Keralan food at Thattukada, East Ham

Another recent trip to outer edges of the Tube map took me to East Ham, home to one of London’s largest South Indian populations. (The other is in Wembley.) With a branch of the State of India bank, a large Bollywood cinema and a number of Hindu temples, even the non-food offerings on the high street were enough to make me feel like I had gone much further than to the edge of Zone 4.

As for the food, one could dine well without ever sitting down, grazing the stands on High Street North and nearby Green Street for chaat (combinations of potatoes, chickpeas and small hollow biscuits layered with texture-adding crisped rice or fried vermicelli made of gram flour, herbs, yogurt, spices and tamarind chutney), sweets, lentil or rice-flour steamed dumplings (vada) and what are likely far superior versions of standards snacks like pakoras and samosas. (Some particular recommendations can be found here and here.) And while the grocery stores and veg stands tend to be a bit smaller and less visually impressive than their counterparts in Tooting or Southall, they seemed to be well-stocked.

I had made the trip, however, with a very particular destination in mind: Thattukada, a small Keralan restaurant known for its thalis and fish dishes. When I arrived, the front room was filled with thirty or more women celebrating a birthday or reunion. Some women had ordered dosas, but there were also banana leaves being unfurled and waiters circulating with pots of rice, curry and dhal. I was escorted into an alcove otherwise occupied by men having a hurried lunch of idly (steamed rice cakes), chutneys and sambal.

Service was confused and confusing, but there was plenty to watch, particularly as the women began to get up to take photos, revealing jewel-coloured saris and lots of bangles. Rice arrived after a time, plumper than basmati and tinged rust red at the edges—apparently a Keralan varietal. Some minutes later, a mustard-coloured dhal, mild up front with a tickle of chilli at the back, was ladled out onto the banana leaf. A warm salad of green cabbage and shreds of toasted coconut followed, along with pakora-like clusters of what I later learned was karela, or bitter melon.  This assemblage, elements of which were refilled several times over, would already have been enough for a sizeable, and very good, meal, but more followed: a dry curry of a vegetable resembling okra (sahjan or drumsticks), with a slightly stringy texture, and several wet, yogurt-based ones, possibly including green bananas. There were poppadums as well, and a sharp, sour chutney. A tiny banana arrived, which seemed to signal the end of the meal, even though the fish curry had not yet arrived. The latter did eventually make an appearance, though, and it was splendid—hot, sour, creamy with coconut and full of meaty flavours from the oily, tuna-like fish.

I left perplexed but happily full, having spent just over £5 (fish thali and chai) . A  follow-up visit seems in order soon. On my list to try: netholi, an anchovy-like fish deep fried and served with onions and curry leaves and spice paste-rubbed fish roasted in banana leaf.

Thattukada now has two restaurants on High Street North. The menus are the same, but the one at 229 is intended to be more family-friendly and does not serve or allow alcohol, while the original at number 241b is licensed. Both branches are open daily for lunch and dinner. Their number is 0203 6024 303.

Turkish beans + a recipe

Like the English caff, the Turkish esnaf lokantasi (tradesmens’ restaurant) is usually a daytime-only operation where lots of tea is served. For both, the core custom is local, male and looking to get some hot food without spending a bundle. But where the former might top out at a decent plate of egg and chips, many esnaf lokantasi feature up to a dozen or more home-cooked dishes: meat stews, stuffed vegetables, slow-cooked beans and homely desserts like rice pudding. This is meant to be cooking like Turkish mothers do, some recompense for spending the day in a shop or office

Ali Baba Kanaat Lokantasi’s location directly across from the Suleymaniye Mosque in Istanbul’s Fatih district attracts some tourists, though most don’t make it past the large terrace. Inside, it’s all late ‘30s vintage (bar the steam table and the fountain serving aryan, salty drinking yogurt) with pride of place given over to the fasulye (bean pot). The beans, small and white, are cooked to a recipe from Erzican in the south—distinctively spicier, with more tomato and less meaty, buttery overtones (though some butter and lamb fat or stock definitely make their way into the pot) than those popular further north, along the Black Sea. It was recommended that I order the beans with pilau and cacik, the yogurt-cucumber mixture that can range from pourable to clotted cream-like. The pilau, dotted with pine nuts, was gently savoury, and the cacik was super-thick, a soft, sour counterpoint to the heat and richness of the beans.

Though I tend to cook from recipes rather than taste memories, my first try at recreating the beans I had at Ali Baba Kanaat Lokantasi was nonetheless a success. I made the sauce thicker, as they were intended to sit alongside lamb chops rather than on rice. And while the exclusion of lamb fat and butter was not authentic, the resulting beans were hardly abstemious.

Fasulye in the style of Ali Baba Kanaat Lokantasi

I happened to have two ingredients for this dish which might not be readily available: semi-dried white beans, podded last summer and stored in the freezer, and an open jar of a Spanish/Portuguese sofrito-like sauce called tomate frito. For the former, the best substitute would be small, dried white beans, pre-soaked overnight and, depending on age and variety, cooked for a bit longer. Any good-quality brand of chopped, tinned tomato can be substituted for the tomate frito.

