Lobos Tapas, SE1

Lobos Tapas, SE1

Originally published in CityAM on 15 September 2015

Somewhere under London Bridge station, tucked beneath the tracks, is a winding tunnel of a tapas bar. It is the kind of space that further down the line in Bermondsey or Peckham would be full of car parts, or craft beer, or both. Here it houses Lobos – a restaurant from four Brindisa alumni that focuses on the acorn-snaffling iberico pig.

The pedigree is good, and the location, so close to Borough Market, means that ingredients can be sourced from the best suppliers. With their alma mater just around the corner and the esteemed Pizzaro, Jose and Bar Tozino all within hunting distance, this isn’t an area with a shortage of places to get a Spanish fix.

On Friday night Lobos hums with chatter and the upstairs restaurant is packed to its corrugated iron rafters. It’s grungy and cool enough to distance itself from the increasingly sanitised tourist trappings of Borough Market. Surprisingly, it retains its charm when I return for a lunchtime visit. The warm glow of the filament light bulbs (compulsory in any new restaurant) and the gentle rolling of trains overhead maintain an impressively buzzy atmosphere for a close-to-empty restaurant.

Lobos translates as ‘wolves’ in Spanish, and the lupine theme is taken a little too seriously. A wolf’s head hangs over the door, an electric sign reads “Devouring Meat”, a chalkboard is adorned with a verse from Rudyard Kipling’s The Law for The Wolves, and the team (without a hint of irony) call themselves The Pack. I half expect to see Michael J Fox behind the bar opening beers with his teeth.

Working down the menu from top to bottom, we stop briefly at the appetizers to share a solid example of pan con tomate before attacking the tapas and the meat sections. There’s not a lot that’s new on the tapas list, but it comes as expected: direct and, crucially, correct. The tortilla, served in its own small pan, doesn’t quite wobble on arrival but a fork inserted through the centre reveals a sticky tangle of onions in egg. The accompanying aioli has a nose-banging punch of garlic that mellows as the grassiness of a very good olive oil takes over.

The crispy coatings of dinky croquetas hide an intense béchamel flecked with ham, chorizo and smoked bacon. They carry that deep musty flavour that can only come from curing, ageing or offal. Bite the top off one and tease out the inside; it’s the porcine equivalent of sucking out the head of a prawn.

And to the meat: with six different options of pig available it would be churlish not to take the iberico pork selection. Fillet, secreto and presa are served with trintxat potatoes, mojo chips and roasted peppers respectively.

The fillet and presa are served daringly, brilliantly rare. Everything is sprinkled liberally with salt. The mojo sauce served with the secreto – a tender strip of meat from between the shoulder and the loin – is so mean, green and howling with garlic that I feel a little cheated to have only crisps (they’re definitely not chips) to enjoy it with. Mojo like this deserves to be held up against something more robust – a few Canarian potatoes, in the traditional style, maybe. I try a herb crusted lamb rack at lunch, but the soft, nutty presa plays too strongly in the memory and the lamb doesn’t come close.

As you may have realised, this is not food for the faint hearted, and indeed you’d do well to find anything on the menu for a vegetarian. It’s not priced gently either. Ploughing through tapas this tasty comes at a premium – get carried away and the bill could bite you. At Jose you can get away with dropping in for a nibble and a glass of fino; it’s that kind of place. But here the atmosphere and the service (attentive and full of Hispanic charm) encourages you to settle in for the long haul, order another round of cocktails and, perhaps, regret it in the morning.

The team at Lobos serve food that is powerful, assertive and has real clarity. It doesn’t need to be improved with the needless garnishes of wolfy-buzz-words that litter the walls and the menu. This pack should stick together and let the food speak for itself. The wolves that are boldest and bravest should be judged by their tapas alone.


April in Corfu

April in Corfu

April in Corfu

It is Easter time in Corfu and ‘the season’ is months away. The resorts are closed and beach-bars abandoned, rusting umbrella stands line up along the shore. There are no reps and no happy hours, no teenage party goers looking for a good time.

Shuttered shops are battered by a sandy wind that rips the gloss from cars, signs and all-inclusive dreams. The beach resorts are the battle scarred front-line of an island that is exposed to nature during the winter, and Europe’s low budget hedonists in the Summer.

As a front-line of defence these part-time towns do a remarkable job. For beyond the run-down strips, southern Corfu offers an incredible bounty of culture, nature and charm that will warm the souls of anyone in a pair of walking boots.

In April the island comes alive with sounds, sights and smells that stir the birds and encourage the flowers into bloom. During Easter week stay in the small fishing village of Boukari and make a trip south on foot to the working fishing port of Petriti where boats come come in daily. Overlooking the harbour is the old village of Korakades, now mostly ruins, but worth exploring for its tumbledown houses overrun with wisteria.

Those who hike north along the coast and climb the hill to Chlomos will be rewarded with breathtaking views and traditional houses nestled on steep mountain lanes. It is in the hilltop villages that the Corfiot warmth is most keenly felt – everyone will wish you good morning and many will want to chat more.

