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English Modern: The Pumphouse

1 New River Avenue
Hornsey, N8 7QD
Tel: 020 8340 0400

Date of Last Visit: 11 March 2007

The Victims: Al, Louise

The Damage: £35

The Background: I am expanding my geographical horizons. I have never been to Hornsey before. (Have you?) I meet Al & Louise and Michael in Highgate and then Michael ditches us. Al & Louise take me back to their fantastic new house (the size-to-weekly-rent amount has me insanely jealous and ready to move to N8 tomorrow) in their new car and then we move on to a place they've circled in the Time Out Food & Drink Guide.

The Arrival: We are flummoxed by the parking situation. There are many spots, but you are not allowed to park in any of them.  A local tells us we will be clamped. So we move the car again and then again. The restaurant tells us not to park there. So we move the car--again--and we hope for the best.

The Pumphouse is very interesting on the inside--it reminds me a little of Bibendum downstairs. This building was obviously something else at some point, and they've done a nice job of making it into a restaurant but keeping a lot of the original features. (Lots of pulleys.)

The Service: Is nice, but a bit off. We place our orders and then have to place our orders again because certain items aren't available. And then the server returns (about 30 minutes after original order being placed) and tells us that the Chef has burned the pork belly and it was the last one and did we want to order something else.

During all of this, one table after another is being served. We are very unlucky as well as hungry, and I have lost confidence in the pork-belly-burning-chef.

The Food: I have the halibut and it is okay. It's a bit dry, probably because it's been under the heat lamps for a very long time. Al eventually ends up with the steak and he seems to like it, either that or he was really hungry. Louise has the duck and it looks lovely. So there are some saving graces.

The Dessert: I get talked into Saffron ice cream and it's like eating sandpaper. Uggh.

The Loos: Co-ed! Kinda fun. I liked them.

The Verdict: I am sure this is a nice place and that many people like it. It just wasn't for me.     

Meat: The Marquess

32 Canonbury St
N1 2TB
Tel: 020 7354 2975

Date of Last Visit: Saturday, March 10th, 2007

The Victims: Rutton, Zarmina, Michael

The Damage: £35 each or thereabouts.

The Background: What have I done for a Saturday? Um, I think the answer is nothing. Except six loads of wash (man, this country really needs to get into US washing machines). Oh, and I mopped the floors. And dusted. The excitement. I can't take it!

But see I was excited...because Rutton never comes over to my side of town. And all I did was say, "Hey, let's go to this gastropub that I've been wanting to try" and boom, there they were.

Well, not really. I was there at 7:55 for an 8 p.m. booking. They were there at 8:30.

Where I Digress. Yet Again: Now, I want to talk about  being late for dinner reservations. It really upsets me. I have made the reservation and I am there on time. The restaurant has my phone number, and they can thus stalk me forever if I screw them over. I live in constant fear of this (yes, I know, it's never happened so why think this way?) and the restaurant giving my table away because the entire party is not seated. 

I don't often bring reading material to restaurants, so there I was sitting there alone, playing with my cell phone. And drinking. Yes, drinking alone. Classy.

I debate telling people to get there 30 minutes before the actual reservation. But this seems like an annoying trick. Why is it okay to be late?

And what do you say when your guests finally arrive? I equate it to those times in grammar school when someone would ask if they could borrow a pen and you would say yes, but yet you knew that you would never see that pen again. And if you asked for your pen back, the borrower would look at you like you're crazy.

Hey, I like my pens. And why is anyone else's time more important than mine? (I am quoting my friend Kellie's story here. Thanks K.)

The Entrance: Regardless of the lateness, everyone arrives and I am happy to see them. (The very strong beer I've had while waiting might have had an impact, but really, I swear it is nice to see everyone.)

Michael is still unemployed and homeless. Rutton has actually been in the country for more than three days in a week. Zarmina has just submitted her Kellogg app.

We order chicken livers to celebrate.

The Mains: We order #7. That's about 1.865 kg of meat. Yes. For my American readers, that's 4.1 lb of meat for four people. But it's served on the bone, so back down. It's also served with Yorkshire Pudding (which admittedly, I still contemplate and think, "Where is the pudding?"), roast potatoes, gravy, and cabbage. It's all very lovely.

The Gimmick: Up on the wall, there's a big chalkboard. And it's full of meat. All different weights. You pick the weight you want, and it comes with all the trimmings. Nicely done.

