No Place Like Home

 
One of the lovely people that reads my blog commented recently that he only enjoys my posts when I talk about a restaurant that he would go to i.e somewhere cool and in central/East London. Heeding this observation, I dined at the uber trendy and oh-so-applauded Dalston pop-up Rita's a couple of Fridays ago and hated it.

In its defense the food - beans with meaty chunks of beef heart, mac n cheese with hints of green chilli, sticky chicken wings - was fine; and I can see why the critics vomited praise at its well-dressed feet. But the dishes were also over-priced, under-sized and served by a sullen gaggle of American-Apparel-ad-wannabes so interested in conversing with fellow pouting people they left us sitting without drinks and food for most of the evening. Call me out of touch, but you just don't get this kind of abandonment in your local curry house. Particularly if your local curry house happens to be Ganipati. 

For those of you who don't know, Ganipati is a Southern Indian restaurant on the East Dulwich/Peckham boarder much lauded by those in the spicy know. The Evening Standard have featured it, bloggers go weak at the naans at the mere whisper of one of their curries, and East Dulwich yummy mummy's fight hammer and spotlessly-manicured nails for weekend reservations. 

We went on a Saturday night whim (having stumbled across a last minute cancellation) and from the moment our cheerfully efficient waitress sat us down and rushed to fill our glasses with wine, leaving us to inhale the alarmingly good smells coming out of the kitchen, I knew that we had a neighbourhood gem on our hands. 

Everything we tried from the reassuringly short menu was excellent, kicked off with a pile of golden pappadoms and colourful array of home-made chutneys. These were followed quickly by vegetarian street snacks (fried orbs of spicy potato and ginger and chilli flecked chana dal) and a fragrant mutton chop dressed with a cheerful crunch of finely-shredded carrot and greens.

So far so good but the mains really illustrated why this tucked-away, suburban curry house has fans all over our fine capital. I wasn't familiar with Kerala Kozhi (chicken cooked in a masala of coconut, red chilli, coriander seed, garlic and black pepper) and its description in no way did justice to the pitch perfect layers of subtle spice that permeated every mouthful. Even better was the Tuna kodampuli, a mind blowing blend of fiery chilli heat, smoky tamarind and onions slow-cooked until they morphed into treacle. Best was the Kerala Paratha, which can only be described as what would happen if a fluffy flatbread and flaky croissant got it on over a griddle pan. Seriously sexy.

So, dear blog reader, I promise to venture forth into eating places both unknown and semi-permanent in the far-stretching reaches of East, North and West. But only if I can go back to Ganipati every time I want to be reminded that great restaurants need not be hip, they just need to treat you well and feed you better. 

Ganapati
38 Holly Grove
SE15 5DF
020 7277 2928

Full of Whit

Like most Londoners with a penchant for eating, Whitstable came into my consciousness via The Sportsman (michelin-starred pub in case you're still not conscious). I’m sure I’m not the only one who dreamt of a weekend in a quaint hotel, doing quaint seaside type things, topped off with a trip to this most gastro of gastro pubs.


Sadly, despite what the folk at Disney like to tell us, not all dreams come true. Particularly when you cant afford them.So here is my short and image-led guide to having a spankingly good weekend in Whitstable without the fancy bits.

One. Use The Guardian website to find a reasonably priced but beautifully decked out boutique hotel.

Two. Order as much as you can from the continental breakfast menu, even if you cant finish it.

Three. When it invariably starts pissing it down, spend an afternoon drinking cider at The Lobster Shack. Don't leave until everything takes on a psychedelic hue. 

Four. Explore Whitstable's ye olde shops, taking in all that is gaudy and good about seaside towns. Don’t miss the cheese shop.

Five. Cycle along the coast from Whitstable to Margate – stopping off to take ‘arty’ pictures of beach huts and the like.

Six. Eat fish and chips from tacky boxes because, no matter how much you wish it, they just don’t wrap them in newspaper any more.

Seven. Despite the fact fish and chips always come in a giant-sized portion, order scampi on the side.

Eight. Run round the new Turner Gallery at Margate in 10 minutes, then take another ‘arty’ picture of it.

Nine. Go to Whitstable. It’s brilliant.

We stayed at:
The Front Rooms

9 Tower Parade

Whitstable

CT5 2BJ


I would highly recommend. 

Give a Toffee

Despite being tucked away somewhere between Clerkenwell and Islington, The Blacksmith & The Toffeemaker - on the nether end of St John Street - has made quite the impression on pub-loving folk. Much has been said about its natty décor (70s winking wallpaper, distressed modern light fittings, shiny tiles), down to earth grub and plentiful supplies of gin including Sipsmith (obvs), Hayman’s and Martin  Miller’s.

I cycled my way from Great Portland Street during the great rains of early July, thus arriving sodden to the core and relentlessly miserable. If it'd been any other night, in any other pub, with any other manager, I would probably have remained this way. But mulishness is futile when someone cheerfully deposits a whiskey sour 'to warm you up' in manner of a grown-up Mary Poppins;  and casually admits to serving more than one variety of scotch egg.

Those beautiful scotches came from the deli counter which sits of the end of a rather lovely bar. The first an amply-sized golden orb surrounded by peppery pink mince - revealing an oozing sunshine centre. The second a dainty quail's egg cousin adorned with a luxurious black pudding coat. Along with the eggs came a classic pork pie thick with meat and crust, plus a densely rich potted duck. The deli items even came with their own perfectly-matched pal - the eggs a cheerfully crunchy piccalilli, the pie a punchy mustard and the potted duck with salty chunks of pickled gherkin.  

Having so enthusiastically attacked the starters, it was impossible to give the amply-sized main courses the same attention. (already so full we'd been forced to stop drinking to save what little room we had). The mouthfuls of rabbit pie (again from the hot section of the deli counter) that I managed were abundant in tender morsels of pink meat and buttery puffs of pastry; and the side of celeriac remoulade as pleasing an accompaniment I've encountered in a while. 


Desserts and further endeavors behind the bar were utterly impossible after such an extensive pastry/meat binge (I could barely stay upright on my cycle home). But I fully intend to go back soon, sans bike, for a responsible dinner of gin and cake...  

The Blacksmith & The Toffeemaker
292-294 St John Street,
EC1V 4PA