Eating out in London

London, with its successive waves of immigrants from Europe, the Caribbean and the Indian Sub-continent, is one of the most multicultural cities on the planet. It should be a culinary melting pot, with an almighty restaurant scene. But for some reason it isn't.

It's true that London offers incredible variety - from sleek French bistros to hip pizzerias, modern Mexican eateries and bloodthirsty Brazilian rodizios, but its not easy to find quality at a reasonable price. In most cities, the "you get what you pay for" adage rings true when choosing restaurants. If you find somewhere cheap, it might be nice but otherwise it isn't surprising, while if you splash out a little more, you are likely to get a good feed in a nice atmosphere.

Unfortunately this isn't the case in London. Cheap food is usually just that - average pub meals or a very shady curry or limp noodle dish. Going upmarket doesn't solve the quality problems. Some of the more expensive restaurants we have tried have been alarmingly disappointing. They are so hit and miss, which makes it hard if you are new in town and picking restaurants out of a guidebook or from the internet.

 In many places, mid-range restaurants are incredibly reliable. They may not have the greatest atmosphere, but you can normally get quite reasonable food and not have to pay through the nose. Finding a nice restaurant that I would actually revisit has been a challenge in London. Many times I have thought the food was just ok, and then received a bill for £60 or more for two people (one course plus a bottle of wine).

London's Soho district, near the West End theatre precinct, is bursting with cafes and restaurants, but we have had some average meals. On Old Compton Street, a Japanese noodle joint called Taro was disappointing and pretty expensive. An Italian place called Little Sicily a few blocks over on Rupert Street was downright horrendous. Here, £6 buys you a limp looking wad of bruschetta, while the main size pastas were bone dry and almost devoid of flavour, and set you back up to £15. Adam said his £16 risotto was like forcing down dry cardboard.

Our Mexican dining experiences have been above-average in London, and far better than the usual "Tex Mex" horrors you might expect to find. Covent Garden's Cafe Pacifico has a lively atmosphere, but the food isn't all that amazing for the price. Chiquito in Leicester Square had some interesting combinations that you don't always see on Mexican menus, such as Jambalaya and Duck Fajitas. Cafe Sol, on Clapham High Street was unexpectedly good. We had deliciously melty enchiladas and juicy spiced sea bass. Boho Mexica in Spitalfields has an amazing Mexican pop-art interior, but will leave you with a much lighter wallet and not really fill you up with their trendy share plates.


Mexican fast food joints have really exceeded expectations. Poncho No 8 is a part of a chain, and not very glamorous - burritos are served subway style, in that you line up along a servery counter and choose your meat, other fillings, salsa etc. But you get a delicious burrito for £6 and you can wash it down with one of a wide selection of Mexican beers in their restaurant-style upstairs seating area. 

 On the whole, Thai restaurants we have tried have been pretty good, if a little formulaic. You can generally get a main curry or stir fry for £8-9, but generally the dish sizes were quite small and there was absolutely no taste of chilli anywhere, but I suppose they are catering to local tastebud settings. We were quite impressed with Thai Square in Islington, and it appears to be a chain as I have come across quite a few other places with the same name. 

There is a weird London trend to blend two or more types of cuisine into a bizarre "fusion with a twist" experience. This surgery is mainly performed on Asian food, like "Chinese-Japanese" food, or Thai-Korean-Malay." I have yet to seen hybrid versions of European cuisine, but I am hoping one day I will run into an "Italian-French-German" restaurant or a "Spanish-Slovakian-Dutch" cafe.

In the North London enclave of Fitzrovia is a bar-cum-restaurant called Jetlag, which has a great bar-like atmosphere, but can't really decide what sort of restaurant it is. It's a great place to go with a group who can't agree on what to eat. The menu is share-plate style, hence its better to eat there in a group, and in the same sitting you can eat Japanese gyoza, lebanese felafel and Indonesian satay. I found the concept incredibly bizarre, although it wasn't outrageously expensive.

