Pies and Subs in Camberwell

Camberwell, the leafy (ish) corner of South East London that’s the birthplace of the Carrot ('I invented it in Camberwell and it's shaped like a carrot') Boris Karloff, and Florence of Machine fame, as well as being the home of the curious concrete submarine-shaped block that acts as a vent shaft for a subterranean boiler room providing heating to the adjacent housing estates.

Most of this quirky behemoth was sadly surrounded by hoardings trumpeting a ‘visionary new development’ in the ‘Oval Quarter’ (no, me neither) when we visited. Although the area is experiencing the same insidious creep of gentrification that can be seen across most of London, it looks as though this concrete curiosity is set to remain pumping out power, after the chimneys were extended by four metres each last year. Which is more than can be said for all the council residents that have been shipped out of the area to accommodate the controversial new development.

One recent addition to the area that has been much better received is Theo’s Pizzeria, a traditional wood-fired pizza restaurant just off Camberwell Church Street, offering Italianate delights such as aubergine parmagiana, cheesy garlic focaccia and potato and mozzarella croquettes to the lucky residents of SE5.

The succinct beer list runs from the standard Moretti to the local Orbit Nico kolsh lager (brewed up the road in Walworth) and Kernel Table Beer (brewed up the road in Bermondsey). Despite Stealth’s reservations about its low ABV (but that's piss-weak) we got through a couple of frosty jugs of the latter, the perfect choice for a warm mid-afternoon when there was plenty more still to be done after our lunch.

From a strong list of starters and side – the aforementioned croquettes and the pizza fritta looked particularly dreamy - we chose a little snack of Mortadella, pickled green chillies and crescentine, a kind of puffy pillow of fried dough, sprinkled with salt to nibble on waiting for our pizzas. 

Add some of their magnificent homemeade red chilli sauce, and you’ve got yourself pretty much the most perfect starter - despite the Ewing’s misgivings about having to attempt to ‘share’ with Stealth, who is still famous for taking two chocolates (one for now and one for later) every time you offer her the selection box (it always ends badly - TE).

The pizzas served at Theo’s are Neapolitan-style pies with a sourdough base; fired very quickly at very hot temperatures in their wood-fired oven that – in an ideal world - leaves them with a puffy and blistered crust and a perfectly melted middle.

Now I’m a pizza whore, and would eat almost anything involving dough and cheese, but Neapolitan pizzas are my favourite of all. They are also probably the hardest to get right, as the brief cooking time means that if the pizza isn’t fired at a hot enough temperature, or has too many toppings, you are left with a pallid, doughy crust and a soggy bottom covered in a puddle of lukewarm tomato soup.

Thankfully, they had clearly stoked their fires and my pie, the Camberwell scotch bonnet n’duja with sopressata sausage, was gooey and charred in all the right places. Topping wise this was also the perfect combo – hot sausage, oozy cheese and just the right amount of tomato, before being strewn with a handful of fresh basil that smelt like the final, glorious throes of summer as it arrived at our table.

Stealth was very happy with her scotch bonnet pie with added mushrooms (her favourite foodstuff, alongside the gala pie), while the Ewing pimped the anchovy and olive combo with some mozzarella and extra wood-fire roasted aubergine.

Pizzas start at £5.50 for a Marinara, topping out at a tenner for fancy stuff like a pizza bianca with sausage and wild broccoli - which is still approximately half the cost of a Dominos while giving you approximately twice as much pleasure, especially if you slather it in some more of their red chilli sauce.

Despite missing the summer cut-off point - owing the fact it was two days after the vernal equinox, and now officially autumn - I still couldn’t resist the pistachio ice cream which was magnificent - far better than much of the ice cream I’ve eaten in Italy and definitely in LAB G league. South London really does have a strong line up of frozen nut-based desserts at the moment, now happily joined by some great pizza - the perfect accompaniments to the eponymous carrot.

