Jamie Cullum Vs Roni Size

There comes a time in every professional’s career when it is required that you ‘take one for the team’ and do something truly awful that noone else can do. Gig reviewing is not necessarily an exception to this rule. On paper, a head-crunching, heart-palpatating Roni Size D&B demolition seems like the perfect justification for dusting off the old puffer jacket. But hang on, what’s this scribbled on the billing? Is it some kind twisted celebrity death match joke? Jamie Cullum? Supported BY Roni Size? Huh?

Yes, it’s true. This is possibly the weirdest coupling to be seen since Cullum and supermodel girlfriend Sophie Dahl, perhaps. Jim must’ve fixed it for Jamie to go head to head with Roni when he saw the elf-boy win a 2004 MOBO award, granting him the credentials to hang with the right homies.

This would normally be the point at which Roni Size would get an exemplary report and the shaggy haired, self-taught, platinum-selling Munchkin would get a slagging off. But (a) Roni only played for 25 minutes and thus didn’t really get the engine turned over properly, and (b) get this, Jamie Cullum was actually pretty good. Some might even go so far as to say great.

Fans of Cullum - most likely the plethora of civilised, wine-quaffing, groomed ladies in the audience, clearly not there to see Mr Size - were probably very disappointed when Cullum and his guest star – brother and bassist Ben Cullum – launched into a set that can only be described as dance music.

Their fidgety, techno jazz and space disco funk utilised cowbells, Ibiza pianos, looping beat machines, adventurous beatboxing and the quintessential solid bass. This free-spirited approach to dance was nailed down properly during a 20-minute improvised jam that included the electronic sax distortion of MOBO-nominee (and previous winner) Soweto Kinch and the trumpeting retaliation of Rory Simmons.

when Kinch asked the crowd to shout out four adjectives to describe the spectacle before them (to use in a freestyle rhyme), they proffered. ‘Mind-blowing’, ‘eclectic’, ‘heavy’ and ‘rocking’.

The slightly stunned audience was taken on a veritable journey through sound, stopping off at stations marked Groove Armada, Battles, Crazy P, Stereo MCs, Level 42, A Tribe Called Quest, The Chemical Brothers, Roy Budd’s Get Carter soundtrack and Soul Central’s ‘Strings Of Life’. The journey terminated with a smooth rendition of the Bodyrox club anthem ‘Yeah Yeah’.

The only blemish on an otherwise stellar performance was Cullum’s unsuitable Frank Sinatra cadence. Although he’s primarily a jazz musician, Cullum’s obvious technical ability and tapestry of musical influences could see him a regular crossover artist in the dance pages of base magazine.

The Morgan Arms

43 Morgan Street
Bow E3 5AA

Pete Doherty won an award in 2005. And rightly so. Not by himself, mind. He had a bit of help from ‘them other fellas’ in the band (The Libertines). Doherty, and them other fellas, snapped up the Best British Band prize at the NME Awards. Everyone was apoplectic as a result, falling over themselves to get a piece of this deity-in-making.

That same year, the public went congratulatory crimson for Morgan Freeman when he won the Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his performance as Eddie ‘Scrap-Iron’ Dupris in Million Dollar Baby. There followed a modicum of star-stupefaction.

Winning was synominous with the ‘Morgan’ moniker that year as The Morgan Arms of Bow was given a hearty slapping of the back for winning the prestigious Evening Standard Pub of the Year award.

Press the fast forward button on our time remote and it’s hard to deny that the scenario looks somewhat shoddier for most involved:
- Exhibit (a) - Misdemeanour Pete, as talented as he may be, has taken up semi-permanent residence in the dock of his local courthouse. Added to this are the woes he endured during his horrendously media-scrutinised (and thus bound to fail) relationship with Ms Moss, which has since done a Dodo
- Exhibit (b) Morgan Freeman almost recently suffered a similar Dodo-esque career malfunction when he chose (was forced) to play God in the box office hit *cough, splutter* Evan Almighty. Oh dear, thank God for The Shawshank Redemption, eh Morgan?
- Exhibit (c) The Morgan Arms lost its Evening Standard crown in 2006 to a worthy challenger, The Clarence pub of Balham.

