A love letter to an anonymous lover (in China Town)

Lovers in a dangerous time.

Dear last night's lover,

It's funny to think that I can't even remember how we met, given that I think about you all the time. I can't even remember your name. Is that bad? Because you were there when I needed you most. Like a beacon in the dark, a street light on a country road, an open Chinese restaurant at 3am on a Saturday.

You were beautiful, your glowing face lit up mine.  And I knew instantly that inside you were beautiful too. I loved your perfume, your open door, the moody waiters... We had some laughs, some spills (sorry about the tablecloth) and some thrills. Your Szechuan Chicken was crispy, sweet and sour, your spring rolls not completely soggy, and your duck fat and juicy. The beer was bad, and the waiter brought it after our main course, but that may have been a clever move on your part.

Life with you was so easy: a dream, a blurred, nausea-fuelled trip. It's strange how you stumble into love, and waiters, when you least expect it. It's funny how, even with booze and soy sauce all over your insides, I still got a dry smile from you. Like you knew me, or my type. You understood me so well. You knew my carb and protein needs, that flowing tap water was a good idea and easy access to the loo vital.

I'm sorry our goodbye was so abrupt. I'm sorry I underpaid. You slammed the door in my face, but you had to. I didn't want to leave, and that counts for something.

But dear lover, my lady of the night. It was a case of right time, wrong person. It kills me to say it. Maybe I'll see you again. Maybe one day we'll walk past each other and smile. In the cold light of day our beauty will be gone, but that doesn't make the memories any less special.

Or blurred.

All my love,
The drunkest guy in that drunk group last night

PJ's Bar & Grill: because nowhere else has a grill?

Not for me, but definitely for a certain type of person.

Another day, another classy restaurant trying to sound accessible by putting a name in its name. Today's is called PJ's Bar and Grill.

What a stupid name for a restaurant. Sure, shout about the bar - it's better stocked than most restaurants - but of course it has a bloody grill. What kitchen doesn't? You might as well call a Camden sauna a sauna & brothel.

They may mean a big industrial grill, but given I was invited there for breakfast, and the morning menu consists mostly of poached eggs, that is rather irrelevant.

PJ's has just rebranded its menu, claiming to be a haven for the hungover. If this were the case, they would have more than four non-alcoholic drinks on offer, or at least put the bloody marys above the Champagne.

The food hits the spot, full of salt, fat and hearty food. I had poached eggs and hollandaise sauce on bagels. The hollandaise was excellent and I have no complaints save the hefty price tag of £11, which was particularly galling given that my friend's full English cost just £3 more.

But this is Kensington - on this bright Saturday there was more money in there than in most Swiss vaults. They don't care if the eggs cost £11, or even that the full English costs the same. They don't look at the price. They look at the paintings of royalty playing polo, the lovely wood panelling and enormous gin selection that makes the back bar sparkle like diamonds. They also looked in theatrical horror when a young boy, in a fit of good humour, threw some chips over the balcony. 

It's a decent place, especially if you like Champagne and eggs for breakfast. My only criticisms are the poor non-alcoholic drink selection and the high prices. But if you're breakfasting in Kensington, I doubt you need to worry about either.

PJ's 

52 Fulham Road 

London 

SW3 6HH

020 7581 0025

www.pjsbarandgrill.co.uk

   

Livebait: caught in the net

RIP.

Just before Christmas I met one of the 2.67 million unemployed people in the UK. I must have met hundreds - the Daily Mail envisages them walking around the country like zombies in a horror film - but I saw the real impact of it at Livebait on the Cut in Waterloo.

Why was an unemployed person eating on one of the trendiest streets on south London, I hear you ask. They weren't. It was the waiter who was unemployed, or soon to be. Livebait is no more, their website is now a white scar on the internet. It seemed that our waiter had been informed of this that very day, and during the meal we watched a man slowly fall to pieces. It was like a TV dinner that got a little too real.

The whole situation was mad. We actually had to wait thirty minutes for a table, which is not the usual sign of a restaurant going into liquidation. After retreating to a nearby spanish bar, we returned a little the worse for wear, and more than little giggly, after an ill-advised margarita and crossword race. We were confronted by a sweaty, middle-aged man, rushed off his feat and on the verge of tears.

Once seated we failed to flag down any service for a good 10 minutes, and were on the verge of giving up and leaving when he came rushing over and collapsed to his knees at our side as if praying. With the table taking his weight, he took a deep breath and said:

"So it is easier to explain what we do have on the menu than what we don't. Our suppliers have stopped delivering, half our staff aren't working and I will very soon not have a job."

So we set about the task of choosing between scampi, cod and plaice (that was it) and contemplating the situation.The waiter was crying, the menu had more dishes crossed out than not, and the specials board looked like a child with ADHD had been set lines and wondered off. We decided to stay, partly because it was now 9pm, but more because we didn't want to be the trigger that caused our poor waiter to kill himself.

The food was rather irrelevant by this point - and, given the amount and speed of the margaritas, my memory is sketchy. The wine was drinkable, the food good - although the chips were a little too chip-shop soggy to be served in a mid-market fish restaurant. I struggled to see why this poor man has been put in this position - busy restaurants should not fail, even if the decor has more in common with a kitchen show room than an eatery.

