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.

Link to Fluidfoundation

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.

Link to Fluidfoundation

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.

Link to Fluidfoundation

The Betjeman Arms

Unit 53, St Pancras International Station, Pancras Road, Kings Cross, London, NW1

The author, poet, and broadcaster, Sir John Betjeman, was clearly quite good at getting his point across and in nineteen-something-and-a-bit-more he utilised his vast talents to argue the case against the planned demolition of St Pancras station. Obviously, he won, and it’s fitting that he should be honoured with not one, but two, permanent tributes placed in the very building he helped save. Firstly, he was given the Han Solo treatment and turned into bronze - he can be found today gazing up at the marvel that is the station’s roof - and secondly, he went the way of the Kings and had a pub named after his bodily parts. How very very English, what what.

St Pancras Station is technically still on our side. True, it’s only a glorified tube journey away from pomme frites avec mayonaisse but this end is still old Blighty. The Betjeman Arms opened practically moments after the first Eurostar was sent trundling off towards France and the landlords - Geronimo Inns, owners of a sizeable chunk of Londonium - were very aware of its proximity to the French border when they created it. So with near-jingoistic vigour, they installed a venue that is so quintessentially English, not even Geoff Capes thumping through the door with Chas & Dave under one arm and a Tesco bag full of badgers under the other could make it any more English. Rabbit rabbit.
Residing quietly in one corner of the station, the view looking inward towards the business end of the station is a rail enthusiasts soggy sheets and one that can claim to be the true description of the word ‘awesome’. The outside area is somewhat of an illusion here, as it isn’t strictly outside. The open air trick is created thanks to some strategically placed umbrellas - ideal protection against flying station vermin: pigeons - leaving the entire area sky bright, yet still a no-go zone for smokers.

The smokers paradise, on the other hand, is outside - proper, proper outside - where the new terrace is drowned in sunshine, yearning to be covered with butts; yours and the cigarette’s. As of summer 2009, this terrace was only half complete due to the disagreeable construction site at the front of the station. Until that’s finished, seating is at a premium in the post-work 5-9pm slot; made no better by the table service that keeps all and sundry glued to their seats. If you’re lucky enough to procure an early table, it’s advisable to carry a cardy, as the high buildings create a chilly tunnel in the shade.

A quick explanation of the floor plan: no idea! Restrictions that are tighter-than-a-shrew’s-arse are enforced by The English Heritage and limit the amount of alterations that can be made on the property. Yet they’ve done tidy job with what they’ve got. Think abandoned grammar school soon to be redeveloped as luxury apartments, then picture pantries, parlours, high ceilings, and surly old geezers who wouldn’t think twice about giving you a good shoe-ing if you misbehaved.
Inside, everything is lofty and chocolatey: the seating, the ceilings, the bar, the desserts. If it’s not chocolate brown, you’re in the wrong pub. The bar itself is compact - mainly due to the open(ish) kitchen - and cunningly placed mirrors give off an illusionary expanse.

The dining rooms are quiet, almost murderously so, and regularly host pin-dropping competitions during the week. There is a boardroom as well, should you want to claim the corporate crown of coolest conference organiser in town by holding your appointment in a listed train station.

Now, food and wine. Pay attention here because this is where Geronimo really shine. Firstly, the wine list: although it appears to be but a mere sheet of folded paper, it is, in actual fact, a holy scripture (of sorts). Indeed, had Jesus actually turned the water into wine, this is likely to be the list he would have consulted first. It is a printed representation of the erudite stature of a Master of Wine - one John Clevely - and includes the ineffable qualities of the Wild Rock Infamous Goose Sauvignon Blanc (sadly, no English wines on there, as yet).

Secondly, the menu: a meat-lovers wish list that stays true to the home shores in almost every respect (aside from the use of Le Creuset serving pots, a subtle jibe at the French one might assume?). Big on volume, big on quality, big on presentation. Sharp, distinctive flavours that include the buttery sea bass and English asparagus as well as the posh fish and chips with gauzed-squeezed lemon and vinegar served in jugs. As mentioned above, it doesn’t cater well for vegetarians (1/12th of the options) and bumping the lunch salads up to main dinner status doesn’t really cut it for our non-flesh consuming friends. Still, they can delightfully fill themselves up on the dark chocolate and raspberry torte, which is basically a Cadbury’s Orange egg in disguise.

The clientele at The Betjeman are an eclectic mix of grazers, civilly mingling with their white collar counterparts, simultaneously keeping their enemies close and their spouses far away for as long as possible. Aside from The Skinner Arms on Judd Street, this neighbourhood is starved of tangible refreshment stops and Carluccio’s across the way certainly looks like it’s lacking a pulse.

So if you’re in the market for a traditional dimpled pint filled with the hoppy, honeyed Betjeman Ale - exclusive to Geronimo Inns - before you allez off to Paris pour une gay weekend avec Mademoiselle Smith, then The Betjeman Arms is a nice little English restaurant that’s off to a costume party dressed as a pub.