Like any chilli products, Turkish red pepper flakes vary in flavour profile and heat. I think this dish should have a good prickle of chilli, but not more. I’m not sure the bay leaves are authentic, but they marry very well with most bean and tomato dishes.

The beans are initially cooked separately in order to ensure they soften properly, something which can be retarded by the acid in tomatoes.

Serves 2
Total time (excluding soaking): 90 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

1 ½ cups semi-dried OR 1 cup dried white beans, pre-soaked if required
Olive oil
1 medium onion
Tomato paste
150 ml tomato frito OR ½ can tinned tomatoes
Turkish red pepper flakes (aci biber)
2-3 fresh bay leaves (ideally fresh)
1-2 cloves garlic
Small bunch parsley
Salt and pepper

Put the beans in a saucepan, cover amply with water and bring to a boil.

In another saucepan of a similar size, heat a thin film of oil on a medium heat. Chop the onion finely and add. Season with salt and pepper. Lower heat and sauté gently, until onion is fully soft and beginning to taste sweet. Squeeze in a few inches of tomato paste and cook for 3-4 more minutes.

When the beans reach a boil, turn down to a simmer and cover. Cook until soft but not falling apart. (In the case of semi-dried cannellini or lingot beans, this should be about 45 minutes.

Add the tomato to the onion. Refill the tomato jar/can to the same level with water and add to the pot, along with a good pinch of the red pepper flakes and the bay leaves. Chop the garlic and half the parsley and add. Season to taste with salt and pepper and cook on a gentle heat until thick and integrated, 30-45 minutes.

When the beans are ready, drain, reserving some of the cooking water, and add to the sauce. Adjust seasoning and add a bit of the reserved water if the sauce is too claggy. Cook for a further 15-20 minutes to allow the flavours to fully combine.

Just before serving, chop the remaining parsley and add. Finish with another pinch of pepper flakes.

Morito

A brief respite in the Istanbul-induced reveries to report on a fantastic meal much closer to home.

Tickets to see the flamenco virtuoso Carmen Cortes at Sadlers Wells put us just a few blocks away from Morito, the tapas bar opened by Sam and Sam Clarke of Moro fame. By barrelling down the stairs at the end of the performance, we managed to arrive just in time to secure two seats at the bar.

Located on the ever-gentrifying Exmouth Market (where I noted, however, that the tattoo parlour and pie and eel shop seem to be just hanging on), Morito is carved out of what was once a Spanish deli, Brindisa. It’s a tight squeeze, maybe 35 covers, with a fair amount of jostling and rearranging required for servers to get through. The benefit to this, though, is that it’s very easy to see dishes as they come out of the open kitchen. Those sitting at the bar can practically reach over and help themselves.

The menu mixes tapas standards—pimientos de padron, tortilla, salt cod croquetas—with an unusually wide selection of vegetable-driven options and some North African and Eastern Mediterranean selections. This more or less mirrored my expectations, the mother-ship having widened its reach in recent years to take in ingredients like pomegranate molasses, freekah and harissa, while retaining a focus on Spanish flavours and seasonal produce.

Our order came quickly, and we consumed it nearly as fast. The tortilla was textbook standard, creamily-textured, with yielding bits of potatoes and some slippery peppers. Salt cod croquetas with aioli also contained no surprises, but were completely without fault. Fried artichokes gave another chance to eat more delicious aioli, while the combination of smoked paprika and perfect frying made the vegetables utterly moreish.

Cauliflower was sautéed with pine nuts, raisins and a good pinch of saffron, melting on the interior and crispy-crunchy outside. A Turkish salad combined super-fresh tomato, cucumber and herbs with a slick of excellent yogurt. But the best dish—the one that has you asking the waiter how on earth they made it, and vowing to return post-haste—was simply described on the menu as “spiced lamb, aubergine, yogurt and pine nuts.” What it turned out to be was a sublimely rich and smoky baba ganoush-type dip, made creamy with yogurt, topped with shreds of lamb shank that had been slowly braised, then stripped off the bone and sizzled with warm spices and what the waiter described as “lots of butter.”

We scraped the plate with two types of bread, chunks of the excellent sourdough from Moro’s wood-fired oven, and char-edged flatbreads with the slightest bits of orange flower water. To wash it all down we had a very drinkable, crisp white, at £16 one of the best-priced bottles of restaurant wine I’ve seen in London for a long time.

Service follows the Moro model, informal but switched-on, and both knowledgeable and passionate about what’s coming out of the kitchen.

This may not be a place to linger, but it was warm and welcoming, with uniformly delicious and interesting food and very fair prices. It’s hard to think of many places which can match, much less improve, on that combination. And even with far fewer virtues, it would be worth going just for that lamb dish.

32 Exmouth Market

London EC1R 4QE

Tube: Angel or Farringdon

Open noon-11 pm Monday-Saturday; noon-4 pm Sundays

Bookings for lunch only.