Brickston

It’s been a long time since I used to be a regular visitor to SW9 (around 1999, when a friend had a flat just off the high street and we spent the Saturday night under the arches at Heaven and Sunday wishing we hadn't) but there’s still nothing quite like Brixton on a Friday summer’s afternoon. Walking onto Electric Avenue you feel a palpable jolt; the muggy atmosphere and smells of meat grilling over charcoal, overripe mangoes and dried fish feels a little like a Spike Lee film.

Of course now I’m older and a (little) wiser; and, as if to confirm that fact, my most recent visit to Brixton - or 'Brickston' on this occasion, to chalk up a couple more #brutaltour stops - didn’t coincide with a visit to Plan B (RIP) or a gig at the Academy, but a work meeting of information and record managers in Westminster. Which made rather a staid contrast to the bustle of Brixton, where I was confronted by a riotous steel band and a baying mob, upset that KFC was unexpectedly closed, within minutes of emerging from the tube.

First up was Brixton Recreation Centre - architect George Finch for Lambeth Borough Council 1973-1985. With its red brick frontage and iconic concrete pillars, the Rec remains a well-used hub of the community despite murmurings that the amount needed for its upkeep mean it will eventually be razed to the ground for housing and a new centre built on the site of Brixton Pop, a shipping container food court next-door.  If it’s open and your passing, it’s also worth a look inside at the twisting brick staircases and glass atrium.

Southwyck House - architect Magda Borwiecka, 1972-81, for Lambeth Borough council - is an imposing building on Coldharbour Lane that’s part of the Somerleyton Estate. Known locally as the ‘barrier block’, its original purpose was, indeed, to protect Brixton from the proposed South Cross Route motorway proposed to run through the centre of town. With the road unbuilt the building was squatted in before it was even open and the unwelcoming façade soon proved a hotspot for crime and drugs.

A grimly fascinating building that doesn’t appear to have received the same adoration of other estates in South London, although it is now safer and cleaner - helped by one block now being split into three, with new lifts installed between. But the main building still casts an imposing shadow and the new entrances and external stairways somewhat resemble Stasi watchtowers, albeit with jaunty flashes of red on the roofs and railings.

After a bit of aimless and happy wandering about around the market followed by an animated conversation with an interesting character on Coldharbour Lane about the merits of, well I'm still not really sure quite what of, I walked up the road for an early solo dinner at Nanban.  

If you're a fan of Masterchef you may remember an experimental chef from a few years back who came from the American midwest via Tokyo who won with a menu that included cheddar cheesecake with whiskey jelly. That man was Tim Anderson who, after marrying an English woman and settling in the Big Smoke, has finally opened his own restaurant.

Inspired by 'Japanese soul food', Nanban is housed in an old eel and pie house, hence the electric eel dish (also a nod to Brixton's famous Ave), served deep fried with ginger vinegar and found on the small plates menu. Also expect to see other east/west mashups such as burgers topped with pork belly and korean gochujang paste and spaghetti with mentaiko (spicy cured cod's roe), pancetta and a poached egg.

Beer is bespoke, with the restaurant collaborating with Pressure Drop to produce Nanban Kampai – a wheat and citrus infused IPA. Served a touch too warm, this was a juicy and citrussy beer that  really benefited from the creamy/banana notes bought by the wheat (not normally one of my favourite styles). Complex, and a bigger hitter at 6.5% ABV, it stood up well to the spice, although you might have trouble yourself if you drank a few.

The KFJ (karaage fried jackfruit) was one of the most interesting dishes I’ve had for a while. The under ripe fruit, when coated in seasoned flour and deep fried, has a taste and texture that is confusingly close to chicken. When I Googled it afterwards it has already been (predictably) touted as a new ‘superfood’, and I even found a bbq’d ‘pulled jackfruit’ recipe on the Guardian for massive eco hipster points. The yuzu mayo alongside was also rather lovely, the smooth richness cut though by the hybrid citrus tang.

When I was in Tokyo, I was fortunate enough to get to Fuungi– which, even though it was only ten minutes’ walk from our hotel, took an intent amount of studying Google maps to find, not helped by also walking there in the tail of a hurricane. There the tsukune, or dipping, noodle is king. Bowls of rich and creamy anchovy and pork broth, adorned with nothing but half a boiled egg, are served alongside separate bowls of plain steamed ramen noodles for dunking and slurping.