Brick Lane's Ambala

East London does better on the variety front - there is a great range of food on offer at all kinds of prices. Once-gritty working class neighbourhoods of Spitalfields, Shoreditch, Whitechapel and Bethnal Green are now firmly entrenched on the city's culinary map. Brick Lane is probably the best known restaurant strip in the area, which is curry ground zero thanks to its sizeable Bangladeshi population. But again, curry houses are pretty hit and miss. In my view the sweet shops are the highlight of Brick Lane. The best is Ambala, which also carries a range of delicious samosa, bhuji and other savoury snacks in addition to some of the sickliest sweets you've ever tasted.

A few blocks away on Commercial Street is the uber-trendy Spitalfields precinct. Centred around the Old Spitalfields market, which used to sell fruit and veg, it us now a highbrow flea market, selling vintage clothes, jewellery, quirky homewares and designs from independent and up and coming fashion labels.

Stjohnbreadandwine.com

Spitalfields may have felt edgy and urbane a few years ago, but now it is definitely on the hipster map, which means it is still cool but no longer cheap. Pretty much everywhere has a great atmosphere, and some London culinary institutions are well worth the splurge - St John Bread and Wine will stretch your meat-eating imagination, and radically overhaul your (probably dismal) view on English food. Hawksmoor, a kind of fine-dining steakhouse, I would love to go to but haven't tried, and is meant to be amazing.


Shoreditch also fares well in the budget-cuisine department, with an entire street of hole in the wall Vietnamese restaurants. Again, these are hit and miss, but at least your wallet is not being punished on every attempt. We ate at one place on two separate occasions, and had completely different experiences, so reliability is not a given. This makes it hard if you eat somewhere nice and then want to go back with a different group of friends - you can end up being burned.

Granted, this isn't a review of London's finest restaurants. Most times we are simply after a decent meal in a place with a nice atmosphere that won't cost the earth. But in this city, looks can be deceiving and you need to do your research in order to uncover the real gems.

The British obsession with manners

Saying "please", "thank you" and "sorry" when you bump into someone might not seem like a big deal, but forgetting to is social taboo in a country that prides itself on pleasantries.

Adapting to social etiquette in the UK isn't exactly a cultural quantum leap for an Australian. After all, we already speak the same language and have a shared history. But there are subtle differences in the way Britons and Australians behave.

In both countries, politeness is appreciated, but Britons seem to take an interest in manners to an obsessive level. In Australia, if someone walks into you at a supermarket or on a street corner, you might hear them mutter "excuse me." Or, you might not, and that's the end of it. In Britain, not only will you hear a resounding "sorry!" from the person who bumps into you, they will even apologise if it is in fact you who bumped into them! People are so in the knack of apologising, that a British friend even confided that she often finds herself apologising to inanimate objects she has bumped into.

The stereotype of the abrupt, rude Londoner might need revisiting. London Underground patrons follow a strict etiquette, immediately moving to the right of escalators to let others pass, and are very apologetic if they walk in someone else's way. The only argument I have heard on the Tube so far was a lady angry at a man who tried to push past her. She wasn't annoyed because of the man's pushiness, but was irked by the fact that he didn't say "excuse me" as he was doing so. She promptly instructed him to "improve his manners".

An obsession with manners is matched by growing fears that standards of politeness are eroding in modern British society. Australians are concerned about this too, amid newspaper reports of people not giving up their seats on buses for pregnant women. In London this problem is tackled by offering pregnant women badges that declare that they have a "baby on board" in the vain hope that someone will give up their seat.

The British are concerned about the effect of modern technology on the way people interact in public. I boarded a long-distance train lately, and had to move along a person who was occupying my (reserved) seat. When he moved, the couple opposite looked relieved, and said they were glad he'd moved as he had been talking on his mobile phone the entire journey, and how rude they found it.