Best of 2011

Ingredients of the year: corn tortillas and kalamansi limes

Tacos have made it into the bi-weekly dinner repertoire. Fillings vary: there has occasionally been spiced-up leftover brisket or shoulder of lamb, more often some beans. A cabbage salad is a new and popular addition to the table. Whatever the individual components, this is always fun to eat, its quality underpinned by proper tacos (ordinarily from here, though there are some being made in Brixton now too).

Amongst the many foolish things that the European Commission has done is to forbid the importation of these limes, far more intense and aromatic than anything I’ve come across. Bottled concentrates bring back at least some memory of drinking sweet-sour lime sodas across Malaysia, but I remain on the lookout for contraband.

Method: curing

When I lived in France, I would have no more made confit de canard from scratch than I would have baked my own croissants. But measured by an input-output ratio, this delivers an astonishing amount for very little effort: one pan, about 15 minutes of active time and a bonus jar of duck fat at the end.

Most exciting Brixton opening: Lab G

Our local maestro di gelato is a generous soul, a creative genius and a perfectionist, particularly when it comes to his exceptional pistachio and salted caramel flavours. This is the place we take people when we want them to appreciate just how astonishing the Brixton food scene is.

Best meal (London): Pied á Terre

I was lucky enough to eat at this Michelin 2-star twice in 2011. The food was beautiful to look at, and the kitchen is creative while still turning out plates that are hugely enjoyable to eat. The service was a surprise too: well-informed, generous and far from starchy. At lunchtime, it's not even shockingly expensive.

Best meal (everywhere else): Tek Sen

One of the few disappointing moments of our trip to Penang was finding this restaurant closed (some kind of temple festival) when we tried to make a return visit. This was revelatory food: astonishingly fresh yet amazingly complex in flavour. If there’s a single reason why we’re cooking and eating so much more Asian food now, it must lie in the effort to recapture what was on those plates.

Most-used cookbook: Madhur Jaffrey’s Curry Easy

We had this out from the library on and off for the last 6 months; our permanent copy should be arriving in time for the beginning of Hanukkah. It’s yielded crispy, spicy chickpeas which are perfect with a G&T, our first proper dhal and introduced us to curry leaves. But the biggest game changer has been making our own chapattis, far simpler and tastier than I would have imagined possible.

Most enjoyable food shop: A & C Co Continental Grocers

I’m spending more time in the local Asian grocery these days, and I still make a trip to Borough Market most weekends. But this is the place that I stop into nearly 6 days a week, whether for some olives or nuts to start off dinner, to top-up store cupboard basics or for the things that no one else sells locally, like quinces or fresh bay leaves. These are the people who’ve held onto my extra keys, make me laugh at the end of a rotten day and are eager to have taste me the new cheese that’s just come in. I don’t think most people have a shop like this; I’m very lucky that I do.

Best experiment: growing tomatoes

Flowers and shrubbery may still hold very limited interest, but I’m now beginning to understand why people like to garden. I’m not sure that in the midst of the root rot saga of August and September, or when I was hauling home 40 litres of potting soil on the bus, that I wholly appreciated how satisfying it could be to grow my own food. But it gave me occasion to talk to my neighbours, and was a far better use of time than more Internet surfing. And I learned that even basic cherry tomatoes taste great when picked as the table is being set for dinner.

Somerset and Potato Gratin

You know it’s going to be a good weekend when you’re met on arrival with hugs all around and a glass of your favourite champagne.

We were in North Somerset, 30 minutes or so out of Bristol, staying with G’s first year university roommate and his large and very welcoming family. The champagne—accompanied by a platter of blinis and salmon mousse—began an evening of copious food and wine, good conversation and a level of relaxation very rarely achieved on a Friday night.

The next day, having slept well under the watchful gaze of Justin Beiber (we had poached the seven year old’s room), we headed off on a country tromp. There was mud, stiles to climb over, lush green meadows and lots of sheep: all the things that the city folk expect out of a country walk. We ended up at a restaurant so seasonal, rustic and organic that the well-heeled, left-leaning readers of the Observer named it the UK’s best ethical restaurant. Other than its name, the Ethicurean, it wears its credentials lightly; the food did its setting ample credit.

Set in the conservatory of an old walled garden, much of the food is sourced on site or from nearby suppliers. The menu is small: terrines, salads, pies and platters of cheese and meat, served with local beers and ciders. Highlights included fantastically piquant chutneys and piccalilli (a traditional English vegetable pickle), off-dry Welsh cider and an Eccles cake, a flaky pastry filled with a warmly-spiced and not too sweet currant mixture.

After lunch, we ambled through the garden, where I discovered how Brussels sprouts grow, then into the orchard of dwarf apple trees. Home was through a series of corn fields, our progress hampered somewhat by our haul of mildly intoxicating beverages from the restaurant’s small shop.

We had been asked to cook dinner, a daunting task for a family that has eaten in serious restaurants and has shown us such exceptional generosity on many occasions. The opportunity to repay their hospitality was a welcome one, and the menu planning a massive highlight in an otherwise forgettable work week . We wanted the food to reflect how we like to eat, to demonstrate some effort, but not so much as to impinge on the relaxed atmosphere, and, most of all, to taste good.

