Restaurant: La Bodeguita
Location : Elephant and Castle
By Boeing: 9151 miles
By Boris Bike: 2.1 miles
Elephant and Castle is a district of London I have always sought to avoid. But the fork and flag journey has forced me to confront my preconceptions and in discovering the world’s cuisine get under the skin of my home town. My Bolivian trip saw me stride off past itinerant off-licences and fried chicken emporiums to the Old Kent Road. But my Colombian host, La Bodeguita, was located in what is surely the ugliest building in London, the Elephant and Castle shopping centre. For most Londoner’s the Elephant is a urine-scented transport hub to be passed through and forgotten as quickly as plausible. But for the city’s South American disapora it is a place to linger, live and sample the tastes of home. There is a corner of a foreign shopping centre that is forever Colombia.
In Bolivia I had been deafened by panpipe techno, fed excessive volumes of food and as a sole Caucasian stuck out like an MCC member in a Millwall terrace. But on my next visit to the continent I went from the surreal to the soulless with the dissapointingly unmemorable Chilean fusion experience. But having placed one foot inside La Bodeguita i knew that Columbia would be a return to form. The restaurant was awash with cultural colour and patriotic paraphernalia. A huge Colombian flag protruded from a bizarre wooden palisade erected in one corner while every inch of wall was covered with shrines to Columbia’s sporting heritage.
La Bodeguita is no intimate bistro, rather it resembles a cross between a nightclub and a viewing area at an airport terminal. The floor-space is vast, enough for several hundred diners to eat in comfort or, if needs be, for local secondary moderns to hold GCSE examinations. Its wedge shape means that most diners sit close to a shimmering wall of glass that commands panoramic views over South London’s gridlocked traffic. It reminded me of that peculiarly English road-side bistros, The Little Chef, where disgruntled families and travelling salesmen sit in silence, staring dolefully out of the window at cars flashing by. But such is the effusive energy and lust for life of South America that the atmosphere was lively and the evening expectant.
As with Bolivia I found myself a lone Englishman gate-crashing a latino party. Looking around there were large family groups spanning four generations, young couples locked in amorous embrace and groups of friends in frenetic conversation. I looked agape at their garish fashions and they returned curious glances of my newly acquired red trousers. Some of the younger women shared the same figure and features as that saucy singer and national icon, Shakira.
While the English generally order, eat and leave in the most efficient manner possible I got the impression that my fellow diners were staying for the duration of the evening. The waves and welcomes between tables suggested that this was a close-knit community where everyone knew everyone else.
My waiter thought I was a intriguing character and the feeling was mutual. In talking me through the menu he demonstrated a greater range of facial expressions than ken Dodd. As ever I wanted to sample something unusual and authentic. I gleefully ordered a Refajo, a potent mix of lager and a local variant of my favourite teenage tipple, Irn-Bru. The noxious, syrupy elixir was, like most South American fare, sweet and scandalously satisfying.
Having been frustrated in recent attempts to sample national dishes I was glad to see the Columbian staple of Bandoja Paisa on the menu. The waiter described it as their equivalent of an all day breakfast. In England we take breakfast very seriously, but would our anaemic rashers, sallow sausages and bloodshot beans seem paltry in comparison? I have seen less food served up at mayoral receptions than was crammed onto to my 50 cm diameter plate. Instead of bacon rashers was a salt encrusted ring of Belly Pork, flanked by an angry, bulbous chorizo with an extraordinary translucent orange hue. These were accompanied by rice, fried plantain, kidney beans, cornbread, avocado and a fried egg. The concept may be comparable but the execution could not have been different. This isn’t a dish you’d find served from a portacabin hatch in a Hangar lane gyratory lay-by.
Struggling to focus on the desert menu from the dizzying effects of gluttony I looked over a dozen or so choices, each as sickly-sweet as the next. In refined circles it is customary for the English to enjoy a cheeseboard after desert. But Columbians take a different approach, combining the two courses.
They enjoy a slice of cheese smothered in evaporated milk toffee. The contrast of the salty cheese and the sweet toffee combine to delicious, and impossibly indulgent, effect. As this was Colombia I finished the meal with a cup of coffee. I was so belt-bracingly full it was a good twenty minutes before i could stand.
The waiter smiled knowingly when he came to clear my plate and found me slumped in a sated stupor. Noting the complex lighting rig above my head I asked him if the tables were cleared later on to create a dancefloor. “The tables aren’t cleared because people dance on them.” This was logic, albeit of a uniquely South American variety.
