Barbados

Restaurant - Cottons
Location - Farringdon

By Boeing : 9179 miles

By Boris Bike : 3.8 miles

I began this journey dreaming of exotic climes and colourful destinations. By a quirk of fate, or perhaps phonetics, I have spent much of the first leg in the sparse and spartan surroundings of Eurasia, which is why I was bursting with anticipation on arrival at Cotton’s, a Bajan oasis in Farringdon. The Caribbean is a tropical paradise where each and every island is a beguiling variation on an enchanting theme. They are a unique amalgam of native customs, African settlement, American influence and the legacies of European colonial rule.

It is fitting that my first visit to the Caribbean is to Barbados, perhaps the most British of the West Indian islands. But this isn’t virgin territory, because my imagination has preceded me. A combination of Malibu adverts, cricket commentaries and the Notting Hill Carnival has painted a vivid picture of palm trees, laid-back beach life, unrelenting rhythms and colourful, vivacious personalities. Britain seems hopelessly constrained and conservative in comparison. But thanks in large part to cricket, a national obsession, many things are still done in an English way. So I need not have worried upon entering the restaurant, dressed, I now recoil in recalling, in the colonial colours of blue cords, red cardigan and white summer jacket, as just one word of praise for the unequalled talents of Sir Garfield Sobers, a Bajan icon, would see my greeted as a kith and kin.



Generally Caribbean food is served in colourful local cafes or street markets. This seems suited to the casual, ‘no worries’ ethos of the West Indies. But cheap and cheerful is not a recipe for profit for an aspiring restaurateur. Cotton’s, located in the trendy and cosmopolitan Exmouth market, offers ‘fusion’ food. This means that they serve Caribbean dishes at western prices. This ‘fusion’ concept extends to the décor. They have, no doubt rightly, surmised that customers will baulk at paying £30 a head if they are squeezed into Formica tables staring at a torn laminated poster of Bob Marley. So at Cotton’s there is polished wood flooring, leather benches and pristine white tablecloths. A hint of Bajan spice is offered in the odd exotic plant and brightly coloured fish painted on the walls. In truth, it doesn’t quite work. It is neither authenticity endearing or aesthetically pleasing. Part of the appeal of the Caribbean is a homely absence of pretension. However, the waiters were jovial and a suitably colourful cocktail, rum based of course, Barbados being the first manufacturers of that particular poison in the world, set the evening in motion. The menu was printed in a fancy italic font: a fusion of Caribbean recipes and western respectability.

While different islands have their own specialities ,regional favourites are served right across the Caribbean. Very few west Indian restaurants in London betray their island of origin. The Bajan delicacy is the so called ‘flying fish’. This is a species prevalent in that part of the world but is literally emblematic to Barbados, having been adopted as a national symbol. Water Pollution has meant they are a far rarer sight these days and are rarely served in restaurants.



Leaving ‘Jerk sauce’ and salt fish fritters to Jamaica I ordered the signature dish of goat curry. In Bangladesh I was conscious that I was eating my first fork and flag curry, that most urgent and ubiquitous of food formats. The Bengali version was, of course, very familiar but as my journey continues I will sample curries of varying and various textures and tastes. The Bajan curry is inspired by the thick, spicy dishes found throughout west and central Africa, the ancestral lands of the vast majority of the population.

A friend of mine later lambasted me for eating goat. But you can’t embark on a journey such as this without throwing caution to the wind. I’ll happily try a marinated mouse or a pickled possum if that is the plat du jour. What I won’t do is eat an endangered species. You won’t find me chewing a battered Panda or sampling an albatross fillet in an aniseed reduction. For the record a goat tastes like gamey mutton. Huge chunks of meat and bone in a thick sauce makes this as hearty a meal as you can imagine.

My dining companions opted for sea food dishes. Being island nations fish is abundant in the Caribbean and a key part of their diet. The image of a septuagenarian Rastafarian swooping up a red snapper in a primitive net from a whicker chair on the end of a rickety jetty in a tranquil, palm-lined bay is an appealing one. More appealing certainly than our Captain Birdseye and his mass-produced, mechanical methods. His affable demeanour and ruddy cheeks disguise the hard soul of a ruthless businessman.

The mix of cultures in Barbados include Amerindians, mainly from nearby Guyana, Arawaks and Carib tribes from South America and the Afro-Bajans of the Yoruba and Igbo tribes. This demographic melting pot has seen the island evolve into a culturally complex land that adopts a joyously laid-back approach to life. Comparing Barbados to Barnsley is, on the face of it, absurd, and yet its neighbours refer to the island as “Little England.” I somehow can’t imagine Dickie Bird or Michael Parkinson in tropical garb beating a steel drum.

