Koya, Frith Street – Soho

You ain't done noodles till you've done Koya's Udon noodles

I wrote a post a few weeks back in which I suggested that Miso Noodlebar was a bit shit.

Well Koya is a noodlebar that IS a bit good.

It is on Frith Street in Soho and is usually full of Japanese people and people who want to be Japanese people and people who believe the hype on Urbanspoon.

I was seated on a itsy-bitsy nursery style wooden chair and presented with a cold bottle of tap water. Another solo diner was plonked diagonally across the table and looked awkward and unfriendly, so I didn’t chat. I imagine she was thinking the same thing.

Koya’s speciality is udon noodles. They make them on site with their knees, or feet, or something. You can have udon hot or cold with broth that is hot or cold and vice-a-versa.

I chose at random because I didn’t quite understand. Cold udon with a hot pork and miso broth. The noodles and broth were served in two seperate bowls with a spoon. Do I add broth to noodles? Noodles to broth? Eat seperately? If someone has the answer I would like to know.

I sat slightly perplexed at how I was to tackle this bouncy tangle of udon with a spoon, then I found some chopsticks hiding behind some napkins and attacked the dumpy worms.

I slurped and chomped and splashed and wiped and slurped and burped. I put hot on cold and cold in hot and ate them separately. It tasted special every which way.

The noodles were firm and bouncy and long and chewy – a world away from anything udonish I have been conned into eating before. Koya udon noodles redefine what a noodle should be.

And then there was the broth.  An umami rich miso soup surrounding an island of sweet pork shards, I’m not sure what part of a pig it was but it should probably be called the shitting tasty bit.

I finished the lot in my own unique style. I don’t know if I ate it right, but I damn well enjoyed it, which is good for me.

Go.

Mirch Masala, Croydon

It is not hard to find an Indian on the Brighton Road, but it’s tough to find a good one. Mirch Masala, part of a chain with branches all over London serving freshly cooked Indian/Pakistani food at near ridiculously low prices, is an OK bet   (although be careful, match fixing is rife). MM is always busy with a mix of a whole lot of different people – good sign. The food is cheap, so even if you don’t like it you won’t feel cheated. There is cricket on flatscreens on every wall, so even if your date is boring (or you are on your own), you won’t get bored. There are no tablecloths so you won’t be embarrassed if you spill shit everywhere, which you invariably will do in a mad frenzy of food grabbing. Grabbing is a word that has acquired a particularly sinister meaning after all the Big Fat Gypsy Wedding love, but it is suitable here, the meat really does scream out to be abducted, molested, and taken home- tied up in a bag.  Maybe I should organise a SlutWalk for tandoori Lamb Chops, the MirchMarch.

The free stuff including crap popadum

I went on my own – probably not a good idea as the smallest tables are designed for ten and the menu is too long to order from solo. I stuck to the first bit of the menu; starters, sharers, and grilled things because in the past the currys here have been a bit pants.

Jeera Chicken wings were exploding with Cumin.  Cooked so aggresively (I mean that in a literal hacked-at-with-a-knife way) that most of the meat had already fallen off the bone and was kicking back in a punchy gloop of cumin and ghee. Piled high on a plate they were, at £3.50, an excellent choice. Go me.

Her are jeera wings

 

Seekh Kabobs were served on a sizzling dish with onions. Two long minced lamb kebabs, carefully spiced and still, wait for it ladies, moist. Wrapped in a quarter of Mirch Masala’s most excellent Naan bread with some onions and a bit of yogurt I created the best sandwich I have eaten since I last ate a sandwich this good. It really was excellent – it may have been down to my carefully considered and well balanced assembly, I am available to hire.

Jamie says: "Wrap it in naan with onions. Pukka."

The only real dud was a rather flat Tarka Daal. It was muddy and dull and too hot, in a goldilocks way.  “Lentils always taste like that you arsewipe” I hear you think, well you are wrong. Tarka Dall can be and should be fresh and fun and fragrant and full of enough flavour to fill a flatbread (if only a naan was a faan).

