Zizzi Notting Hill

2-6 Notting Hill Gate W11 3JE
For those of you that aren’t aware, Zizzi is not a bankrupt remnant of the former Virgin megastore empire and nor is it the latest Manchester City big league signing. What it is, however, is a fairly decent imitation of an over achieving Ask Pizza - better grades, a readiness to suck up to you and a past that probably involved some form of bullying, most likely from that girl Bella Pasta and ‘er mate Pizza Express. In fact, if Zizzi does bare a strikingly uncanny resemblance to Ask Pizza that’s because it is one; sort of. Zizzi and Ask are like the Brown and Blair of yesteryear; a brotherhood, sort of.

This branch of Zizzi is but a stone’s throw from the Notting Hill Gate tube station; as long as you have an arm like BA Baracus and the wind is particularly favourable. It’s a sad row of naffness that leads to the restaurant: shops in varieties of kebab, betting and corner, each with its own sentinel tramp stationed outside. Nevertheless, once inside the seemingly relative safety of Zizzi’s impenetrable glass force field, the outside world is mostly a forgotten hindrance or simply a conduit for bands of streaming light to enter the establishment. Zizzi is bright; squeaky bright: the cutlery has a slasher’s glint; the mirrored walls and pillars snigger at their expansive appearance; and the entire front section is merely a portal through which the outsiders can peer in and stand agog at the open kitchen.

Any Zizzi worth its weight in tomatoes will proudly tell you how very very Italian it is, but this one just about staples it to your forehead. It looks and smells and sounds like an Italian: the look is a loud menagerie of open-mouthed stomachs ceasing to talk only when the next tasty shovelful of seafood risotto is readied; the smell is a screaming waft of buffalo mozzarella being deliciously cremated in the wood burning pizza oven; and the sound emanates from the staff who, regardless of their provenance, are all well versed in the art of Anglo-Italo accents, throwing down a gauntlet no Kate (Winslet or Blanchett) would dare to challenge.

The menu beats Nandos and Wahaca up the nationally-themed chain restaurant evolutionary ladder. The choice of available dining options is almost worryingly plentiful and items change as often as they should do, which is on a par with most high street sales. Plus, even though the menu is so hefty, the cooks still manage to rustle up a specials menu from somewhere (strangely, there might be something in the naming of this ‘specials’ menu and you might be better off choosing from it).

The carbon footprint in this place must be off the chart as much of the food is sourced from just down the road in local Italy. The cheeses, the wines, more or less everything they can get away with is Italian and the jury is still out on whether the Gloucestershire steak used to drive a Fiat and chain-smoke three packs a day.

Starter: whitebait, adequate. Not as crunchy as the same dish eaten in a Reel Greek restaurant only three days prior.

Main: Gorgonzola gnocchi, wintery; deserving of a scarf, a carrot and an errant piece of coal.

Dessert: the best. A strong almond obsession as Amaretto features almost everywhere (a good thing). However, as inviting as they are, it might be ill advised to opt for a dessert. Not because the consequent dish will be of a substandard quality. On the contrary, the magnitude of the task for consuming such a beast will leave you feeling a tad uncomfortable around the midriff as you roll out the door, giddy with post-feast haze, and wander straight into oncoming traff….SPLAT!

There’s no head chef creating masterpieces here. It’s mostly pre-created. Although the pasta is scolding hot and flavoursome, there are concerns that it may not be fresh. And this, an authentic dip into the seas of Italian culture?! Due to the sheer size and custom of the restaurant, it’s likely they try to sneak a few corners and have the food pre-made. Yet, regardless, it’s a chain that everyone feels comfortable with and one where you’ll indulge in an above average but no wow factor fare. Overall, a pleasing circus of service, a heavy set of desserts, and wine glasses that sharks could circle in. Grazie!

