Peacock Bar

148 Falcon Road, Clapham Junction), SW11

Blokes the nation over will instinctively recall, with great aptitude, the televisual advertisement that was created by the Carlsberg beer company in which it was claimed that if said company were to start promoting nightclubs, “they would probably be the best nightclubs in the world”. [PING - on go the lights in the male mind] This utopian vision offered a world where mawkish doormen admired grubby footwear, where bright stylish interiors were populated exclusively by ravishingly beautiful robo-women getting their collective groove on, and where waiting for a taxi was as likely as prohibition. But everyone knows that Carlsberg is probably not the best beer in the world - not by a long shot - and if they were to ‘do’ nightclubs they would probably be a little bit like The Peacock. Actually, a lot like The Peacock.

The Peacock is probably not the best bar in the world - not by a long shot - but it does serve Carlsberg (probably), the doorstaff are wholesomely cordial, and the disco interior is populated almost exclusively by women ‘attempting’ to get their collective groove on. Which means, chaps, that this critique is pretty much over as far as you’re concerned. There’s beer and the ratio of lads to ladies is about 1 to 4, therefore it IS the best nightclub in the world. Or at least in Clapham Junction. So let you now go forth and reprezent da brotherhood, good sirs. Sidle up to the bar, place a firm angular elbow uponst it, and with a rakish wink of your eye show these fine fillies what first-rate fettle you’re in. If you are arriving in large groups, however, do so in timed pairs, so as not to arouse suspicion, only intrigue.

Right. Ladies! True, the Peacock Bar is literally on the wrong side of the tracks but it is still very much to your liking. It has already won various online awards, despite its youthful existence, and the reputation of its owner precedes it; he was part of the original (but now mostly decommissioned) Living, Dog Star, and Mishmash venues. This small, erstwhile English tavern is like wandering into the combined imaginations of Matt Lucas and David Walliams: very camp, very loud, and very gaudy with obvious interminglings between the “Yeh but no but”s and the “But I’m a lady” element.

Burlesque is as girly as hair dye and Maltesers, so let’s hike up our skirts, parade around in our undergarments, and get giddy with giggles and merriment before stumbling off to Infernos or the Clapham Grand, only to return an hour later after realising we were having a better time at the Peacock.

Peacock feathers, golden busts, tight corsets, nipple tassels, wobbly boobs, fleshy arses, 6ft projections of Cary Grant and Jane Fonda, and a pulpit - yes, a pulpit - from whence the DJ pumps out Katrina & The Waves, Culture Beat and a plethora of Roxettes, Banaramas and C&C Music Factories. This social experiment is absolutely meant for the fairer sex. This study delves into the correlation between ladies of the intoxication and their impenetrable forcefield against music from the 80s. That, and the rampant whooping that seems to signify they are having what is sometimes called ‘a good time’. For the gentlemanly sex, however, the novelty is nowhere near as prolific.

The stage is indeed a little low and hardly big enough to accommodate the birdcage and a water fountain needed for these gorgeous divas to pull off their Dita Von Teese moves. However, this version of burlesque/cabaret is not supper club. It’s much naughtier and spunkier than that; especially as audience participation is actively encouraged. The show is brief and would possibly benefit from (a) some Coyote Ugly maneuvers on the bar, (b) less songs, (c) more nakedness. Please. Pretty please. With tassels on. Once the shutters obscure the large windows and the ex-Lost Vagueness artistes begin their performance, it’s time for the peeping Tims outside to come inside because if you wanna win it, Raymond, you gotta be in it.

Saturday nights are very wild, very early, and well before the first act appears the entire venue is a few sherries to the wind. At this point the ladies start forming two queues: one to the lavatories and the other towards the lonely pole in the centre of the room. The dearth of ladies toilets (wee faster, girls!) is equal to the dearth of poles, and not the Eastern European kind (although that would certainly add a new dimension to this circus). The pole is very popular and many girls attempt to grab it simultaneously. As early as 9pm the first knicker-clad inebriate has mounted the pole and is displaying a whole a catalogue of wardrobe malfunctions, much to the delight of chortling onlookers. By 9.36pm, the first chap - must be an Aussie - attempts to mimic her. The most popular move is the ‘jump n spin’. Hair pulling, cat scratching and eye gouging may follow. Daniel Day-Lewis, get your tuxedo; surely, there will be blood.

The populous on this plain of pleasure, this tundra of tumultuousness, is mostly ferocious packs of hen nights, sometimes three at once. Some hens opt for modified wedding dresses that are so sexy they could stun a priest at 50 praises and there’s a healthy tally of people just milling around in their pants (some of whom really shouldn’t, not in public).

Whereas Saturdays are all about celebrations - birthday, hen, stag, office, all there, in its pants - the rest of the week is a subdued calm-before-the-storm café atmosphere replete with wifi during the day and 2-4-1 cocktail magnetism in the evenings; Ratpack crooning Thursdays and live opera Sundays. Nice.

Whilst we’re on the subject of bathing in a vat of liquid joy, the £7 cocktails are very quaffable - the Bramble being a particularly potent potion - and the early start of happy hour may have something to do with the level of fun that is clearly being had. The barmen can be occasionally surly so don’t look them straight in the eye, they can sense fear. Tip: the martini glasses are small and spillage-prone, so go large if there’s movement afoot.