However, if, oddly, you couldn’t give a merde about Angleterre and can’t get on that Eurostar quick enough, then the overrated longest-champagne-bar-in-the-entire-universe just nearby is probably more up your boulevard. You can bet Betjeman would be up in arms if you did, though.

Link to Fluidfoundation

Tortilla

13 Islington High Street, Angel, London, N1

Picture this: you and your closest hombres have sunk a few cervezas in Londres centrale and now you’re making your way back to your casa, up in Highbury & Islington. You ascend the considerable length of the Angel escalator, fumble your way through the gates, and exit onto the bustling Upper Street. You haven’t eaten yet and your stomach is starting to make you aware of the fact. Across the road is a Burger King. Hmmm, could do, but you’re not that desperate; yet! You spy another eatery just next to BK. Is that a Taco Bell? The popular American fast food chain that churns out nifty packages of Mexican flavoured joy? Could this be the answer to your irritated abdomen? Well, in a word: no. Why? Because Taco Bell died out in the mid-1990s when the economic boom saw fit to destroy the notion of ‘trading down’ your dinner options. What’s happened here is a hallucination, or some sort of daydream time travel scenario, and your reverie quickly turns to the stuff of nightmares as you suddenly envisage yourself pushing your way in through the Burger King doors.

Unless....

Unless another American food chain steps in and saves you from this torrid ordeal. Perhaps a chain called Tortilla cleverly sets up shop in Angel, right where you thought you saw Taco Bell, and lures you in with satisfying sustenance at a fraction of the cost. The recession has recently choked London town and Tortilla were wise enough to preempt the penny-pinching disposition that an entire capital of hungry bellies were bound to adopt.

So you wander in, unsure of what to expect and, at first, you become momentarily disheartened by the school dinner approach to ordering. These containers of indescribable slop aren’t immediately appetising. The menu is as simple as it is sloppy with varying heat levels of sauce - runny mild up to the more viscous hot - so you decide to take the plunge and order a burrito. Once the tortilla is steamed and primed, it’s then up to you to point and give approval on two kinds of rice, two types of beans, three sorts of meat - vegetarians, don’t bother - and a myriad of sauces, cheeses, vegetables, and other forms of sloppiness. The final outcome is a Tyrannosaurus Mex. This beast would make the perfect missile in a food fight, due to its size and density. And allegedly, this is only the ‘medium’ (NOTE: they don’t do small and the large - or Godtilla? - is reserved for professional eaters only. Them, or anyone wishing to catch some snooze time on the Northern Line and eventually overshoot their stop by about 5 stations). All this arrives in your hand with corn chips and spicy salsa, just in case 28 of your friends suddenly turn up and need feeding.

You also order one of their many authentic Mexican beers to keep your buzz alive and, realising your meal is far too messy to scoff on the run, take a pew at one of the communal tables (like Wagamamas, only smaller). Once seated you begin harassing the strangers next to you. Upon realising that nobody within your immediate vicinity wishes to make friends with you, you relocate to the one and only Parisian-style street table outside. There you’re blessed with a sterling view of the Upper Street traffic jam, part of which is the hilarious parade of Lamborghini owners driving their vehicular inadequacies up and down the length and breadth of Angel, thus making you feel like less of a loser.

You decide that the plastic knives and forks provided by Tortilla are merely decorative utensils and instead craft an adult bib from a handful of napkins for fear of injuring your pristine white shirt. You begin to eat. The next 15 minutes are swirl of flavours, sounds, images and raw emotion and you don’t recall much of what happens. You just know you enjoyed it.

Once the transaction between your hand and your stomach is complete, you stupidly opt to wash it all down with a £4.25 Margarita, not realising how exceedingly strong they are. The novelty of classy alcohol at a fast food restaurant had previously been restricted to your local kebab slap where you frequently dished out 3 quid for a luke warm Carling. So this is seems fairly avant-garde.

Before you depart you scan the menu for dessert - in particular, doughnut’s long lost cousin, the churros - but find nothing, sadly. So you struggle through the back room sauna - the dishwashing area - to use the facilities and, once relieved, stumble back onto Upper Street, sated and slightly sozzled.

In conclusion, make no mistake, this is fast food. But thankfully, fast food that is one wrung higher on the evolutionary ladder than Taco Bell. Tortilla offers the modern day Cornish pasty with veg, meat and carbs all snuggled together in one almighty blanket of simplicity. Be aware, though, this is not Mexican food. Neither is it the famous Tex-Mex hybrid. No, this is, for want of a better word: Mexifornian, a distorted remix of Mexican food as seen through the eyes of Californian surfers who only have time to eat with their hands.

What it lacks in range it makes up for in taste and professionalism (the staff eat here too so it must be palatable) and although Tortilla was not schooled in the Wahaca art of ‘street market’ dining, it does offer recession-beating cheap eats that are genuinely appealing.