Not your day daal

 

A mango kulfi stalactyte was served in the packet. Not a pretty packet either, a white wholesale packet like a borrowers binsack.

At least I know what's in it: A big stick.

So you should enjoy Mirch Masala if you:

• Are hungry but only have £10
• Order lots of meat
• Order lots of Naan
• Bring lots of your own booze
• Go with plenty of mates (if you have them)
• Don’t mind eating in what appears to be a hospital canteen and drinking wine from half pint glasses
•  Like to poke your meat in a hot barrel of fire but want to avoid Imogen Thomas and any chance of getting burned

 The nitty-gritty:

Distance from Croydon: Mirch Masala is on the Brighton Road down towards South End where most of the restaurants in Croydon live.

Bringing your own grog helps a-lot. They don’t serve booze. You can leave with a bag of leftovers and a full stomach for well under £15 a head. As a point of reference those brilliant Naan breads cost 80p each. More than a pound a pop less than everywhere else.

Le Cassoulet, South Croydon

I have been neglecting Croydon a little bit recently, in fact I haven’t really been eating here at all. Partly because it is a hole, partly because no one I like lives here, but mainly because I have been to all the good places to eat. There’s only three of them, it isn’t difficult.

Empty because it was Tuesday not because it sucks

Le Cassoulet is in South Croydon next to a sex shop and opposite a bookies, Boulevard across the road is arguably the worst restaurant in the world never to have appeared on Kitchen Nightmares. Despite all of the pictures of Big Sweary in the window I doubt very much he endorses it. The area appears useful if you like being hassled for change, eating cold kebab, and catching busses to Wallington. There used to be the total shitpile of the Swan and Sugarloaf hotel on the corner but that has shut down, a revamped bakery has opened and the Spar has become a NISA. South Croydon is becoming positively middle-class. I think it  it’s just trying to look grimey so the London crowd don’t invade and make CR2 all expensive, and less stabby.

Bread and butter

Le Cassoulet has been chilling out here for a few years. All French and brown and classy  and good.  It’s a Malcolm John thing, very much in the mould of Le Vacherin in Chiswick and a lot better than The Fish and Grill down the road by ‘spoons. The set menu is £30, and they normally run an early deal plate for the cheapskates at about a tenner. I went with the former blonde and we had one of each, sharing the starter and the desert from the set menu.

The decor is about as upmarket as you can get in this town, all tableclothy and polished forks. Bread is served warm with a choice of salted or anchovy butter which is nice, if you like that kind of thing, which I do. I opened with marinated octopus, crab vinaigrette, fennel & capers which was both elegant and edible, which is excellent. Thankfully the octopus was the ultimate professional and was dense in flavour and texture. The thinly shaved fennel was crisp and added a freshness that balanced those salty little capers. It was served on a glass rectangle plate which I would normally hate, but all cold and bubbly it carried the octopod with real poise. The only real complaint is aimed at a rogue bite of coriander seed that was a bit off-putting, too bitter and too bolshy. 

Octopus, Fennel, Crab and Caper dressing

There was a rogue agent in the maincourse too, a toenail shaped bone. Not the ideal discovery in the first bite of Pig Trotter. The rest was keratin free, just gelatinous pig ankle and a rich chicken mousse. The waitress gawped when I ordered it and giggled that it was a huge portion. I ate it all, it wasn’t that huge, I feel sorry for her and her boyfriend. The pommes mousseline that were served alongside were smooth and unctuous, nice mashing hombre! It was an outstanding dish, very much in the mould of the the old Pigs Trotter Pierre Kauffman that the enfant terrible made famous back in the day (watch the video here if you want a drool).

Hungry for pig? The perfect oinkment

The former blonde had Le Steak & Frites. It was, as they say in France, superbe. Look at the picture, it tasted as pink and beefy as it looks. Not bad for ten bob, sir.