The Phoenix

23 Smith Street, Chelsea SW3 4EE
Imagine you’re wearing a really, really tight baseball cap. So tight your brain is knocking on the sides of your skull and demanding evacuation. Now imagine you’re also on Oxford Street. At 2 o’clock in the afternoon. On a Saturday. Just before Christmas.

Suddenly, you’re not on Oxford Street any more but by yourself on top of a lonely hill in the Cotswolds, in the sun, sitting on a couch big enough for three yous, with a pint of irresponsibly strong beer in your hand. You remove the baseball cap and simultaneously take a sip of your delightful beverage. AHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......

Well, that’s The Phoenix. The zenith of AHHHHHHHHHhhhhhh. The heavyweight champion of AHHHHHhhhhh. The Grand Old Duke of AHHHHHHHhhhhhhhh.

When you visit The Phoenix - which you will - you’ll need to take the following items with you:
A) 1x parking permit for the Royal Borough of Kensington & Chelsea
B) 1x squeegey
C) 1x wallpaper scraper, preferably the largest one you can possibly find

This is because, on all counts, you’ll be staying for some time and will no doubt eventually need assistance to help scrape your sorry ass off the couch and out onto the street. It’s closing time and you’ve got work tomorrow, remember?

The Phoenix is the 5-year old offspring of hot-stuffs, Geronimo Inns, who have thankfully been throwing their weight around London for a while. And much like their other community castles - The Fentiman Arms in Oval and The Morgan Arms in Mile End - the positioning of The Phoenix at a quiet residential crossroad is a very deliberate and homely move by Geronimo. Although being well hidden, The Phoenix is not really off the beaten track so much as slightly loitering on the verges of a horrendously busy thoroughfare. For this immaculate Georgian street, my friends, feeds straight into the hustle, bustle and well-toned muscle of London’s street market to the rich and famous, King’s Road.

Step under the cosy wings of The Phoenix and you’re automatically reduced to a quivering pile of leisure. The wallpaper is warming, the fireplace is welcoming, the absence of music is hospitably deafening. There is only one TV and even that is limited to terrestrial; with the sound off. Inside, oak tables mingle with leather-seated booths that chat with walls adorned with big art that coerce with shelve dividers filled with sculpture and pottery. Even the light fittings are trying to get in on the action, the innovative so-and-sos.

Upon this seating and ornaments are the eyes and arses of the clientele, who, it has to be said, are of the rosy-cheek and posh-accent variety. This is ra-ra-ra country, so if you’re easily offended by a Porsche or a Ferrari - be they a car or a lady - you’re probably lost and should not have wandered into this pub in the first place. Now, get back down your own end before we set the dogs on you!

Sitting is the order here. No standing room available. As it is so neatly compacted into this tidy little space, it does have the potential to get a bit hairy if more than one large family congregates. Yet somehow, that makes it more endearing.

The menu is a foodie’s hot weekend in Paris and very much of the time, throwing in words like guinea fowl, salt marsh lamb, truffled artichoke, brown Portland crab, turnip puree and juniper jus. Plus, the menu changes frequently, so foodie wont get bored. If you have the option, the braised red cabbage with any of the dishes - starter, main or dessert - is horrendously gratifying. As is the ever-popular sticky toffee pudding. And how’s this for a starter?! Fresh salmon, capers and grated egg!!

The beer and wine choices are fair yet the wine list is chosen by a Master of Wine, no less (clue in the title there), and includes that Infamous Goose Wild Rock Sauvignon.

Overall, a cosy night out. Bring family, bring friends, bring lovers, bring pets and Martians. The Phoenix could well be a quaint place during summer as you spill out onto the pavement side alley with a Pimms in one hand and your shopping kill in the other. Even Elton ‘hissy fit’ John couldn’t fail to feel relaxed at The Phoenix.