Needless to say, Tortilla is very popular in that 9-11pm slot and if you find yourself in this transient, hungry torrent, make sure you ignore the devil dressed as Burger King (or even Chicken Cottage next door). Instead, embrace your inner Pedro Zuckermann - the Mexican-born, moustached Californian within each of us - and treat him to an injection of, yes, HEALTHY fast food.

Link to Fluidfoundation

The Elusive Camel

27 Gillingham Street, Pimlico, Victoria, London, SW1

Pssst, want to know a secret? Come close because this is undoubtedly one of those ‘best kept’ secrets you occasionally catch wind of. You see that Elusive Camel? Well, it’s not what you think it is. Or what it WAS, to be more precise. Patrons who previously watered at this establishment might well be inclined to opt for words like ‘trough’ and ‘den of iniquity’ when describing their erstwhile experiences. Yet, if you go down to the woods tonight you’re in for a big surprise because The Camel of yore is but a distant and elusive memory. Thank Gord!

Back in the year of our recession - 2008 - VPMG came along and changed everything, forever. If you’ve never heard of VPMG, it’s neither an acronym to describe an uncomfortable underwear situation nor the latest multi-national bank to fall foul of said recession. No, VPMG is a consortium whose primary business concern is the waving magic wands. If you’ve witnessed the swanky Pigalle Club, or the equally ritzy Bloomsbury Ballroom, you’ll understand the level that VPMG works at. With The Elusive Camel, they’ve turned what was a metaphoric Sean Bean into what is a metaphoric Sean Connery.

Gone are the estate hoodies and grubby construction workers who finally broke The Camels back. Stepping up to replace them are yards and yards of tailored-made suit, armed with company credit cards, astutely hatching tomorrow’s deals during their midweek confab.

Pre-Pacha clubbers take ownership of the weekends, posing amongst the standing-room-only tables outside, sporadically venturing back in to witness the House the DJ built. Gone are the salad days of quasi-Walkabout notoriety, when beer taps and picnic benches were the norm.

So, what would you rather do? Hang around with be-jandaled Australians shouting obscenities at a TV bracketed to the wall, cursing a sport you don’t really understand, OR sink slowly into a low-slung, leather sofa before engaging in some prime time social networking with your colleagues? If you answered the former, the Wetherspoons up the road is more suited to you, sonny, because here at The Camel you’re expected to behave and dress responsibly. If not, the enforcer will eject you politely from the premises and you’ll never be privy to such sophistication again.

This new way of thinking has filtered into the drinking, too. Beers are practically a thing of the past and The Camel proudly presents a cocktail list that speaks your language. It knows you like the classics but also knows you’re a risk taker, so promises expansion on the familiar. It’s also aware of your frugal nature, and has deals, deals, deals galore. It even knows when you’ve got an important meeting tomorrow and, correspondingly, sets aside a non-alcholic ‘Elusive’ signature drink. What a caring list. Impeccably presented every time, hardly missing a beat.

Sadly, boys will be boys and all too often the elder statesmen of this micro-society are seen ordering exotic drinks such as Grolsch Extra Cold. Wow! Chaps, sort yourselves out. Expand your horizons. Let go of the lager, embrace the veritable tome of new and enticing flavours on offer. Do yourself a favour, put down that pint and release yourself from the shackles of tradition and conformity. Stride proudly up to the bar and order a manly berry Caipirinha. You life will enriched so.
The golden hue of the Polish Martini is the dawn of a new day captured in a glass. The ginger ale of the Mango Bourbon has a soothing medicinal piquancy and so surely must be good for you. The milky Brandy Alexander is liquid Tiramisu and is easily the best way to bookend your evening.

Oh, and the wine list ain’t half bad either.

The Camel’s transient crowd slots nicely into ‘post-work’ or ‘pre-club’ categories and this isn’t a venue for ‘having a sesh’. Not unless your sesh falls between the hours of 4 and 7pm, when cocktails are £3.50 a piece. If your weekend likes to start early, then watch out for the dangerously funky Thursday nights, when it’s almost mandatory to get your groove on before 9pm.

Although the name might suggest otherwise, The Elusive Camel is decidedly easy to locate and its proximity to Victoria Station is brilliant for that last-train-home dash/stagger. Plus, the neighbouring competition poses practically no threat whatsoever, with Wetherspoons bearing the brunt of beer brigade.

The Elusive is not an upper class cocktail bar, but it certainly maintains a healthy position amongst the semi-detached, broadsheet-reading, kids-in-grammar-school upper middle classes of the libation world.

Link to Fluidfoundation

Strongroom Bar

120 Curtain Road, Shoreditch, London, EC2

Curtain Road: that draped veil of extravagant amusements, suffocating the ability to easily decide which of its multitude of options is best suited to your needs. It is the Bohemian ying to the capitalist yang of Liverpool Street next door. Although the name Strongroom might conjure up images of cider-sponsored chambers - from within which Jodie Foster polishes off yards of apple goodness in order to be deserving of her freedom - the reality is much more externally-focused. Strongroom adds to Curtain Road’s myriad colours and flavours, which, in turn, keeps the mood-swapping citizens of the Borough quite happy. This is undoubtedly one of the liveliest stretches of tarmac in all of London, after all.