This is probably not the best bar/nightclub/pub/cabaret show in the world, but it does display much potential. Once the balcony starts banging out the proposed classic Ibiza house and once the (minor) celebrity-compered poker nights have begun flipping decks and once the speed dating bonanza has properly landed, then, THEN, it’ll have much more to shout about than simply saucy Saturdays.

Babur

119 Brockley Rise, Forest Hill SE23 1JP

Innovative, sophisticated, modern: sycophantic descriptions usually reserved for the worlds of engineering, architecture, and the arts. If innovative, sophisticated and modern all went for counselling, then Babur would be their counsellor, without ever being remotely connected to Norman Foster, Damien Hirst or Isambard Kingdom Brunel. And that’s because Babur is simply a restaurant.....from the planet Totally Bloody Brilliant! Now how’s that for sycophantic? Any restaurant that has two enormous flags and a great big Bengal tiger stationed outside its entrance must be worth keeping an eye on. If you haven’t been there already, prepare your jealously cortex now. You will love this restaurant more than your own skin.

Housed in a nondescript part of Forest Hill, this modern Indian restaurant is the aesthetic equivalent of proven time travel. The (search engine friendly) ‘shag’ carpeting, criminally ugly wallpaper, and blindingly bright lighting arrangements of the quintessential Indian restaurant are conspicuous by their absence, replaced instead by exposed industrial piping, chic bare brick walls, and a lighting arrangement so mood-inducing it could calm a Bengal tiger, luckily. The addition of various modern paintings and objet d’art create a warehouse gallery effect that even Mr Hirst couldn’t innovate. It’s intimate, but not so much that you’ll end up marrying someone.

The smell as you enter has the essence of victory, as though you just won the gold at the aroma Olympics, but don’t be fooled into thinking you can just dive straight in. This sort of triumph requires some effort on your behalf and if you arrive during the busy 8-9 slot, you need to bring a good book; you’ll have a wait on your hands. And under no circumstances should you surrender and leave. That would be like leaving your kids at the playground. How could you, you beast?!

The process here is leisurely. Although the atmosphere is perky - and although the staff glide around as though preparing a scene from Cats - nothing is ever rushed, thus rewarding you with the time to appreciate everything that is put before you; even though there’s a ruddy great queue of book readers in the foyer, each licking their lips in anticipation. Let them wait, they’ve been here before, they know the drill! The time between dishes is just long enough to acknowledge that the chefs are indeed cooking everything as fresh. There’s no boil-in-the-bag 9-minute wait here.

The service is legendary and involves the construction of a temporary table next to your own so that the impeccably affable and well-mannered staff can calmly introduce each dish as though it were a guest at the ball: “Ladies and Gentlemen, The Right Honourable Bikaneri Macchi, accompanied by the Right Delicious Spiced Oil and Mustard Mash.......The Right Honourable Makhni Chooze escorted by the Her Royal Creaminess Tomato Sauce....” And so and so forth.

In accordance with the contemporary decor, this isn’t standard fodder from our eastern friends. There’s spice, but in a subtle way. This level of quality doesn’t rely on turning your tongue to carbon in order to give it a sense of flavour. If its tendencies are Asian, then it is most certainly British bent (search engine friendly). There aren’t reams of the usual kormas, masalas and vindaloos (although you will find the essential lamb-based biriyani and shank favourites). This menu - both of them, the normal one and the specials one - has hake rubbing fins with deer rubbing antlers with buffalo rubbing hoofs with a decent selection of veggie options: the flaky noodle encasement surrounding the taramind and dried plum chutney scallops is a textured delight; whilst the Red Sandalwood ostrich starter arrives beautifully presented as a match-off between red and yellow swirls of sauce, the meat in the middle as the delicious referee.

For the mains, you cant go wrong with either the Hara Bara Kofta spinach and potato dumplings or the twice-marinated garlic prawns - on masala uttapam - which are so gigantic, so enormous, so tremendously colossal, they have their own gravitational pull. Namely, towards your open maw. Warning: don’t be tempted down the nan and rice road. There’s just no call for it. Order a paratha for two for mopping purposes, and maybe, just maybe, the Hara Cholliya Te Paneer chick pea Punjabi masala with cottage cheese, thus saving enough room for dessert.

Speaking of which, three words: mango brulee orgasm (search engine friendly). OK, so only two of those words are actually on the menu but when combined with a glass of the recommended Orange Muscat Essencia........well, you understand.

Mains are priced in the low teens, but if you’re lucky enough to be under 7 years of age, you can (a) eat for free on a Sunday afternoon, and (b) pat yourself on the back for discovering this website at such a young age. Portions sizes throughout the meal are perfectly poised and there is no overt encouragement to stuff oneself to the point of insanity. There’s enough mileage in the flavours to easily carry three courses. Add to that a bottle of the Kim Crawford Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc and job done. Incidentally, the wine is the work of one Peter McCormbie. He who is the brains behind the wine lists at such posh magnets as The Dorchester, The Zetter and Villandry.