But as the meal went on we created a sense of camaraderie, and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. So why has it failed? Being a chain, our increasingly honest (and possibly drunk) waiter assured us his was the most profitable branch and that they had been let down by the failures of others. I wouldn't blame the people in the restaurants. There will always be a market for good fish and chips, which is what Livebait served, and the fact we waited long enough to put away eight shots of tequila is testament to that.

Livebait was a good restaurant, albeit built on an industry beset by environmental and economic issues. Evidently it proved too much, despite the demand. Our waiter, like so many unemployed people, was a (sweaty) dolphin caught in the net - although it didn't help he forgot to charge for our starter.

So, if a man feels he has to deliver the specials in the prayer position, tip well. And pray for him.

I would give the location, but I guess it doesn't matter where it is now ...

Lazer Quest: Oh no... wait a minute

OK Belgo apparently.

The faux-industrial pipes and grating were cold and calculated. We were all crushed together, waiting for the siren. The tension was almost physical ... when would it be our turn? Where would we be taken? Out came a lady dressed all in black, looking surly.

"Garrett Party"

We followed her into the lift. She closed the bronze grills with a reverberating slam and the lift jerked into a descent. After what felt like an eternity we shuddered to a halt and she wrenched open the gate. It was at this point that I remembered this wasn't Lazer Quest. This was a Belgian restaurant chain called Belgo. I wasn't six, laughing at how the neon lights showed up the geeky kid's dandruff and made our teeth glow. I was 24, and I was about to order moules frites in a champagne and lobster bisque.

In many ways, that was a disappointment to me. The food was nice, although I didn't taste a lot of champagne, lobster or bisque in it. The beers were excellent, and made me wish I had been a Trappist monk (minus the celibacy and the fact that you to dress like a nun). In fact, I think the only reason to visit Belgium in the beer. Although I have to say that whatever I seem to try, however adventurous I am, I always return to a Chimay.

So the decor is bizarre, hence my fantasies, the costumes frankly ludicrous, the food unintelligible for any other moules frites (oh, and there weren't enough frites either), but there is something entertaining about the place. It feels unusual, it feels special and not just in a novel way. It's unique - or at least as unique as a chain can be. And, except for the specialist beers, it's pretty well priced. It's not for couples, it's not for parties - it's a great last ditch idea for beer lovers.

So to conclude, the greatest disappointment about Belgo was that it wasn't Lazer Quest, and I don't know how to make that a constructive criticism.

50 Earlham Street  London WC2H 9LJ
020 7813 2233
belgo-restaurants.co.uk

   

Champor Champor: how to get malayed

Hit and miss but worth the trip.

Champor Champor is not for purists. Apparently.

Who are these purists? What makes them search for purity in a world where there is no such thing? Not in cuisine anyway. No culture is unchanged by the comings and goings of foreign influence, and food is a manifestation of that. Would purists be happy with the fact that a vital part of Thai cuisine is the French baton?

You can’t buy a sandwich at Champor Champor, but we did start with banana bread. Once the novelty of it was over I was left wondering  what the point of it was. It dirtied the palate, went badly with the other “antipasti” – a sweet and sour spoonful of relish and spicy guacamole on cucumber – and made no sense in the context of the rest of the menu. And I’m no purist.

My companion and I spent so much time contemplating the meaning of the banana bread that it took us almost 20 minutes to decide on our food. Normally this wouldn’t be such an issue, especially as the restaurant was almost empty. However, in a fit of romanticism I had booked the mezzanine table, which sits by the window and on a level much higher than the restaurant floor. It is a beautiful table, enshrined in an ornately carved wooden box that gives the impression you are dining in a four-poster bed. Popular as it is with the diners, it must infuriate staff, who are unable to check on the diners without popping their head around the corner like a mother keeping an eye on her teenage son with a girl in his room.

This strangely voyeuristic act repeated itself three time during the first course, which somewhat put me off my sliced duck with tamarind sauce and a sweet potato mascarpone. The duck was also a little chewy, but the sweet potato was smooth and delicious.

The main course was chosen for me by the waiter, who had tired of hovering around corners and quite rightly started to chivvy us along. He selected his favourite item on the menu, beef sirloin with fresh green peppercorns, krachai (wild ginger) and lemongrass, which was excellent. However, sadly the French influence did not reach the steak, and it was overcooked. My companion’s duck soup (technically clay-pot salted duck leg with shitake mushroom and spring onion; Jasmine rice and water chestnut in lotus leaf) was tasty enough, but a little too salty and lacking any flair.

Flair was not lacking from the chocolate, chilli and jaggery cheesecake, however.  Another thing not missing was the chilli, which caught me on the back of the throat, causing me to sound like Rod Stewart for the remainder of the meal.

It was hard to leave such a charming place, even if the food was at times mediocre. Ownership recently changed hands and the decor has been scaled back. The ornaments and features that used to adorn the walls have been stripped. Many would prefer the more airy atmosphere, but I think it has lost a little of its charm. It’s still a wonderful place to take a date, especially if you can book the mezzanine, but for me the fireworks were with my guest, not the food.