Successive waves of immigration has made a discussion of standards of behaviour a touchy subject, because often different standards reflect the heady cultural blend that now defines London. But a general desire to uphold manners appears to be working, as this article in the Observer, on the myth of Rude Brittania suggests. Those interviewed in a study called Charm Offensive, said civility was the single most important contributor to their quality of life.

Interestingly, the study found high levels of civility in some disadvantaged communities, and some striking examples of incivility in more well-heeled areas. A recent blog post by the Telegraph's Damian Thompson criticising Prime Minister David Cameron's manners referred to his trick of turning his manners on and off to suit his own ends. "He exhibits the calculated rudeness of people with very nice manners," Thompson notes.

Apparently this is a common trait among upper-crust toffs, Cameron and other fellow Etonians (alumni of super-posh school Eton). And it puts paid to the theory that no matter how polite you are or mindful of your own behaviour, this on its own will not command respect or social inclusion. When you are introduced to a British person, they will undoubtedly be polite, but at the same time they are sizing you up, working out which part of the social spectrum to pigeon hole you.

Class isn't supposed to matter as much these days, but it certainly still affects how people behave towards each other. People use a series of cues - such as what school you went to, where you live, what school you send your kids to, which pub you drink in. Even the use of certain words can be an indicator of what class you belong to. For example, the use of "pardon" instead of "excuse me" or "sorry" is extremely frowned upon, and casts you a number of levels down the social hierarchy. Well-bred people say they will have "pudding" after dinner, after they have visited the "lavatory" (can you even imagine that being said with an Australian accent?) whereas the lower-classes will opt for a "sweet", after they use the "toilet."

Being Australian helps you partially avoid this crude classification, as fortunately the class system doesn't appear to apply to us. But our love of egalitarianism and upholding of the "fair go" does come at a cost. While no one will care what school you went to, etcetera, you will automatically be placed in a certain area of "unclassifiables" - you might be referred to as someone from the "New World" or "Antipodean".

Now we all know that Colonialism is hundreds of years out of fashion and the British no longer feel they are culturally superior. But remnants of this Old World attitude remain. Take this theory that attempts to explain the way in which people from the "New World" - Americans, and to a lesser extent, Australians and New Zealanders - speak. Apparently the British talk more from the backs of their mouths, leading to a more muted tone, while Americans use the front of their mouths, resulting in an effect that is quite the opposite!

Not that Brits go around acting superior, but this theory goes some way in explaining how they view their colonial offspring. In truth, many have confided they use the word Antipodean not to be derogatory but because they weren't quite sure whether my accent was Australian or New Zealand. Which is fine, considering that I can't always pick up the difference between a Geordie or a Scouser, and didn't know what these terms meant before I arrived. And its a damn sight better than the American I met that claimed I had to be "either Australian or Canadian."

I've repeatedly heard that Australians are considered very "forward". I think this has to be seen relative to the British tendency to avoid using direct terms, preferring a more awkward, dithering interchange where they dance around a topic without actually broaching it. Americans, I'm told, are even more forward, and will dash up eagerly and introduce themselves at the start of a conversation, while Britons start by discussing the weather and sometimes don't get around to an introduction. Many Britons I've chatted to travelling refer to "that intense American" they met. I'm not convinced they are saying the same things about Australians, but I think they can be struck by our directness, which they can find refreshing - and not necessarily a bad thing.

Tourists in Toronto

Our trip to Canada was a family holiday and we didn’t have to put much effort into working out our agenda for the week - our Canadian-based relatives saved us the trouble. With a white Christmas and frantic Boxing Day shopping ticked off the list, we embarked on a day trip to Niagara, over an hour south of Toronto.

Niagara Falls...tack-o-rama

Before visiting eponymous famous falls, we stopped in at Niagara on the Lake, a quaint little town (extremely touristy but not lacking in charm) filled with immaculately tended historic wooden buildings, specialty shops, cafes and restaurants. From the lakeshore, the view was less than spectacular on account of the rainy, foggy weather – the temperature had once again bounced above zero. But you could still make out the impressive Fort William across the other side of Lake Ontario, on the US side of the border. I had a delicious bowl of steaming Atlantic mussels in a curry-flavoured broth at the local Irish pub for lunch.