So, Forest Hill might seem like an effort to get to, but then Christopher Columbus knew better than to give up at the Bahamas. And why should Zone 1 take all the glory? Nosh gobblers literally swarm here and for good reason. Even the familiar way the manager chats and shakes hands with his customers spells warm and welcoming. Overall, faultlessly extraordinary and extraordinarily faultless. This is a whole other level of sycophancy.

Cafe Rouge Putney

200-204 Putney Bridge Rd, Putney SW15

Remember when Kevin Costner starts talking to his crop in the baseball movie, Field Of Dreams? Do you recall how a disembodied voice whispered something to him about “build it and they will come”? Well, Mr Rouge was clearly smoking the same corn on the cob as old Dances With Wolves when he made the decision to plonk his Café on Putney’s most lifeless stretch of road, right next to Laura Ashley. Whereas Costner’s baseball-diamond-in-the-middle-of-nowhere idea seemed to peak some interest right before the end of the movie, Mr Rouge’s idea shouldn’t have even made into the script.

Sure, Mr Rouge is known across the nation for his fantastic French fare - and quite rightly so - but the Putney Placement Decision was probably made the day after a particularly heavy ‘tasting’ session, possibly on a Sunday afternoon, just as he was having a nap, during which even his dreams were still drunk. It could be said that Café Rouge on the Putney Bridge Road has a certain rustic charm which counters the flashy, affluent riverside developments of the area, but then that’s exactly what Putney is: affluent and flashy. Were Mr Rouge to relocate to a property similar to the view-stealing Rocket restaurant, for example, things would look a lot rosier; or rouge. This is because it’s actually a very good restaurant. It’s just cursed by its bad placement.

If you’re looking for a place which offers delectable comestibles in an atmosphere that is slightly less vibrant than a graveyard, then this is your place. The music doesn’t really help matters, either; Chillout is probably not the best form of music if you’re trying to stop guests falling asleep in their Soupe à l’Oignon. If you’re adamant about eating the food - and you should be - but want to add a little bit of life to your meal, simply opt for one of the outside tables and enjoy the close proximity spectacle that is known as.....The Number 270 bus.

The interior feels a bit like an All Bar One with its wooden floors complimented by a cream and brown colour scheme. But then how many All Bar One venues can boast walls plastered with children’s drawings and a perfectly unnecessary brass revolving door? Hmmm.

OK, OK, enough with the chastisements, how about what’s really important: the food. If the decision to put the restaurant in its current location was a 1.5 on a 10-scale of brilliance, then the menu totally contradicts that, being about an 8.5. Superbly French cuisine that comes in one, and only one, flavour: rich. The French are about as good at making bland food as they are at NOT speaking in a sexy accent. It’s chains like Café Rouge and Chez Gerard that have actually stopped everyone on the south coast from moving to France permanently, thus averting a massive population-unemployment surge.

Many folk - mainly those born before time itself was invented - frequent Café Rouge for the steak. So alluring is this steak, that upon entering the establishment these people require no menu. They have one thing on their minds and if there comes a day when it’s sold out, they’ll leave and go elsewhere instead, as though the remainder of the menu didn’t exist. These people are traditionalist fools and should be forced to watch Kevin Costner’s entire back catalogue immediately. Not because they’re wrong about the steak - they’re not - but because they’re missing out the real top trump at Café Rouge: the seafood.

The succulent Loup de Mer sea bass is like wrestling with a duvet of clouds whilst lying on a bed of spinach, rocket and French beans. Equally, the Duo de Poisson crab claw meat with smoked salmon is like being tickled by all the creatures in the Bay of Biscay simultaneously. Yet the ultimate highlight on the menu has to be the Marmite Dieppoise seafood casserole, in which dory does battle with salmon does battle with mussels in a sea of buttery white wine goodness, with a wreckage of veggies floating on top whilst the good ship baguette attempts to rescue the remnants.

Before battle commences, the Champignons de Paris (mushies to us laypeople) calms the seas of war with a well balanced, creamy garlic sauce and raclette cheese topping. Alternatively - for anyone who thinks a course of skydiving will help cure their insomnia, for example - there’s the creamy Camembert au Four d’issigny Ste Mère, which roughly translates as ‘demonic voodoo poltergeist in a pot’. This dish should come with some form of health warning on the side, stating “Beware: eating this product will be enjoyable but you will never be able to kiss another human being again, ever.” Once the skin of this tomb has been pierced, all the fumes of Hades ascend up your nostrils and the only way to pull the creature into line is to dip the accompanying celery into it, devour maniacally, and sporadically quench your thirst with the distinguished, apricot flavours of the Turckheim Pinot Gris d’Alsace (only 17 notes per bottle).

Desserts: again, the most courageous amongst the harden eaters will want to attempt a scaling of the Pavé de Chocolat, as recommended by the cunning waiting staff. This huge, moist walnut and chocolate monstrosity comes with melted chocolate ganache and vanilla ice cream and, after a few mouthfuls, consumes its victim as much as it is being consumed itself. The sensible option is to try the Trio de Crème Brûlée. This is the French equivalent of ordering tiramisu in an Italian restaurant; it’s just what you do. Plus, with this dessert, there’s the added bonus of playing the game of ‘guess the filling’ when the small pots of raspberry, vanilla and chocolate brûlée are sacrificed at your table. Ahh, poor brûlée. Oh well, cant be helped.