We began with the Union Square Cafe’s bar nuts, buttery and warm, the sweetness offset by cayenne and rosemary. A simple salad followed: mustard-dressed leaves topped with blue cheese and walnuts. The main was duck confit; little more than some fresh herbs and a 24-hour run-up required. With that, we served gratin dauphinois and sautéed mushrooms. We finished with quince which we had poached in vanilla syrup until it was almost ruby-coloured, vanilla ice cream (not home-made) and sablé biscuits.

The duck and the quince are two of our favourite dishes at this time of year, while the nuts and salad have both made previous appearances. Sablé biscuits were a bit of a risk, as I’ve probably not baked more than a few batches of cookies since I was a kid. But it turns out, that with good butter, a reliable recipe, and some sea salt, there wasn’t much that could go wrong.

I had wavered on the gratin. Though the obvious accompaniment to the duck, my only experience was with eating it. But I should have known better than to doubt Julia Child. Her version—as adapted very slightly here--was hearty but not too rich, perfectly soft through the middle and appealingly crusty and bronzed on top. It may even be good enough to earn us some more invitations.

Gratin Dauphinois (Potato Gratin)

Adapted from Food 52 (who in turn adapted it from Julia Child)

Serves 6

Total time: 50 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

Special equipment: mandolin or food processor with a slicing blade; shallow baking dish (about 9 inches long and 2 inches deep)

350 ml whole milk

2 garlic cloves

2 bay leaves (ideally fresh)

Butter

1 kg waxy potatoes

200 grams grated Gruyere

Salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 220C. Put the milk in a small saucepan. Peel and smash one of the garlic cloves. Add it to the pot along with the bay leaves. Heat the milk gently until it comes to a simmer. Remove from the heat and let steep.

Peel the second garlic clove, cut it in half and rub the cut side around the inside of the baking dish. Rub butter inside the dish.

Peel the potatoes and slice with a mandolin or similar implement. Layer about a third of the potatoes into the dish. Season with salt and pepper and sprinkle a third of the cheese on top. Make two more layers in the same way.

Remove the garlic and bay from the milk and pour the milk over the potatoes. Bake the gratin for about 30 minutes, until it's browned and bubbly and a knife cuts through the potatoes easily. Let the potatoes cool for 5 minutes before serving.

October Round-up

Dosa n Chutney

Revisiting our London favourite for dosa and uttapam this weekend, I was relieved to discover that it measured up even post-Malaysia. The chutneys were fantastically fresh and sprightly in the mouth, the rava dosa—extra-lacy and crispy around the edges—was a great new find, and the service was as friendly as ever.

Rowley Leigh's Financial Times column

Intelligent food porn.

Muscat grapes

Oddly, these are a plummy, dusky purple, not green, as muscats are meant to be, but the tiny French grapes at Tony Booth’s greengrocers (formerly at Borough Market, now happily resettled at Maltby Street) are nonetheless delicious. I’m tempted by Amanda Hesser’s recipe for adding them to a foccaccia-like bread dough, and by this suggestion of roasting them with thyme, but that would leave fewer to just eat now.

Jamie Oliver’s new food programme

I know the man became ubiquitous a long time ago, but his new show on British food is both winning and informative. The producers have clearly employed some good researchers—hence the visit to the burger pop-up which was a big hit on Chowhound, and the accurate explanation of fish and chips’ origins with Jewish immigrants to London’s East End. Refreshingly, there’s no preaching, just enormous enthusiasm for British ingredients and recipes new and old. And the food looks damn tasty.

Venison

Advocates for eating more venison like to point out that it’s local, sustainable and low in fat. All true, but I think the best recommendation is the taste. We splurged on some saddle a few weeks back, which we sealed in duck fat then roasted in the oven to a rare pink. Last night we sautéed some onions, leeks and carrots, added bay, thyme, stewing meat and a bottle of brown ale and cooked in a low oven for half the afternoon, throwing in some vacuum-packed chestnuts about an hour before serving. Next up, I think, a ragu.

Brixton

According to no less an authority than the Observer’s Jay Rayner, Brixton Village is the “most exciting, radical venture on the British restaurant scene right now.” And to think I live just three minutes’ walk away.

Eating Penang

Penang (used to refer both to the island of the northwest coast of Malaysia and its capital), or George Town, as it is also known, is hot, crowded and almost disorienting in its concentration of sights, smells and sounds.

There are dozens of places of worship, ranging from the most modest sidewalk shrine to gilded temple complexes and spanning the city’s three major faiths: Buddhism, Hinduism and Islam (the last with separate Indian and Malay strands). Pedicab drivers tout for business, and there are far too many mopeds and motorcycles. The architecture encompasses British colonial relics, like the E&O Hotel and St George’s Church, touches of Art Deco and mid-century modern, and street after street of brightly-coloured, closely-packed shophouses (a building style popular across much of Southeast Asia, these were built in the nineteenth century as combined commercial and residential spaces.) The streets smell of joss sticks and cooking food. Much of the city looks a bit tumble-down and in need of a coat of paint; yet more and more buildings are being beautifully and painstakingly restored as shops, small hotels or homes.