Strongroom isn’t immediately obvious. It shies away from neon arrows that lead the way into debauchery. Instead, it hides, set back from the street, lurking in a car park. The bar itself is busy, decoratively speaking, with texture and tone splashed around in the same manner as a class of 5 year olds when the teacher has momentarily left the room during ‘art time’. Yet, oddly, it’s simultaneously bland and boasts all the mystique of an Eastern European student bar, circa 1980.

The split level arrangement produces a quasi-club affair downstairs, utilised on nights that fall on the smiley side of Wednesday, but at all other times is a lounge room for the socially inept. Why? Because those freaks should get themselves outside instead, where Strongroom really shows it muscle. Strongroom is all (or mostly) about the courtyard/car park. Curtain Road is met by a curtain of ivy, turning the car park into a stage for the players entering from stage left throughout the evening. Sadly, seating is at a premium. Therefore, be wary of backing vehicles when standing, and be ready to pounce on the nearest picnic table if some innocent fool decides they cant wait for the toilets any longer.

Speaking of toilets; the facilities display a rampant love affair with the aural arts as the walls are daubed with scrapbook tears from pop’s bygone eras. On one wall is a young, nude Ozzy Osbourne, on another the pre-split Blur pose impishly for Melody Maker. Strongroom clearly got an A for GSCE Music (there are affiliations with a recording studio of the same name) and aside from the themed nights and time tunnel toilets, there’s a dazzling jukebox on the wall which, judging by its shine, doesn’t get used nearly enough. Despite this exhibition of musical madness, there’s a considerable, and tangible, lack of music. The music is inside, and the people are outside. Move the speakers and they could quite possible do without the interior altogether.

A brief word about refreshments; there’s really only three words to remember: burgers, burgers, and burgers. Juicy, succulent and, without doubt, the only territory worth venturing into from an uninspiring menu. This menu does just enough to ensure you pick the same option on repeat visits. The only glimmer of hope outside of adding mozzarella to your burger is perhaps the swordfish or, at a stretch, the Italian Job which includes two types of animal and is ironically reminiscent of a burger, only without its bun.

The liquid format of refreshments is lopsided. The ‘Classic’ (read ‘conventional’) cocktails are bettered narrowly by the wine list which, in turn, is beaten by the spirits for the silver. However, head towards the bar with your beer goggles on and suddenly the world seems a much clearer place. Strongroom is to beers what Heidi Fleiss was to prostitution. It doesn’t quite reach the ridiculously range of The Rake in Borough, but the bottled range does promptly force your hand to rest squarely on your chin, give it a thorough rubbing, before pronouncing your best ‘hmmmmm?’. Ignore the Vedett - wretched stuff - and instead make your way through the mind churning Maredsous, the cleansing crystal Sam Adams Boston Lager, and the Autumnal Old Hooky bitter, a Blighty speciality. Be careful when downing more than a couple of German Blondes, though, because they’ll leave you credulous in the face of the many Big Issue sellers and street scroungers who circulate every 20 minutes.

The service at Strongroom is razor sharp and empty glasses don’t dare to linger for very long. The staff have a look that reeks of getting high on your own supply, which isn’t to say they take illegal substances but more that they probably prefer slotting into the Strongroom revelry once their shift finishes instead of chipping off home.

Mystical occurrences take place within the walled garden of ivy. Bizarrely, husbands happen upon their wives on their way home from work, both drawn there separately by some puzzling magnetism, neither having no real reason to be there in the first place. It’s also a place where the witching hour occurs dead-on half passed nine. Prior to that time, it’s a graveyard of whispered conversations about the Bishopsgate offices and how great it’d be to go to Glastonbury if only The Boss would sign that bloody holiday request, the bastard! After 9.30pm, the College of Cool nearby must get out of class because a 1980s jumble sale suddenly emanates from the night riding a fixed wheel bicycle, looking as though it’s just off to the recording studio to make its next album. The mysticism is so intense at Strongroom it might be advisable to save choosing your lottery numbers until you arrive because Gaia is certainly gambling the night away. Chance and fate dance a merry jig in the shadow of a moonlit car park whilst JJ Abrams takes notes in the corner.

Overall, the only reprehensible aspects of Strongroom are its lack of indoor atmos and the trying (they do try) elements of food. The excellent choice of beers plus the oddly endearing back-to-basics Berlin exterior help it to maintain the exciting vibe of the area. If only there was a blank cheque that could procure the remainder of the car park; then it would be a really strong hitter.