Pub games

On his day, Denmark’s Lars Trabolt is unstoppable. As is Keith Elwin. As are Frédéric Collignon, Daryl Peach, Rubilen ‘Bingkay’ Amit, Trevor Gallienne, Don Jones, Beth Westberry, Anastasia Dobromysova, and the Klahr brothers, Chris and Dan. And let’s not forget the might of The Gloster Gladiators and The Laughing Fish. These names might mean nothing to you in the immediacy but they are in fact at the pinnacle of their chosen event. They are ALL current world champions and their expertise lies at the very heart of Britain’s national pastime: namely, pubs. As their names appear, they reign in the worlds of backgammon, table football, pool, 9-ball billiards, bar billiards, dominos, arm wrestling, darts, quoits, skittles and Toad in the Hole.

You may have previously encountered a few of the above. Equally, you may be thinking “What the hell is Toad in the Hole if it’s not a delicious sausage-based meal?” Toad in the Hole is played by throwing brass discs at a hole in the top of a wooden box sat against a wall. Its popularity is concentrated mainly in East Sussex where the only known league still survives.

Similarly rare and provincial are the cricket-like Bat and Trap of Kent and the coconut shy Aunt Sally, primarily found in Oxfordshire. The latter was probably introduced to the Oxon area when Charles I relocated his entire retinue there during the Civil War in 1642. Although the contemporary version simply requires players to knock a ball from a plinth, the original was likely to have been much bloodier: a chicken, a rope, some sticks and a cruel demise.

Question: ever joined a girter and danced around a flonker? Were you flonked with the dwyle for a wanton, marter or ripple? If not, did they get swadged? If so you were probably somewhere in Sussex or Suffolk partaking in a bit of Dwyle Flonking. There are no winners or losers in Dwyle Flonking, only drunkards. Basically, two teams attempt to flick a beer-soaked rag onto one another’s bodies. Breaks in play occur for the purposes of pint necking.

Yet another regional recreation is the ring-over-a-pin throwing game of Quoits. Played in the North East and in some parts of Scotland and Wales it dates back as far as 1388 and is much like horseshoe pitching. Similarly, Ringing the Bull, almost exclusive to Nottingham, is based around the action of hooking a metal ring onto a target (bull’s horn) positioned on a wall. Both these games show parallels with games that were played by the Romans.

Other games you might like to try:
- the table skittle game, Devil Among the Tailors;
- the human skittle game, Conga Cuddling;
- or the two-player game, Rhubarb Thrashing, in which blindfolded contestants stand in empty dustbins and smack one another about the head with handfuls of rhubarb.

Some games stand the test of time, some clearly do not. The 17th-century card game, Cribbage, is still going strong throughout the British Isles. Backgammon, which was originally brought to England by the Crusaders in the 11th century, is likewise. It wasn’t until the 20th century that table games made a prolific appearance - firstly, bar billiards from Belgium and then pool following the popularity of Paul Newman’s 1961 movie, The Hustler.
In the 1970s video games and slot machines appeared. In the 90s it was the quiz, both in machine and team formats. In the noughties the smoking ban came along, leading to profits generated by food rather than booze and a premium on table space.

Pubs are beginning to disappear - 27 per week according to The British Beer and Pub Association - and our main interests now lie with the gods known as Sky and Setanta. Also, one glaringly obvious aspect most ye olde social games hold in common is the opportunity for mishap, too. There are countless health and safety possibilities linked with people throwing objects in confined spaces whilst under the influence. A combination of all of these factors has ensured dwindling participation in said games.

Darts could well be the exception. Six million people in the UK still regularly play darts, making it one of our most contested sports. And yet weirdly, it seems to be the one we’re most vehemently bent on keeping: the Save Our Darts campaign, overseen by online bookmakers Blue Square, “aims to have another 10,000 dart boards in pubs by 2017”. According to their studies, pub-goers today prefer adventurous food, extensive beer and wine lists, comfy sofas and good music over darts. And the campaign is boasting royal blessings. Earlier this year, even Prince Charles stepped up to the oche with darts in hand, claiming "I'm doing my best to keep the darts tradition going."

Jolly good.