Overall, this Café Rouge gives off a vibe that screams ‘help me, help me. I’m a prisoner in my own home. I will cook my way out, if need be’. Perfectly capable and yet sadly overlooked. When the conversation five tables away can be heard quite clearly one suspects there might not be enough custom. If it makes it through the other side of the recession, it deserves a new place of residence. Remember those three key words, though, Mr Rouge: location, location, location.

Chino Latino

18 Albert Embankment, Lambeth SE1 7TJ

My dearest darling Chino Latino,

It troubles me so that we should be apart for so long. I shall never forget meeting you for the first time the other night. I recall how excited I was as I wandered along the waterfront from Vauxhall station. Before we even set eyes on one another, I remember gazing over the Thames at the majesty of Big Ben, admiring the architectural prowess of the London Eye, and pondering what secrets lay behind the Mi6 guarded fences. All this put me in a speculative mindset - “What will Chino Latino be like?” - and, I must admit, I first thought you might be of Spanish persuasion, what with a name such as yours.

How wrong I was. You were much bigger than I had envisaged. Your bar was enormous and as easy as an airport lounge, but I stayed only briefly because I wanted to meet the real you, the restaurant you. I loved your look immediately. You were very swanky, well groomed and neatly framed with subtle hints of red splashed on your dark floors, dark ceilings, dark walls. Your oversized cream leather backing was lovely to lean on. Your dangling orbs shed just enough sultry light. Your long rubber-textured seating was luxuriously sexy and had I accidentally spilled something, I’m certain it would’ve wiped off.

I was a little disappointed by your tables; they were a bit on the small size. If we were meant to be sharing all this pan-Asian tapas, where was I supposed to be putting it? I was quite jealous of the larger, more secluded tables near the bar (used when a group of people all come at once, I’m guessing?).

I was also a tad disheartened by your window view: a fence, a train track, and a rubbish skip. Surely you deserve better? I understand why you try hiding your blemishes with that thin drape covering, but aren’t you more suited to the first floor viewing platform next to the river? Why shy away at the back of an uninspiring hotel when you’re obviously the best thing about it?

Your general appearance definitely pleased me, though, and the spread you laid on for me was equally compelling. Each slice of that yellow tail sashimi had its own eye of chilli and hat of coriander. It felt so sinful to eat and yet so right, as well.

Your menu was deliciously flawless; your presentation, immaculately conceived; your sizes, satisfyingly perfect. I loved how your raison d'etre was to share. Does ‘Chino’ imply your Asian heritage and ‘Latino’ confess your secret tapas style?

You started me off with your humongous measure of edamame - filling enough for two people - and your crispy hoi sin duck with cucumber was enjoyably tactile. I love to play with my food. To follow, you openly displayed your black cod and it simply fell apart, melting in my mouth. I’m glad it was served right next to me. If I’d had to reach across the table to get at it, I would’ve surely made a mess.

Your steak on hot rocks flirtatiously caught my eye, too. I loved the way it sizzled and steamed on a bed of bamboo. Oh, how delightful. It reminded me of an ornamental stress garden and I longed to just stare at it in total tranquility. The delicate serving of baby pak choi and the spoonful of jasmine rice only added to my ecstasy.

And then you gave me your just desserts. And my, it wasn’t just desserts. It was the dessert platter. I thought a rainbow had just exploded right in front of me. Every exotic colour and scent my mind could muster, all cradled in ice. I’ve seen fruits such as these at the supermarket before but I’ve always been too afraid to try them. I’m glad you were there to hold my hand.

Our evening was made even more special when you wooed me with your hooch. It was so caring of you to start me off slowly with your pink, lychee Virgin Momo. But as intoxicating as it was, the lack of alcohol left me craving something stronger. I admit, your signature champagne-and-juice cocktail made me a little giddy and perhaps a teeny bit giggly. And the sight of your muscular wine list got me all a fluster. From the buttery Puligny-Montrachet Louis Jadot to the velvety spice of Hawke’s Bay Vidal Estate Syrah, you certainly get around. And around. And around. And around. And having nine types of sake and three types of house wine in each colour, that’s just showing off. Your cocktails were certainly Latin in spirit, too.

I find it very interesting that you chose to shack up in a hotel. Or that the hotel chose you. You seem so....so....so specialised, so niche. Do you do continental breakfast for guests that stay overnight? I see that you’re very active online, offering customers special deals through the week. That clearly makes you very popular. When I arrived at 7pm, I had you all too myself - which was nice - but I must confess, I preferred you at 8pm when you were busier and less like a library.

Although I loved every minute of our summer fusion encounter, I’d much rather we meet again in the winter, if that’s OK with you? Your dark colours, your alert staff, your soft, sensual lighting: they all spell ‘cosy up’ to me. You’re more than just a passing fancy for traveling businessmen, Chino Latino. Your my Chino Latino and you were my dream first date.