The Taste: Pretty nice. The meat was a little too raw for me all the way around, but still pretty delicious. Particularly delicious were the roast potatoes, which are nicely roasted and golden brown. Especially the first batch.

The Dessert: We had some mead, which was fun.

The Verdict: I'd go back. It's a good place for a group of friends and/or family. Communal. Good stuff. And next time, I'll tell them to be there 15 minutes before the annointed time.

Famous: St. John

26 St John Street
EC1M 4AY
Tel: 020 7251 0848

Date of Last Visit: Monday, March 12, 2007

The Victim: Howard

The Damage: Unknown. Howard paid.

The Background: You may know that I am obsessed with Scandinavian furniture. If it's Danish, sign me up. So I was excited after stopping into Marimekko the other weekend--there was an Alvar Aalto show at The Barbican. (Alvar was Finnish, not Danish though. Just for the record.) 

See but then I remember that I'm not good in museums. And pictures are nice but furniture is even better.

So I am slightly disappointed in the exhibit because THERE JUST AREN'T ENOUGH CHAIRS.

But I get over it. Because...

The Entrance: We go St. John. I have always wanted to go to St. John. But I thought that only rich people went there. Rich people who eat tripe. (Who have obviously never met my Chinese friends.) But St. John has a bar. Anyone can go there. Particularly on a Monday night. I am intrigued. The people watching is fantastic. So too the service. (More in a bit.)

The Food: It is simple, but then again, so am I. There is a green salad. And some terrine. (For me.) And some welsh rarebit (for Howard). And as it turns out...welsh rarebit is not just cheese and toast like I thought! It is cheese and toast and MUSTARD. (This is still very less more exciting than the toast and rabbit I thought it once was.) I want to tell the story about my mother and the Carlo Rossi and the tuna fish but I don't. So instead I eat cartilage. In the form of pig's ears. And they are delicious.

The Drink: I say that I might want the cheese plate and a glass of wine and I ask what the server recommends. She asks if I trust her. And because she has said just that, I do trust her. Immensely. She brings me some wine and I have a Deja Vu experience. I know I am in Paris. But yet I know I'm not. The wine is called St. Loup (I think--there's a Loup in there somewhere) and it is perfect.

The Cheese: Fantastic.

The Loos: A downer, totally! I am in the toilets at St. Frances de Chantal Elementary. But it is not that nice.

The Verdict: Perfectly basic and so much more approachable than I ever thought possible. I will be back. Many times over.

Pizza: Furnace

1 Rufus Street
N1 6PE
Tel: 020 7613 0598

Date of Last Visit: Thursday, March 8 2007

The Victims: Natasa, Frannie

The Damage: Unknown! Frannie paid.

The Background: Frannie is in town and after living with her and her husband in Stockholm for a month, I (feel that I) know her eating preferences. I am actually craving pizza, so it all works out quite perfectly when Natasa suggests a pizza place that is not Pizza Express. (Me and my constant quest to not eat in chains. But my affection for Pizza Express after one too many UK arrivals that left me craving veggies before noon. A long story.)

The Entrance: Empty. But soon buzzing.

The Service: Forgetful. Although they passed my tap water test. Eventually. The glass arrived about 30 minutes after we did. Oh yes, and the salads arrived with the pizza. Now come on.

The Pizza: I went for one with spinach and egg. It was pretty good. But then I saw the cooks prep the pizza behind the service area. They were unwrapping a shrink-wrapped pizza. Yes, like you can buy at Tesco. This is disappointing. Because I can buy that pizza for £3.99. 2 for £4 if I am lucky. Whatever happened to people actually making pizza? One of these days, I will go back to Cherrywood Pizza in Wantagh.

I think Furnace took that shrink-wrapped pizza and added toppings. I mean, how lazy can you be?

The Verdict: You know, everything tasted fine. If I had remained naive, there would be no problems. But I saw the shrink wrap, and I was shocked and appalled. How hard can it be to make a pizza?

An Aside: Music

I now own a Squeezebox. I love it.

Two of my new fave Internet listening posts are...

TSF Jazz in Paris: Let me give you a playlist...yes, I like a little retro...especially in French...

