Restaurant: Wahaca
Location: South Bank
By Boeing: 10759 miles
By Boris Bike: 4 miles
In the eighties going out for a Mexican was the suburban equivalent of having a sunset wedding in the Grenadines starring Simon Le Bon as the master of ceremonies. It was the ultimate expression of the cul-de-sac dweller’s definition of exotic. In an era when eating out was as rare an occurrence as a Labour by-election victory in the Cotswolds Mexican was the final word in celebrating cuisine and affirming life. Yet two decades on and those same Carshalton cantinas are the epitome of crap, cringeworthy cuisine.
The harshly-lit, cluttered restaurants are cactus strewn with bulbous, phallic wall murals that resemble a primary school community art project gone to seed. Stale tacos laden with mildly seasoned, bolognaise-on-a-budget mince and sallow, over-weight waitresses begrudgingly offering sour Tequila from party shop surplus, PVC holsters is kitsch at best and culinary catastrophe at worst. At some point in the summer of 1991 Mexico lost its allure, and other cuisines took its crown.
But now tacky Tacos are a thing of the past and Burritos are back in a big way. All over the capital street kitchens, Hipster hatches and pop up restaurants have sprung up in a Mexican renaissance. And this time the accent is on authenticity, not Pedro produced pantomime. Inspired by a renewed interest in everything Latin and boasting healthy, headstrong, simple flavours we are all embracing the Mexican street food experience.
Popularity is the acorn from which the profit tree may grow and Mexicana has become big chain, big business fare. But because its charm lies in its humble humility chains have sought to retain the impression of independently run, ramshackle restaurants. This helps explain why successful chain Wahaca launched an oh so popular ‘pop up’ on the South Bank. Constructed from a half finished game of Jenga using shipping containers it features a canteen and cocktail terrace, with the utility of corrugated steel deliciously juxtaposed with a rainbow of vibrant colour and an army of sassy, sultry waitresses.
Mexican has been a beneficiary of the street food craze. Merely a rebranding of the age-old tapas format it offers an array of cheap, community dishes. The decor, menu and carefree attitude of the staff offers a chilled out atmosphere, the antithesis of the stuffy, starched protocols of the theatreland restaurants across the river. Street food is London’s admitting that dining out is now the norm, not the exception.
One of the charms of street food, and a way it has been skilfully marketed, is that the chefs don’t stand on ceremony, and the dynamic of the serving and the served is deconstructed. So you are told on ordering that each dish ‘comes when it is ready’, not according to age-old customs of starters, main course and desserts. It is communal dining too, perhaps taking advantage of the near hysterical appetite for jubilee street parties. We found ourselves pushed onto a bench with several other groups. My grandfather would have stormed out at such rude service, such an absence of privacy, but it is all part of the experience.
Mexican beer, with that tart slice of lime, helped washed down Tortilla chips with a piquant salsa. Then for dizzying five minutes dishes arrived at ninety second intervals until the table was littered with tacos, burritos, quesadillas and chilli dusted corn. From spicy chicken to the must have filling of the moment, ‘pulled pork’, the flavours were urgent and satisfying. Like tapas this abundance of tastes creates a sensory, convivial experience that more formal, main course dining can’t replicate.
Mexico shares many staples with its South American cousins, with beans predominating, with spice enlivening pork and beef. But because all but the youngest generations recall the first wave of Mexican culinary imports the tastes are a little more familiar, while still feeling exotic and different. Though many rave about Colombian, Brazilian and Peruvian food they have not been embraced so widely or eaten by so many so frequently. Mexican, it seems, holds the trump cards in its combination of the different and the dependable. Though they like to think they are adventurous, most London ‘foodies’ would rather appear to have left the beaten path than truly test their tastebuds.
What street food has brought to the Mexican experience is a far greater range of sweet treats. Not desserts as such, but a sugary continuation of the hastily served tasters. I tried Mexican doughnuts with a milk toffee sauce. They were served almost instantaneously, with steam rising off their deliciously deep-fried sheen. Neither round nor ring there horseshoe shaped dough balls were light and fluffy, with the sickly-sweet weight of the mile toffee perfectly complimenting coffee.
Yards away from our open terrace, twenty feet above the Thames was a bustling food market, featuring aromas and flavours from all over the world. But though we were eating in a chain restaurant it didn’t feel incongruous. It was all street food, it was all London dining out on the nights it didn’t used to.
