Step out of Finsbury Park Station (Wells Terrace exit) on any evening and turn right towards Stroud Green Road - you can't help but get a whiff of the sweet jerk chicken aromas wafting through the air. It's a nasal delight, a perfect accompaniment for a summer sunset; and it's provided by the hot griddles of the yellow shack on the corner, Big Dada's BBQ (open 10am-midnight everyday).
One fine April evening I stopped off here for a touch of nourishment on my way up the hill towards home. I asked the chef behind the counter for a saltfish patty and made some preliminary enquiries about the establishment.
'So do you cook all your patties here?' I asked, as he took the yellow pastry off the incubated rack and slipped it into a paper bag.
'No, no, they get made in a factory', he said, smiling, '...they come from a factory near Heathrow Airport.' How intriguing, I thought. Why so far away? Are the raw ingredients flown in direct from the Caribbean? Presumably somebody is lugging sackloads of hot patties up the Piccadilly Line everyday.
Fumbling for change, I realised I only had £1.31 in my packet, and the asking price for saltfish patties was £1.50. Seeing my struggle, the seller said not to worry and let me off the difference and handed over the patty. So far, so great! Clutching this cutpriced prize I wandered off up hill.
The lukewarm yellow half-moon pastry was flatter and floppier than I'd had before. Taste-wise, too, I was left surprisingly underwhelmed. It took me three bites to get a tangible grasp of the saltfish's presence. The remainder of the filling was composed of moist mushed pea, sweetcorn, carrot, and red pepper. Only when I reached the mid-section did the flavours break through and liven up my tastebuds. That was the best bit, the pepper and hot spice complementing the saltiness of the fish (cod, I think). Good stuff. Once I'd passed the patty's halfway point though, the spiciness went away again, and I was left struggling on with a mouthful of dry pastry and soggy stodge. To wash it down I went to a newsagents for a can of Orangina (39p).
Overall, I had no major gripes with Big Dada's - it hit the spot, eventually, and I got a discount after all - but as I continued up the hill I felt the pastry/seasoning/filling ratio needed minor adjustment to justify the regular £1.50 pricetag.
Big Dada's BBQ, Finsbury Park Station
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Saturday, 4 April 2009
Talking cobblers, patty meltdown at Nag's Head
I woke up this morning to discover I'd lost the heel of my left shoe.*
So today I took said damaged sole to a key cutter/trophy engraver based in the covered market on the corner of Seven Sisters Road/Holloway Road, north London. When I got there, the man in behind the counter, who had a physique resembling a rugby ball, was preoccupied with sculpting a doorkey. Not wanting to distract him I sheepishly placed my stinking Balmoral on the counter, pointed to the heel, and hoped for the best. Clocking me, he yelled 'Alright mate, come back in an hour!' from the back of the workshop. I think he got it.
So with an hour to spare, and a dazzling sun in the sky, I decided to go to work on rooting out the best takeaway on the Holloway Nag's Head junction. The streets were alive with early summer heat and floods of Friday afternoon A1 traffic. The fine weather and last-day-of-term buzz brought out the best in everyone: schoolkids, commuters, workmen, geriatrics, Community Support Officers, even three old blokes that stood outside the bookmakers staring into middle-distance seemed to be having a good time.
My first port of call was the Percy Ingle Cafe on Holloway Road. Despite having a teapot on its signage Percy Ingle is really more of a bakery than cafe. It's glass shelves are full of breads, muffins, spongecakes, doughnuts, and pastries - it obviously caters for the calorific sweet-tooth. I wasn't sure this place could provide what I hankered for, and when I asked the red-faced lady behind the counter if she sold samosas, she became flustered and yelped 'Who!?!', as if I'd uttered some dreaded codeword. I tried to reassure her, told her not to worry, thanked her for her troubles and moved on. Back to the junction.
As the name suggests, Manhattan Bagels just up Seven Sisters Road does a big line in ring shaped bread rolls - you can get virtually any savoury filling you want here. My only gripe with shops like these is that I'm sometimes unsure about their pre-prepared filled bagels (those wrapped in clingfilm). Several times I've bitten into a dry/stale bagel stored in this way. Best to go for something off the menu I suggest, or add an slightly offkey filling (eg. smoked salmon, cream cheese, and cucumber) then you'll get fresh bread from top of the pile, and you see it all being put together for yourself. You can always take the unwanted ingredient out. Something else to note about this cafe is that there always seems to be two elderly Italian men sitting at a table here, sipping coffees and watching the world go by.