20:44 Bireli Lagrene/wdr Anouman
20:52 Charlie Parker Groovin' high
20:55 Anita O'day Waiter, make mine blue
20:58 Tony Bennett/stevie Wonder For once in my life
21:51 Stochelo Rosenberg Bossa dorado
21:55 Madeleine Peyroux Summer wind
21:59 Jay Jay Johnson/hank Jones My favorite things
22:02 Ella Fitzgerald That certain feeling
22:05 Sonny Rollins The night has a thousand eyes
22:14 Eric Legnini Big boogaloo
22:20 Jb Lenoir Alabama blues
22:23 Lenny Breau Oscar's blues
22:27 Oscar Brown Jr Work song
22:31 Chico Hamilton Evan's ville

OK, and then my other all time favorite is David Byrne Radio. Every month, he puts up a new playlist. It's a good way to find new bands. Here's an excerpt from his March list...

The Words  Psapp 
Think That Thought  Planning To Rock 
Do The Whirlwind  Architecture In Helsinki 
Snow Angel  Ron Sexsmith 
Coming Home (The Eclipse)  Amy Cook 
These Days  Nico 
Night Majestic  Au Revoir Simone 
The Party's Crashing Us  Of Montreal 
Again & Again  Bird & Bee 
Oslo In The Summertime  Of Montreal 
Windowstill  The Arcade Fire 
Ja Sei Namorar  Tribalistas 
Think I'm In Love  Beck   

Latin, Sorta: Favela Chic

91-93 Great Eastern St
EC2A 3HZ
Tel: 020 7613 5228

Date of Last Visit: Saturday, February 24, 2007

The Victims: Yusuf and Company. 12 of us in total.

The Damage: £40. I left early, so I gave Yusuf the money before taking off. I hope it was enough.

The Background: Yusuf has invited me out to dinner. I have said "Yes" of course, because he is one of the most interesting guys I know. He is Swedish. But Turkish. And oh but just a little American. I forget sometimes.

I arrive for dinner at Favela Chic and I am one of 12. There are Turks and Greeks and Italians. And the few token Americans. The place is empty and I am glad because I live in the general neighborhood and I know that there is usually a queue. We are some of the only people there at 7 p.m.

The Starters: We get a combo plate, and it arrives in all its deep-fried goodness. I would tell you what was on the plate, but I can't because it was all deep-fried. This made it delicious, so it was fine. Sorta.

The Mains: I remember that in 2005, I flew from London to Anchorage, Alaska. I had saved up my air miles so I flew business class. On my flight from Chicago to Anchorage, they served Chicken with white rice in Business Class. Maybe some people think that's a nice meal, but to me, it was a high margin dish. You can buy 45 kg bags of rice for super cheap. I couldn't believe they had the nerve to slap that crapity-crap down in front of me. OMG I am a snob.

So the same thing happened at Favela Chic. Chicken in a nice sauce. With white rice. Now that's pretty lazy.

The Dessert: I left early to head over to The Ritz to pick up Eugene. One of the best sentences to say EVER, "Taxi driver, can you take me to The Ritz? Please."

The Verdict: Well I did like the music. And the company was fantastic. But this is a blog about food (mostly). And you know it's bad when I totally forget to write up a meal until like three weeks later.

Perfect French: L'Etranger

36 Gloucester Road
SW7 4QT
Tel: 020 7584 1118

Date of Last Visit: Saturday, March  3, 2007

The Victims: K&A

The Damage: £60+

The Background: I haven't seen K&A in ages. They've been skiing in France. K's been in NY for her brother's birthday and for work. They've been to Paris for a wedding. They've been sick and are on antibiotics.

Or maybe they're just avoiding me.

But really, I've been missing their sound counsel, so it was more than time for a meet-up. I suggested Le Gavroche because it was time for my annual treat to myself. They demured and suggested L'etranger instead. I was bummed, but only for about five seconds. 

The Arrival: I am wearing new black patent leather shoes from Spice Shoes on Upper Street. I am fascinated by their cuteness. So too the staff at L'etranger. I arrive and am greeted by a flury of French...I understand only "shoes" and "glossy" and "pretty." (Asked to provide the French equivalent, I cannot. I cannot understand my non-verbal fluency in other languages.) I look down. I look up. We are all grinning at my shoes. It is a moment. And honestly, never have I been greeted so warmly in a restaurant. (Proving, perhaps, that clothes--or shoes--do make the woman?)

The Drink: A kir royale, of course.