Love from your anonymous admirer

Lies About My Friends (part 2): DEREK

Excerpt from Lies About My Friends....

...Now, I am not a man who sleeps on both sides of the bed, but visually Derek is a marvel to look at. His appearance far outweighs his personality; which is not to say Derek’s personality is lacking - although sometimes he does tend to aggravate his friends and associates by constantly regaling us with his tiresome theories and stories - it’s just that his physical characteristics are undeniably striking and, were I a Scot, I might be inclined to use the word ‘bonny’. His jawbone is as chiselled as the White Cliffs of Dover; his strong, muscular lower limbs could pass as oak table legs; his stone cold gaze is Hollywood, if not haunting. Sadly, however, Derek is the guardian of possibly the ugliest nose ever known to cast a shadow. If it weren’t for the rest of him being so dangerously compelling, all eyes would rest on the monstrosity that died in the middle of his otherwise perfect face.

The story goes that when he was a younger man he had the nose of a pixie, upturned and impish. On one unfortunate day, whilst out mountain biking in the valleys of France, he suffered an injury so horrendous that his nose was disfigured for the remainder of his days. Allegedly, the blame cannot rest with his expensive bicycle and neither was it, as one might initially suspect, the fault of Derek’s penchant for high velocity. The perpetrator was nothing more than a simple Pink Lady apple; or a Pink Lady apple core, to be precise. You might ask yourself how an apple core could inflict such a hideous disgrace on man’s bony structure. Well, in this case, the apple core in question was travelling at some 50 miles per hour at the very moment it chose to use Derek’s face as a braking mechanism. It had been moving at such a speed because it recently been tossed from the window of a moving car, some 90 metres above Derek’s head. As the car passed over the bridge, which connected the two sides of the valley in which Derek had been cycling, the oblivious apple chomper threw the felonious core from the vehicle just as Derek had been cycling beneath the bridge. Derek gazed up to marvel at the architectural majesty of the bridge when.....

On a lighter note, Derek likes pets. He once owned a creature that went by the name of Mihi Mihi, which he named after a famous invention that was so famous nobody but Derek seemed to know anything about it. As things go, Mihi Mihi is a great name for a poodle and Derek was very fond of the dog. Sadly, Mihi Mihi died of neglect when Derek was hospitalised with his broken nose.

Then came Flunch.

Flunch was another beast that enjoyed the company of Derek; although Derek did not much care for Flunch. Flunch had once belonged to an ex-girlfriend - Lyza of the Rendon-Strunk dynasty - and had fallen into Derek’s care following the bitter row that ended their torrid affair. Derek seemingly chose to steal the pet in order to retaliate against Lyza but, as mentioned above, Derek was none too fond of Flunch. Flunch was a Mexican red-kneed tarantula and Derek is known to become weak-kneed when in direct contact with spiders, especially if they formerly belong to an estranged lover. Since Flunch has claimed Derek’s abode, Derek hardly ever goes home any more, instead choosing to take dwellings in hotels, motels, work desks and friends’ apartments on most weeknights. The Theraphosidae is still fed, though. Oddly enough, the person who feeds it is Lyza of the Rendon-Strunk dynasty. Clearly, she has a spare key and a quite brilliant plan for never-ending revenge.

(IN ORDER TO READ THE FULL VERSION OF THIS PIECE, PLEASE CONTACT CHRISTIAN)

The Five Tuns

Landside, Terminal 5, Heathrow Airport, London, TW6

Terminal 5: British Airways’ very own playpen. The last fleeting glimpse of good ole Blighty before reaching the front of the queue, stepping into a British plane, and being launched through the sky in the general direction of somewhere unbearable hot, usually populated mostly by Brits. Terminal 5 is more British than John Craven’s Newsround multiplied by Michael Caine and subtracted from the square route of a Cornish pasty. So what could possibly make it even more British? What else could be added to this monolithic human catapult that would enable it to exceed its ‘cuppa tea and a crumpet’ quotient? It seems a modern British boozer is the answer.

Geronimo Inns are THE name in redefining the British pub experience. They’ve been slowly buying up South East England in a bid to create some sort of ring of steel around London, which no discerning Brit can resist when attempting to escape to........The Continent. They’ve gone one better than the definitive ‘local’ as a last bastion of hope: they’ve covered all the immediate exits out of England. Heathrow Terminal 1, Heathrow Terminal 3, St Pancras International train station: all blocked by a Geronimo Inn. And still they keep buying property, carelessly ignoring the ‘more pubs set for closure’ daily headlines.

It was fairly predictable, therefore, that Geronimo would set up shop in T5. Approaching the departures floor after an unsettling, lightning-quick journey on the Thorpe Park ride known as ‘the lifts’ and an odd sensation begins to take hold: excitement combined with woe. Yes, we’re going on holiday, but gosh, we cant let go of our loved ones: the roast beef sandwich with horseradish and onion jam, the battered fish and chunky chips, the Cumberland sausage with bacon, tomato, mushies, beans and fried eggs. Who knows what will happen through those doors and beyond the security check. You might never see a bowl of porridge again.