Nanban offers two versions; the Leopard, a deep piggy broth whose surface is ‘spotted’ with garlic oil  and served with noodles topped with garlic chips, crispy shallots and parmesan cheese; and a Brixton inspired version with curry goat, scotch bonnet and pickled bamboo shoots. Being in SW9, I chose the latter and was rewarded with a bowl of rich and spicy meat curry, with half a gooey ‘onsen’ egg (untried, but with a beguilingly bright yolk) and a dish of springy ramen topped with crispy shallots and aforementioned shoots.

If I was being fussy, I preferred the bigger and bouncier boiled Japanese noodles to the tightly oiled curls of Nanban’s ramen, although the pickled shoots were inspired and the goat curry, while not being G.O.A.T, had a punchy (boom) depth that I’m sure even Ali would have appreciated.

The biggest issue is that it’s an enormously inelegant dish to eat. My chopstick skills are fairly decent (I even received compliments from an elderly couple in Kyoto, who obviously had very low expectations of my table manners) but, despite having the Poirot-esque napkin down the front of my shirt and head bowed I still ended up looking rather like a leopard myself at the end of dinner.

Nanban does offer ice cream – the surprisingly ‘vanilla’, vanilla flavour, served with grilled bananas and crispy fried noodles – but, in an ongoing bid to end all my blog posts this summer with an iced dessert, I headed to the market to sample some of the much lauded gelato from Lab G in Granville Arcade.

From the outside it may look a little faded and nondescript, and inside there’s only a modest selection of traditional flavours, but my scoop of pistachio may have been the finest I have ever eaten. I could reel off all the clichéd superlatives –smooth, sweet, creamy, nutty – but just know it was as good as anything I’ve eaten in Italy, and the same price as a Whippy.

It isn't all different down in SW9 since my halcyon days of hanging around South London; walking back home after dinner I saw this magnificent mk3 Ford Fiesta, which, in red, was also my very first car. And, just like back the 90s, I still drive a red Ford now - this one is named Archie after Steve Archibald the red-haired Spurs winger - proving most things never really change (and yeah, I'm still a terrible driver, too...).

Concrete and Chinatown

Despite appearances to the contrary, the #brutaltour is continuing apace (well, maybe not quite that quickly) as I attempt my quest to concrete chase across the capital. To deal with the ever increasing backlog of buildings, our latest instalment - after my long-suffering wife had looked at my Brutalist London map and then at my stilted progress - managed to cleverly combine a tour around at the centre of town with a refreshment stop after every stop we crossed off the list.

Concrete and Chinese food, the perfect combination - although I'll spare you most of the architecture in this post as I'm currently writing a mid-way #brutaltour round up featuring all the grey concrete anyone could possibly desire.

Showing a fine disregard to all the sensible advice my parents gave me when growing up (sometimes one of the only good things about being an adult), our first lunch stop was for ice cream sundaes. And not any ice cream sundaes, these being from Tsujiri, a Kyoto-based chain of matcha tea houses who have recently opened a store on Soho’s Rupert Street.

When the Ewing and I went to Kyoto we tried matcha ice cream made of tofu (pretty much the only positive use for soy beans I have encountered), which not only melted far slower but didn’t fall out the cone, even when held upside down (a fact I tested quite thoroughly and with child-like glee). And while Tsujiri wasn’t as fun, it was just as tasty.

An Instagrammer's dream, with their perfectly coiffured green swirls and colourful additions, both the matcha sundaes we tried were good. My original paired candied chestnuts with sweetened red beans, mochi balls and the crackle of brown rice puffs (Rice Krispies by any other name). The Ewing’s choice bought cake to the party and was finished with a slab of matcha chiffon sponge, chewy rice balls and a layer of cornflakes. 

The star of the show, the green tea ice cream, was excellent; milky and smooth with a fresh, grassy bitterness that counteracted the tooth-achingly sugary topping and was served in substantially deceptive portions. Don't expect change from a fiver, but when a Mr Whippy in a stale cone can now easily run you to half that, they start to look fair value.  