The Sommelier: Is the cutest person ever. When it becomes obvious that my two companions are on antibiotics and a bottle is not in the question, he gladly fetches me a glass of--dare I say--Chilean white! (I did not want to order Chilean! He did! I was only following his advice.) He is obviously of the school that is just there to be helpful--regardless of how much you're paying. And he was wearing a suit of some of the sharpest tailoring I've ever seen. Honestly, he was so fantastic that I composed an (albeit Chilean-influenced) thank you e-mail to the restaurant when I returned home later that evening.)

The Starters: Are beautiful. I have the spicy squid--we called it fried galamard on Long Island. (That's calamari in Long-Islandish.) I forget now what A had, but I think he was happy with it. Oh wait--now I remember--it was lobster. Lobster and something...it looked fantastic...it had big tall stringy things coming off it...

The Mains: I had the chilean sea bass, based on the reviews I read online. This was a meal for thin girls, and I mean this in the best possible way. It was really really nice. But I needed some more carbs. Honestly, the sea bass was wonderfully and perfectly cooked. And the soba noodles were really nice. But I was peckish. (Ohhh...I am so English. I'm peckish??? Where the hell did that come from?) And I was INSANELY jealous of Kristi's wagu beef. Now that looked great. It came with croquettas--and something else which again escapes me but I've just found the menu online, and now I understand why K&A were insistent about paying more than me per person when the bill came at the end of the night, despite their lack of beverages...

Boeuf Wagyu Teppanyaki, Croquettes au Wasabi et  Aubergines au Sesame Noir - £49.00

Wagyu Beef Teppanyaki with Wasabi Croquettes and Black Sesame Aubergines

I am so not going to convert that to USD. My mother would kill me.

The Dessert: We split the chocolate platter. Now I don't know how one person was supposed to eat all of this, because it was seriously five different types of chocolate all served together. There was a fondant with strawberries in it. There was a mousse in a shotglass. There was fruity tart of some sort. Here, let me just recite the description: Chocolate Fondant, Trio of white, dark and milk chocolate Parfait, Earl Grey Pot de Crème, Green Tea Ice Cream, White Chocolate and Passion Fruit Mousse.

More than enough for one, no?

The Loos: Seriously, the best I have ever been to in London. Clean. Neat. They smelled SO clean. I wish my flat smelled that good. You could eat off the floor. Great tilework. Great mirrors. Very classy.

The Verdict: One of my nicest meals in London. Maybe even THE nicest. I'm serious. 

Indian: Gulshan Tandoori

15 Exmouth Market
EC1R 4QD
Tel: 020 7837 7437

Date of Last Visit: Friday, March 2, 2007

The Victims: Brook, Shane, Suzanne, Tory

The Damage: £15 each

The Background: After a couple of after work drinks, it made sense to have dinner. I suggested a certain Brick Lane (hey, I think it's fun), but as it turns out, Shane's wife got really sick after our last visit to Brick Lane (and you know I am convinced they all share one kitchen underground) so we skipped that and headed to Exmouth Market.

I really wanted to go to Dollar Grills and Martinis, but alas, it was jam-packed so we were denied. Luckily, Gulshan Tandoori was right across the market. We (well, I really--and the rest followed) marched straight in.

I've never seen people so glad to see me. The staff were so nice and friendly and welcoming. It was nice.

The Loos: Not so nice and welcoming. Very wet. UGGH. Gross.

The Food: You must remember that by this point, the beverages had been flowing for quite some time. So everything, in my mind, was quite delicious. Particularly the chicken jalfrezi. I think that was the table favorite. The palak paneer was also quite nice. And the garlic naan, was, of course, a great way to mop everything up.

The Verdict: Friendly service. Good food. Nice prices. A dependable standby. But gotta do something about the loos.

Sushi: Miyabi

Great Eastern Hotel
Liverpool Street
EC2M 7QN
Tel: 020 7618 7100

Date of Last Visit: Wednesday, February 21, 2007

The Victims: Eugene, Kim, Brian, Jeff, Karen, Bernard

The Damage: £27 each

The Background: I am having a moment. I am teary-eyed. I love my friends. They make me laugh. It's good to be with them.

Kim is in from NY. Eugene in from HK. Brian is never in town and we've caught him at a rare moment. Bernard is a new dad. Bart is on the speakerphone. Seriously. We are in a Japanese restaurant by Liverpool Street. We call Tyson, And we try to find Matt.

The Drink: It's green tea and I love it. It is the best green tea I have ever had. It's not from a bag. The bottom of my cup is green sediment, in a good way.

