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.

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