Photographers, those with a yen for a history, or an interest in religious practices, all find plenty to satisfy in Penang. As for those who really like to eat: the quality, variety and sheer scale of what’s on offer is simply astonishing. It says something about how a city chooses to present itself to the world that maps of locations, days and times where several dozen iconic dishes can be eaten are prominently displayed at the airport. And even in a city which is changing rapidly, it’s striking that many of the best and most popular eating venues are ones which have survived the decades virtually unaltered.

With only three days available for our visit, we were almost always full but very rarely disappointed. To recount even the highlights is still a daunting task. A few stand-outs, in no particular order:

Steamed pomfret “Teo chew style” at Tek Sen, an open-fronted Chinatown cafe which has been serving Peranakan (also known as Nyonya or Straits Chinese, after the Chinese immigrants who married local women) dishes for the last 45 years. The mixture of pieces of tomato, black mushrooms, sour plums and some other unidentifiable items yielded a brothy sauce that was clean, sharp and phenomenally complex. The only place with a menu, much less an English-language one, the recent facelift has, according to those in the know, not changed the quality of food.

Mee goreng at Shahul Hamid. By far the most popular dish served in the rather dingy food court next to the seaside esplanade and eighteenth century Fort Cornwallis, the fried noodles cooked up by the stall’s owner are made to his father’s World War II-era recipe. My tin plate came piled with work-charred egg noodles, bits of peanuts, chives and squid fried with lots of chilli paste. In what was probably a quiet 20 minutes, no fewer than 2 dozen portions were cooked to order.

Assam laksa (sour noodle soup) at an unnamed cafe near the city’s business district. The broth balanced chilli heat with a strong punch tamarind, the fish was similar to sardines, meaty with a shredded texture, and the entirety was lifted with small chunks of sweet, acidic pineapple and fresh mint leaves. We could have easily finished several more of these small, orange bowls.

September highlights

Six weeks on, I’m still waxing rhapsodic about my recent South East Asia trip. But there’s been lots of other shopping, cooking and eating going on. A few highlights:

Tomatoes

Some of our plants succumbed to root rot, a likely combination of months of bad weather and too few holes poked in the bottom of the industrial-size tomato tins which served as pots. But it’s still been a highly credible first crop; we should finish with upwards of 800 cherry tomatoes.

There have been salads and pizza toppings aplenty, as well as roast tomato sauces destined for the freezer. A fair number never make it out of the bowl on the table. For slightly deferred gratification, however, it’s been hard to beat slow-roasted tomatoes, sliced in half, tossed with a bit of olive oil, fresh thyme or oregano, bay leaves, salt and whole garlic cloves, and put in a low oven (100 C) for 2 hours, or until they are wrinkly but not entirely desiccated. They then go in the fridge topped up with more oil, perfect for sandwiches, pre-dinner drinks and tossing through pasta.

Pho @ Cafe East

Amongst the best bowls I’ve ever come across (the saté pho at Pho Dong-Huong in Paris’ Belleville remains a sentimental favourite, but it’s not completely echt) is served at a simple cafe situated in a Deptford parking lot, next to a bowling alley, multiplex and bingo parlour. Its unpromising location is perhaps less surprising when you learn that the surrounding area is home to lots of second-generation Vietnamese. I’m partial to the spicy broth; the rice noodle dishes are good here too.

Cafe East

100 Redriff Road

Surrey Quays Leisure Park

Tube: Surrey Quays or Canada Water

Closer to home

Just underneath the Brixton rec centre, a new meat and grocery shop has opened. Its Algerian-born owner is selling loose olives, lots of fresh North African pastries and French-branded groceries, and, most excitingly, making his own merguez. A rotisserie is set up outside, awaiting the arrival of British Gas.

And in the market(s) proper, the eating options just keep getting better. I’ve heard that a Beijing-style dumpling stand is on its way to Granville Arcade, and I’ve met the very excited British-Oaxacan family pushing to get their Market Row taqueria open by the end of the week.

Notwithstanding the rain, the stands at Sunday farmer’s market have been full of beautiful, cheap fruit and vegetables, the last few weeks of the courgettes, corn, tomatoes and berries overlapping with the arrival of apples, pears and pumpkins. And I can only imagine the weather must be good for beets, because the ones for sale right now are large enough to feed a Ukrainian family for at least a few days.

In the kitchen

It’s been simple—but good—eating around here: lots of stove-top pizza, tacos, grilled meats and salads. A notable success has been finding an aubergine dish that didn’t involve buckets of oil and was worth repeating. I’m not sure why it took me so long to look in the obvious place—one of the Moro cookbooks. This recipe began with the predictable steps of grilling and scooping out the flesh, but then called for sautéing the resultant mush with tomatoes, fresh coriander, cumin and cayenne until the water was cooked out, and the puree rich and caramelised. Perfect alongside grilled lamb kebabs, roasted peppers, flatbread and a tzatziki-like dip.