How the mighty have fallen. Or so you’d think.

Not content with a paltry London paper accolade, The Morgan’s owners, Geronimo, rode that pony to even greater heights and in 2007 claimed the industry’s best (The Publican’s) Small Pub Company Award. Clearly, this is no Dodo.

The popularity of Geronimo’s pub-restaurant-pub fusion is explicitly seen in The Morgan Arms’ bums-on-seats Monday custom, the likes of which is usually seen on a Friday elsewhere.

A moreish draw that gets them through the door is the newspaper-wrapped devilled whitebait, a simple delight that compliments a draught of Aspall’s Cyder or Timothy Taylor Ale. But there’s more to The Arms than mere starters and pints.

It resonates ‘cool’ through a Blur/White Stripes/Imogen Heap music selection. There’s a unstoppable urge to say ‘mismatched’ when describing the butchers-and-boardrooms furniture. And, the ‘wall of books’ feature in the restaurant gives off that endearing daytime studio set/Lorraine Kelly appeal.

Geronimo clearly like to think BIG as well. BIG windows equal big light. BIG sofas equal big comfort. And BIG art equals big unsettling scary eyes peering down at you as you nibble your grilled sea trout on aubergine-chickpea-tomato salad, swilled down with the lemony South Australian Viognier. Just don’t ask for the cheesecake, BIG is not the word.

In fact, the menu may appear simple and diminutive at first - lamb, steak, cod - but with the addition of words such as ‘walnut pesto’, ‘tarragon cream’ and ‘honey yoghurt dressing’ the menu gets its BIG.

The prices are BIG as well, especially as the carbs are sold separately. But this is a gentrified residential area, so the effect is not an important one. Hence, the only likely noise pollution to be weathered on the street seating outside is the occasional roar of passing Range Rover.

A comeback of kings. Otherwise 8 out of 10

S&M Portobello Road

268 Portobello Road, W10 5TY

That Sunday morning hangover; Christmas, away from home; cardless on Valentine’s Day; being made redundant; a crowded retail nightmare; the unexpected death of Fluffy the cat; the unexpected arrival of Ouch the Inland Revenue bill: these times they are a-stressful. During these rocky moments every one of us feels the need to visit our ‘special place’ and a short sojourn to the abating comfort zone usually does the trick. Which is where S&M comes in. Hmm, kinky.

Torture Garden this isn’t, however. Despite there being a certain amount of red vinyl and greasy sausage involved, S&M’s only guilty innuendo is its conceptual leanings towards a traditional British caff.

Ahh, the caff, picture it if you will – the grotty end of Portobello Road where the Westway Flyover looms like the edge of the world and where only oblivious drunkards and stern housewives dare to venture. This is too far for tourists. They know nothing of S&M’s 50s chic authenticity: its vinyl gingham tablecloths; its walls plastered with bygone Hollywood angels; its music following suit. Nostalgia is our comfort zone and S&M claims to be ‘The World’s No.1’.

As fat frying (the Greasy Spoon way) is out and forward thinking is in, S&M’s brand of retro is futuristic: food sourced locally; use of ethical tea and coffee; concerns about salt, saturated fats, carbon footprinting, GM products and felines friends called Fluffy. The appearance of healthier salad-and-sandwich options will further appease the conscience, but really, who cares? We want to gorge on reminiscence. We want to do as the company banner tells us and ‘Eat Ourselves Happy’. We want Mum’s best stodge to make it all the bad stuff go away. We’ll get back to saving the world once we’ve been saved from it.