I had been forewarned about the town surrounding Niagara Falls, so my expectations were well-managed. It’s probably the tackiest, most gimmicky place in Canada, rivalling Vegas with its bright neon lights, casinos and kitsch entertainment.

The Falls...pretty misty unfortunately

There’s an imitation Tussaud wax museum, some kind of Ripley’s Believe it or Not amusement and the streets are bursting with “Canadiana” souvenir shops selling maple leaf everything. I guess Niagara Falls is what happens when a town wants to attract families to its one tourist attraction, which is awe-inspiring for adults to gaze at but not necessarily all that interesting to kids. 

Unfortunately the fog hung low, adding to the mist clouds already generated by the raging falls, obscuring much of the best bits. The Niagara River forms part of the border between the US and Canada, and a smaller, less impressive version of the falls lie on the US side. It was amazing to stand right up close to the Canadian part and be drenched in mist, watching thousands of litres of water cascade into the abyss each second. But the falls paled in comparison to the much larger and leafier Iguazu Falls we visited on the Brazil/Argentina border in September, and made me wish I had seen Niagara first! 

Toronto City view from CN Tower

Now in full tourist mode, we descended on Toronto’s city centre. Our first stop was the CN Tower, which at 553 metres lays claim to being the world's tallest tower. As you might imagine it offers an unparalleled view of Toronto’s city, suburbs and out over Lake Ontario, although you might as well be looking out to sea because you can’t see as far as the other side.

The first viewing level, at 346 metres, is pretty tame, although it has a section of glass floor where you can look directly down to the street right below you. It makes your stomach churn a little (or a lot if you have a fear of heights!) when you walk out onto it. But it seemed only adults were being struck by vertigo, as it was most popular with kids, who were splayed across the floor, posing for photos and gazing down at the microscopic world below. We were then whizzed up to the second viewing platform, 100 metres higher up, which was a smaller circular walkway boxed in by slanted windows. You could lean over the barrier and stare directly down to the city below, which gave me a pretty good rush of blood to the head. 

Waiting for the Zamboni to clean the ice

We attempted ice skating at the downtown rink, but our timing was terrible. After waiting in line for nearly half an hour to rent skates (which were totally blunt and made my ankles roll in weirdly), we jumped on the ice only to be called off five minutes later so the cleaning machine could do its rounds. We shivered as the wind howled through – it was about -10 degrees - and our toes quickly went numb. Right on cue, the cleaning machine broke down, so it took about half an hour for the ice to be cleaned. We resumed skating, but it was so crowded with kids and teens in full-show off mode, weaving in and out of the hordes that we’d had enough after about 10 minutes.

A trip to North America wouldn’t be complete without attending a sporting event. We went to the NBA, witnessing the season’s first home game of the Toronto Raptors. Taking our seats in the nosebleed section, it soon struck me how incredibly steep the bleaches in basketball stadiums are. I suppose it means that more people can be crammed in without feeling too far away, so everyone gets a reasonable view of the action. 

Raptors' fan central!

The Raptors’ opponents, the Indiana Pacers, got away with an early lead in the first quarter, but by half time the scores had just about evened up. After this, the Raptors pulled ahead at times, but were then equalised by successive three-point shots from the Pacers. The Pacers then pulled away by about 10 points late in the third quarter, and despite valiant efforts by the Raptors to make up the difference, the Pacers ended up winning by five points. 

Although I like basketball, I don’t  follow the NBA so the game's outcome had no bearing on my enjoyment. I loved the atmosphere, the enthusiasm of the home side supporters, especially their attempts to psyche out the visitors by waving around complimentary white sports towels every time they had a foul shot.

