Sen Viet: 'Nam wasn't so bad

Quick, cheap, delicious. In King's Cross!

King's Cross is not really the kind of place you want to find yourself of an evening. Not only is it currently the country's biggest building site, but it's also a hive of bad kebab shops and takeaways, usually overlooking three lanes of traffic.

But there's one good pub there, the Queen's Head on Acton Street, and after a few beers we decided their pork pies were just a little too indulgent. So I rather hopelessly googled "good restaurants King's Cross" to see what was around. The result shocked even cynical me: Urbanspoon's top scoring restaurant in King's Cross was a Pret A Manger.

Further down the list, though, was Sen Viet, where the reviews told us to ignore the kebab house décor outside and risk it. I believe the words "hidden gem" would have been used had I kept reading the google reviews, but they usually have less incite than a Katie Price book. Instead we waltzed around the corner and swanned in to the restaurant, to the general astonishment of the staff. Everyone dining there was Vietnamese. Some say that's a good sign, but would you trust British expats to find the good UK restaurants? Hell no. "English" pubs abroad are always filled with Brits, but they are unerringly shit.

But Sen Viet was excellent, and deliciously cheap. With a menu longer than the bible it took a while to choose anything, but the sauce on my Thit Heo Kho (pork belly cooked in coconut juice, with eggs) was hot and sweet, and the pork belly melted like butter – which made it almost impossible to eat with chopsticks. Sadly, instead of whole eggs I got a strange almost potato-like cake of it with a bizarre texture, but that couldn't spoil the gorgeous meat and glorious gloop. Even the beer was super – they only had one type called Saigon, which had a Belgian-esque sweetness to it, presumably a happy hangover from French occupation, but slipped down like a drunken penguin on a glacier.

At £12 for mains, sides, beer and prawn crackers, it's great little cheap eat when you find yourself inexplicably caught short in King's Cross. If you go, write a review - we need to knock Pret A Manger off the top spot.

The Haberdashery: best of the brunch

Best brunch in northern North London

French toast is a misnomer. It conjures up the idea of something posh, probably topped with foie gras or something else ethically questionable. 

I grew up thinking French toast was the kind of thing Sarkozy put in his rider when he went on diplomatic visits. In my house we called it eggy bread. We ate it with ketchup. We said it while doing a Peter Kay impression. In our minds, there is nothing less french than white bread dipped in milk and egg, then fried.

We were right. It was invented in Rome in the fourth or fifth century, and most famously cooked in Germany. Neither of those revelations explain why the best way to have it is with British bacon and Canadian maple syrup – with a side of presumably Asian cinnamon bananas. But someone, somewhere, did it, which meant that years later one exceptionally hungover man in yuppy yuppy Crouch End had himself a lovely brunch in an even lovelier place, then went away and scoured Wikipedia to impress some strangers on the internet. He also took a picture of said brunch, now mostly to piss of the self-righteous pricks self-involved enough to think that someone taking a picture of their food could possibly affect their evening.

And I thoroughly enjoyed it, even if the toast was a little cold by the time it arrived, and it came with a pointless, slightly infuriating garnish of curly parsley. Frustrating to eat at the best of times, curly parsley should never arrive on the same plate as a banana. Especially when the said man feels really rather nauseous already. Still, that was the only pretension in the Haberdashery, which is a wonderful bit of faux-country café culture in the centre of London, complete with rustic wooden tables too small for the purpose, mismatched wooden chairs and even some bunting on the outside. For the hungover like us, the coffee was served in hearty mugs, the cappuccinos in enormous bowls and the smoothies long and full of supposed super-foods. Our pleasingly deadpan waiter, who I sincerely hope is on suicide watch by the owners, also soothed my aching head and alcohol shakes.

There is no finer place to spend an hour or two in existential crisis, sure that the sky might fall on your head at any moment, and that if it doesn't there is NO EFFING WAY you are EVER drinking again. In fact, we felt so unhurried that when the free tap water finally arrived with the bill we waited around for 30 minutes until we had finished it, soaking up the atmosphere and gathering the strength to leave such a lovely place. Then we went back to the pub.

   

Bukowski Grill: box park rebellion (almost)

Good for drunken munching, not for those in a hurry

Ah work drinks. The mad dash for the nearest pub, the herds of already-drunk suits at the bar, and the drunken search for food because if you pass out in your clothes again your housemates might call Alcoholics Anonymous.