At times like this comfort takes the form of several swollen tubes of tightly wrapped yumminess, served on a potatoey pillow and drenched in blanket of brown medicine. Provided your blues are really objectionable, and the yearning for a proper food hug is overpowering, then the five-step sausage and mash process is the only way to go.

Firstly, pick your meal ‘type’ - are you the standard Mix & Mash sort or do you work with heavy machinery and therefore require a Desperate Dan-sized platter?

Then comes the flavour decision. Traditional (like Cumberland), unusual (like Chicken and Asparagus) and seasonal varietals (like wintery Guinness) make this the toughest step of all.

Step three is the mash up: traditional velvet, spring onion & herb styleeee or the bubble & squeak remix.

Step four is the point at which you only have eyes for mustard and honey gravy.

Then, the final step is the veg, which is simply dominated by mushy peas.

All this can be washed down with a selection of antiquated beverages such as Victorian lemonade or Dandelion & Burdock, both adding to the sentimental mood. Or, if you’re feeling particularly melancholy, try drowning your sorrows in the mini wine list or perhaps in a bottle of London Pride (which go nicely with the all-day breakfast, especially en route to an after party).

If the blues still don’t disappear after that deluge of comfort then a brawl with the bread and butter pudding should finish the job. Failing that, a brief bit of retail therapy in the Portobello boutiques could help settle things (unless the reason for your depression is a recent credit card bill).

Aside from the longer than average waiting periods, this is a pretense free, ‘ave a cap o’ tea, realm of hearty goodness which does for Portobello Road what Blanky did for thumbsucking.

The Rumble Strips

The Rumble Strips shouldn’t have anything to prove, really: headliners on this year’s Topman NME New Music Tour; support slots for Amy Winehouse, The Young Knives and Dirty Pretty Things; top ten highlight band (alongside Klaxons, Mika and The Twang) in the BBC’s Sound of 2007 panel-presided compilation. So why would they need to ply their bouyant blend of ska-folk-indie at a gig ostensibly arranged for ‘the industry’? The imminent release of their debut album, Girls and Weather, possibly has something to do with it.

Recently, under the giant orbiting disco ball at Canvas, the West Country four-piece stood in tasselled sailor garb and Tex-Mex trucker facial hair in a manner befitting The Blue Oyster. However, all ‘YMCA’ presumptions dissipated once the brass-kicking, à la Dexy’s Midnight Runners, began.

Thrust onstage at near last-tube o’clock, The Rumble Strips were forced to follow an heightened sense of eclectic support from the experimental wanderings of Tunng to the metal-cum-prog antics of Datarock. Sadly, though, their high tempo exultant melodies were lost on the inebriated VIP gremlins quaffing on free Moët.

Their opener, ‘Hate Me You Do’, was jolly in its immediacy but lacked the command that later materialised during the ponderous track, ‘Motorcycle’. It was then that parts of the crowd were stirred into a cockney knees-up.

The band’s performance, although ebullient and highly proficient, was surpassed by the booming vocals of frontman Charlie Waller. The former Vincent Vincent And The Villains member roared his way through the feet-pounding sax appeal of ‘Alarm Clock’ and the stirring ascendancies of ‘Oh Creole’ (an ardent pining of Zutons’ ‘Valerie’ proportion). Straining boggle-eyed and taut, it appeared as though the previous owner of Waller’s down-the-market 2nd hand clothes was attempting to use his body in a paranormal voodoo séance.

The Strips’ overall onstage presentation was as chaotic as an evening with The View and as blustery as a Maccabees-powered wind tunnel. The only problem was the lack of vitality shown by the distracted audience. Deserving of better, The Rumble Strips could draw worthy comparisons with the kings of gypsy, Larrikin Love, especially during their pre-album/pre-production period.

Ooze

62 Goodge Street W1T 4NE

Soho media urchins, Warren Street architects, Tottenham Court technology junkies – the following concerns you, so pay attention. During the week you may experience an extreme loss of think-jazz in your revved-up nonce, usually around the high noon mark. This is then followed sharply by an indecent assault from within, as your appetite has a little paddy and you seek a conduit of indulgence.