The Food: We order and we order and we order some more. Our server is very sweet and very patient. Her eyeglasses are from Prada. Bernard cuts through our indecisiveness.

The food arrives and we are flabbergasted at the sheer quantity of it. (Eugene.) It is all so lovely and fresh and everyone laughs as I try--and fail--to get the pictures just right. We make life-changing pronouncements, and I commit to a novel. And then the tea is gone and the restaurant is quiet and so, for a moment, are we. It is time to say goodbye.

We exit, back to the darkness and to the street and the black cab, they to their hotels and I to my flat. And we know but do not say that it may be years before we are all in the same place again at the same time. And we will be older and hopefully wiser but we will never lose this.

Verdict: Go.

Gastro: The Hat & Feathers

2 Clerkenwell Rd
EC1M 5PA
Tel: 020 7490 2244

Date of Last Visit: Monday, February 19, 2007

The Victim: Michael

The Damage: Unknown! Michael paid.

The Background: Michael is unemployed AND homeless. Out of the kindness of my heart, I agreed to take him in for a few days to help get him back on his feet. The lure of my wireless Internet, stand-alone dryer, and full-size (albeit empty) refrigerator were too much to resist. He was over in a jiffy.

In thanks for my hospitality, Michael took me out to dinner with his last few schillings. I felt guilty about this, but only until I saw his laptop. After a grueling day at the office for me, and a day of ripping my CDs for him, we agreed to meet up at the Hat & Feathers.

The Approach: Now, I've been wanting to go to the H&F for quite some time. It's been empty for as long as I've lived in the 'hood, although it always looked like someone was in there working, working, working. I don't know who they were, but they sure were slow. Either that, or the H&F must have been a s*&%thole previously. So I was excited. But my excitement was tempered by the--how shall I say--tempered glass. See, the H&F uses this ridiculous frosted glass all around the property, and it is seriously 5 ft 4 inches tall so if you are walking by the place and less taller than me, you can't see in. This is annoying.

The Bar: I swear I do not make these stories up. I went in and Michael, my homeless and unemployed friend, was not in there. So I went to the bar and ordered a beer I've never heard of before--The Cruzcampo. My server poured my beer, and I was reminded of my first days at Jones Beach State Park, when I had no idea how one went about pouring a beer. My first 47 were pure foam. With ice. Being that we're in Europe and all, my server skipped the ice. But there sure was a lot of foam.

But this was the best part--these two women came up next to me while he was pouring my foamy beer. It was obvious they were thirsty. He gave me my beer and took my money. (He had poured all the foam away.) And then he walked away and went in the back. Totally. Completely. Gone. There were no other servers. The two women were like, "Ummmm...where the hell did he go?"

So being the person I am, I tracked him down. He was behind the bar. Eating his dinner. Oblivious. I tried to get his attention. But then I remembered that he was French and this was a fruitless endeavor. (My apologes to any French people reading this. But really. Welcome to my world.) I took my beer and my seat and proceeded to watch the two women attempt to get his attention. Finally, he returned to the bar area and offered them a foamy beverage. It was terrible.

The Food: It gets worse!!! Michael arrives and being that he is homeless and all, he is starving. So I order the steak and chips and he orders soup and pork belly. We wait and wait and finally, the food arrives. All at the same time. Michael is a tad upset about this...why did they bring him his soup at the same time he brought his meal? Why did it take 15 minutes to bring the soup? How can he possibly eat all of the food at the same time? Our server blinks...there is a language barrier. Michael has an excellent command of the French language and I so want him to bust it out, but he won't do it. So they take away his pork belly. (Michael has some fine tastes for a homeless man.)

I am not optimistic. I am convinced that we will never see the pork belly again. And I am partially right. Ages later and Michael is done with his soup and I have v-e-r-y-s-l-o-w-l-y made my way halfway through my steak and there is no sign of pork belly. He has to go to the bar and practically beg for his food.

I should note that through all of this, the restaurant is fairly empty. We are perhaps two of the four people eating.

The Verdict: The sad thing is that the food was pretty good. My steak was moist but not in a bloody way. The chips were some of the best I've ever had...almost as if they fried mashed potatoes. But the service? It was laughable! Some of the worst I've ever had. The clincher? They automatically added 12.75% to the tab.

We think not.

P.S. I do want to credit our friend Richard with the unemployed AND homeless line. I can only wish I were that witty. Grazie.