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The King's Head

1 The Green, Winchmore Hill, London, N21

From whence did this sovereign of saps, this majesty of clods, this artless folly-fallen knave with nary betwixt his ears, cometh? He, whom in days of yore, hath bequeathed his crowning temple to the fulsome Borough of Enfield? For presently, thither shalt thee cometh upon a tavern that bears the name, the King’s Head.

Ah, the language of our forefathers is great. Innit.

Tis true, the King’s Head is not a rare name in the world of public inns but for the one in question here, the royal theme is substantially appropriated using topiary on the balcony, decorative coats of armour, ‘Kings’ and ‘Queens’ privy facilities, and a grand double-sided fire. All that’s missing are a few slumbering wolfhounds and a gratuitous throne. Oh no, wait, hold that thought. There IS a throne. There, in the corner. A large, humongous, GARGANTUAN throne positioned in full view of the contemporary court jester: Sky Sports News. No doubt the royal court came hunting round here way back when; and regal affluence is still very prominent today.

This King’s Head is part of the Geronimo Inn dynasty that’s dotted throughout the capital. Always a favourite with Fluid (see also Oval’s Fentiman Arms and The Eagle in Shepherds Bush). TVs are a rarity for this family and it’s almost as though the distance it keeps from its Central London cousins gives the King’s Head a bravado that might spell civil upheaval.

The contrasts don’t end with the diversion box, either. Unlike its Geronimo counterparts, the King’s Head is very palatial and warrants TWO (!!) sets of toilets. It’s partitioned areas include the ‘rude’ room - you’ll find out - and a hirable upstairs section that, with its own toilet, kitchen, bar and stage, is almost as well equipped as the Fluidfoundation offices. Roy Scheider said it best back in 1975 when he looked over the side of his fishing vessel and saw a large Great White shark giving him the evil eye. In this analogy, London is the ocean, the pub acts as the boat, and the hungry shark is represented by the circling hordes of thirtysomething suburbanites; meaning, Roy Scheider is the publican (if only!)

Despite boasting the spacial capacity to swing an entire pride of lions, being big can have its downfalls. Just ask Jaws. Big can also mean draughty and if there’s a briskness in the evening air, your Sea Bream and braised fennel will tend to shiver whenever a smoker opens the rear door. And judging by the frequency of such a chill, there must be a lot of smokers in N21.

There are elements that stay true to the Geronimo brand, however. There’s the requisite earthy tones, the book shelves filled with paraphernalia, and the ample beer garden fitted with an array of seating options; one of which is a former stable replete with sofas and a plug-in-and-play iPod facility. Fancy that. Fancy, that.

Sadly, the prices have also been stolen from Central London and you should only venture this way if (a) you’re scared of postcodes starting with ‘S’, or (b) Winchmore Hill is close to your abode; in Scotland.

For those that crave the hearty English fare of our forefathers, this is an atavistic eatery. The word ‘steak’ appears pretty much next to every animal on the menu. For those that require invention and exotic ingredients, the trains back into London are fairly frequent. The presentation of the food is 9 o’clock news - fair and emotionless - and without the perky peppercorn or rambunctious red win jus, it would seem like the food equivalent of the BBC test card; a bland mash-and-ketchup face with a body of mushy peas.

There are a few service issues that need addressing: such as, not providing water in jugs that even Katie Price would envy; not delivering the side dishes 5 minutes post-main; and not encouraging customers to play the game of Guess The Freshness with a bowl of piping hot, yet suspiciously soggy, chips.

The kitchen’s aptitude for creating young chips is roughly on a par with its precise timing, as demonstrated in this equation: if one medium-rare steak is served scolding hot, how hot is the chicken supreme and asparagus? If your answers are luke warm and cold, you win a trip to the King’s Head because temperature discrepancy is something they’re good at. Similarly, the sticky toffee pudding, although equally delicious, could wear a warmer coat.

On the happy side of the fence, the garden and the wine list are lip-smackingly sexy and the latter is the lovechild of a Master of Wine; yes, with capital letters! It includes the inimitable Wild Rock; a delight whether you’re on the red or white, meat or wine. The duet of guest ales sitting alongside the serried ranks of routine lagers and ciders is further proof that this is the countryside. Near enough.

The principal three Cs of Geronimo are entrenched deep inside the King’s Head - community, community, community - and its neighbours on the village green are mostly dry cleaners and delis. This sort of commuter belt is almost a fashion accessory. Comparative to the youthful competition down the road, the King’s Head has the monopoly on the upper-middle class nouveau riche: shaven heads and crisp shirts for the gentlechaps and ladies dressed to the nines, tens and elevens.

Overall, a roomy, tasty, genial walk-in refrigerator that’s perfect if you’re local or lost. Just don’t, under any circumstances, confuse it with the Queen’s Head down the road. The King’s Head is the physical embodiment of good natured hospitality whilst the Queen’s Head is as cosy as a fresh grave.

A’ight? A’ight. Nuff said. And tha’.