With this in mind, therefore, here is your RECIPE FOR A UNIQUE MODERN BISTRO EXPERIENCE.

What you’ll need:
1 ripe hip-daddy area. Some people like to use common or garden areas such as Clapham’s Northcote Road or maybe even Angel’s Upper Street but on this occasion, judging by the locality to your work/play, Fitzrovia is a worthwhile substitute.

1 fresh idea that’s simplistic and ingenius, such as the versatility of rice. After all, half the world’s population survives on it, so it must be good for you.

1 brightly-lit venue. Draw from the pragmatic and avoid garnishing with ostentatious kitsch. Heavy interior use of mirrors, cheap wooden furnishings and plastic surfaces will suffice. This ensures that straight-from-the-IKEA-catalogue aroma.

3-4 interesting concepts: risotto without the Parmesan and butter glop; express risotto (such as pancetta, broad bean and rosemary) for those half-hour lunch breaks; risotto in various low fat/low salt combos.

4-5 key staff members with an obvious passion for risotto

4-5 key staff members that couldn’t actually give a toss (drunk whilst at work is always a good option)

1 catchy yet slightly unusual name. Try to avoid any connotations with mud, seeping injuries and radioactive leaks however (such as Ooze) as it may scare the children.

Now that you have assembled your ingredients you’ll want to make sure that noone goes hungry, so ridulously large portions are a must. And always leave the food standing on the side for a while to expell all that unwanted heat. Luke warm risotto is all the rage (apparently).

Then, when approaching the affordable menu, be sure to throw in a few bland sprigs - such as the semolina-through-a-rinse-cycle Classic Clam - as this will give the other dishes a much deeper, richly textured appeal.

At this stage, it’s worth noting a few important dos and don’ts as well:

Don’t overdo it with the cherry tomatoes. Not every dish needs tomatoes.

Don’t dabble with the range of interesting pestos (chilli), super salads (pink grapefruit and mung bean) or grills (swordfish steak). You’re here for risotto and nothing else.

Do go for the sliced sirloin with red onion, red wine and rocket risotto. As colourful as it is consistent, it’s the heavyweight champion of risottos.

Do get the saffron, gorgonzola and walnut risotto (but only if you’re vegetarian)

Do ask the staff why only one of the chefs is versed in the art of Tirimusu, as you were quite keen to give it a try.

Do opt for the panacotta and seasonal compote when you’re told the Tirimusu is not on.

Finally, before leaving, make sure you pick up a handful of in-house products such as the bottled olive oil produced by Sting. You’ll get plenty of satisfaction from the label once you read the ‘message in a bottle’ recycling puns.

Oozing with exotic promise during lunchtime rumblings, but a recipe for disasters at dinner. Otherwise, 7 out of 10

The Printer's Devil

99 Fetter Lane EC4A 1EP

Dark clouds hang heavy over The Printer’s Devil. Looming corporate HQs heave and sigh all around and cast the pub in constant shadow. It’s name is hidden by a shroud of ‘To Let’ signs and is only visable when approaching from the front (via a car park). This does not bode well. Listen hard enough and you might even hear the maudlin toll of single church bell, the ominous caw from the blackest of crows and the opening chorus of The Omen.

Everything here is grey or black. Not least those that dare to enter, whose garb is that of pin-striped slaves. Most of them look like regulars, but regular ‘what’ is anyone’s guess?

True, this is the city and these hard working teamsters can hardly be expected to change their clothes before leaving their desks. But they are the sort of people that choose The Printer’s Devil because the alternative is an empty home, an empty relationship, an empty fridge.

Wake up you goons, you’re decent people, underneath! The Printer’s Devil is a realm where Lucifer lurks, clandestine and furtive, holding you back, denying you an existence that is so much better. It’s no coincidence it’s situated on ‘Fetter’ Lane. Shackled and bound, every last one of you.

