Tortilla

13 Islington High Street, Angel, London, N1

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

Unless....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Link to Fluidfoundation

The Elusive Camel

27 Gillingham Street, Pimlico, Victoria, London, SW1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Link to Fluidfoundation

Strongroom Bar

120 Curtain Road, Shoreditch, London, EC2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Link to Fluidfoundation

The King's Head

1 The Green, Winchmore Hill, London, N21

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A’ight? A’ight. Nuff said. And tha’.

Link to Fluidfoundation

Villiers Terrace

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

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

So there you have it. Sort of.

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

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

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

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

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

Link to Fluidfoundation

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.