After a successful stop at the new pretender we revisited Jen Cafe, an old stalwart on Newport Place, for our next snackette. Occupying a corner site, the brightly painted green woodwork and triangular shaped plot makes it hard to miss - or just look for the crowds pressed up at the window, watching the women making the Beijing dumplings they are known for.

There is a small selection of roast meats and rice and soups etc. on the menu (mostly re-heated in the microwave) but it’s best to stick with the short list of dough-based classics – They also do a mean line in fresh juices and Honk Kong comfort classics like spam sandwiches, toast with lashings of condensed milk and hot Coke with lemon; good for a cold, apparently.

Our portion of fried pot stickers were decent, but I think I might prefer the simply boiled version, topped with a slick of chilli oil and some chinese black vinegar, which are also a pound cheaper. They also use the same flour and water dough to make excellent hand cut noodles, served with a spicy pork sauce and chopped cucumber (a Chinese version of bolognaise). To drink, both the fresh Watermelon and classic milk versions of their bubble tea were both as good as any I’ve had.

Don’t expect anything too refined; the dumpling wrappers are solid and stodgy (just how I like it), the ‘glasses’ are made of plastic and it can be cramped and hectic inside - wear sensible shoes if you plan on using the loo.... But for a cheap and filling feed, and surprisingly charming service (well, on our last visit, at least) it remains an integral part of Chinatown.

It was at this this point we realised that, despite careful pre-planning, the #brutaltour had been usurped by a trail of gluttony followed by an hour looking in all the chinese supermarkets on Gerard Street. Nothing new there then. So after an intermission to go and chase some concrete (blog roundup to follow) we returned to Chinatown for a second round of eating and drinking.

Bigbe Chicken was the stop I was most looking forward to - a hole in the wall that has sprung up promising 'Taiwan's best crispy and juicy chicken' that quickly become social media's latest darling; and most of the rest of London's judging by the queues on our visit.

Here, as the name suggests, it’s about 'London's number one' deep fried chicken breast. Popcorn chicken, drumsticks and squid make up the rest of the regular menu, but you can also check out the specials board to the right of the counter for treats like ‘bone’ or crispy wings. 

While I'm normally a leg girl, the promise of ‘up to 30cm’ of breast was too hard to resist, which I chose topped with chilli powder, - decent heat but not incendiary -  from their rag-tag assortment of flavour shakers on the counter. Cheese and tangy plum, anyone?

Make no mistake, this thing is a behemoth, and particularly tricky to eat when fresh from its double dipping in the fryer. Obviously, we gave it our best shot and - having sampled lots of London's fried chicken offerings through the years - this was certainly up there with the juiciest. It's unlicensed, but I recommend accompanying the hot poultry with a cold can of, non-alcoholic, Taiwanaese Apple Sidra

Happy Lemon was the final refreshment stop; a good shout as the Ewing still calls me the Lemonhead - after my (allegedly) citrus fruit-shaped face. Sticking to type, I chose the frozen lemon and grapefruit slushy which, with its plentiful chunks of fresh fruit, struck the good bittersweet balance between the two.

While the matcha latte with rock salt and cheese sounded more like something Chef would whip up on South Park than a delicious drink, my wife chose this as her beverage of choice from the bewildering array of drinks on offer. Ultimately it wasn’t quite as fearsome as it sounded; the the green tea latte was a pale imitation of the matcha at Tsujiri, but the salty/sweet cream cheese-like topping was strangely addictive.

It’s not often I hail (boom) an incoming thunderstorm, but the distant rumbles of thunder and the close atmosphere as we walked through the streets of Chinatown and back to Marylebone bought back memories of walking around the muggy night markets of Mong Kok, giddy with jet-lag and the novelty of newly discovered cups of iced boba tea, which provided the perfect refreshment in the muggy atmosphere.