Navigating around this dingy, lugubrious maze is unsettling: natural light fails to penetrate its sad, abandoned-looking rooms; the décor is as dead as the atmosphere; the acoustics favour the cackling workmates on the next table, not the stereo. Plus, the narrow, grimey ‘garden’ area is the same size and shape as a grotty back alley where even mangy pigeons wont shoot up.

However, despite all this there is a glimmer of hope from within. For starters, the service is amicable and there’s free cake at lunchtimes if it’s your birthday. Also, if it’s possible to read by the light of yesterday’s sun, there’s a chance to dwell upon the wine list, for it is a splendidly wicked thing. New world, old world, out of this world – all are covered and at not too costly a price either.

And then there’s the nosh, which is surprisingly top.

The menu is intrinsic for post-work steam-venting when banter, light bites and 10pm shot-guzzling are the norm. Basically, it’s platters. All manner of them, too: homous mezes, serrano ham charcuterie, samosa Asian, artichoke vegetarian – and oddly, all containing the devilishly sumptuous lamb kebabs, a handsome recommendation.

If you’re happy to fill your temple with fluids rather than solids, then so be it (‘it’ being the monster hangover you’ll endure the next day). Whereas those that seek a healthier wall of substance should look to the delicious, affordable, yet traditionally unadventurous lunch menu, which the staff are willing to revive upon request.

Ignore the tasty veneer of batter surrounding the juicy haddock as the accompanying chips can be a tad wilted. Bypass the delightful gathering of pesto potatoes because the sea bass lying adjacent does go a bit dry. Instead, upsize the Tricolore starter and after one bite of its bacon-avocado-anchovy medley you’ll begin to ignore the din. After a second bite the dimness will cease to exist as well. And after a third, you might even start to enjoy yourself.

If this is the best Chancery Lane has to offer then attempt to abscond unnoticed, after taking advantage of the 25% take away discount. Then follow a tramp to the nearest park bench and feel satisfied with your venue of choice. Either that, or go for a nearby pie on the sly (at The Melton Mowbray).

Dark kills light. Menu beats venue. Otherwise 5 out of 10

Portal

88 St John Street EC1M 4EH

Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Lord knows, He could try. All manner of damnable sins are in Portal and save you from them He shall not. Lust, gluttony, greed and sloth – they all have their place at Portal. It’s name alone implies a gateway to a world less pious than ours.

Indeed, much like Dante describing his many-levelled Inferno, Portal is peopled by the sleaziest of humans – lawyers, stockbrokers, TV execs, football managers – each of them accompanied by a woman too tactile to be their daughter, too young to be their colleague and too blonde to be their wife.

It’s hard to write about Portal without mentioning ‘Mourinho and the bug’. This was the story in 2006 involving the restaurant and a bugging device used to eavesdrop on the Chelsea manager’s idle dinner chatter. Some theories have it that Mourinho’s opponents were attempting to find out if he’s a 4-3-3 man or whether he prefers something a little more direct. However, there’s no doubt that what the culprits would’ve heard was nothing more than a symphony of moaning, masticating and carnal wailings. These are the sounds issued when superior Portuguese authenticity is regarded for all its worth.

Portal is The Special One. This is the sort of wickedness no human can deny. This is indulgent luxury at its very worst and very best. It cant be good for you, so you’ll do it anyway.

The bar has a voluptuous array of eye-catching species:
- unique wanton liqueurs such as acorn, honey, cherry and almond (and even a brand that translates into “when you get the stiff”)
- sweet, treacly, dry white apéritif muscatels that prevent global warming by negating the need to ever fly to Portugal
- Wines such as the Quinta do Portal Reserva Douro 2003, from where the venue’s name originates
- Port that has been carefully selected by owner Antonio Correia whose knowledge of the drink has earned him a recent invitation to join The Royal Port Society

If the bar is limbo then the restaurant is the second chamber of Sin. What is ostensibly a cow-shed with a duel personality (a greenhouse), the large, open, bright space is deliberately alfresco in its implication. The enormity of the windows, the stripped bare brickwork, the mystery held within the dark stained wood – all combine to intensify the promiscuousness of the visage. Even the bathrooms are stocked with Molton Brown products - a sure sign of perversion.