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Villiers Terrace

120 Park Road, Hornsey, Crouch End, London, N8

I've been up to Villiers Terrace, I saw what's a-happening. People rolling 'round on the carpet, biting wool and pulling string. You said people rolled on carpet, but I never thought they'd do those things.

So there you have it. Sort of.

For the benefit of those who aren’t familiar with Villiers, or indeed his Terrace, it was Mr Echo and his Bunnymen that apparently foresaw - and sang about - the whole matter way back in 1980. Only they weren’t entirely accurate.

The Villiers Terrace of today is brand new and shares none of the den-of-iniquity characteristics as mentioned above. On the contrary, it’s new persona is probably more suited to its previous moniker - The Princess Alexandra - as it appears fit for royalty. An ordinary public house is acquired and ambitiously reborn as a restaurant in disguise, so in keeping with London’s current trend.

A noticeable amount of thought has been processed in order to give Villiers Terrace an opulent waft. If it’s not sparkled, gilded, leathered, or exposed - surfaces, not clientele - then Villiers isn’t interested. The walls are a farrago of fads, boldly mixing colours, textures and prints and sullied only by some needlessly busy artwork. The prison cell toilets are also a tad rogue; tiny quarters, dark walls, barred windows up high. Even the toilet roll is positioned at a full arm’s length. Perhaps all this is in order to coerce customers into a swift in-and-out process.
The chap who designed Villiers Terrace had either just got back from a Swedish cabin retreat or had a peculiar fondness for the log lady in Twin Peaks because the bar area is nothing but wood, wood and more wood. There are certain scenes from Pirates of the Caribbean involving Keira Knightley and Orlando Bloom that perhaps have qualities more wooden than this, but not much else in the world would top it. Whole swathes of Brazilian rain forests were probably felled in order to create the back bar, the front bar, the bar floor, the bar fire, the bar tables and the sentry duty golden eagle perched on the mantlepiece, staring down with his big, beady wooden eye.

Thankfully, the obsession with timber doesn’t lumber on through the comestible trappings (and nor does the alacritous service). With the food, the owners have clearly piled into their Ford Transit - or Ford Anecdote, for the sake of poetic license - driven down to Camden Town, bundled the head chef of Market restaurant into the back of their vehicle along with a whole host of delicious livestock, and transported all and sundry to suburban seclusion where no discernibly tube stations exist within escapable distance. Imprisoned, the chef will see out his remaining days by dishing out lovely sticky toffee pudding after Gloucester old spot pork belly after devilishly good deviled duck liver. Ahhh, what a shame. Oh well, can’t be helped.

Some places go slightly overboard with their starters, thus shooting themselves squarely in the foot as reduced portion sizes would mean room left over for dessert and a second bottle of wine. Villiers is guilty of this. Come forth you toasted bread and piccalilli overloaded by plentiful ham hock terrine. Yes, you are delicious, but you’re light, flavoursome colleague - the Cornish crab linguine - will mitigate this gluttony!
Accordingly, also avoid the heavy meats as mains and scoot over to the pan fried skate with mini capers, samphire, and very, very, very smooth mash. Alternatively, the simple four-ingredient walnut, rocket, Halloumi, and butternut squash salad is appropriately garnished with sage (it being wise to try it, see). Smiling or general conversation are not advised for following completion, though, as toothpicks are a scarcity.
A word to the wise on the desserts: the coconut brûlée is probably the lightest sustenance, despite its mainly cream constitution. It’s diminutive size is comparatively more approachable than the mother lode that is the pavlova; a dessert so monumental it could pass as a main by itself. In fact, skip the mains altogether and go for the crab-pav starter-dessert combo; and save yourself 15 notes in the process.
The fairly uninspiring lager selection and total eradication of draught beers and ciders at Villiers seems odd considering the tendency towards outdoor seating. Meantime’s Pilsner is not an ale. Nor is Old Speckled Hen and Newcastle Brown when served from a bottle. However, what it lacks in bubbles it makes up for in stills. The spirits and cocktail lists are like Easyjet flights - plentiful and cheap - whilst the wine list is heavily occupied by the French with a healthy number of organics to ease tomorrow’s cranium. The pick of the bunch is Italian, however: a summery 2008 Verdicchio, which is as punchy and complex as a maze full of Mike Tysons.
Perhaps Villiers’ key feature is its beer garden. The front terrace is perfect for one thing only: diesel-hued romantic moments spent soaking up the carbon monoxide atmosphere of Park Road and marveling at the glorious vista of the Shell garage across the way. However, if the sun is still rinsing the pallid north London landscape early in the evening, attention should be averted to the unexpectedly expansive rear garden where the view of the W7 bus is thankfully blocked by a shield of cane and where a naked mirrored lady stands safeguarding the odd outdoor furniture. All that’s missing is a fairy light or two.
Make no mistake, Villiers Terrace is a summer venue. And possibly a ladies venue judging by the heavy emphasis on wines, cocktails, and queenly decor. That, and a complete absence of sport, howzat?!