So, this is a pub. It must be, it states it quite plainly in large lettering above the door. But it doesn’t feel like a proper pub. The exposed mechanical piping, electrical wiring and industrial hardware are the first giveaway. As are the detailed murals depicting famous landmarks of London. The gaping glassless windows are another. There’s something simultaneously unnerving and engrossing about staring through a large open hole in the wall of a pub at a fully-functioning (don’t snigger) international airport, mesmorised by thoughts such as ‘I wonder where they’re going’, ‘Oooh, I wouldn’t wear that on my holiday’, and ‘They’re clearly not a married couple’. But then, this is an airport pub, so it’s meant to be 400 kinds of different.

The bar itself isn’t so much a bar as a dividing partition between two rival factions. To the left, there’s the Sky Sports arena: a futuristic school dining hall complete with TV, high chairs and an army of kids (towing slave-parents). To the right is the Chillout domain: a stylish lounge furnished with colourful couches for canoodling couples, and standing bars at which centurion executives.....errr, stand, protecting their precious pints against the lethal pandemic of children.

Another aspect that’s instantly unusual for a pub is that everyone seems so cheerful. During the week there may be a few sterner faces propped up beneath their pressed shirts and ironed ties but by Thursday afternoon the holiday smile becomes a pre-boarding prerequisite. There’s even music playing in the pub to continually lift the spirits (the emotional kind, the liquid kind comes in many mood-lifting guises at the bar). This pub does not fall under the usual cosy, community hideaway banner like many other Geronimo Inns, but that actually works in your favour. There is a danger you could get too comfortable, and then you might find yourself re-enacting key scenes from ‘Planes, Trains and Automobiles’.

With an hour to kill before boarding, there’s easily time to slurp down a two-courser (be sure to check if your flight is catered, though). The word ‘gastro’ usually implies a slow, Sunday afternoon pace and a smattering of French language on the menu. The Five Tuns, however, gives you ‘fastro’; same posh nosh experience, only in a Jaguar, not a Mini Metro. As mentioned above, this is proper English fare, so gravy, clotted cream and the common bacon butty all receive a worthy mention.

Naturally, for an airport, the prices edge into ‘law unto themselves’ territory - the chicken live pate starter costing £7.50, for example - but the food is not unreasonable given that the most expensive item on the menu is only £15 (rib eye steak); which is actually cheaper than the international airport in Budapest, and that’s just airport fact!

The delightful asparagus tart starter is slender, thus giving more girth for the main. Alternatively, if the demon hunger is persistent in your belly, the fishcakes with luminous yellow hollandaise and spinach will placate the beast. Follow this with the piquant lamb and potato pie and leave him dead sated. Dessert will finish him off forever, plus allow for some quality snoozing once onboard the flight. The all day brunch menu should ease the early starters into the daily onslaught, as well as those that may be confused about which time zone they’re in.

Flying the flag high for us Brits on the Liberation for the Libation front are Fullers, Adnams, and Sharp’s, whilst our foreign friends are represented by a discerning selection that includes Germany’s Warsteiner and Russia’s Baltika, an eye-catcher for many a beer perv. Despite this dependable Jamboree of ales, however, the wine list is a voice of the people that simply cannot be ignored. A Master of Wine was set loose on this one, cleverly splitting the wines stylistically and, unusually, offering every potion by the glass. Meaning, it’s not imperative for the transient punters to purchase the entire bottle of Infamous Goose Sauvignon from New Zealand. Not imperative, but still highly probable. Prices range from a dozen up to around 25 quid a bottle but there are also five sparkling options to toast the forthcoming adventures. A small gripe about the wine: considering the patriotic nature displayed throughout the venue, where is the English plonk?

The staff at the Five Tuns are jolly, alacritous and more approachable than a surly pub landlord, despite starting work well before most people have even gone to bed (there aren’t many pubs that open at 5.30am for breakfast). Necessity means they move faster than a seagull on a hot chip and the management has astutely provided adequate staff to cater for any unlikely problems.

The Five Tuns is reason enough to abide by the ‘must arrive two hours before departure time’ check-in procedure. The perfect taste of home before leaving the UK. Even better if you’ve just come back. It’s very good value for money considering the ambience, the service, and the range of food and drink on offer and is easily the best eatery inside the confines of T5; which isn’t actually that difficult considering Carluccios or Caffe Nero offer the only resistance. However, for those whose credit exceeds even their taste, the decadent Brasserie Roux in the nearby Sofitel Hotel is possibly one of London’s best restaurants. If not, the Five Tuns fills the post-check in, pre-security no man’s land, before the descent into a Duty Free trance. If you are inclined towards such impulse buying, at least have the decency to do so with a full belly and a slightly fuzzy head. It’ll make the experience more enjoyable.

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Villandry Kitchen

95-97 High Holborn, Holborn, london, WC1

On the vast stage that is Londinium, a gigantic never-ending performance takes place. We each act out our major and minor parts, perpetually framed by a backdrop adding depth to the entire scene. So, if we are currently in Scene 13,678,034, Act 209,804 of this great drama, what role does Villandry Kitchen have to play?