Well I won't let that happen. Not again. So on Friday we stumbled out of the Old Fountain in Old Street (a brilliant craft beer pub you should all go to) and headed for the Box Park – where a poor, lonely waitress at Bukowski Grill took orders from, served and cleared up after 100 unruly drunken hipsters. As we stood and felt ourselves growing old in the queue, we started to muse about giving her a hand to speed up the process. After 15 minutes we were arguing about who we'd kill and eat first in the queue. After 20 we'd worked out who, but not how to tell them. by 25 we were searching for a gun. Instead, we went and bought beers from the Pieminister next door and concentrated on staying drunk. After 30 we started to consider going to back to Pieminister next door to eat – and the only reason we didn't was that every other drunk had had the same idea, and they had sold out of pies.

Finally we got served by the inexplicably upbeat waitress, and retreated to the long wooden tables that overlook Shoreditch Overground. Not a fine view, but with a Camden Hells in hand there are worse places to be on a Friday. Like a burger joint overlooking Willesden Junction.

Bukowski Grill's website claims that their "Josper grill" can cook burgers in record time – and to be fair the Purist burgers did arrive pretty quickly. Evidently the chef was having a better time of it than the waitress. However, their promise of sealing in the flavours wasn't so evident. It was a decent burger, but nothing I could even really string a sentence together about. It wasn't as rare as I'd like, the bun was toasted an slightly dry, and the toppings more important to the appearance than the taste. But the chips. God help me the chips. They were a goddamn joy. Fat as Lisa Riley and triple cooked in beef dripping. Its probably the only restaurant in the world where you could drunkenly order a plate of chips and not feel guilty, cheated and disappointed when they arrive. They were a lovely meal in themselves, especially with the homemade peppery mayo which was a lovely touch.

You should know that I was drunk, starving and made to wait, so on the verge of just biting the nearest person that even resembled a cow, but if you find yourself at Box Park of an evening, skip the shit looking fish and chips, ignore the rum bar (until later) and get yourself a good burger and better chips. At a tenner it's more than decent, and if the queue's big just buy your beers from Pieminister.

   

Fish & Chip Shop: off the scale

Good, but at these prices I want battered whale.

I've already written a Fish & Chip Shop review. They send you an email asking for your thoughts the very next day. In fact, they are very up on technology: you can book online and get a text straight away; the waiters all have iPads (more on that later); and their pricing is years ahead of 2013. By which I mean they must be predicting some pretty wild inflation, because I've never paid £70 in a fish and chip shop before.


But then I've also never had such good fish and chips – except the one time I cooked them myself with spectacular results (see my instagram). The beer batter, made with Beavertown beer was light and crispy, the fish white as snow and fresh, and the mushy peas absolutely perfect, with just a hint of mint and lemon and a lovely skinless texture. The dish of the day, though, was starter – called "fried particulars" – which were, bafflingly, deep-fried mushy peas with soft ham hock in the middle. Only three came but I would have happily chomped through ten of them. Special praise should also go to the Knickerbocker glory dessert, which was as retro and ridiculous as I'd hoped.

So it was all pretty brilliant. But was it worth £70? God no. For £13.50 my partner got a lovely fish curry, but barely a fillet's worth of fish, and my cod was by no means a Moby Dick. The whole movement of cutesy comfort food, done simply and done well relies on reasonable prices because the cooking skill required is low. It's all about ingredients. When you look at MEATliquor, Chicken Shop et al they all seem to have agreed to keep prices low –  a memo the Fish & Chip shop never received. Perhaps Des McDonald and head chef Lee Bull are too used to charging Ivy pricing, but it's more likely that finding sustainable cod is harder than beef, but that just made me realise how disappointingly mainstream the fish selection was.

To be fair, we had three courses (although we shared our Knickerbocker Glory). But for fish, chips and mushy peas, you'd be slightly peeved to pay £14.50, especially at the absolute polar ice-cap of Upper Street. It's £11.50 to take away, so where that extra three pounds comes from is a mystery given that they can cash in on drinks and stick a 12.5% for service charge on top of that to eat in. And the service. Oh God. Despite making a huge show and dance of their iPads, they forgot my beer twice before bringing the wrong one; gave us extra asparagus by accident, said it was for free and then charged us for it; and brought extra chips at the main course by accident too. Apparently the chef "misheard the waiter", which made me wonder what the point of the iPads were.

I'll send them my review via my iPad and see if they get the message.

   

Harvey Nichols Yo! Sushi: a terrifying future

Silly food, silly concept. Loved it.

Fast food: even the sushi wouldn't stay still

Like most of London, I've just been to Yo! Sushi. But I'm going to write about it. Not because you should go, and certainly not because you shouldn't, but because you should read about it. Because it is a "dining experience" so far removed the what we would imagine that term to mean that I actually found myself slightly angry.

It was like Mozart (me) being confronted with Cradle of Filth (Yo! Sushi) and wondering what  happened to classical music. It was unrecognisable as anything I perceive as food service. What has happened to the structure, the pomp, the sense of occasion, the waiters.