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The Cambria

40 Kemerton Rd, Camberwell, Camberwell, London, SE5

Consider the gastropub, if you will. Ever since year zero (in 1991) British public houses have been slowly evolving from the dark ages of honest-to-God ‘pub grub’ into the shiny world of rocket salad, smokeless oxygen and French wording on menus. And aside from stubborn stalwarts like Wetherspoons, most venues managed to keep up with the demands of their baying public. But now once again, the times they are a-changing because a change is as good as a rest and time waits for no man. Or pub. Or cliche.

The gastropub has become the subject matter of a highly scientific experiment into finding the equilibrium in mankind’s psyche. Food no longer represents the pinnacle of achievement. Man want exotic flavour. Man want decadent decor. Man want sunshine. Man want entertainment. Where once man trod a satisfied path to his nearest gastropub, now his search has widened to encompass the ‘gustopub’.

The recently reincarnated Cambria is a phoenix from the flames and the new proprietors have spanked a wad of cash transforming it from the pub equivalent of a discarded betting slip into a million pound winning ticket. This is cosmetic surgery that would make even Joan Rivers raise an eyebrow. If she could actually move her eyebrows.

To get a picture of its inglorious former life, simply punch the postcode into Google Street View to see an image that pre-dates its rebirth. You can’t yet see the large red awnings, the outdoor seating, the dark chocolate interiors, the floral wallpaper, the flamboyant chandeliers, the padded red leather bar, the ornate mirrors, the oversized ornamentation, the green and flowered life that springs up throughout.

It would be fair to assume from the ostentatious aesthetics, the presented amusements, and the too-fashionable-to-be-straight shirts worn by the clientele, that The Cambria is what some might coin ‘gay friendly’. That is, of course, in addition to being straight friendly, dog friendly, kid friendly, laptop friendly and just plain friendly. It certainly has a wider custom catchment than its immediate vicinity but that doesn’t mean it feels like The Blue Oyster. Not every member of the gay community wants to look like the Pet Shop Boys. What they do want, however, is entertainment and here the evolution of The Cambria really comes into its own.

Many pubs tend to lay on a variety of karaoke kitsch to detract from their other woeful characteristics, but with The Cambria it’s just another reason to make it your second home. Or even your first. On a stage barely big enough to swing a newborn kitten, various diversions are laid on every night, each with its own comedic slant so that you can chortle your way through the quiz night, laugh your way through the cabaret night, and cackle your way through the comedy night. Plus, if you prefer the moodier side of this perishable existence, how many gastropubs do you know that can boast their very own jazz quartet? The Sunday afternoon chill session has suddenly spilled over into Monday evenings.

Another key feature to this multi-talented sanctum is its secluded rear sun garden, replete with functional foliage, split-level decking, and amusing ‘Jugs and Cocktails’ signage (which has puerile written all over it).

As for the fare, this is where The Cambria chooses not to follow in the footsteps of many gastro-turning-restaurant pubs of today. Chef Aimi has drawn from her former East Dulwich CV and thrown down a crossed-cultured offering that has ham, egg and chips rubbing shoulders with roast Catalan saddle of rabbit and Harissa potato cake. The jerk chicken with double-carb whammy of rice AND sweet potato might disappoint if you enjoy tearing yourself a new one, but will please the Korma types amongst us.

Much like local kebab houses, food presentation seems oddly inconsistent to the depiction found on the menu, albeit with words in this case. Plus, it’s never quite as hot as one might expect. Yet what it lacks in beauty it certainly makes up for in brawn. Ignore the starters, they’re basically just bar snacks, and instead call for the portion police. A crime against your waistline will be perpetrated once you order your mains because they are large enough to prompt actor Sam Neill into fleeing for his life. This could well be a measure to secure a sedate and sedentary audience; weigh them down enough and they can’t leave before the performances. It’s fun to laugh it off, either way. If your hunger is monster sized and the mains remarkably fail to fill you, then the desserts will definitely provide the elbow to shove you off the edge into a food coma abyss. The Finca Las Paredes Argentinean Malbec from the sister wine list should make the descent more pleasurable.

Pubs that are plonked right in the middle of nowhere, down a dead end alley, just beyond a dodgy railway bridge, set at an unassuming crossroads often do little to promote the prefix in ‘community’ but The Cambria has certainly brought it back. If you find you are unable to enjoy the garden of tranquility, the staff of cheeriness, or the hilarity of entertainment, the King’s College Hospital is just a few minutes away. Get down there and check yourself into A&E because there’s something clearly wrong with you. However, if the voices in your head are telling you it’s high time to camp it up, just make sure your appetite is as big as a very, very big tent.

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Avalon

14-16 Balham Hill, Clapham South, London, SW12

If you were ever a patron of The George in Clapham South you probably remember that Stella was a big seller. If you’re thinking of returning there now, however, you’ll need to reach into your box of facial expressions and dust off the ‘jaw-dropping gobsmacked’ look. Say au revoir to Artois.

