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 Food no longer represents the pinnacle of achievement.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.

Link to Fluidfoundation

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.

Link to Fluidfoundation

Festival gadgets

Anti-bacterial handwash? Check. She Pees? Check. Baby wipes? Sandals with built-in bottle opener? Check. Right, sounds like you’re about ready to hit the festival season. Or are you? Christian Rose-Day investigates six of the best gadgets that could make your 2009 festohead experience a little less painful.

Loc8tor Lite
Festival day 1: arrived in afternoon, got drunk, saw bands, lost tent. OR, you could’ve simply attached a small transmitter tag to your lose-able items - cameras, mobiles, tents, drunk friends - and used this mini device to guide you to it. Depending on the density of the crowd/sea-of-tents, this ultra light handset can pick up objects up to 120m away.

Trevor Bayliss Wind up Revolution Eco Media Player
All the bands have finished, everyone’s gone to bed, and you’re still wide awake in your tent. Crank up the dynamo on this environmentally-friendly invention for only 60 seconds and you’ve got 45 minutes of entertainment: a 2" screen for movie playback; 24-bit music player with internal 4Gb or 8Gb memory; FM radio; LED torch; photo viewer; Ebook text viewer; and an voice recorder. It can even charge up your mobile.

Travel John
Your head’s just hit the (inflatable) pillow and you’re slowly drifting off into a Kings of Leon dreamworld when...bugger, need a piss and the bogs are miles away! No awkward beer bottle-maneuvering here though, just a simple unisex plastic opening, resealable dual layer bag, and some ingenious non-toxic, odourless spill proof gel. Then, chuck it away after a couple of number ones (or a spew or two).

Gelert Solar Shower
It’s 6am and your tent is already a sweatbox. Three hours sleep + one gargantuan hangover = the need for moisture. Hang this compact 20-litre beauty from the nearest tree or tent rope and let Ra provide water of 49ºC and above. Plus, it only costs a fiver and is supplied with its very own shower head and flow control.

Handpresso Wild
If the shower cleanses the outer you, then this award-winning demon perks up the inner you. A few hearty tugs on the pump, pop in your Lavazza pod thingie, add a splash of hot water and what what - it’s an instant frothy nomadic espresso. It’s light, comes with a whole range of nifty accessories and is so clever it just had to be Scandinavian-designed.

PowerMonkey Explorer
Your mobile is dead and you’re facing the possibility of spending the last day of the festival alone. Panic not; this water resistant top-up device can recharge your phone three times over. Using mains, USB or solar power (even on cloudy days), the rubber Explorer can also recharge you MP3 player, camera, games console, and, if you really really have to, your BlackBerry.

The Castle

54 Pentonville Road, Islington, N1 9HF

Remember the days when castles stood for something? When they were figures of authority, bastians of ideals, guardians of nothing more than a bunch of rural land. Those high, fortified walls were protected from loony attacks by Monthy Python sentinels with French accents. Those interior courtyards were filled with busying peasants and pigs swilling about in the mud. Those perilous moats were occupied by imaginary crocodiles and underwater tigers. Those sturdy domains were prisons for the occasional distressed damsel. Those windowless halls were draped with the hides of dead beasts, furnished with large, badly carpentered tables, at which sat rowdy, unkempt morons regaling one another with tales of their latest kill whilst gnawing on a bone from the very beast they spoke of and supping on mead so strong it rotted their teeth on site. Ah, the grim ole days. So where’s it all gone wrong? Why it is that castles nowadays are all so bloody cheerful? So comfortable? So filled with transient, migrating socialites?

Take The Castle in Angel, for example. If there’s a surface to sit or lean on, it’s been upholstered with cushion. The dark, gloomy fortified walls of yore have been extracted and replaced by sun-yielding sheets of glass, the easiest material to break during an invasion and the best way to be seen by those on the outside. The damsels don’t look very distressed either, in fact quite the contrary, and there is definitely more than just one of them. The grimy moat is still there; only now it’s called Pentonville Road, and the tigers have been replaced by monstrous transits and pernicious buses. And as for besiegements, there’s plenty of attacks....of the munchies, with a sub-tenner menu on hand to biff them away when necessary. On the whole, one might go so far as to say that this castle is so un-castle like it could almost call itself a venue of leisure and gaiety.

You’ve got to hand it to Geronimo Inns - the name behind the chain - they give good decor. Every one of the 20-odd venues they have nestled around London should have a sign outside proclaiming ‘Museum of Unusual Lampshades’. The general scene is one that could disclose some answers to that ‘Ram Raiders Hit Heal’s Warehouse In Massive Clear Out Job’ headline and the colour scheme, as is the Geronimo standard, is as earthy as a tent full of environment campaigners. Apparently, style AND comfort do not have to duke it out for supremacy and can live in peace and harmony. However, the ‘throne rooms’ (as they’re known) could be brought up to speed with the rest of the class because they lack regular attention and look more like the inside of a freight ship container than a Royal dunnie.

Unusually for Geronimo, The Castle is talking Saturday Night but speaking in Sunday Afternoon. It’s a veritable town criers convention down there. Many would call it loud; others, namely ‘the exuberant youth of today’, would call it atmosphere. Split levels, Jenga scattered hither and thither, a wine list that gets more attention from your partner than you do; somehow the space-time vortex has torn wide open and exposed a portal of some kind because this seem to be an alternate universe where everything exudes Clapham. If this isn’t Clapham, then it’s time to put down that wine list and take your medication.

Food, now there’s a subject the bigwigs at Geronimo could bore anyone with. They know a thing or two; generally. The mother load - or main dishes to us mere humans - are gargantuan, and quick. Geronimo’s policy writers obviously quit policy writing before they got onto Portion Control because no human is meant to finish this amount of food. Their ability to judge portion sizes is about on a par with their ability to understand words like ‘salad’ and ‘light fish’ because the menu is turning winter tricks even into the summer days. It’s all pies, mash, haddock, sausages and ham hocks. The lemon and thyme chicken was doing OK by itself until its mate turned up: Mount Colcannon. The menu mentioned red wine jus, and that’s all that arrived on the plate: a mention. The imbalance between Colcannon and jus is prejudice that even Nelson Mandela couldn’t fix. The Colcannon needs more than a mention of jus. It needs an argument of jus. Possibly even a lecture of jus. The response when asking for extra jus? Gravy, jus’s less achieving cousin. Same ilk, different breed. Like wearing Prada clothes with Gola footwear. What’s more, the risotto, although quite capable of representing the complex carbohydrates (as refined starches) at the Food Olympics, should surely contain all the ingredients promised on the menu when it’s served. Plus, the trio of dessert options is disappointing because by the time you arrive every man and his strawberry-cheesecake-chomping dog has eaten before you and you’re left with a choice of ice cream OR crumble (not ice cream AND crumble).

Overall, the food is like the cuisine version of a Tory manifesto: presented very well, but a few bricks short on the flesh and substance. That said, there is a good use of garlic and the specials are clearly just that because come 7.30pm they’re all but gorn. Winter food is good in winter, but then you cant make full use of the balcony. Hold up! Was that the word ‘balcony’ mentioned approximately 1.5 sentences ago? Indeed, The Castle does actually have a lookout. You couldn’t really call it a roof garden as such because garden would imply that growth is happening and unless you’re counting the facial hair on many of the young gents up there, you’ll be sorely chagrined.

The Castle is a location bar. It’s primed with out-and-abouters and a good place to start your Angel pub crawl. It’s more hospitable than castles of yore, but not as entertaining as the 1980s Aussie movie of the same name. Just remember, if you do pay a visit, super size your jus.