Bloody good

For desert I ordered a raspberry souffle with raspberry sorbet. Monsieur waiter dropped the sorbet in the souffle before I had the chance to get my iPhone out and snap away, bastard. The souffle was miraculous, just check out the lift, and then take into account that this is post sorbet bombing, phenominale! We washed it back with the suggested glass of Jurancon, a perfect match to each summer filled spoonful. Hoorah for the framboise.

 

The rest of the menu is ridiculously enticing. I avoided all the heavier gasconnic wonders like the house Cassoulet, ham and snail pie etc. I am sure they’d be stellar. Because by all accounts the man (peut-etre un femme) in the kitchen knows his merde.

I probably haven’t been gushing enough, I think Le Cassoulet is really rather good and really rather well priced for the quality on offer. I have visited a number of times and have never been let down by food or service. The only restaurant in this league in Croydon is Alberts Table, but that has less atmosphere than a dentists waiting room despite the food being pleasant. So, in a nutshell, go to Le Cassoulet, even if you are Irish and hate Thierry Henry, at £30 it’s a steal.

The nitty gritty:

Distance from Croydon: It’s there – in Croydon (the south bit), at last!

Expect to pay £30 a head and then add on as much plonk and haw-he-haw as you care to drink, the wine list is as long as it is French.

Making macaroons

The Easter weekend has come and gone, but don’t worry, there is only three days to wait before we can do a similar thing again. Hoorah for long weekends! Hoorah for William and Kate! Hoorah for Grande Bretagne!

I got a very kind invite to spend the day watching horses and drinking Pimms at the Kimble Point to Point. Hoorah for me! Point to Point, like Henley and the boat race,  is a social occasion masquerading as a sporting event, a middle class picnic in a makeshift car park. This weekend the weather was so nice that most of the horses at Kimble couldn’t even be bothered to run, preferring instead to eat carrots and drink Moet. This was welcome news – no need to look up from the smorgasbord of slightly warm scotch eggs and congealing taramasalata.

Anyway, I had a great day and managed to build up a strong T-Shirt tan to start the season with. I was glad I had thought in advance to make an Easter gift for my very generous hosts. What better to celebrate a middle class Easter weekend than a box of  slightly melted macaroons?

Macaroons are kind of London trendy. A lot more trendy than your average point to point crowd, the kind of crowd where the men shoot dinner and the women shove it in the AGA. Having said that the cheeky almond bite has got a bit of coverage recently on some post ‘Loose Women’ cooking shows and may well permeate the home-counties before the Olympics kick off next year.

Anyway, I made them, just. Attempt one failed at the first hurdle when I processed the wrong sugar with the almonds. No big drama. Attempt two seemed to be going well until the individual piped blobs of wet macaroon became one large lake of sludge. With an exceptionally careful folding technique I brought together mix three, holding back as soon as the suggested ‘shaving foam’ texture was reached. The foam certainly piped better, producing moussey little domes of yellow on my upturned roasting trays (It is worth checking in advance that you have at least two baking trays in your house if attempting this recipe, if not – buy some or prepare to improvise).

As you can see from the photos the macaroons turned out ok, a little too airy and too much rise, and pretty ugly. They tasted ok, and looked just about pretty enough to present in a box as a gesture. My oven is consistently crap on all counts, this may not have helped much.

I sandwiched the sunny nipples with some pink lemon butter-cream. Both because it looked nice and because I didn’t really have the ingredients in the house to create anything more elaborate.

The moral of the story (because every story must have a moral, especially at Easter time) is this: do not try and make macaroons when you are hung-over but do give macaroons to people as a little Easter gift – even if they taste like stale communion bread and look like tomb blocking boulders your hosts will coo and think you are clever, especially if you are a boy.

Here is the recipe I used, courtesy of the BBC website. If you know a better one that will make me as good as Pierre Hermé or Child Doctor Tim please let me know.

