Do you know why I was able to resort to using flash so I could show you this food? Because there was no-one else in the restaurant, that’s why. This didn’t bode well.

We were actually in the area looking for a Turkish place. As you know, I’m not really one for tramping around up norf but I’ve sploshed up and down the Essex Road twice recently (both times: raining), because I  just can’t resist a budget recommendation. That, and the fact it was an excuse to visit The Mucky Pup, a damn fine boozer and home of my Chilli Cook Off victory (very modest, me). I met The Restaurant Recommender at a food event a few months ago, a food event which did not have much going for it in the way of food. So it happened that polite chit-chat turned into a frenzied slobbering quest to find grilled meat. I was sceptical (I mean, it’s in Islington. We’re talking cheap. This is Islington?) but I remained open-minded, for the first half hour. By the time my canvas pumps were sodden and my hair a frizzed shock, we decided to give it up and go home. I won’t tell you what I ended up eating that night.

This time we knew the location but forgot the occasion – Ramadan. The place is shut for a month. Right next door though was Zigni House, which ticked all the boxes what with it being a) open and b) serving food. Zigni is an Eritrean and East African restaurant. My only previous experience of the cuisine had been at Asmara in Brixton, which was fun but not exciting enough for a return visit.

With every table in the place to choose from, it had to be the funnel-lidded example with woven wicker chairs. Five minutes of creaking and fidgeting put paid to the idea of that being any fun; we moved swiftly across to something more practical. If you’ve never eaten East African food, you should know that what happens is they bring out an injera, which is this brilliant huge pancake full of bubbles like a giant flat crumpet. The batter has an addictive sour taste, which comes from fermentation for a couple of days at room temperature. It’s made with yeast, but you wouldn’t know it because the mix is runny, which allows it to be spread thin during cooking. It’s like a skinny sourdough crepe. In Africa it’s traditionally made with a small grain called teff but in other countries often replaced partly or entirely with wheat flour.

Dishes are served on top of the injera and everyone rips in, using each piece to scoop at the various stews. While you are eating, the juices from each dish are soaking  through the porous surface, making everything tastier as you work inwards; the final, gut-busting stages are the most precious; we’re talking crispy chips at the bottom of the packet stuff here. It’s every woman for herself.

We ordered a variety of meat and side dishes and it fast became apparent that this place was better than Asmara, its South London counterpart (sniffle). Dulet was a ballsy tripe dish, mysteriously fusty but freshened with yoghurt and herbs. More yoghurt arrived as a side dish, strained of excess liquid and whipped; a perfect contrast to dishes like Quanta-Fit-Fit (dried beef and injera pieces in hot ‘Zigni chilli sauce’). The almost biltong-like Zil Zil brought a welcome texture break from saucy stews, its spice rub as addictive as crack. It came with Ajbo Hamli, chopped spinach, cheese and butter. Nice. Other vegetarian dishes were great too; our starter of Timtomo Rolls was injera filled with richly spiced lentils. Kategna was – you’ve guessed it – injera, this time fried, dusted with chilli and slicked with ghee.

At Asmara, everything was a bit samey, like an Indian curry house that uses the same sauce for every dish, adding more or less chilli powder and calling it a different name; at Zigni each dish was bold and surprising. Even the injera was better (more sour) which makes them on to a winner considering it pops up in every other dish.

Why the place was empty I do not know. Okay, so it was Tuesday night and pissing with rain but the reverse-snobbed SE Londoner in me wants to think it’s because the well-to-do people of Islington were all wolfing down meringues in the gorgeous but pricey Ottolenghi then stopping for a cupcake on the way home. This is probably rubbish. I hope for the sake of the owner, Tsige Haile that the place was just a victim of a rainy Tuesday because the food at Zigni is satisfying, unusual and cheap. Did I mention cheap? People of Islington, hear me now! Cupcakes are all style and no substance and anyway, who wants icing on the seat of the 3-wheeler buggy when you can let the precious ones work it out of their systems by pawing at the mighty injera? Deep down, everyone wants to eat with their hands – child or not.