Bonnes Addresses Brixton

Coming back to London after a few days vacation in Paris was unsurprisingly difficult. Part of it, of course, was that returning home also meant returning to work, to commuting and to all the rushing and hassle that was virtually absent from our Paris stay. But I had also become re-accustomed to the convenience and proximity of things I consider important to my daily quality of life: bakeries, a butcher, vegetable stands and a cheese shop, a convivial local café, a knowledgeable wine merchant and some interesting places to eat out. In my old Paris neighborhood, which we visited again over the August Bank Holiday, each of these was represented with a choice and quality that usually made it unnecessary to venture outside a 10-minute radius.

Brixton doesn’t yet provide all of these amenities. Top-quality meat is still a tube journey away, as is a full selection of cheese and an independent wine merchant. Though there’s wonderful bread, it can’t be bought after work or on a Sunday. But, fortuitously, my return to the neighbourhood has coincided with the opening of some food-related businesses which aren’t merely local, but genuinely good. (And if you don’t believe me, the New York Times is on the trail too.)

Bellantoni

First was the pizza, now we have pasta too, another tiny, unprepossessing joint delivering seriously impressive food. Six days a week, Dario Bellantoni turns out a few pans of deceptively simple vegetable lasagnas, some homemade fruit tarts and plates of antipasti. Fresh pasta can be made to order with a few hours notice. His little brother shows up to bus tables and make coffee on Thursday evenings, the one night the market arcade stays open late. A gelato machine is on the way, due to arrive from his mother in Italy later this month. (His mother’s influence can also be seen in the frequent appearance of red cabbage, popular in Italy’s formerly Austrian and Yugoslav territories, and in an occasional, strudel, tender and flaky.)

I’d come just for the lasagna, but welcome, banter and little extras make me feel like I’m being fed by a (very talented) friend.

Federation Coffee

London’s Antipodean population has done much to raise the standards of local coffee provision, bringing with them flat whites, well-sourced beans and an admirable blend of precision and laid-back charm. The latest outpost for their talents is another daytime-only spot in Granville Arcade. Service is switched-on and friendly, cakes and homely and well-priced (the blueberry friand and anything with streusel are particularly recommended) and the coffee—small batches roasted just off Brick Lane— the best for miles around.

Lido Cafe

Brockwell Park is an easy 20-minute stroll away from the centre of Brixton. While lacking the pulling power of more famous parks north of the river, it does boast views of the City of London, a walled garden, greenhouses (on which more soon) and a rambling historic house. Its most unusual feature, though, is a 1930s outdoor swimming pool, or lido. Recent restoration work added a poolside café. It’s far better than it needs to be, with an interesting list of drinks (including grüner veltliner by the glass and a lovely Champagne-style Cornish cider) and good brunch options. On a bright day, when the sun glints off the pool, the world feels, for a moment, practically perfect.

And without forgetting:

A &C Continental Grocers

I’m embarrassed to discover that I’ve never written about this long-established favourite. It deserves at least one blog post all its own.

Wild Caper

There’s a bit of an identity crisis going on here, but the bread, particularly the rustic sourdough cafone, and the German-style seeded rye, remains unimpeachable.

Brixton Farmers’ Market

In a neighborhood where people of different ethnicity and income level often shop in separate locations, the Sunday market provides a bit of common ground. The pumpkins and apples are multiplying each week now, though the last beans and berries are still lingering on. My favourite? The orange-yolked eggs sold by a perpetually-sunburned Pole.

Le Square Trousseau

Just down the road, at the edge of large, elegant square, is a turn of the century cafe/bistro so perfectly preserved that it has featured in movies and photo shoots. Inside the L-shaped room, the walls are sepia-toned and lined with leather banquettes and mirrors reflect the light from tulip-shaped chandelier bulbs. On the pavement, small tables and rattan chairs are arrayed so as to best take in the sun, trees and passers-by. No detail is missing: gleaming, zinc-topped bar, waitresses in long, white aprons, even the resident dog.

A bit more polished and expensive than its competitors, Le Square Trousseau nonetheless remains a locals’ joint. I could imagine putting on heels and crimson lipstick and having a decadent dinner there. But its timeless quality might be best appreciated with a coffee in the off-hours. Spring afternoons on the sidewalk-cum-terrace are predictably glorious, angling for the sun on my shoulders, watching after school errands segue into pre-dinner drinks. But I’ve begun to prefer indoors, where the gentle bustle of the square is replaced with old jazz standards and the whir of the coffee machine.

One day last week I arrived late, 11 am or so. The kitchen emitted smells of stew and chocolate cake, and the waitresses were preparing for lunch. On each table they set out a square of brown paper, a pepper grinder, wine glasses, flatware and white linen napkins. Two enormous loaves of bread arrived, a round of cheese was whisked off to a serving table, wobbly tables were righted with the help of lozenge-shaped metal disks.