But wait, there are waiters. Sure, some food comes on a conveyer belt (wtf gf!), bumbling around the restaurant like shit cars from the Jetsons, but the other half you have to order from a prissy waiter. There's no point in the conveyer belt because the company still pays the sodding waiters, and you have to tip them. Apparently bringing hot food straight to your table to order has gone out of fashion, but not so completely out of fashion that we can let go completely. Like deck shoes in Notting Hill.

Sushi on a roll
And on that subject, when did hot food go out of fashion? Why does it now have to do three laps of the restaurant like a fat kid in gym class? I hate faff. I hate wondering whether to pick something, knowing I don't have to decide immediately because it will come back around again. I wanted to chop the arms of the people reaching out and then retracting their arms. Because they wanted it, but just thought that something better might come along. Faff. But then the edamame beans do, and you realise that each second you faff is a second closer to death and, more importantly, a second longer spent wondering why there are sodding conveyer belts. We are not collecting luggage, and this is the Harvey Nichols Food Hall, not an airport.

If this was an airport, the food would probably be as infuriatingly shit as the concept. But it's not. It's cold, for sure; it's slightly congealed, granted; is over-seasoned, inevitably (it's Japanese); it's effing MOVING AWAY FROM YOU. But god help me, that avocado and salmon handroll was addictive with the (yuzu?) mayo, the gyoza crispy and light, and the korroke (deep-fried meat and/or pumpkin with a sweet and sour dip) as addictive as anything I've ever eaten.

In fact, within about 10 minutes I'd eaten £20 of sushi, and still had eyes for more. And suddenly I understood Yo! Sushi. It throws all kinds of food at you, tempting you and never quite disappointing you, always sucking you in for more. By the time the Generation Game of food was almost over I couldn't remember a single dish. If Jim Davidson had asked me to recite them all I'd have been able to do (after punching him in his misogynistic mouth) would be belch and ask for the cheque. Or pudding.

I was hooked. I saw the rainbow mounds of plates on other people's tables and thought "I can do that. Gimme those chopsticks". Before you know it you've built a gay pride flag out of sushi plates and spent a week's wages. It's damned clever and means the owners of Yo! Sushi must be very pleased with themselves. And the great thing is, their customers are too.

Food Revolution Day: how to pick a good restaurant

Five ways to pick a restaurant to be proud of

This Friday is Food Revolution Day, a Jamie Oliver-inspired day of action, when all over the world people go “Come on guys – we have to eat three times a day. Let’s do it properly”. Sure it’s about eating healthily, sustainably and in moderation. But it’s also saying for god’s sake let’s take PRIDE in what we eat and damned well enjoy it. Restaurants should be the shining example of people enjoying food – with no washing up at all unless you forget your wallet.

The thing is, people don’t really take pride in where they eat out. I don’t mind Pizza Express, but it's hardly somewhere championing one of the greatest joys we have in this world. To do that, we might need to take some risks, but here are some ways to make sure the places you go stand for the same principals as the Food Revolution - eating healthily, sustainably and with moderation, but enjoying every last bloody bite.

LOOK FOR COLOUR IN THE PHOTOS
Now, it’s pretty much a rule that you should never enter, let alone eat in, a restaurant that has pictures of the
food in the windows (unless drunk). However, if things get desperate they can be a useful tool to work out how good a restaurant is. Whatever cuisine, whatever location, whatever price range, remember that menus should change. Annually at least. If they don’t it means the restaurateur doesn’t give a crap about seasons, ingredient availability, trends, fashions etc. He’s lazy, so why should the chefs be any different? So, if a picture is faded, poorly styled or, go forbid, black and white (no food looks good in black and white) then run away – that menu is OLD. Like the rings of a tree, the less colour it has the older it is, and the shitter the food.

LOOK FOR PAPER MENUS
Before I get into this one I must warn you that this is not a foolproof tip (I myself am a fool, with little proof). If you are in a gastropub, the rule is inverted.

However, usually it’s a great sign that the chef has to change his menu regularly – this would be partly because of customer feedback, but more because he is using local fresh produce, which means he has to change dishes according to their availability. Good sourcing means good food, and probably a good chef. Unfortunately, restaurateurs know this trick. It’s ruined my trust in blackboards, which are mostly painted with words now anyway, and soon I will come to distrust paper menus. See next year’s tips.

AVOID THE SUITS
Perhaps I’m showing my prejudices here, but in my experience there are two kinds of suited diner. Most suited men I know think a City pub is a glass box at the bottom of their office building, and that beer comes only in yellow and tastes like coke when the syrup’s gone. They think being forced to sleep on the sofa is funny. They eat at places doing 2-4-1 cocktails on a Wednesday and a beer and (horse) burger for £6.99 on a permanent blackboard. Avoid those places and, more importantly, avoid those people.

