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.

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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.

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