Stout benevolence

Weighing up what to go for down the Indian snack aisle at Tesco earlier this week, I heard an unfamiliar voice come from over my shoulder asking: 'Where do they keep the booze in this place?'

I looked round and standing there was a small goateed bloke wearing a black tracksuit, baseball cap, and quizzical eyes. He was with a friend, a bigger man who didn't say anything. I sensed a Pinky and the Brain dynamic.

'It's all over there mate', I said, and pointed them in the right direction. Small goatee man then spontaneously showed me what he was holding.

'Bruv, listen, look at this', he said, and revealed a tub of Swedish Glace Smooth Vanilla Ice Cream he'd picked up from the freezer area. 'This is the best ice cream money can buy'. In all fairness, it did look classy.

'I bet it's the most expensive as well', I said.

'Nah mate, its £1.80 in Costcutters, only £1.55 here.' Then, again unprompted, he proclaimed: 'Listen, take a tub of this, a can of draught Guinness, and three spoonfuls of Horlicks, you know, that malt drink... mix it up in a blender, and it comes out beautiful. The best thing you'll ever taste.' He looked so proud, as if he'd just won Masterchef, and wore a smile from ear to ear.

'Ah, sounds tasty, cheers for that', I nodded. 'Hope you enjoy it man.'

With that, him and his friend headed off towards the alcohol section to pick up their Guinness.

About 30 seconds later, I bumped into them again in the breakfast/teabag aisle whilst I pondered which cereal I'd have that week. They'd obviously got lost again. 'It's just round there mate', my hands were full with different cereal boxes so I motioned with my head, and they scampered away. Good guys.

Lo and behold, I encountered the pair yet again at the robotic self-service check-outs. They were putting their stuff through the scanner, but unfortunately Tesco don't allow you to split apart multipacks of beers so they had to do without the Guinness for the time being (they only wanted one can - which was strange because there were two blokes - were they sharing the drink? - and for the record it was the second, silent man who seemed to be in charge of the money, I noticed he pulled a fat wad of twenties out of his wallet). They got hold of the ice cream, at least.

On their way out they saw me and nodded goodbye, and so off they went, back into the starlit night of their sweet cocktail universe.

--------------------------

Time passed, and I couldn't stop thinking about this recipe I'd so inexplicably chanced upon. So. a few days later I gave in, bought a blender and tried it out for myself. The results were surprising. It actually tastes great. The ice cream gives the drink a sweet velvet texture, with the Horlicks adding a malty edge. For an extra kick add a good glug of Tia Maria to the mix. (My mate Rob took it a step too far and added a spoon of peanut butter, which doesn't mix properly with the beer.)

If you're wondering what any of this has to do with samosas or fastfood, I initially bumped into those fellas around the samosa/bhaji/pakora shelf in Tesco. They must have been really lost. If you made it this far, thanks for reading. If you haven't read it but still made it this far, you've obviously just skipped to the end... but cheers anyway.


Tesco Metro, Stroud Green Road, Finsbury Park

Old habits die hard

With my stomach rumbling on a visit to see some old friends in the East Midlands, I decided to pay a visit to one of my old haunts. It was raining cats and dogs in Nottingham, and with the tramlines whistling behind me, I dropped in at the celebrated Bombay Sweet Centre which sits opposite the Hyson Green Asda landscape-blot.

As well as samosas, pakora, and bhajis, Bombay sells a big range of Indian sweet dishes and fresh curries cooked in-house and ready to go. A little while back I spent many afternoons trying out the fresh delicacies on offer here, such as barfi (soft sweet cuboids like fudge) and jalebi (twirls of fried syrup). The display of colour is so warm and beautiful. Glistening in-between a tired betting shop and a tatty internet cafe, this family business is a great aromatic house of food joy.

Standing there in the shop, a tide of nostalgic thoughts flooded over me. The warm aura of my surroundings brought back strange memories of being unemployed and wiling away destitute days in fine diners like the Bombay. As I admired the heaps of sweet and savoury snacks behind the glass counter, a taxi driver jostled past and asked the the big shopkeeper for a samosa. Witnessing this, my mind was made up: I asked for three of the fat triangular vegetable pastries for myself. A genuine bargain at 30p each, they were homemade to boot.

"There you go boss," said the stoic owner, as he bagged them up and dished them out.

Taking my first bite, I wasn't disappointed...