330 Essex Road
London
N1 3PB
Tel: 020 7226 7418
http://www.zignihouse.com

The Ledbury and Chilli Cool. Couldn’t be more different. I often have a little mental wrestle with myself about which style of food is ultimately more satisfying; is it the exacting refinement of fine dining or is it the generosity and un-fussed comfort of home-style? I find it seriously hard to answer that question.

The Ledbury is Brett Graham’s elegant double-starred restaurant in Notting Hill; Chilli Cool is a cheap, slightly scruffy and oil-slicked (literally, all over the floor – be careful on the stairs) Sichuan joint in King’s Cross. The sleek theatre of the higher-end restaurant is addictive, but there’s something about the less formal meal that feels so nourishing. It zooms in on your comfort zone and harpoons it, right at the heart.

My recent birthday lunch at The Ledbury was exquisite – squid in ravioli sounded weird but was just the right kind of bouncy, like an understated Thai-fish-cake-bouncy. Teeny ribbons of wild garlic peeped through skin thin pasta; crisp baby radishes bobbed in sweet squid consommé. It looked like a plate made for a princess. Duck was just the softest meat I’ve ever eaten, garnished with glassy slices of sweet and sour grape. A honey and gingerbread souffle was, well…just look at it. The most perfect tower of eggy fluff I ever ate; whipped through with nuggets of gingerbread, the honey waiting golden and sticky down below. Thyme ice cream steadily pervaded, perhaps a little too much. This was all the set lunch by the way (£27.50, 3 courses), although you still feel as special as if you’d ordered the tasting menu.

While The Ledbury coddles and cossets your belly to capacity, Chilli Cool hits it running. Crispy fried chilli pig’s intestines anyone? Tubular chunks of pork bomb, plain and simple. The best pieces crunch then yield to a gelatinous chewy interior. Contrast is everything in Sichuan cuisine. A typical table bears the weight of hot and cold dishes. Shredded raw potato is lustrous and slippery; dry fried beans, blistered and hot; chunks of grouper and tofu swim in the oil of a fiery hotpot while cold slivers of pork belly suck up a mashed garlic sauce which will stain absolutely anything indelibly. Fiery and numbing dishes buddy up with cooling cuke salad and wobbly fungus dappled with sesame oil. They do things with aubergines that make me want to shed a little tear of joy. Oh, and I’ve never spent more than £20 in there, including beers.

There’s no hint of pretension or ego, the food has serious complexity and above all it’s a blast. This is what my top two have in common.

Consider The Ledbury’s celeriac baked in ash – ceremoniously cut open at table before plating; an exciting little show. Bacon and onion mini brioche rolls are to die for and have that sugar and swine combination that makes me giggle with delight; think Bompas and Parr’s bacon doughnuts, or candied bacon ice cream. Their strawberry and hibiscus Bellini and doughnut at last year’s Taste of London was the dish that hooked me in; we giggled and chattered over it like a pair of excited monkeys.

So many places disappoint with the mundane. Food may be perfectly cooked and yet duller than the thud of the neighbouring fat cat’s wallet hitting the table. And don’t get me started on atmosphere; I don’t care how life-changing the food is supposed to be, if the place is stuffy, I won’t be visiting. I need it to make me smile. The best restaurants are playful but not gimmicky; confident and slightly cheeky. In the end I suppose I’ve managed to answer my question: it’s not really a case of preferring either style, but one of accessibility and heart and most of all, fun.

Chilli Cool
15 Leigh street
WC1H 9EW
0207 383 3135
www.chillicool.com

The Ledbury
127 Ledbury Road
0207 792 9191
www.theledbury.com

The Gowlett is a pub that does pizza and it takes me all of a few minutes to walk there from my house. The combination of these three facts pleases me. The pizzas are by no means perfect – the toppings are sometimes a bit too generous for my taste (even I can only eat so many capers in one mouthful) and the crusts completely shatter at the edges. They also, without fail, manage to burn one bit of crust on every pizza. Bit annoying.