Easter weekend in Corfu begins on Good Friday as whole villages gather to process through the streets, chanting and carrying candles to mourn the death of Jesus on the cross. On Saturday at 11am clay pots are thrown from the windows of houses on every street and the roads explode with fragments of clay. At midnight, as Easter Sunday is welcomed, fireworks are let off across the island.

In the morning the intoxicating smell of lamb roasting on the spit lures families home to their villages to celebrate in a day of feasting and tradition. Head to the nearest town and buy a portion from one of the local sellers with their trucks laden with the crisp meat, but be quick, like the bloom of the flowers in the fields, it won’t last long.

Entry into National Geographic Traveller Travel Writing contest, April 2015

Holiday in Arrieta – Reviewed

Holiday in Arrieta – Reviewed


El Amanacer

We ate at El Amanecer twice in our week in Arrieta and it is easy to see why this simple restaurant is wildly popular. The service is friendly, the food is hearty, prices are modest, and atmosphere is convivial.

Service is efficient, to the point of intimidating, which is understandable when the staff need to turn tables in the busy summer months. On a quiet Sunday in December the efficiency was a little over the top. That said, my OTT ordering was quickly put in check by the waiter who rightly insisted we downsize and order less than half of what I asked for. The kind of service that instantly warms me to a restaurant.

Bread, mojos, gambas al ajillo, gambas a la plancha were all excellent. A fish of the day, presented whole and grilled, was cooked accurately but severely let down by an abundance of scales.

Scales are good in a music lesson, as Left back for Liverpool in the 90s, but never in a fish dish.

The jug of house wine at 7 Euro a litre was cold and sinkable in the way that wine on holiday always is. The coffee was strong and cheap.

Scaling aside El Amanacer is a great experience, and well worth a visit if you are in the area, or happen to be stuck in one of the dreary Lanzarote resorts and want some kind of “authentic” escape.


Los Pescaditos

We visited Los Pescaditos on a whim after a few beers that had built up a resistance to cooking that centred on the dread of washing up.

I left Los Pescaditos with a bad taste in my mouth, somewhere between mud and regret, that would return on me periodically throughout the holiday.

I should have trusted my instincts when, asking for a table on the terrace, we were refused as it was too busy. Despite their being plenty of tables laying empty. We ordered prawns and sardines and were eventually thankful that they arrived with some potatoes – edible at least.

Grilled sardines aren’t hard to execute, but it does require the presence sardines that were caught this century. I’m not sure where Los Pescaditos gets its fish, but i’d be surprised if it was the sea. I doubt the mouse Jerry would have had the malice to impart these sad fishies on the bad cat Tom.

To describe the prawns as wooly would be an insult to a sheep who is, at the end of the day, just trying to stay warm. Wrapping a few cotton buds in duct tape would have produced a meal of superior taste that would have been just as easy to peel.

A salad garnish was, at best, innovative, I doubt the thick cut raw onion salad will catch on in London any time soon.

Don’t go there. Do the washing up instead. Even if you don’t have a sink, or a water supply, or a cloth and the food is stuck to everything in the most horrendous way. Just do the washing up instead.

ZiCO Coconut Water

ZiCO Coconut Water

I ran to work this morning along the Thames. When I reached Hammersmith I was met by a couple of young ladies handing out ZiCO coconut water. They told me it was healthy and is good for rehydrating after exercise. This is true. It is.

Unfortunately it tastes awful. It is the only drink in the world that starts with fresh armpit and finishes with champagne hangover. The drink is made from concentrate and it shows. ZiCO has all the qualities of a bounty-bar’s urine sample.

I am a big fan of Wonderfarm Coconut water,which is not made from concentrate and has spunky chunks of coconut pulp to get your teeth into. It is refreshing, healthy and good for rehydration AND it tastes nice.
VitaCoco is another Coconut water option that comes in lots of flavours like mango and pomegranate. A bottle costs more than a small house in Runcorn.

In conclusion: Good try ZiCO, and thanks for the free sample. Make your water taste better and I might consider buying it.

The Bank (Fuller’s Pub), Clapham Junction – Northcote road

Tesco make really bad sandwiches. The Bank made a really good one.

It was sandwiches all round. The ladies opted for fish fingers, served in thick grainy bread. The boys had burgers with proper meat and decent buns and an afterthought of onion relish (delivered late, in masterchef style, by the chef to the table).

I had a heritage tomato open sandwich – it was very fine. The tomatoes were excellent, a picture of british summer. They were served on a thick slab of not quite toast with some too-neatly sliced mozzarella and a drizzle of marjoram. It needed more  olive oil, otherwise faultless. A dollop of slaw was equally stellar, fresh, crunchy, light, zippy, no mayonnaise required. Some parsnip crisps were pointless.

Chips (£3) were fat and piled high but bought in. Nothing special.

