t eat Thai food that much in London. As I said, it never quite convinces. But, for a place to dip into when you are not sure where else to go, Benja certainly has its charms and the bonus is, even if they wanted to, no one tried to beat the living daylights out of me.

PETERSHAM NURSERIES CAFÉ: LET’S DO LUNCH

Today was a pretty momentous occasion for me. It was the first “official” day of the EAT MY GLOBE trip and I spent a hugely informative and enjoyable morning in the company of the passionate John Glaser, the founder and blender of Compass Box Whisky. You will be able to read about that in due course on the EMG website but, suffice to say, I could not have wished for a better beginning to the rest of my life.

Talking of my new life, I am beginning to rediscover the joys of lunch. Until now, a few nuts, the odd bit of fruit and a stroll around the block have been about as much as I had to look forward to. Now, I am able to meet interesting people over a decent meal without thinking I have to run back to the office to have a meeting about when we are going to have a meeting about the agenda for another meeting. Result.

After our morning, John was kind enough to treat me to lunch at The Petersham Nurseries Café. This is one of those places that you read about, read good things about and would love to visit. But, as it is only open for lunch, you never get around to it. It is also way across town from London’s fashionable SOSHO so, well you get the picture.

The new me, however? I have bags of time and was more than happy to linger over a thoroughly agreeable lunch in the almost Spring sunshine.

The chef, Skye Gyngell is carving a bit if a name for herself these days. A rather good book called “ A Year in My Kitchen” (I wonder of Fergus Henderson should do a book called An Ear in My Kitchen?) and a host of celeb clients.

The food coming out of the kitchen here reeks of great ingredients, fresh, imaginative combinations without any frippery or self indulgence. It and the surroundings of the pretty dining area suit each other perfectly.

To begin, two salads, mine an interesting if not altogether successful combination of celeriac sliced wafer thin in the mandolin, with green chicory and a remoulade dressing over slices of malenca beef. I may never say these words again, but I think it may have worked better without the meat component.

Better, in fact, terrific was John’s salad of raw green and white asparagus with aged parmesan, hazelnuts, truffles and saparoso balsamic. I cadged a mouthful and wish I had made his choice instead of mine.

This is not a cheap place. Starters range from £11 to £14 and mains from £16 to £24, but the quality of what was on the plate and the thought that has gone into presentation and preparation make it good value.

A dish of red mullet and slow cooked fennel came with what looked like a fierce saffron aioli. The bite I filched however, was strong but did not over power the fish which was cooked just to point.

Another salad for me. This time of medjool dates, barrel aged feta and strips of cold pink lamb. As good a salad as I can recall in a long time.

John was picking up the bill bless him, so I don’t know the cost. I would guess around the £120 mark for two including a couple of glasses of Silvaner to begin and a Malborough Pinot to follow. Service was charming and suitably leisurely and deserving to the 12.5% they add to the bill.

This is a place for people who have time and money to lunch. The new me is just beginning to realise how lucky they are.

MANGAL OCAKBASI: BURNT OFFERINGS IN MEMORY OF MUSTAPHA

OK, I know. I keep harping on about it, but damn, I miss The Angel Mangal.

This is the last time I will mention it (for a while at least until I get another serious mixed grill jones ) but, no other place has come close before or since. No one quite gets the spicing right or grills with such attention to detail.

Not even, I am sad to say The Mangal Ocakbasi in Arcola Rd, the original and often held up by many as the best of the lot.

After failing to get a table at The Marquess Tavern, HP persuaded me to the long walk down The Balls Pond Rd and up The Kingsland Rd to The Mangal.

The queue was out of the door and their conveyor belt system was in full effect. You walks in, they tell you a table will be about five minutes (which it usually is) While you wait you points to the bits o meat in the chill cabinet that you fancy, they slam it on the grill and, by the time you sit down the food is ready to be plopped in front of you.

And there in lies the problem. It is really a café and they need to turn the tables, so the food is not prepared with anywhere near the care they were able to give it at Angel Mangal where it could take twenty minutes as Mustapha’s brother lovingly turned the skewers while dousing with lemon and spice mixes. Here it was tasty enough but charred in places and dried out. The adana was fine and had a good shot of chilli through it. But, from there it was downhill. The pinwheels of lamb were cooked so quickly they turned to rubber and the quail had dried out. Chicken wings and thighs were better, plump and juicy, but lumps of lamb loin were almost black.

We were heartened to see our chum Memhet who used to work at Angel Mangal and made all the right noises when he asked us how the food compared, but in truth, it just reminded us of how good the old place was even if it was, because of its location, twice the price.

This was as cheap as it gets in London, £25 for two including breads, a chopped tomato salad and some patlican. Even with a decent tip, it still only came to £15 a head. Which, makes me think it might be worth trying again when it is not so rammed and they can take more time over the grilling.

The search for DH’s regular grill fest home continues.

WHAT I DID ON MY HOLIDAYS by HERMANO SEGUNDO (Aged 42yrs and 11 months)

On my holidays, I went to Spain. It was very nice and warm and I liked it a lot.

My dad and my little brother met me at the airport but first I had to wait for ever such a long time for my small bag. After a while, I took a look through the hole where the bags came out and saw a man smoking a cigarette who was watching his friend do a dance on each bag before he sent it out onto the conveyor belt.They were laughing a lot. It reminded me of the flamenco dancing I had seen on TV.

Once I had my bag and had met my dad, they took me straight to their favourite beach bar where I ate lots of little fishes that had been fried until crunchy. I was allowed to have some wine with this by my dad and ended up drinking nearly a whole bottle which made my head feel a bit spinny. So I had to go and lie on the balcony for a bit until I felt better.