Ingredients

• 125g/4oz ground almonds
• 200g/7oz icing sugar
• 3 free-range egg whites
• 2 tbsp caster sugar
• ½ tsp cream of tartar
• pinch red powdered food colouring

For the chocolate filling

• 200g/7oz dark chocolate, chopped
• 200ml/7fl oz double cream
• 1 tsp brandy
• 15g/½oz unsalted butter

Preparation method

1. Blend the ground almonds and icing sugar in a food processor until well combined. Set aside.
2. Using an electric whisk, slowly whisk the egg whites in a large bowl at a low speed until stiff peaks form when the whisk is removed. Slowly whisk in the cream of tartar and caster sugar until the mixture is smooth and glossy, increasing the speed of the whisk as the mixture stiffens.
3. Gently fold in the food colouring and blended ground almonds and icing sugar until the mixture resembles shaving foam.
4. Spoon the macaroon mixture into a piping bag fitted with a 1cm/½in round nozzle. Pipe 5cm/2in circles onto the baking tray lined with greaseproof paper. If a peak forms, wet your finger and smooth it down. Sharply tap the bottom of the tray to release any air bubbles from the macaroons, then set aside for 60 minutes (the macaroon shells are ready to go in the oven when they are no longer sticky to the touch).
5. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 160C/315F/Gas 2½.
6. Bake the macaroons in the oven for 10-15 minutes, or until cooked through. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool for 5 minutes. Carefully peel away the greaseproof paper and set aside to cool completely.
7. Meanwhile, for the chocolate filling, heat the double cream and chocolate in a saucepan over a low heat, stirring occasionally, until smooth and well combined. Add the brandy and butter and stir until smooth, then remove from the heat and set aside to cool completely.
8. Use the filling to sandwich the macaroons together then chill in the fridge for 30 minutes.

Riding House Cafe, Fitzrovia

Another restaurant, another bar stool. This time Riding House Cafe, a sort of New York/European hybrid social thing that opens for breakfast and closes late.  It has a similar concept to another new opening down the road, with small plates in a tapas style doubling as potential starters. The small plates read well, both delicate and appealing, it is difficult to choose.

An assortment of breads was actually a couple of breads, a twin or a few, not an assortment. Thick wodges slightly dried out under lamps were saved by the anchovy enriched artichoke paste that accompanied them. It is unusual to have to pay for bread in London these days, so when you do you expect something a little different, Riding House adopted the little more approach, serving the larger part of a loaf.
Sticking to the small plate options I took a slice across the £3, £4, and £5 categories. Goats curd, fig, honey was served in a dinky little bowl and garnished with rocket, the goats curd just strong enough to balance the sweetness of the honey drizzled fig. A light and refreshing plate only slightly let down by a rogue salt crystal, the sole escapee from a chefs destructive fingers. A plate of three dense cubes of roasted pork belly, cumin salt was presented without flourish and the meat was OK – pork belly slowly roasted isn’t an exact science. Two pieces of skin were light and snappable, one was folded with a bite, reincarnating itself as a porcine chewit. The skinny chew was not altogether unpleasant, salty pork fat rarely is, but it wasn’t right and it brought this rather one dimensional offering down a pig or two.Moorish lamb cutlets, smoked aubergine were served boned and resting on a smear of smoked aubergine paste mottled with flecks of pink lamb juice. The meat was grilled to a melting medium rare, see the perfectly soft pink profile above. The aubergine, as bitter as the kiss of a smokers glossed lips, added far more than an aubergine normally would, elevating this dish to somewhere near romantic.

The number of staff buzzing around the restaurant was sometimes overwhelming, two waitresses held a tray of food while a third served the table. Perfectly normal in a fine dining place maybe, this lot were chowing down burgers. The dominant central bar surrounds busy chefs plating cold plates and salads, this is where I sat on a rotating leather chair.  A trio of gents in dark jeans and snug gray blazers wandered about trying to look important while waiters rushed behind my chair fetching dishes from the open kitchen.  Such was their carelessness early on that my chair, in this carnival atmosphere, could have been a teapot, spun by a gypsy in search of a spew.