The NBA is played at the Air Canada Centre, which is right in the heart of downtown Toronto and within easy reach of a string of bars and restaurants, to which we gravitated after the game. We had dinner and drinks at Fionn Maccools, yet another Irish pub. While it followed the standard Irish pub format, the food menu was a standout – I had the most delicious beef and kidney pie, topped with mash rather than the usual tough, flaky pastry. The burgers enjoyed by other members of our party looked equally delectable. 

We continued to posh Belgian-inspired beer hall Bier Markt. Again, this concept is nothing new, but the interior was pretty cool, very minimalist, dark and almost club-like, and there was a DJ who was playing some great old skool hip hop tracks – I even heard one of my favourite Pete Rock and CL Smooth tracks, The Real Hip Hop. And, unlike most bar DJs, he was actually mixing the records together properly! 

The most remarkable feature of Bier Markt is, unsurprisingly, beer. It has to have the most extensive selection of beers, Belgian and French (no really, there are other French beers besides Kronenbourg), German and Dutch, as well as drops from right around the world, the humble Coopers’ Sparkling Ale being the Australian contribution. 

So as well as having traditional Belgian abbey-brewed stalwarts like Leffe in bottles and Hoegaarden on tap, there were also Bavarian beauties Paulaner and Erdinger, Canadian boutique drops and a surprising number of US brews that seemed a cut above the terrible Budwiser and Miller brews.

After this much colder day, there was a pretty decent snowfall. We went for a stroll walking on a trail through the woodlands of suburban Toronto the next day as delicate snowflakes fluttered consistently down to a now sizeable blanket of snow. Winter wonderland achieved!

A very Canadian Christmas

With winters colder than a deep freeze and pancake-flat environs devoid of major ski resorts, Toronto might seem an odd place to visit in December. But for us the purpose was to visit family rather than embark on a wild adventure, and visiting Canada greatly increased our chances of having a white Christmas. 

But on arrival, we were disappointed to hear that it had been an exceptionally mild autumn, and barely any snow had fallen. There had been a good dump of powder a week or so before we arrived, but the temperature had risen again and heavy rain had washed the snow away. 

We spent Christmas day with some in-law relatives at Parry Sound, about three hours’ north of Toronto, which increased our white Christmas chances even more. However, there was no snow on the ground when we arrived on Christmas Eve – we were assured that snow was predicted, but there was a good chance of a chilly but snow-free Christmas day. Where’s the fun in that?

Our non-denominational prayers were answered in the wee hours of Christmas morning. I awoke, in a jetlag induced haze at about 4am to see tiny snowflakes wafting down to rest on a thin, whitish covering on the forest floor. By the time I woke up properly at 9am, a healthy, powdery carpet was visible. Success – my first white Christmas since the 1980s! 

Parry Sound, a secluded collection of well-tended wooden homes arranged around a pretty, forest-lined lake, is a wonderfully peaceful retreat. Not many of the houses on the strip where we stayed seemed to be occupied permanently, instead serving as summer lakeside cabins. But a few hardy souls live there year-round, their houses running off private dirt roads that aren’t maintained by local authorities. In fact the people we stayed with maintained their own road, laying down gravel and ploughing it after heavy snowfalls several times each winter. 

The lake itself was partially frozen when we were there, in the sections where water barely flowed. At one end a collection of rapids collected to form a small waterfall, creating a current that defied freezing. Further up, near a boat launch, a man tiptoed out onto the ice with a sledgehammer. After striking several times into the hard, slippery expanse, he concluded that the ice was three inches thick, and not yet safe to walk around on. Official guidance states that ice should be at least six inches thick before you can walk or skate on it, but people in these parts are known to chance it on four-inch thick ice. 

Christmas day festivities took a decidedly Canadian turn from the get go. We awoke to the smell of pancakes cooking for brunch, which we devoured with fresh berries and maple syrup. It turns out that most maple syrup I have consumed in my life is fake, because the real stuff, tree sap syphoned out of maple trees, is an extremely rare – and expensive – commodity. Our hosts were kind enough to provide the real deal and a bottle of generic “syrup” so that we could taste the difference. 