The proprietors of the new incarnation Avalon - Messrs Peake, Fox, and Reynolds - have adopted the same approach that Messrs. Darling and Abramovich have used at The Treasury and Chelsea FC: namely, ‘throw enough cash at the problem and it’ll go away’. Only at Avalon, they’ve seen far better results. Either they’ve juiced up Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen AND Linda Barker in a blender and dunked the big fat George pub cheque book in the soggy remains OR Paul Daniels has been involved somehow because there’s remnants of magic everywhere. The alleged hoax that Jesus did with the water and the wine was pretty entertaining and feeding Dad-knows how many thousand people with a bit of Hovis and Bird’s Eye was quite impressive, but neither trick surmounts to the illusion Messrs Peake, Fox, and Reynolds have conjured up. There’s a danger of drowning in a sea of superlatives here but make no mistake, they are all relevant. Wow, wow, and wow again. Avalon is about 13 types of wow.

For starters, the proof is indicated by the alfresco indulgence: a quiet side garden for confab bitching; a slate-under-foot front garden for smoking demonstrations; and a rear garden fitted with outdoor kitchen, fountain feature and an entire Homebase worth of paraphernalia.

Internally, they’ve proven time travel. If you’re looking to get into Victorian dining, ladies and gentleboys, then the back room’s transformation from grubby holding pen for football fans shouting at an inert TV into a 19th century brasserie will excite you more than hearing your firstborn’s first words. The shiny butcher-white tiles are a dead giveaway. Set amongst them are newspaper drawings from the era that depict the science of butterflies, pugilists getting down to business and soldiers messing about with their canons. Hanging from the natural skylights high above the diners are two billowing sails of copper and steel; odd yet eye-catching chandeliers. And of course, the menu’s Art Nouveau font makes no attempt to hide its provenance and its content proudly parades antiquated words such as oxtail, pigeon faggots, and Spatchcock poussin.

The Sudoku challenge of deciding what wine, starter and main to add to one another will take you an age, so as a general guide avoid the steaks and roasts as there’s are better fish to fry. Like Mr Monkfish, for example, who is bigger and juicier than any Giant Peach that James might have. Mr Monkfish arrives with a dash of rogue buffalo mozzarella, yet still commands the plate magnificently. Similarly, the guinea fowl is accompanied by the rather fetching rosti; but the latter only serves to compliment the star breast, not usurp it.

The starters are spruced up in fine fettle. In fact one of them IS fine fettle, from Yorkshire no less (??). Alternatively, surprise yourself with the ham hock and pig’s trotter croquettes - yes, croquettes - like meaty terrine that’s been crisping in the sun.

As for desserts; cheeseboard, on y’bike. The desserts generally exude seduction thanks to a good number of ‘clotted’, ‘rum toasted’, and ‘glazed’ scattered amongst the menu and they’re all opulently presented; especially the chocolate & beetroot muffin which comes with sparkles and looks, for all the world, like a piece of brown Kryptonite. However, ignore them all and dive right into the summer pudding. This is the Tarantino of desserts. Delivered on a pristine white plate, this is fruit which has been murdered, but in a good way. Now, without sounding fruitist, fruit death is definitely warranted in circumstances like these. The blood red ooze may look like a crime scene, but unlike the other calorific counters, it certainly wont kill you.

As for the negative comments about the food that have previously appeared - if they pre-date April 2009 they can very much be ignored. A new Sheriff (or chef for short) is in town and things are gonna be might different ‘round here from now on.

Although the wine list is affably natured with a good herd in each section, it seems absentminded of the wine buyers to neglect the English heritage vibe that drips from every surface of Avalon, because they’ve forgotten to snap up some highly rated local sauce. Of what there is, the whites look slightly more full of themselves because of youthful freshness and because they gladly eye up the high quotient of fish dishes on offer (the South African False Bay Sauvignon Blanc for £18 is sitting pretty). On the red side, paying 48 notes for a Barolo isn’t justifiably for a 2004 vintage.

Avalon is also the UN of furniture, with large and small tables milling around with low sofas and high stools amongst a backdrop of dark wood, velvet upholstery and a few well positioned plants. A noble stag’s head fixed to the wall stares pensively towards the bar, perhaps waiting for a pint of the local Wandle ale or trying to ignore the largely, and refreshingly, redundant TV and DJ booth beside him.

By the looks of it, Avalon seems to draw custom from the cast of some sort of BBC post-Hollyoaks TV series called Commoners (or something) in which the lives of former Clapham Common huggers are dramatised. They’ve thrown away their kickabout-in-the-park boots, married up, and migrated to Zone 3 because that’s where grown ups live. These are the sort of folk who have given up on pub quizzes because they’re just not challenging enough.

So save for the miniscule hinderances - the omission of English wine and the unfortunate view of the King of Burgers over the road - Avalon is an out-and-out 9er. As destinations go, this is England.

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