Restaurant - Walkabout
Location - Shepherds Bush
By Boeing : 8428 miles
By Boris Bike : 2.5 miles
From the Caucasus my journey takes me over 7000 miles to the most far flung continent on earth. They say you can’t discover the real Australia without experiencing the empty expanses of the outback so ever eager to heed the advice of others I ambled from the regency splendour of Gloucester Road to the bustle of the bush, Shepherd’s Bush. Entering the cavernous, neon-lit Walkabout bar, that shrine of anglicised aussieness, I reflected on the impact Australians have had on London. While there are, no doubt, ample Algerians and, if you believe what you hear, an array of Armenians in Acton, these antipodeans are the first Diaspora that represent a significant percentage of the capital’s community.
Australians have not just settled in London but left their mark. Thirty years ago it would have been considered foolish to wear a singlet and sandals on the first sunny day in March but now this odd custom doesn’t even raise an eyebrow on Clapham Common. I suspect too that Australians are largely responsible for that ubiquitous aroma of the ‘barbee’ that pervades the capital between June and September. This is, afterall, a country that shares the same language, well at least a mangled dialect of it, the same queen and many of the same customs. England is a home from home, I guess, a return from exile of a generation once removed.
Although Australia has become a destination world renowned for the quality of its cuisine the aussie food available here is best described as ‘tucker’. This term is in fact the one used on the walkabout menu so I have no qualms in following their lead. The menu proved surprisingly varied with many dishes accompanied by pleas to those with larger appetites. In the end I declined the invitation to ‘go ultimate with a triple decker’. Although I ordered a burger I overlooked the more obvious beef for the faintly ridiculous ‘kangaroo.’ Although there were some token effort salads on the menu lettuce was referred to as ‘rabbit food’. The offer to ‘upgrade to wedges’ was an amusing illustration of the humble origins of the food and, more presciently, its consumers. Walkabout serves up the antidote to pretentious gastro pub meals. This was wholesome, no-nonsense, no-frills tucker. In short the aussies have impinged on a Yorkshire monopoly, except they don’t sell Kangaroo in Swale Dale.
Clearly previous customers must have been shocked to find a slab of skippy on their plate as a caption on the menu declares ‘yes this really is Kangaroo’. When mine arrived I suddenly realised that there must be Kangaroo farms, marsupial meat houses. The meat itself was very rich and flavoursome, reminiscent of venison. This was no weatherspoon burger, it was a subtle and succulent meal.
For Englishmen of my generation our impression of Australia was formed from an early age by beer adverts. An orchestra of didgeridoos and wobble boards would introduce a stereo-typed aussie alpha male usually in urgent need of either a toilet (a dunny), a beer (tinnie), a woman ( a sheila) or all three. The punchline would be a typically brash, simplistic aussie word play, such as ‘An aussie wouldn’t give a Castlemaine XXXX for anything else’. Fosters and Four X were the good time beers that we adopted as far more fun and frothy alternative to our stiff English stouts and eighteenth century ales. But ironically aussies will tell you no-one drinks those brands back home. They drink Victoria Bitter instead. Wanting the authentic experience I ordered a VB to discover that despite hops and complex fermentation the bottled beverage has a less distinctive flavour than water itself.
A decade ago there seemed to be a walkabout in almost every district but now only the larger venues remain. Whether this is merely a sign of these difficult times or a judgement on the appeal of the aussie experience it is impossible to say. These are not so much pubs as entertainment venues, offering large screen sports, disco tunes to the small hours and, we must suppose, a thousand and one drunken indiscretions. This multi-purpose approach means that midweek diners can enjoy the musty aroma of stale beer and sweat stained surfaces. The décor, enormous plasma screens and giant crudely drawn murals of aborigines playing rugby, was somewhat distracting but I was soothed by the images of baggy green stumps being uprooted by Pakistani yorkers. A circumambulation of the bar revealed that the only aussies present were pulling pints. These were English clientele enjoying, and therefore endorsing, the aussie pub culture.
As I left I saw something that helped explain the appeal. In an England derided by Jeremy Clarkson, that most esteemed of social commentators, for selling its soul to political correctness, a door adjacent to the bar was daubed with the lettering ‘Disabled Dunnie’. You have to hand it to them, a father is wise to listen to the counsel of his son.