Our waitress removed our plates before everyone had finished, which is fine in America but not in Clapham.

The menu really does jump around: From India to China to France. There is a good selection of beers.

Grab seat outside on Northcote road, soak up the sun, put up with the service – this is  not a bad spot for lunch.

The nitty gritty:

Distance from croydon: 12 minutes from EC

It was about £12 a head for a sandwich a drink and a fat pile of chips.

Tesco Strawberry and clotted cream sandwich: available nationwide


What is this? This is wrong.
Is this lunch? Or is this pudding?

Why have Tesco done this?

I need to try this.

Oh, I really wish I hadn’t.

FYI Tesco bread is not a good substitute for a scone, just like a plate is not a good substitute for a mug for my tea.

There is less than a single whole strawberry in the whole sloppy sandwich. The clotted cream is corrupted with icing sugar. The whole thing stinks of bad strawberry jam. Like the worse half of an unbuttered cheese and tomato sandwich the bread here is damp and soggy. A yeasty sponge unfit for cleaning dishes.

Tesco should give up. They are going to end up like Jane Norman or Habitat or HMV if they carry on like this.

Strawberries are for puddings and cakes – leave them there.

How would Tesco like it if I put tuna in their rice pudding?


Asmara, Cold Harbour Lane – Brixton

A cubist impression of an Eritrean feast: Not by Piet Mondrian.

You probably haven’t realised that I have been neglecting the blog a bit lately, but I have. I have also started a new job, started to have a social life, and started to drink far too much. The consequent vicious cycle of memory loss, financial instability, and weight gain has much more to do with post 6pm activities than office hours, but it is the regularity of a ‘proper job’ that has initiated this worrying slide. Damn you, very exciting new career.

Because of this dinner on Saturday night is pretty difficult to remember with much clarity.  I can remember this: the whole evening revolved around ingesting different shades of brown in different states of solidity.

We hadn’t intended to go to an Eritrean restaurant. None of us knew where Eritrea was, worrying considering Ben has a geography degree, Hons (OXON) M.A. A helpful wooden map on the wall suggested Eritrea was somewhere near Ethiopia, and amazingly one of us did know something about Ethiopian cuisine.

You see, Ceri went to a funny school in Cornwall where they tought boys to do lady things like cooking, cleaning, and menstruating (probably). His teachers called it home economics, and Ceri had to rustle up an Ethiopian banquet for an NVQ or something equally acronymious.

“A pancake and a pile of runny brown mince” was how he described it. And he wasn’t far wrong, except at Asmara you get about four pancakes, very sour, cold and fermented, like big flat, floppy, freak-show crumpets that were told to fuck off by an aggressive little toaster. You also get lots of different kinds of runny brown mince, or runny brown lentils if you’re that way inclined.

Our order, decided on by the ‘point at happy people and let the waiter do the rest’ method was for a traditional feast with ceremonial coffee for dessert. The feast was served on big metal platters covered with injeera — the miserable crumpets from earlier have a name — and consisted of five different types of brown mince, some bits lumpier than others, but mincey all the same. Oh, and there was an egg in the middle. It was a whole spectrum of moderately spiced brown.

Sheffield is a shitting long way from Asmara (I mean the capital of Eritrea here, Sheffield is not THAT far from Brixton) and consequently Eritreans didn’t know what cutlery was for a very long time, and it never really caught on. So you eat with your hands using the injeera as a claw. It is very satisfying, and very filling, it also gets very messy if you are as dim as us and start eating your mince from the inside out. Thankfully Asmara (the restaurant this time) are used to stupid people and kindly give you some spare pancakes to scoop up the left-over bready slop.

I must point out at this point that quite a lot of the brown stuff was actually quite tasty. Some tender little lamb cubes undoubtedly the highlight. Everything was very edible.

A coffee ceremony followed. This was slightly darker brown and slightly more liquid than the rest of the meal, but still brown. I thought the coffee tasted like cardamom, but the others thought cinnamon. Maybe a bit of both. We had been in Asmara nearly 90minutes, I just wanted something that wasn’t brown.

Is popcorn brown? We got some of that too.

I moved on to the Bavarian Beer House near Old Street where they also serve lots of brown food and even more brown fizzy liquid in very large glasses. I didn’t eat anything, I just drank plenty. The waitresses were very friendly but the bastard management keep their tips if you pay by card. Something really rather shitty, especially when most of your customers pay when trolleyed, and haven’t got a clue what the poor girls are trying to explain.

The nitty-gritty:
Asmara on Urbanspoon

Distance from Croydon: About 3,290miles less far than going to the actual Asmara, in Eritrea.

Asmara is kind of fun, but the service is let down by an inability to communicate anything. Something the lovely hollow-legs also experienced on her visit way back. I would go again and order differently, maybe, but probably not. For Pictures of what we ate visit Happy Valley Cook.

We paid £20 a head with 2 beers each.

Bavarian Beerhouse