The food itself is summoned from an open plan kitchen and has a traditional, rustic Iberian persuasion. A magnitude of alluring varietals are on offer but eschew them all, except one. There is but one licentious combination that is more captivating than all the others put together.

The entrée is simple. Foie gras complimented by a1977 Reserva muscatel. You may be inclined not finish it all, as is the etiquette of restaurants such as this, but it is futile to resist the temptation to lick the ‘harmony of two sauces’ from your plate.

Next comes the half-pig half-boar braised bisaro which was not only marinated in wine for 10 days, but also slow cooked for up to twelve hours. That’s tender. As your knife touches the flesh, see how it falls from the bone in submission.

The orgy climaxes in the final part of this orgasmic trilogy - a drunken pear in ‘aletria’. You now become sloth.

Note the reasonably extravagant prices. In order to get the full treatment here you’ll be expected to pay the price. Therefore, save it for a client luncheon (company credit card) or a special anniversary with that young blonde you’ve been seeing. Your secret is safe, the bugs have been killed.

As for the remaining three sins – envy, anger and pride – just watch your friends’ faces when you tell them about your adventure at Portal…it’s discovery or damnation!

Doing for gastronomy what Cristiano Ronaldo does for football. Otherwise 9 out of 10

Urban Inc.

The O2
Peninsula Square SE10 0DX

Do you tire of night outs in chic, classy and imaginatively creative cocktail bars? Do you find the convivial nature of their clientele all too approachable and perhaps a little pompous? Do you crave the good old days of a drink-addled stupour and sharing your dancefloor with a gaggle of sweaty hen-nighters? Then boy does The O2 have a treat for you.

Conveniently located in the middle of absolutely nowhere, about six tube changes and three cans of Stella from your local station (which is probably Dagenham or Epping), Urban Inc is proud to be part of the welcoming O2 complex.

Once you’ve sauntered along the brash Hollywood-style ‘Entertainment Avenue’, mouth agape marvelling at its vulgarity, you’ll arrive at your destination for the evening. And there’s no need to be shy at Urban Inc. As a provincial townie, you are not alone. You’ll feel right at home amongst the drab shirts and Top Shop frocks. These people have the social finesse of a enraged bull. These are your kind of people.

Be amazed by the tawdriness of the disco lights stapled to the ceiling. Stare in wonder at the 80s corrigated mirror facade encircling the entire bar. Stumble about with fits of laughter after glimpsing of the comedy urinals. Does it get any better than this?

Urban Inc isn’t really a cocktail bar, it’s the Red Dwarf docking station. It’s cheapily made, it has wobbly exposed piping and everyone looks a bit alien. Plus, the gaudy space age furniture looks like it’s recently arrived from Planet Ikea, via the Croydon Nebula.

This space station venue is filled with the sort of people who like nights out at Tiger Tiger, shopping on Oxford Street, and think that a decent family getaway involves the words ‘Alton’ and ‘Towers’.

Its two large rooms are not seperated like most other (sensible) bars. No, these rooms share a DJ, so you’re never more than a few feet away from a heady mix of singalong RnB classics and paint-by-numbers House (or should that be ‘Bungalow’?). And if you like it “Hot in Here” just remember Urban Inc is inside the World’s biggest tent so you’re keep nice and clammy for the duration of your evening. Who needs The End when you can have Urban Inc?

The sort of place you’d see Girls Aloud. Before they were Girls Aloud, of course. Otherwise 4 out of 10