62-64 Weston Street
London SE1 3QJ
http://www.champor-champor.com

   

Eat: souper?

No snobbery, just good soups.

I don't understand people who bring in sandwiches to work. If you are desperately close to losing your house, or owe a lot of money to some very bad people, sure. But there is no justification for putting yourself through cheese and dry bread hell when you can pop out to a decent cafe and get something better.

That didn't always used to be possible. Some of the more secondary business parks still rely on Frank's burger van. But even his livelihood is under threat now, because of the rise of "gastro-coffee shop" (my term).

Starbucks, Costa, Cafe Nero... they all offer proper lunch now: wrapped-up sandwiches the likes of which only used to be seen in a Hampstead delhi; pastries that have left Patisserie Valerie wanting to change her name; cookies the size of plates. Oh, and bad coffee.

But these are expensive. Very expensive. So the  "coffee-house bistro" reared its head. Eat, Pret and Pod all offer sandwiches to rival Borough market; cakes that make Konditor & Cook squabble between themselves; even hot meals that are, if nothing else, hot. Oh, and shit coffee.

I used to think Eat was expensive too. Their salads are around £4.50, which is a lot for some over-cooked prawns, limp lettuce leaves and sweet chilli sauce. But then I tried the soups.

Some of them are extraordinary. They top their chicken and mushroom cream soup with flaky pastry; their sweet potato and chilli soup is like a hug in a mug; their chicken laksa spicy, sweet and fresh. They even manage to bat the classic cream of chicken out of the park. They must have a repertoire of 20 or so soups, which rotate weekly.

You don't expect to walk into their cold, clinical units and receive food of this quality. At my local Eat they leave the door open constantly, letting the winter wind whip right through to the back door. It's irritating, but it has a certain effect. People huddle over the their soups for warmth, which is kind of the way that's how soup should be enjoyed. Cradling the tub with fingerless gloves, enjoying the rising steam and inhaling the scent like you're in Bisto advert.

There are flaws of course. The Chicken Pot Pie pastry is impossible to eat with a spoon, it is usually served just a little too cold and the descriptions are infuriating - they serve an "Eat classic" every day.

But it's all so reasonably priced. The large, which is about a pint, is only £4.35 but the smallest is barely over £3, and for a few pence you can get a doorstop of bread to make sure that, if the small spoons didn't manage it, you'll dribble soup all down your chin.

Baltic: I've been expecting you ...

Shouldn't be such a secret service.

The first thing that strikes you about Baltic is its size. From the subsiding townhouse exterior you would never expect the voluminous dining hall it opens up into. Tables stretch off into the distance and the ceiling is so high you half expect to look up and see clouds.

As is always the case when I go to review a restaurant, it was completely empty. It felt like a church with its peaked roof, puritan decor and whispered ambience. However, there was nothing holy about our eastern European waiter. Clean shaven and well presented from a distance, a closer look showed bags under his eyes and a haunted look, as if the days of Soviet rule still haunted him, and he expected the KGB to jump out and lynch him for reaching the West.

Given that there was hardly a lunchtime rush, I was confused as to how a Bond villain of a waiter could look so tired, but his passion and knowledge of the extensive vodka menu gave me some clue.

He was, in fact, the perfect host. His dry wit had us in stitches and he knew the menu inside out. To his disappointment however, we all went for the set menu. He went off muttering, to his secret hide out, no doubt to press the launch button on his nuclear rocket. The problem is, you would be a fool not to take the set menu, since it costs a very reasonable £17.50 and the main courses on their own are £13-17 each.

He was also sad he could not convince us to sample the enormous vodka menu – it was a working lunch – and so with half a carafe of the fruity house red, I ordered the cheese and wild mushroom dumplings. They resembled gnocci, but the texture was much more rubbery and the fried edges gave it a smokier taste and crispier skin.

It was a healthy portion that made me apprehensive about the size of my main, especially given I had asked for a side of chive mash. My skin-on chicken with bacon, chard and chilli in a creamy sauce was cooked well enough – the skin was crispy and the spicy zip complemented the salty lardons. However, I was left wondering how authentic the dish was, given that none of the ingredients (save the chicken) were native to any of the Baltic states. If it weren’t for the chilli, it could have been a creamy chicken dish from any cuisine in the world.

The same could not be said for the pudding, once you get over the fact that it was crème brulee. At the bottom of the dish were eight vodka-soaked cherries. Thankfully the alcoholic bite had been slightly cooked off, and it was instead a hint of savoury kick in the sweet cream. It was a shame that they had also burnt the sugar a little over-zealously, and the odd mouthful combined vodka, cherries and burnt caramel, which was by no means pleasant.

It is a sad fact that the meal peaked with the starter, but the service was warm and the ambience relaxing enough to make it a welcome break from a stuffy office. With a complete lack of pretence and a very cheap set menu offering, it is well worth a lunch visit. Just don’t wear a tuxedo or order a martini. It may be the last thing you ever do.

74 Blackfriars Road, SE1 8AH

020 7928 1111

http://www.balticrestaurant.co.uk/