Bombay Sweet Centre, Radford Road, Nottingham

A samosa named desire

I'd been to see A Streetcar Named Desire at the cinema, and walked out with mixed feelings. Poor Blanche DuBois, sure; but that Stanley Kowalski, what a brute. A lady sitting next to me snoozed her way through the film, but I was startled by the young Marlon Brando's mesmeric on-screen adonis. A veritable hero.

Crossing the Thames from the BFI, we went straight to the pub. Two Irish coffees weren't enough to take the edge off the cold snap of wintertime Soho air, though. It was time to have a samosa.

After peering into a few indistinctive touristy places that looked either empty and sad or inauthentic and overpriced, we settled on Tiger Spice, which somehow managed to roll all of those qualities into one colourful room of muddled intrigue. As two smiling waitresses greeted us, a late 90s cheesy pop compilation played on the stereo and chintzy Christmas trinkets adorned shelves and wallspace. Kowalski/Brando would have hated it.

Three Indian beers later, though, and things began to regain a semblance of normality. With S Club 7 on the speakers, we reminisced about our favourite teachers at school (Miss Patterson - thanks for everything). Meanwhile, two tall blonde German tourists walked in, panicked, and u-turned out.

The sweetest part of the Tiger Spice experience was placing our order. Asking for curry and beer was easy, but my request for a samosa was met with baffled eyes and sideways glances from our eager-to-please waitress. I didn't panic, though. I just had to make the internationally recognised hand gesture for samosa (two hands making a triangle using thumbs and index fingers) and we were all back on the same page. She knew what I meant. There were grins all round. Samosas build fried pastry bridges over cultural divides.

When the food arrived, it was actually a lot like the 90s girl- and boyband pop we were being treated to. Vaguely pleasing on the eye, but missing depth and character, and not something you'd ever deliberately go back to. Even the little samosas were a slight disappointment. The pastry was brittle like a Chinese fortune cookie, and the maroon-coloured mashed potato filling contained little carrot, pea or much else. Spices had obviously been used, but they'd been misdeployed, and rather than being an adventure, each samosa bite became a tepid task. As Robbie Williams' 'Let Me Entertain You' blurted out of the speakers, I took a big yawn.

We settled the bill and stepped back into the cold roads of Soho night. Walking to the bus, we passed two drag queens singing disco hits to a heaving pubload of punters on the corner of Tottenham Court Road. As voyeuristic old men gawped through windows, the cross-dressed singers marched out of the pub and into the middle of the road. The euphoric pub scene spilt out into the pavement as the singers stood swaying on a traffic island belting out 'I Will Survive'. Meanwhile, a pair of dawdling community support officers rolled their eyes at the frolicking scenes of a drunk Sunday. We kept walking.

With the stars high in the darkening sky, the evening was turning colder and stranger. I thought to myself, 'what would the young Brando do now?' - so decided to head back north for the inaugural Skittle-ites (bowling team) training session.

Tiger Spice, Old Compton Street.

A toot for me, a horn for you.

After taking in the rain-soaked excitement of FA Cup First Round day up at Barnet, there was only one thing on my mind. Yep.

A rail replacement bus took us down to Archway, the towering junction known for its Irish pubs and stumbling panhandlers. After a swift pint in the Red Lion, it was dinner time. Off we ventured down the hill to Sitara - the Indian Jazz Restaurant.

The week before I had no-showed on a table booking here for my birthday, so was slightly apprehensive about going back. Well, I needn't have been. Ushered to the grand round table, we were treated like kings.

'Is this alright for you lads?' asked the sharply-dressed propreitor, after putting on a graceful Blue Note flute record from 1963. 'I've got loads more of this at home...' he nodded away.

So the jazz mood was set: hot music, dim lighting, walls adorned with smoky Herman Leonard prints and classic album sleeves. Would the cuisine live up to the decor?

An eldery waiter brought over the samosas, presented two to a plate and garnished with corriander and a lemon wedge. They looked smart and tidy, thin crisp pastry wrapped tightly around little triangular parcels. Taking a bite, the innards were marked by a moist texture and a delicate balance of spice and veg. A delicious treat.

With the smooth bassline reverberating away in the background, I gazed at the little samosa, and something dawned on me.

Blue Note on the stereo, biriyani on my plate, and all the wonders of north London nightlife outside. Jazz, curry and Archway: the night had a triangular joy about it. This was matched by the perfect rotational symetry of the samosa. Were the Ancient Egyptians right? Is three really the magic number?

The universe seemed complete. Either that, or I had had one too many bottles of Cobra.

Off we went in search of London hugs.