Seated further down the banquette was the only other customer, a middle-aged woman reading the Sunday magazine supplement. The dog, a white and black Jack Russell, perched on the banquette between us, his posture perfectly erect. As the French would say, tous comme il fait (everything as it should be).

Le Square Trousseau
1 rue Antoine Vollon 75012
01-4343-0066
Open daily from early to late, limited café seats during peak eating hours

Cafe dei Cioppi

In stark contrast to Londoners and New Yorkers, Parisians are not in thrall to either a real or imagined dolce vita. At the simplest level, many believe that France contains the ne plus ultra of all that is significant: culture, history, language, cuisine and natural beauty. Accordingly, Parisians are far more likely to take their holidays domestically: in Brittany, the Dordogne or on their own (sizeable) Mediterranean coastline. Even with a long shared border, spanning from the Alps south to the Riviera, Italian cultural permeation is limited.

Add to this the absence of any significant Italian immigration to the French capital, and it is perhaps unsurprising that even the simplest red-sauce restaurants tend to disappoint. I was therefore dubious when a shoebox of an Italian cafe opened down the street a few months back. What were the chances that a kitchen smaller than mine would be turning out anything more than mediocre, overpriced pasta?

A few glowing, big-gun reviews were necessary before I realised that I was, quite possibly, entirely wrong, a fact which has been subsequently—and joyfully—confirmed over three of the best restaurant meals I’ve eaten in Paris. The kitchen has a talent for making the most unassuming dishes on the seasonal, pared-down menu—a cold courgette and mint soup, or pasta puttanesca—not only worthwhile to order, but befuddlingly delicious. Lasagne is another unlikely star; last week’s pumpkin and sausage rendition was rich with béchamel and lustily seasoned, the Platonic ideal of a season-shifting dish.

A simple salad of burrata, vegetables and leaves shows off good sourcing, and someone in the operation has an eye for unusual wines (all available by the glass). Even desserts, rarely a high point of Italian meals, are near-perfect. A dollop of mascarpone would have been lovely with the fig and ricotta cake, though you can see we had no difficulty in going without.

On our first visit, an outside table was occupied by some larger-than-life artist and designer types, with the leader of the pack, a Christian Louboutin look-alike, sporting a T-shirt that matched his saffron-rich risotto. None have been so obviously colourful since, but the close quarters, the alley-way full of hanging vines and bicycles and Franco-Italian mix of staff and customers all yield an unselfconsciously cosmopolitan atmosphere.

My living room, though a mere 150 metres away, is probably a bit too far for overflow seating. But I wonder whether they might be amenable to a dishwashing-lasagne exchange. Best reason I can think of to work on that glass-polishing...

159 rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine 75011
01-43-46-10-14
Monday-Friday lunch; Wednesday-Friday dinner
Metro: Ledru-Rollin

Encore pizza, mais a Londres maintenant

Here I was, all ready to give you a scoop: stunningly good, phenomenally cheap pizza from a place which happens to be just a 5 minute walk from my London home. But I let a nap, a movie and work get in the way, and Time Out London beat me to it, crowning Franco Manca as the city's best cheap eats.

There's not much more to say about the puffy, perfectly charred sourdough crust or the mozzarella with its slight lactic tang. Let me tell you what they didn't. The host-cum owner-cum sometimes waiter is effusive and excitable, the pizza makers are sweaty, shouting and lightening-fast, and the red wine is not only eminently drinkable but likely the best value in town at £1.20 a glass. They have the most concise pizza menu I've seen, with only 6 choices, and not a bad one among then. And it's smaller than your living room, with lingering discouraged.

Time Out made much of the fact that it's incongruous to find an authentic pizzeria in the midst of the mangoes, pigs' trotters and cheap shoes of Brixton's covered market. But while it's true that the neighborhood's vibe is more West Indian than Mediterranean, the energy, noise and vivid street life make it not totally dissimilar to southern Italian cities, where life seems to be lived on the sidewalk.

Before you get chased out of your seat, order a very serviceable expresso (with excellent pedigree), listen to the sing-song Italian banter and start to count down the days until they open their promised bakery. Dessert will, from about 2010 or so, be a cannoli, available just across the way. For the moment, however, the mangoes are 3 to the pound and not bad at all.

Le Meilleur Steak Tartare (Suprise: Ce n'est pas de Paris)

Whatever the NYT might say about the new fashion for burgers in Paris, neither the outré (and wildly expensive) versions they profiled, nor the sad, unembellished steak hache served in some brasseries here, have particular appeal. Even making a proper burger at home isn't simple. Heinz ketchup can be had for a price, the mayonnaise is unimpeachable, and the rolls adequate. The problem is with the beef: even when ground to order by a butcher, it's invariably too fine and lacking sufficient fat.

Where the French have historically excelled, however, is with the native cousin of the (very) rare burger: steak tartare. In traditional tartare, the beef is coarsely hand-chopped, with the additions of capers, Worcestershire sauce, and Tabasco or horseradish adding the tang and complexity provided by the classic burger condiments of ketchup and mustard and the raw egg lubricating in much the same way as mayonnaise. A popular variant on tartare even has the top of the otherwise raw patty quickly browned under the salamander. And both are normally--and appropriately--accompanied by frites.