In the evening because I had been quiet all day (unlike my little brother whose snoring caused the neighbours to complain ) I was allowed to stay up late and go into the local town and eat a large plate of ham. It was nice and the owner of the restaurant was very friendly and gave me a glass of a fruity red drink called Pacharan which made my head feel a bit spinny, much like it had done in the afternoon. I felt very happy and sang some songs on the way home. I think they were about virgins from Scotland.

The next morning, I did some PE and then took my little brother on a train to the big city of Malaga. It was very exciting and, when we got there, we ran around trying to see as many places as possible, which served more of those little fried fishes and more of that ham. I think we went to about thirteen places and all the owners were very happy to see us and let us drink beer. I drank a lot and until my head became a bit spinny. Before we left we sneaked into a place with lots of barrels that served a sweet drink they make in the city and they gave us three or four glasses. I slept on the train home. I think I dribbled.

The next morning, I felt a bit poorly and think I had caught a cold. So, my dad treated me to some hot chocolate and a big plate of churros which are a bit like doughnuts but much, much better. I felt a lot better after this and walked along the beach for a long way. I noticed, although it was cold, there were lots of girls on the beach and they were not wearing many clothes. Girls are funny.

I think the chocolate worked as, by the evening, my cold had gone and I felt much better. So, we all went for dinner. I had some prawns that came out sizzling so loudly that the noise scared my little brother. I was a brave little soldier, though and made them go quiet by eating them. After that, I ate the leg of a baby lamb. I think baby lambs are cute, but they are better dead and in my tummy. The owner gave us all more of that nice drink, Pacharan. My head felt spinny and I sang more songs on the way home. This time a funny song about a man who was mayor of Bayswater and his family.

After more PE on Monday morning, I felt tired again and, as the sun was shining, sat on the balcony all day and read my story book.

Meat is good and I like to eat it whenever I can. In the evening we all went to a place called Casa Navarre. It is on a hillside and they only give you meat. I ate a big piece of meat and so did my dad and my little brother (he could not eat as big a bit as me though.) . Before that though, we had some more ham and some pudding that my dad tells me was made of blood ( I think he is fibbing ) I was allowed to have some wine with it and something called Orujo which made my head feel all spinny. I didn’t feel too well and did not sing any songs on the way home.

The next morning, my cold had returned and I felt a bit sick. So. I spent the day on the balcony again. It was nice and my story book was good although the bits where the man and the woman kissed and stuff made me feel weird down there.

Then, the next morning, I had to get up very early and go to the airport. I had to stand in a line for a long long long time and I used some very naughty words. I was lucky my dad was not there or he would have been very cross. When I got back to England I felt very unhappy. Everything was cold and grey and that was just the people. I miss Spain a lot.

Now I am home and am drinking a nice cup of tea. I wish it was that nice Pacharan.

THE END

Dinings

YOU TAKE A WALK ON BLEAK STREET
TONIGHT COULD BE THE NIGHT YOU CRASH

The night loomed ahead like an unfilled tax return. All I had to keep me company was a copy of the Money Observer with this year’s ISA Best-Buys (which is about as interesting reading as The Observer itself i.e. not very). The fridge yielded up HS’s vast supply of Actimel and several bottles of the weird aguardimente I am so fond of. So dining out it was…at the appropiately, though rather weirdly, named Dinings.

There's a lot in common between the Japanese and the Spanish – the obsessive love of fresh fish, deep-fried food and a fondness for a smoke, a drink and a sing-song - so when I looked at the menu of this newly opened restauant and saw a selection of cold and hot tapas on the specials list it sort of made sense.

The place is pretty small with a sushi bar upstairs and a not much larger bunker-like dining room in the basement. Deciding that watching the Sushi chef would be preferable to staring at a concrete wall or the numerous visiting gaijinn (that'll be me then) I took a seat at the bar.

A warning for those of a nervous disposition. When you enter all the staff will look at you and shout. They did it to everyone else too but you may be tempted to run away. Which would be a shame because the food is rather good. The chef is from Nobu and the Sushi bar has an appropriately serious bloke with a razor sharp knife dishing up the Sushi, rolls, salads etc. From the former I got some Beef Tataki made with Wagyu. Small pieces of buttery, rich, beef with a perky little spring onion salad and a dip. Pigeon had been roasted rare and left to rest so that all the bloody juices made a little sauce. A deep-fried seafood hamaki (a sort of superior spring roll stuffed with crab and shiso) showed the deep-frying skills of the kitchen. Teriyaki Chicken and Quail dishes which I saw going out also looked pretty good.

From the man with the very sharp knife (who I shall now call sir) a sashimi plate of Otoro, Unagi (Eel) and Snow Crab, a salad of sabre-fish (a new one on me) which looks quite vicious in it’s whole state but tastes quite delicious when cut up into little cubes and topped with scallions. So good in fact I had it again with some more sashimi of Otoro (again) and razor clams. There was also a salad of octopus which took me back to a DH visit to Northern Spain. The octopus, very tender and creamy matched well with a fresh tasting cress salad. In fact everything was so fresh and clean tasting it made me feel positively healthy although the two flasks of hot Uragasumi Junmai may have balanced things up a tad.

I don’t think I’ve ever had pudding in a Japanese restaurant before so I was more than happy with my Black Sesame Crème Caramel especially as I discovered a blob of ice-cream under it’s tan surface.

I rarely go for a Japanese without friends or at least HS to hold my hand and guide me through the meal, but this time I managed all by myself. There’s life in the old dog yet. Woof.