That said, I keep going back. It’s never taken me more than ten minutes to eat one. The slender base is silky for the most part with just the right amount of cheese and tomato and the toppings are simple and tasty. At £8, they are dicing with the pricey side of things but are clearly taking advantage of their proximity to neighbouring posher bits, East Dulwich and Bellenden and for now at least, getting away with it.

I suppose I’ll have to write a sentence about how the pizza compares to Franco Manca. I’ll sum it up for you: The Gowlett would definitely lose in a fight, but they still hit the spot if you’re in the area. A light and airy pub; plenty of seats; well kept beer; friendly staff and decent pizza. I like. It’s only a matter of time though, before I storm into that kitchen myself and have a look at just why they burn every single pizza, on one edge, every single time. A local pub is all about community innit? Well, I’m about to go and get a little more involved…

The Gowlett
62 Gowlett Road
London SE15 4HY
020 7635 7048
www.thegowlett.com

[Edit: Mudchute Kitchen has changed hands since this post and apparently this is not a good thing. I haven't been recently and so I can no longer recommend it. Please see comment from Hana below].

I think I was  more excited than my mates’ 4 year old daughter at the prospect of visiting Mudchute Farm. Promises of llamas, goats and ‘giant rabbits’ drew me in almost as much as whispers I’d heard about the decent kitchen. Mudchute is London’s largest inner city farm, apparently. 32 acres sit slap bang in the middle of the Isle of Dogs; sheep graze to the backdrop of towering skyscrapers in Canary Wharf. It’s a striking juxtaposition and it’s also extremely quiet; if it weren’t for the concrete and glass peeking through trees and over hills, you’d be forgiven for thinking you were out in the sticks.

What at first looked like it might be an exercise in familiarity with different types of mud, soon brightened up into a peaceful day of ambling around the farm pausing occasionally to watch chickens either fighting or mating, stroke billy goats’ beards or laugh hysterically at a woman taking llama spit to the face at point blank range. Apparently the smell is quite overpowering.

There’s nothing like the combination of a mild hangover, a couple of hours walking and the responsibility of entertaining a small child to work up an appetite and we raced towards the Mudchute Kitchen with a mixture of ravenous zeal and nagging concern that it would be the usual tourist-trap café, defined by the attitude that people have nowhere else to go so they can jolly well be grateful for a lump of dry, over-priced cake. Thankfully, it wasn’t.

The menu was short and dominated by hearty, no-fuss dishes. Both the boys chose pot-roast beef with mash, sharp red cabbage and wilted spinach (about £8 I think), which arrived in a monstrous portion and looked like it had been dished up by my mates’ daughter but tasted fantastic. An outrageously tender, juniper scented hunk weaved with strands of melty fat. The boys almost beat their chests with manly excitement.

My ‘Mexican eggs’ (£6-ish) was served by the same generous hand. Properly soaked and cooked black beans came poured over 2 gooey fried eggs on a piece of home made bread. A lengthy cooking had bubbled away any risk of a bland, watery result, leaving rich, meaty beans. A parsley flecked yoghurt brought sharp contrast.

The real stars of the show though, were the cakes. My pistachio and lemon was dense, squidgy and speckled green with nut chippings. Lemon perfumed butter-cream icing was spread to just the right thickness to deliver ultimate satisfaction. The boys’ cookie and chocolate and hazelnut options seemed to be going down well at the one point I came up for air.

There are definitely things that could be improved at The Mudchute Kitchen – the mash for example had the odd lump and the bread under my eggs would be much more enjoyable toasted. The presentation of the food is carefree to say the least and the service a little scatty. These things were all forgiven however because the food is so tasty. Most of the ingredients come from the farm and the freshness shines through. Let’s also not forget that the portions are huge.