I ended up going to J's Supreme Cuisine, a Carribean catering trailer parked in front of the Holloway Road Seven Day Adventist Church. This kiosk has been a fixture at Nag's Head for many years. I got chatting to the lady proprietor who told me how she was fundraising for a children's charity and how she was looking forward to the weekend. She was full of life and seemed to have many regular customers from the college nearby. After checking the menu against my change I asked for one of her finest saltfish patties and a portion of macaroni cheese. Out they came, served with a smile. I bit into the patty first, it was good, evenly spiced warm filling, with tender pastry. The macaroni cheese was worth it too - a big slab for £1. It could have done with a sprinkling more seasoning perhaps, but no major qualms. A veritable energy boost for the stroll back to pick up my repaired footwear.
Sipping a can of 7up on my way to collect my shoe from the rugby-ball shaped cobbler, I basked in the knowledge that I'd only scratched the surface on a world streetfood on this fine London junction.
*I'd unexpectedly become involved in a frenzied effort to rescue a pair of small dogs with extremely waggly tails that were scampering around at 3am on the disheveled streets of Camden Town. Our good intentions were misconstrued by the authorities as an attempt to kidnap somebody's beloved pets. Rest assured, the dogs have since made it safely back to their alarmed owners.
So today I took said damaged sole to a key cutter/trophy engraver based in the covered market on the corner of Seven Sisters Road/Holloway Road, north London. When I got there, the man in behind the counter, who had a physique resembling a rugby ball, was preoccupied with sculpting a doorkey. Not wanting to distract him I sheepishly placed my stinking Balmoral on the counter, pointed to the heel, and hoped for the best. Clocking me, he yelled 'Alright mate, come back in an hour!' from the back of the workshop. I think he got it.
So with an hour to spare, and a dazzling sun in the sky, I decided to go to work on rooting out the best takeaway on the Holloway Nag's Head junction. The streets were alive with early summer heat and floods of Friday afternoon A1 traffic. The fine weather and last-day-of-term buzz brought out the best in everyone: schoolkids, commuters, workmen, geriatrics, Community Support Officers, even three old blokes that stood outside the bookmakers staring into middle-distance seemed to be having a good time.
My first port of call was the Percy Ingle Cafe on Holloway Road. Despite having a teapot on its signage Percy Ingle is really more of a bakery than cafe. It's glass shelves are full of breads, muffins, spongecakes, doughnuts, and pastries - it obviously caters for the calorific sweet-tooth. I wasn't sure this place could provide what I hankered for, and when I asked the red-faced lady behind the counter if she sold samosas, she became flustered and yelped 'Who!?!', as if I'd uttered some dreaded codeword. I tried to reassure her, told her not to worry, thanked her for her troubles and moved on. Back to the junction.
As the name suggests, Manhattan Bagels just up Seven Sisters Road does a big line in ring shaped bread rolls - you can get virtually any savoury filling you want here. My only gripe with shops like these is that I'm sometimes unsure about their pre-prepared filled bagels (those wrapped in clingfilm). Several times I've bitten into a dry/stale bagel stored in this way. Best to go for something off the menu I suggest, or add an slightly offkey filling (eg. smoked salmon, cream cheese, and cucumber) then you'll get fresh bread from top of the pile, and you see it all being put together for yourself. You can always take the unwanted ingredient out. Something else to note about this cafe is that there always seems to be two elderly Italian men sitting at a table here, sipping coffees and watching the world go by.
I ended up going to J's Supreme Cuisine, a Carribean catering trailer parked in front of the Holloway Road Seven Day Adventist Church. This kiosk has been a fixture at Nag's Head for many years. I got chatting to the lady proprietor who told me how she was fundraising for a children's charity and how she was looking forward to the weekend. She was full of life and seemed to have many regular customers from the college nearby. After checking the menu against my change I asked for one of her finest saltfish patties and a portion of macaroni cheese. Out they came, served with a smile. I bit into the patty first, it was good, evenly spiced warm filling, with tender pastry. The macaroni cheese was worth it too - a big slab for £1. It could have done with a sprinkling more seasoning perhaps, but no major qualms. A veritable energy boost for the stroll back to pick up my repaired footwear.
Sipping a can of 7up on my way to collect my shoe from the rugby-ball shaped cobbler, I basked in the knowledge that I'd only scratched the surface on a world streetfood on this fine London junction.
*I'd unexpectedly become involved in a frenzied effort to rescue a pair of small dogs with extremely waggly tails that were scampering around at 3am on the disheveled streets of Camden Town. Our good intentions were misconstrued by the authorities as an attempt to kidnap somebody's beloved pets. Rest assured, the dogs have since made it safely back to their alarmed owners.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
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
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
Thursday, 18 December 2008
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
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, 9 November 2008
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.
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