Well, cast your mind back about three and half million scenes, to a time when the original Villandry - The Kitchen’s wealthier, better looking, elder brother - first entered stage left on Great Portland Street. We all gasped and cooed at its splendid, posh grocery store identity and were dazzled by the fanciful restaurant it used as a prop. So what of this Holborn bistro sideshow?

Firstly, negotiating a path to its door is a hop, skip and a sprint for your life through several tricky traffic intersections. Not since primordial man has the hunter-gatherer feeding process been so perilous. Sanctuary inside Villandry Kitchen is oddly similar to the appeal of a stark cave with every surface staring back with hard and shiny austerity. Chair legs scrape on floors like fingernails on a blackboard and even the lonely bar stools are wincing. By far the best seats in the house are the marble-top booths towards the rear. Not only do they hide the floor-to-ceiling glass frontage and its uninterrupted view of the hurtling High Holborn vehicular savages that attempted to maim you, but they’re also acoustically favourable. The no man’s land of the open floor is a moshpit of chitchat where conversations bounce and fling themselves at one another with little concern for their safety, so seek refuge at the back.

The menu, on the other hand, is mellow in tone, thankfully draped in French language. Essentially a pastiche of robust, rustic French-Italian rations, its potential is more spectacular than its reality and it doesn’t display the Gaul of its Fitzrovia sibling. Befuddling in places, it mashes together everything from lunch to late supper and the initial strike of confusion lies right at the top, where it states quite clearly that olives and bread are non gratis.

The charcuterie bar - or butchers, for want of a better word - offers rillettes from a duck, ham from Bayonne, and salami from Jesus, and the indecisive folk amongst us will want to opt for the signature plate, which happily includes everything. This also leaves little room for Mr Butcher to make mistakes. Case in point: the crunchy Superfood Salad, available a duo of sizes. Arriving on a plate barely visible beyond the edges of its contents, the broccoli has unknowingly wandered into a delicate game of Chase The Feta which circumnavigates the outer extremities of said plate. Consequently, the Super green beans do a Super job of making a Super mess of the table. Plus, with the Rebel Yell, this salad cries more, more, more because the broad beans are conspicuous by their absence and the pine nuts have bunked off for the rest of the day. It’s all lettuce and no action. And it’s friend, the smoked salmon, is equally incomplete, noticeably pining for capers, and framed by a handful of frustrated rocket and a lemon murdered some 5 hours ago.

It’s worth bearing in mind that Villandry Kitchen stands in the grave of a former pizza chain, the ghost of which hasn’t left yet and lives vicariously on through a sturdy squad of stone baked options that are awarded with honours such as artichoke hearts and goat’s cheese.

If the traditional ring of ‘110 year old mother yeast dough’ doesn’t get your knickers twisted, the ‘Classics’ mains might peak some interest with a peppering of the usual steak, chicken and salmon possibilities. The duck confit is the most satisfyingly adventurous and, although it tops the charts in the taste brigade, it is crying out for better presentation; appearing as though it’s attempting to escape death by baked beans. A delicious death that you will wholly appreciate, mind. Sadly, due to the French persuasion, the small, fiddly moules are a tad too fractious to bother with and look like they’ve had a terrible week. The accompanying frites are uncomfortable in their tin bucket armour and cool quickly without the love of a warm plate.

As Villandry Kitchen is tailored more in the direction of the business breakfast, the casual coffee, the short-lived summit, it’s unlikely that desserts get much attention. The syllabub looks like it’s been made in a hurry, presentation once again not at its best: a mountain of Angel Delight slopped into a primary school beaker with a wafer jammed in and a small child’s mango and passionfruit sneeze to top. A less horrifying ordeal is the delicious roast banana and toffee cheesecake which has a good ratio of cheese to cake and is escorted by a dollop of unassuming ice cream that isn’t exciting enough to distract you from an engaging guest.

A comment on the wine: a healthy French and Italian selection, available by the glass, carafe or bottle to suit the length of your meeting or the voracity of your thirst. Avoid the Villandry’s house wine, if you can. It has character that even Old Spice couldn’t muster.

A comment on the service: when it arrives, the service is thorough and charming but for a cafe that promotes transiency, the
.............................pauses
.............................between
....................courses
..........................are
................so
............pregnant
........their waters are breaking.

Villandry Kitchen is created for those who simply need the sustenance to get them through the business they are attending to at the time. Therefore, breakfasts and lunchtimes - aided by complimentary wi-fi and newspapers - thrive. During the darker hours of the day, the stage is very vacant and spotlights exactly how brilliantly unremarkable and forgettably adequate Villandry Kitchen really is. It’s proximity to the tube is advantageous, though. Just be careful crossing the street when continuing your occupational discourse.

The house of Villandry originally engendered feelings that married eye-watering prices with quality performances that could stun an ox, but since unveiling this branch - and the one recently opened at consumerism’s last bastion against recession, Bicester Village - an uncomfortable uneasiness has fallen upon the Villandry name: cheapness.