The personal service I received was charming and genuine, the young man who served me dealt admirably with a ridiculous scattering of tables in all areas of the large restaurant. The surplus holes in his face would have looked considerably better adorned with the metal that usually fills them, if their absence is for ‘health and safety’ then it definitely has gone mad.

I finished with a rhubarb and raspberry fool, rhubarb topped with meringue and cream, a shortbread biscuit leaning to one side like a polite flat cap. Yorkshire mess, not a fool. The fruit had a brave crunch that is so often lost when this mighty stalk is stewed to a pulp, a naughty summer pud.

Those chaps in jackets have an arrogant swagger. Understandably so, The Riding House Cafe is riding high.

The nitty-gritty:

Distance from Croydon: Where is Croydon? I seem to have forgotten.

Four dishes, bread, a glass of wine and service scaled the dizzy heights of £14 (50% discount on food for soft opening). It would be £2o come May. Nothing short of miraculous considering both the location and the food on offer.

Kimchee, Holborn

Kimchee is a cavernous, modern Korean restaurant in Holborn. It has 200 odd seats but only uses half of them, even when punters are queuing out the door. We arrived at around 7pm and stood in line for 20minutes before being allowed through the door by the door girl, the smallest bouncer you will ever see, her job was to heave the door  shut after every use, to keep the warmth in and the customers out it seems.Once we were finally allowed in the door-heaver wrote our name on a piece of scrap paper. We were kept in the holding pen overlooking the chefs, endlessly flipping meat on the robata grill. There was no communication between the door-heaver and the other staff, groups left and tables sat unoccupied, but still we waited.

Looking slightly concerned at the mounting frustration  in the holding pen one of the waitresses approached us. She apologised for the wait and made noises about only having counter seats available – bizarre considering only half the tables were occupied. I like eating at a counter so it was there that we perched on heavy and uncomfortable stools. It was from there that I waved for ten minutes before any of the waiting staff noticed we might want to order. I really did want to order.

When our order had been made the food arrived smartly, cold side dishes served first followed my a well paced succession of sharing plates. The Kimchee was surprisingly polite, just a gentle background hum and a tickle of heat at the finish. I have read so much about the offensiveness of kimchi (the smell, the taste, the look) that this dish surprised me with its delicate smell, taste and attractive presentation. Sukju Namal (beansprouts) tasted, like beansprouts often do, of nothing at all. Some Vegetable Mari were like Vietnamese summer rolls without the herbs. Rammed full of vegetables and served with a dipping sauce that didn’t quite manage to make this exciting.

A portion of Crab Tuigim (soft shell crab in breadcrumbs) was good. The crab was perfectly fried. The hoi-sin style dipping sauce on the side was overpowering but with a twist of a lemon slice the spindly legs were crispy, fresh and lively.  From the grill Pork Belly with salt and pepper was acceptable. A good-sized portion was served warm with a wasabi-mustard dip, under seasoning on the meat meant that the belly didn’t deliver on flavour.Star of the show was a PaJeon, an excellent spring onion pancake that disappeared so fast from in front of the former blonde that I only managed two wonderful mouthfuls. In return she kindly let me dominate the Raw Beef Dolsot Bibimbap. Like every dish we recieved the Dolsot Bibimbap was dramatically and carefully presented, in a hot marble bowl resting in a wooden block, it was more exciting to look at than to eat. Under seasoned, bland, and dressed with batons of muk jelly which were, unlike the kimchee, totally offensive. The rest of it was OK – maybe I was au point de full and had lost that hungry excitement or maybe it was just a more boring offering than the perky sharing plates that preceded it.