But while Hong Kong may have the dazzling skyline of Victoria Harbour, our trip took in one final treat; the Welbeck Street carpark. Home of not just, in my humble opinion, the best place to park your car in the Big Smoke, but also one of its finest burgers. But, with the carpark/restaurant unlisted and a large hotel chain having recently acquired the site for redevelopment, that’s a story that’s waiting to be written.

Robbers and Cops - Regency Cafe and the MOJ

I've got an idea... Why don't you come 'round for breakfast? I'll squeeze some orange juice and grind some coffee and we can talk about this like adults. How's that sound?

Anyone that's familiar with the British crime caper Layer Cake may remember a pre-Bond Daniel Craig quoting the above line to a Serbian drug dealer who's on the hunt for a million missing ecstasy tablets. Even if you don't remember the intricacies of the script, then there's a good chance you would recall the scene filmed at Pimlico's legendary Regency Cafe, where a 'business breakfast' ends in an unfortunate incident with a kettle.

While our early lunchtime visit was far more amiable, nothing much else has changed; from the formica table tops to the plastic sauce bottles to the art deco tiling to the signed Spurs photos from the 60s, you could genuinely imagine eating here at any time during the last five decades and the décor being exactly the same -  preserved in aspic, just like the corned beef in their salads. 

Sure you can no longer enjoy a woodbine with your cup of tea - served here the colour of creosote (THE best colour for tea - TE) - but the food, from the steak pie with virginal boiled spuds and processed peas to the fish and chips served on a Friday, is unapologetically untouched by modern convention.

As well as an expertly stewed cup of splosh, dispensed from the ornate urn on the counter, there is also orange juice in glass bottles. Anyone who ever woke up to the clank of the milkman collecting the empties will share my nostalgia for the joyful ritual of shaking a bottle fresh off the step, before putting your thumb through the foil top. Happy days.

Our family only ever had milk delivered, so I was rather jealous to hear the Ewing’s mum also ordered orange juice for their breakfast when she was growing up; I’d have been very jealous if I’d found out she’d also had the little pots of Ski strawberry yoghurt.

The aforementioned homemade pie looked majestic, but who could pass up a lovingly crafted fry up - nothing’s getting grilled here. Here the standard English comes with either baked beans or tomato (both fresh and tinned are available) toast and tea or coffee. I added extra black pudding and shifted my egg over to the Ewing, although sadly they had already run out of bubble and squeak. 

For my money, this is exactly what a full English should look like; no avocado, no rocket (although I did notice my toast was made from brown bread) no fuss. The bacon was particularly noteworthy, although probably down to the fact it had been properly cooked on a well-seasoned flat top, rather than the provenance.

I’ve never knowingly turned down a stodgy school dinner-style pudding with custard, and here was no exception when I saw they had bread and butter pudding with cinnamon. Needless to say, my soporific tower of baked buttered bread, interspersed with plump raisins and spice and cloaked in a thick blanket of Bird’s finest made a fitting end to our meal.

The Ewing wasn't complaining too much about her chocolate sponge with chocolate custard, either. Both yours for two English pounds; we even got two free unclaimed cuppas thrown in to wash it down.

Our slap up feast was followed by stop four on the #brutaltour, my ongoing mission to visit all 54 buildings on Blue Crow Media's map of Brutalist London with a trip up the road to marvel at the wonderful Ministry of Justice. Designed by Fitzroy Robinson & Partners, with Sir Basil Spence and completed in 1976, it stands out as a bold but fascinating chunk of modernism with it's fishtank windows and main tower that was, apparently, based on medieval Italian castles.

 

The last time I was here I was on the way to being late to my own wedding and had been told, in no uncertain terms, that there was no time for dawdling (although we still had room for a swift half before the ceremony. Also known as getting your priorities right). This time I had plenty of time to browse and found it interesting to see the contrast between the Regency Cafe, scene of a British crime drama, and the MOJ, brutal heart of British justice.

Built only thirty years apart, but a lifetime away in style and form, they both remain notable for different reasons; two nostalgic nuggets of London's recent history that's slowly being eroded by gaudy colored boxes and spiraling towers. As XXXX said in the film; 'when I was born, the world was a far simpler place. It was all just cops and robbers'.