Tag Archives: damn fine coffee

May 28

Six Portland Road. It’s the real thing.

Foreword: I’ve been told by an eminent QC that I’m losing my touch and am being too nice in my reviews. “I like the ones where you hate it”, he says, “far more entertaining”. I cited in my defence a number of my less than glowing reviews but to no avail. Whilst he was only half […]

February 22

St John. It’s the daddy.

We’d escaped to the Beckford Arms at the weekend,  a gastropub with rooms, deep in the heart of the West Country. Despite being run by boys who look like they should be in a Boden catalogue, it’s well worth a visit.

The Lockhart. Southern comfort.

This was my third attempt to get to the Lockhart. I’d heard about it through the Twittersphere and it sounded right up my street; a southern US restaurant full of all things comfort and fried. And to top it all, it’s a very convenient five minutes from my office. *Happy face*.

To Moro to Moro I love you to Moro

I’d been to see a geezer selling reclaimed floors out in the wilds of E4.I suggested that made C come with me. He was thrilled. Amazing that he has been in London for nearly thirty years, but has never driven through the joy that is Palmers Green, viewed from the highway to heaven that is the […]

August 30

Medlar. Not an open-ers in sight.

Medlar. Not meddler. Which is sometimes said of me. Unfairly, in my view. And medlar is a fruit which is rotten before it is ripe. Have a look: My favourite reference to it appears in Chaucer. An old slang name for medlar is open arse. I’m glad I know that. “This white top writeth myne […]

I confess : Cocomaya, Vintry, Pizza Pilgrims and Gelupo.

Four places in one day. I wasn’t on holiday. It wasn’t anything particularly out of the ordinary. And it’s not like it’s the first time either. Oh dear. So by way of confession, here’s what for me is a typical day. Every day, on my walk to work, I wander past the siren call of […]

Caravan King’s Cross.

We had a little taxi-drama – he couldn’t find it and we went down a number of dead ends, before working out that one has to walk across the bridge.

Barrafina. Simple. Perfect.

I was happy that I had finally made it after months of near misses. Greeted by a plate of crispy deep-fried prawns, the recruitment consultant whose guest I was, had chosen wisely. They were incredibly fresh. I’m glad that I hadn’t noticed them earlier, opposite, in the iced display. They were so fresh that they […]

Honey & Co.

You’d walk past it if you didn’t know. And you wouldn’t know unless you’d read Marina O’Loughlin’s lovely review of this (or at least I wouldn’t). And given her review, I really had to try it. It’s run by a couple of ex-Ottolenghi employees and you can see certain similarities. There’s an attention to detail […]

Liking Locanda Locatelli.

The unexpected death of Central London during the Olympics meant I could get in on an hour’s notice. That never usually happens here, where visits have to be planned weeks in advance.