The other suited men dine at places like the Ivy or something with “Chez” at the start. Following these men will lead to some pretty good meals, but also to certain financial ruin. For they regard taster menus as good value, happily paying £10 a bite for each course. They know about wine, and thus make some horrendous choices while singing “recession, what recession?” to the tune of Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance March No.1. If you hear good things about a place full of suits, go early, go prixe fixe, and get out.

LOOK FOR SIMPLICITY
If a dish is beautiful, full of fresh ingredients, love and care, you don’t need to write:

“The loveliest, flakiest, most-Arian beer-battered deep-fried white fish with lemony, soft creamy mushy peas and triple-cooked hand-cut skin-on potato chips”

Just look for a place that says “Day-boat caught fish & chips with mushy peas”

That second place has the better supplier, the better fish, the better dish, the better chef and the better restaurateur. They don’t need to oversell their food. It’s simple, and they can answer all their questions, right down to the name of the boat that caught it and what the fish’s last words were. And that attention to detail and concern for welfare and freshness is what will lead to a great meal.

THE SMALLER THE MENU, THE BETTER IT IS
Ignoring the trend for doing one thing and doing it well, which has swept London like a tidal surge and
drowned us in wonderful places like Chicken Shop, MEATmission and Tonkotsu, this is a great rule. Look at the menu for Harvester (see the skid marks in the picture? Someone wanted to get out fast), and consider how shit it is. How the “chefs” must run around like blind mice with ADHD, never sure who they are or which microwave they’re supposed to turn on next. Then look at the Quality Chop House – one option plus veggie alternative, changing every day and printed on paper. I will genuinely put my life, and that of the tiny puppy I have a knife to right now, on you having a better meal there. Even if the chefs had to cook each other’s menus.

Please don’t prove me wrong. I love puppies.

Polpo: octopricey

A great night, but Polpo's not a great restaurant

Back when i was trying (failing) to become a music journalist I did a rather cringing stint at the brilliant theQuietus.com, a music website for people with discerning but "acquired" music taste. I turned up all fresh faced, eager to impress, with a list of bands that the great John Doran needed to hear.

It turns out he had heard of all of them, and proceeded to explain why each of them were "absolute shite". John and I didn't agree on a thing, but he taught me the most important lesson any critic, or indeed person, can ever learn.

"Most things you review are going to be average."

So if you use that as base for reviewing restaurants you will walk out a much happier man, whatever the experience. If it was crap, you can rightly vent; if it was brilliant, you are sated and delighted; if it was average, you can say "That reminded me of Polpo", and then smile.

The man who founded Polpo is an ex-Ivy man and it shows. He knows how to create a mystique, an identity. More than ever, restaurants are about restaurateurs not chefs, about atmosphere not food. Polpo is a testament to that. The bar downstairs where we waited for our table had loud trendy music, a tattooed barmaid who makes mean and alcoholic cocktails and the walls are slowly, artfully falling down. They told us we'd have to wait 45 minutes for a table, then found one after 20 - somehow managing to make us grateful.

They sat us so close to our fellow diners we were bumping elbows and poured our (very nice) wine into tiny little tumblers. The menu is simple, so simple you're not quite sure what you're ordering. I was also bemused by the fact that my pizzette cost "7.5". What currency was never made clear, nor how I could halve it, short of biting a coin in half. In the end they charged us £7.50 - which seemed a bit steep given the size.

Anyway, our Fiorentina pizzette was absolutely delicious, and we also ordered a slightly bland but nonetheless enjoyable mackerel tartare (how you make raw mackerel bland is beyond me, so props to the chef), some very moreish spinach and ricotta balls and slices of lovely oily focaccia. Sadly the dish I was most looking forward to, the ham hock, as salty as licking Lee Evan's face and almost inedible. You shouldn't need to season a  stew around ham hock, let alone with a whole brick of salt – although at least that explains why the cheapest cut on a pig somehow cost £9.

Still, I was so stuffed the better half and I decided to share a pudding. And it was a damned bit of luck we did, given that the nutella pizzette - which we ordered despite the carb fest of the mains and more out of curiosity than hunger - was bigger than the plate. It was also literally buried (and I write this with a great big smile on my face) with nutella, nuts and I think popcorn, but it was never too clear. Anyway, it was the first true bit of invention and, like all good inventions, filled a gap you didn't even know existed. Like a new lover you never knew you were missing.


So it seems that Polpo is a great pizza restaurant and a fun bar, where good food doesn't seem to be the focus. Not quite the Venetian Bacaro they were aiming for. The problem is that at £80 for two, it's not quite the humble, community restaurant Bacaros are meant to be. I'm sure the owner would point to Soho rents rather than any greed on his part. But then my answer would be don't make your community in the W1 postcode.

The fat man claps his hand, but unusually he's not really sure why.