We had two of the three deserts on offer. Chapssal Ddeok were fun little balls of rich chocalate mousse encased in a sticky layer of rice pastry. At £1.95 thy are a worthwhile treat and probably the best thing we ate. The green tea ice cream, Mr Whippy mixed with green tea powder,was rather heavy on the green tea and crossed the line between refreshing and stale to leave a rather bitter finish that returned on me well into the evening like a bad smoked mackerel pate.

The former blonde had a glass of wine although I am sure the smart money here is on the Korean and Japanese wines and Saki’s of which there is a decent selection at reasonable prices.

I have never eaten Korean food before and this meal was a pleasant introduction, and I think that might sum Kimchee up. Despite being rammed with Koreans, Chinese and Japanese I got the feeling (as did the much more knowledgeable SkinnyBib)  that everything here is a little downplayed, a little westernised for the suits, a little too neat and inoffensive.

Although the service, like the food, was hit or miss, it is the bizarre queuing system that really needs attention. With a 50% off food deal running during a two-week soft opening the food on this visit was exceptional value for money. Order the good dishes avoid the bad ones and you will have a very good meal at Kimchee. Unfortunately, with a menu this long, you may have to visit a few too many times before you work out which dishes to hit and which ones to miss.

The nitty-gritty:

Distance from Croydon: It’s at least an hour away – useless line change at Green Park and lack of pin on Google Map doesn’t help. It’s not worth a special journey from the ‘burbs, but if you happen to be in Holborn and need a quick well priced lunch then Kimchee should be an option.

We paid £25 for a feast with a glass of wine and service. Without the soft opening deal this would have been up at a rather more lofty £42.

Pho, Soho

I am a little bit obsessed with Vietnam. It started not that long ago when I read Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. What followed went something like this: Apocolypse Now, Platoon, Hamburger Hill, Full Metal Jacket, Anthony Bourdain, Luke Nguyen, The Songs of Sapa, Pho, Bobby Chinn, incredible BBQed meats covered in shrimp paste, An Nam, Mien Tay, Bun Cuon Thit.

And last week I went to Pho, the largest part of the mini-chain, in Soho. It was a Friday night and it was busy. We waited at the bar/in a corridor for 40minutes trying to avoid getting in the way and struggling to order a drink. Even at 6ft4in and with healthy bar presence I struggled to make eye-contact with the girl behind the bar.

Pho has a much more polished appearance than both An Nam and the Battersea Mien Tay and the menu is a little westernised too. I ordered Goi Xoai which was pleasant if lacking heat, I am unsure whether the iceberg lettuce was a necessary filler. Although presented as a starter, it worked because on this evening I was dining with a vegetarian, I would suggest this dish is shared, like most food should be. A Vietnamese retaurant that so easily adapts itself to vegetarians is a rarity. Pho is eager to please. I enjoy unapologetic heat from fiery chillies, food slathered with fish gut sauce and nether bits of pork slammed down with no hint of a smile, it attracted me to Vietnamese food.

For main course my Pho with steak and brisket was OK, the broth a little underwhelming. Thankfully the condiments are good and it was easy enough to pep up to a point of endorpine enducing heat. We had sorbets of mango and strawberry & basil from La Maison de Sorbets. Cold, wet and fruity.

I had a Ca Phe, which was a big mistake. I don’t drink coffee, I don’t drink caffeine much – I was brought up on Coke with a gold label, one of those kids. Until this Ca Phe i had never enjoyed coffee, needless to say I enjoyed it alot, a rush of sugar and a huge caffeine hit, glorious. Unfortunately I buzzed all the way home and stayed awake all night, wired all the way through to Saturday. With every high comes a low and I apologise to my mother and my girlfriend for what they experienced on Sunday – a caffeine slump of epic proportions.

Eating at Pho is a nice introduction to Vietnamese food – but it’s not as good as it gets. Not by a long way.

The nitty-gritty:

Distance from Croydon: About 20miles.Get on that train to Victoria and use the underground. There’s one in Brighton too, and some others in other places in London.