The best way of describing the food would be as ‘good home cooking’; a bit like going round to your keen cook mates’ house for dinner. There are no frills, no pretension and it’s not trying to be anything it shouldn’t. After a couple of hours walking on a crisp spring day you just want a damn good feed, and Mudchute Kitchen is there to give it to you.

Mudchute Park and Farm (and Kitchen)
Pier Street
Isle of Dogs
London
E14 3HP
Tel: 020 7515 5901 (Park and Farm)
Tel: 020 7515 5901 (Kitchen)

www.mudchute.org
www.mudchutekitchen.org

My dining companion cocked his head and looked at me quizzically: “so, what exactly is Catalan food?” Erm…

Having only been to Spain a couple of times, the cuisine in general is hardly my speciality, but over the past few years I’ve learned quite a bit through my own research, kitchen experimentation and the famous London chain, Brindisa. I love all three restaurants and their ham school rocked. Faced with that question about Catalan food though, I had no idea where to start with trying to define it.

My good friend Chris, who has spent a large amount of time in the area, informs me that some of the regional dishes on the menu really stretch the boundaries in terms of what can be considered Catalan. I don’t have the knowledge to argue either way and so set off with an open mind.

Our first lesson came in the form of  ‘charcuterie cured in the special microclimate of vic’. We did ask our waitress what this meant but after too many crossed wires gave in and settled on her seemingly bottom-line response which was that it is ‘a region’. As we dutifully nibbled in the order instructed my heart began to sink; only the third, peppered variety stood out as anything beyond the usual musty chew. Who would win in a fight between this charcuterie and my usual plate of ibérico? I don’t think we need to answer that.

Country toast with allioli was perfect as always – a small deviation from the Catalan menu. I’ve rarely tasted a better yellow goo; silky smooth and perfectly garlicked – we only resisted ordering another pot for fear of being reacquainted with the  meat.

Anchoves de l’Escala (below) were buttery soft and saline, scattered with smashed olives and muted, crisp onions.  A base of charred, tomato topped ‘country bread’ completed the dish of the evening.

I’ll spare your eyes from the effort of straining at the dark blob that was Catalan spinach. I believe the combination of green leaves wilted with nuts and dried fruits is a traditional one and the pine nuts here were particularly good quality. The dish made a decent enough accompaniment to the grilled rabbit with oven potatoes anyway; a succulent, wine infused leg perching on mandoline-thin potato slivers, baked until gummy-in-a-good-way and hiding cheeky strips of caramelised onion.

If you’re not a fan of goat product then the selection of Catalan cheeses is not for you. The most interesting of the three were the ‘Tupi’ – a ‘cream’ made with a blend of goat’s and sheep’s cheese, olive oil and sweet wine and the unpasteurised ‘Carrat’. The former a blob of whipped white fluff, still predominantly Billy, kind of like a Dairylea for adults. The latter played a pleasing farmyard punch, at times skating just on the right side of ‘burny’. Both the unwhipped cheeses were rather sweaty, but washed down easily enough with a glass of Mistela negra Grandesa (Garnacha negra) Terra Alta (phew!) which had much of the raisin about it both in colour and flavour.

The Catalan menu runs until Wednesday 14th April and I’m happy to recommend some of the options. Underwhelming charcuterie and stingy, sweaty cheese portions aside, the idea of regional menus is a brilliant one and I’m interested to see the next focus, as they will be featuring a new area every few months. I might be less than qualified to identify the accuracy of regional definitions, but I do know what I like and I’m still thinking about elements of those dishes a day later. It’s tapas but it means business. Inspirational stuff.

Tierra Brindisa
46 Broadwick Street
London W1F 7AF
Tel: 020 7534 1690

I tried the Catalan menu as a guest of Brindisa.

The menu is served at all three restaurants, see website for details of location

www.brindisa.com