Tartare is as ubiquituous in Paris as burgers are rare , and ordering it is a good way of testing the integrity and attention to detail of the kitchen. Sadly, from the most modest corner cafe to the more ambitious brasseries, all the ones I've tried have come up short. The egg is often pre-mixed, suggesting that the dish hasn't been made to order. Seasoning is rarely as precise and punchy as it should be, and the beef usually lacks the tell-tale irregularity of having been hand-cut. As for the frites, if the Americans can now make them as well, if not better, than the French, they are entitled to call them Freedom Fries or any other silly name they choose.

I'm not alone in seeking--and not necessarily finding--great tartare in Paris. But while I'd guess that my opinion on such matters would carry little weight here, I'm convinced that the best tartare can actually be found at Galvin Bistrot Deluxe, an absolutely classic French brasserie some 500 kilometres away in London. I wasn't lucky enough to be along the night this picture was taken, but I can attest that the only things which stand between this tartare and absolute perfection are the fact that it is made in an appetizer-sized version only, and that it therefore doesn't come with frites.

I should be in London very soon, and I'm hoping that a tartare excursion can be arrranged. In the meantime, I've discovered that the ever-reliable Clotilde has what looks like an authentic and straightforward version in her new cookbook. Here's the recipe, in case you're not in Eurostar distance of London. I may be making it too, if the butchers in my neighborhood would ever reopen from les vacances. (Ah Paris, j'adore...)

Tartare au Couteau
taken virtually unadapted from Chocolate and Zucchini
Serves 4

3 tbsp strong Dijon mustard
3 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp Tabasco
3 tbsp ketchup
1 tbsp brandy (optional)
3 medium shallots, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
3 tbsp small capers
2 tbsp chopped fresh parsley
1 tbsp chopped fresh tarragon
700g extra-fresh high-quality beef fillet
4 egg yolks from very fresh eggs

Mix the first five ingredients together in a small bowl. In another bowl, comb ine the shallots, garlic, capers and herbs. Chop the meat into 1/2 cm dice using a large, sharp knife. In a medium mixing bowl, combine the meat, egg yolks and mustard mixture with a fork. Season, fold in shallot mixture and blend well. Divide the meat in four equal portions and arrange them in patties on serving plates. Serve immediately with additional condiments.

10 days of solitude

For years I have been amassing print-outs and clippings detailing Paris' best eats. Despite making only one, brief trip to the City of Lights during this time, I revelled in the anticipation, assured that when circumstances allowed for a more leisurely visit, nothing that passed my lips would be less than extraordinary.

Throughout the fall and early winter, as a first interview turned into a second and then a third, something that I had never given any serious thought to--the possibility of actually moving to France--grew ever closer. On the last day of February, I boarded the Eurostar, carrying a suitcase of clothes, the address of my new office and a battered folder of culinary tips. My challenge over the next ten days was three-fold: to find an apartment, to begin to acclimate to a proper job and to eat as well as time and budget allowed.

In the first and second objectives, I proved reasonably successful. A rather stressful scouring of Paris's rental market yielded a small 1 bedroom apartment in an almost-fashionable area. As well as wood floors and an old cast iron fireplace, it also boasted an oven (surprisingly rare) and proximity to both street markets and small food shops. In the professional sphere, I was lucky as well, discovering my colleagues to be exceptionally friendly and helpful, and my work varied and substantive.

When it came to food, however, my ambitions were quickly bested. Despite, or perhaps because of, my lofty goals, I felt uninspired and overwhelmed. And while I've done most of my travelling solo, the prospect of dining alone was now unappealing. My thoughts about cooking (I was staying somewhere with adequate facilities) ran likewise. Everything seemed too much bother to do for one, particularly when the conversation-less meal was finished in twenty minutes.

So I found myself, more nights than not, assembling a peculiar, though not unsatisfying, triptych. Within ten minutes of my temporary apartment (located on the ritzy Ile St Louis) was a low-key wine bar cum book store. Even though I couldn't read any of the books, this proved a congenial spot for a quick glass. From there I took my place in the ever-present line for L'As du Felafel, whose assembly-men quickly welcomed me as a habitue. I've often made this my first stop when arriving in Paris, though in this case, the fantastic food was almost an afterthought. The final stop, just around the corner from the apartment, was another old favorite, Berthillon. The glace and sorbet here come with hefty price tags, but the intense flavors rival the best Italian gelato. And as for their salted caramel ice cream, which I'm hardly the first to have discovered, this will put a smile on even the most lonesome girl's face.

La Belle Hortense
31 rue Vielle due Temple, 4th (Hotel de Ville). Open daily 5-2

L'As du Felafel
34 rue de Rosiers, 4th (Hotel de Ville). Open long hours except Saturdays

Berthillon
Take-out from two eponymous shops, as well as numerous no-name vendors on the Ile St
Louis. Can usually be found from mid-morning to about 10 pm