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Locale (Balham)

225 Balham High Road, Balham, London, SW17

One thing is for certain: the new owners of Ferrari’s - now known as Locale - have got some minerals. How they consciously made the decision to buy into the anachronistic Balham restaurant is a mystery. What a time warp that place was. It had pictures of Sylvester Stallone on the wall. Rumour had it that Archeology magazine were set to do a double page spread about it. For those enthusiasts who were keen on the joint - both of you - your medication is in the post.

There is a bright side to this acquisition, though. As Jenson Button will surely attest, going one better than Ferrari is not such a tough job, after all. What makes the purchase of Ferrari’s quite an achievement is the gall to try and draw the community back in through the doors. But, if you’ve got a blank canvas to work with, and £100,000 for improvements, chances are you might actually do a mediocre job.

So, what will 100 big ones get you these days? Cristiano Ronaldo for half the week? A palatial mansion in downtown Baghdad? Well, it appears that 100G gets you a new lick of paint, a nice set of furnishings, and a crafty little cocktail bar near the entrance. And that’s about it. The new owners boast that the refit took only 4 days. It looks like it did, n’ all.

Thanks to the diners sitting outside, Locale looks vaguely enticing from the road. But then even Chicken Cottage would look enticing if it was permanently positioned next to an Argos and a row of estate agents. For 100g one might expect new tables on the terrace, and not appropriated scuffed ones from former tenants. One might also expect furniture that actually matches. Still, you cant win them all. At least the lovely vista of the Trinity Medical Centre and the busy T-junction intersection still remain. As does the familiar sound of an ambulance flying passed every 10 minutes. Italian food is meant to be al fresco, so why not bung in some trellising and get rid of the din and the tiresome view?

Inside, the change is not particularly flattering either, with an open plan affair that’s about as cosy as a haunted school dining room at midnight. Essentially, what the new owners have done is taken Ferrari’s, turned it upside and shaken out the 1980s.

Unlike Sylvester, some of the Ferrari staples managed to live through the shake-up, most notably on the menu, but chef Paulo Barone - the erstwhile employee of Clapham’s Buona Sera and Spiga in Wardour Street - has expanded on the original to some degree. Someone should give Zizzi’s and Pizza Express a call and tell them Locale is doing their menu from fresh, quite literally.

A word to the wise, the focaccia baked with whole tomatoes is the logical antipasti option as the garlic bread is big enough to bludgeon a Berlusconi and will no doubt ruin your main. Avoid the grilled asparagus if it’s out of season and the baked mushroom with ricotta is far too too delicious to ignore and you’ll no doubt consume the whole darn thing. And then you’re back in ‘ruining the main’ territory.

Speaking of mains: naturally, pasta and pizza dominate the wide selection, and do a fairly decent job of satisfying, but to experience the full potential of this kitchen it’s best to avoid anything that didn’t originally wallow in shit or swim in the sea when it was alive (apologies to the vegans). And do not, under any circumstance, get a side dish. The portions are large enough anyway and the sides are as cold and wrinkly as your Grandpa getting out of a bath he ran 3 hours ago. Not what you need. So save room for dessert and let Pops find his own towel.

The alacritous staff are all just back from Smiling Camp and there seems to be an unspoken rule that the more handsome or pretty they are, the fewer mistakes they make. That’s probably because they spend less time trying to convince themselves that they’re worth it, and more time remembering which orders are married with which tables.

Being an Italian restaurant, Locale obviously proudly presents for dessert.....the sticky toffee pudding? Or the chocolate cake? Che cosa! Allegedly, the locals went searching for their pitchforks when they found out these English sweets were to be removed from the menu, so the management decided to avoid a lynching and keep them, wisely. However, what do the locals know (says the local, quietly)?! Italians know dessert like they know how to swear at traffic so, depending on your ability to tough it out, either attempt to wrestle with the tiramisu - if you dare - or, to save yourself actually exploding right there in the restaurant, take up the offer of the Panna Cotta All’Arrancia, which directly translates as ‘jar of marmalade trapped inside a cloud of cream for the benefit of ladies with a tooth that is oh very sweet’. Or something.

Something else the Italians are quite good at is drinking. Yet despite the healthy number of mainly Italian biancos and mainly Italian rossos on the list, nearly everyone will ignore the New Zealand Sauvignon and opt for the mediocre Pinot Grigio, wont they! We’re all so very predictable. Well, don’t be. Try a cocktail instead maybe. Why? Because they use Hendrick’s gin and elderflower? Because they have Ferrero Rocher in drinkable format? No, because each one is only a fiver, ANY time of the day. That’s why.

Locale obviously has no passing trade; not unless drivers are now allowed to perform handbrake manoeuvres in the middle of Balham High Road. This is unquestionably a community restaurant and the owners would clearly rather make smaller margins and ensure repeat visits than squeeze every last penny from your pocket in just one sitting. Which is why this is the latest, and sixth, establishment in a group that likes to settle in residential areas such as Bromley, Dulwich and Fulham. Fresh food at a reasonable price, with a couple of lunch and dinner deals worth investigating too (and brunch).

Overall, the food is approximately at the mid-point between really lovely and kind of nice, with the location, view and decor sadly tipping into a bit naff, only to be saved by the service and the drinks which teeter on the point of absolutely great.

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