The present-giving session began with the young generation – two three month old babies, whose haul far outstripped anyone else in the room! Our family had already opened most of our presents before the big day, so we wouldn’t have to cart extra stuff up and back from Parry Sound in an already crowded rental van.

There was something for everyone in our hosts’ quirky take on the Secret Santa tradition. They play slightly differently to your average Kris Kringle or Secret Santa game, where you are assigned a person for whom you buy an anonymous gift. This game was far more conniving. Instead of buying for a specific person everyone buys a generic gift to a certain monetary value, and gifts are placed in the middle of the room. You then draw a number out of a hat to work out who gets first dibs at the pile of presents. You’d think it would be ideal to draw number one, because that gives you pick of the litter, right? Wrong! Number one simply gets to pick a gift and is stuck with it, while the next player can either pick another gift or choose to steal number one’s (already opened) gift. 

The Secret Santa bounty

Players continue to pick or steal gifts in order of the number they have been assigned. If a gift is stolen off someone, that person gets to either open a new present, or steal a gift from someone else. It’s advisable not to get too attached to any particular gift, as it is highly likely another player will pinch it from you at another point in the game. There are limits on how many times a gift can be stolen, and at the end of the game it was a fight to the finish as some of the more popular gifts changed hands until the limit was reached.

I noticed a clear strategy employed by veterans of the game – technically the gifts were contributed anonymously, but afterwards it was pretty clear who had bought what. Many players fought hard to end up with the gift that they contributed to the game! In contrast, Adam and I did not want what we had put in, because our presents were so generic, they weren’t anything that we really needed. Other players had simply bought something they would like and then battled for it. A different strategy altogether! 

It snowed on and off for much of Christmas day. We headed down to the lake with fishing rods and lures, but quickly concluded that it was too shallow to fish off the shore, and too easy to get snagged in the rocks and reeds. Many of the residents had wooden boat pontoons moored just offshore and tethered to trees, but they were frozen in place so we couldn’t pull them back in and jump on.

Don't fall in!

Christmas dinner was divine, with thick, deliciously moist slices of turkey, homemade cranberry sauce, stuffing and beautiful mashed pumpkin (sorry I refuse to call it squash) smothered in rich gravy. For dessert, there were individual baked cheesecakes with a choice of Toblerone, Ferrero Rocher or candy egg flavours. What a feast, and what a relief to enjoy it in a cosy heated house looking out on a crisp winter’s day in a snow-flecked forest! A far more agreeable climate to quaff this kind of food than when it is 30 degrees outside with the harsh Australian sun beating down! 

We returned to Toronto on Boxing Day, passing through the outer suburbs in time for another North American tradition – the sales. In true North American spirit, sales are not confined to just one day, but are held over Boxing Week, a term that up to now I had never heard of. 

Captivating Parry Sound

We parked outside an enormous drive in mall, the kind where a sprawling one story warehouse-type building squats amid a sea of car parking. This design suits lazy types who can drive up to their preferred store, go shopping, and are within staggering distance of their car when they are done. I suppose it makes sense if you are buying heavy items like furniture. 

Most of the shops in the mall were pretty underwhelming, and I can’t say Canadian fashion exactly screams style, but we did manage to walk away with a few cut-price bargains. We had to work for them though – it was quite a challenge wading through the heaving masses of couples, families and groups of teenagers. 

The most impressive shop in the mall was Outdoor World, a department store-sized behemoth selling anything adventure-related. Its auditorium-style interior was adorned with a brutal display of taxidermy – stuffed bears, moose and reindeer, several bird species and even a few (and I’m praying fake) polar bears. At the entrance was a giant freshwater fish aquarium, housing among other things, a meaty-looking catfish. A hunting section stocked rifles, air guns and hunting kit. Adam was inspired by the impressive range of hunting and fly-fishing outfits, including camouflage gumboots and those enormous wading galoshes that come up to your waist.