Bangladesh

Restaurant – Dil Chad
Location - Whitechapel

By Boeing : 4289 miles

By Boris Bike : 5.2 miles

After Austria I had expected to make my way to Azerbaijan and learn a little more about the Caucasus, that much maligned and misunderstood region where states seek to escape anonymity by clustering at the beginning of the alphabet. But alas, like Angola, it’s sole London restaurant had recently closed, another victim of the tightening purse strings of increasingly discerning diners. So earlier than anticipated I travelled east to Bangladesh and one of the liveliest and most evocative streets in London, Brick Lane.



Bangladesh, once part of Greater India, now stands very much in the shadow of its illustrious neighbour, lacking its Bollywood glamour, economic might and international profile. While India is a global brand extending its reach and riches, Bangladesh is a regional backwater, too busy furrowing its own fields to cast its sights on pastures new. And yet us British are more familiar with its cuisine than you would ever guess. Around 80% of Indian restaurants in Britain are run by Bengalis. So odd as it may seem our adopted national cuisine is from a country most of us would never consider going to. Our taste is for Indian and so Indian restaurants they are.

London’s Bengali community are largely focused just east of the city, in the boroughs of Whitechapel and Shoreditch. Such are their numbers and influence that Brick Lane is known colloquially as ‘Bangla-town’. To walk down this street of a bustling evening is to assault your senses. There is nothing subtle or under-stated in its appeal: neon lights glare down on you from lurid shop fronts and waiters chase you down the road with increasingly frenetic entreaties. If you want to wander unnoticed and unhindered you will be disappointed. This part of London is vibrant and visceral.



But rather than succumb to a beseeching Brick Lane my friend and I wander through narrow lanes towards Liverpool Street and amidst the edifices of enterprise is Dil Chad, one of the oldest foreign restaurants in the city. When this restaurant opened in 1962, London still considered Lasagne exotic and most east enders would sooner chew a whelk than be wined and dined. You could, perhaps, in Knightsbridge or Soho sample Italian or French but London’s culinary map was less culturally diverse than a Cornish prep school. But you could eat Bangladeshi, albeit cunningly disguised as Indian.

This land of low-lying deltas has had its fair share of floods and failures. It is not surprising then that Bangladesh has this far failed to dance on the international stage. Given the troubles, many with ambition fled the shores, a significant number settling in London and stirring their cuisine into our national consciousness.

As much of Bangladesh is water, fish is eaten in great quantity and striking seafood dishes are prepared, such as Shukti, a pungent dry fish. These are seldom seen in a London Bengali restaurant. Nor, it seems, are our palates particularly keen on stewed pulses, which form the basis for most authentic dishes. Dal is a staple of the sundries but pigeon pea and red gram would certainly raise a cockney eyebrow. The tell tale giveaway that you are sitting in a Bengali restaurant in Indian tailoring is the presence of Beef dishes. These would never be served in a Hindu restaurant.

One of the emerging themes of this journey is how restaurants have sought to balance authenticity with popularity. Bengali cuisine is a classic case in point. Those holidaying in downtown Dhaka will struggle to find a Tandori Tikka Masala or onion bhaji. The Bangla-Brit hybrid menu is now established but as Londoner’s become more adventurous, restaurants are returning to more traditional, authentic fare. Catering for the post pub crowd is as simple as having a red sauce (Masala), a brown sauce (Bhuna) and some onions simmering on a stove. But the sober seek out the speciality dishes.

To start with we ordered Dal, a suitably spicy dipping sauce for a shard of parata. I then opted for the appealingly annotated ‘Pride of Bangladesh’, a variation on the popular Jhal Frezi dish of spiced chicken with onions and peppers. Free from so strict a remit my friend blithely ordered a Lamb Vindaloo, that came simmering and burbling with ill intent.

For some reason, unlike other cuisines, the British do not tend to order desert at an Indian/Bangladeshi restaurant. Despite once ordering a scoop of ice cream in a moulded plastic penguin I too have followed this custom. It is ironic then that Bangladesh is renowned for its traditional sweets. And sweet is very much the word. Even the most ardent sweet tooth would baulk at some of their sugar laden concoctions. Fried sweets, that resemble battered icicles, and various forms of sweetened milk dishes pervade. But alas such sweets are not a part of the Bengali-Brit tradition and therefore I was spared the ignominy of loosening to the next belt hole.

Leaving the restaurant I noted that the street signs in this part of town are bi-lingual, making it comparable, if not as widely known, as Chinatown. Bengali restaurants are spread liberally across London from the centre to the suburbs and the satellites. For so long sampled only on a booze addled Saturday night Bengali culture is now more prominent and proud, with Bengali dress, music and custom a familiar sight in many parts of London. First it was ubiquitous and only then unique.

Austria

Restaurant - Tiroler Hut
Location - Bayswater

By Boeing : 9887 miles

By Boris Bike : 2.3 miles

In spite of its rich Habsburg cultural heritage and Vienna’s sophistication the image that most Britishers have of Austria is of Julie Andrews teaching impossibly high-waisted children to yodel in alpine pastures. The Sound of Music has formed our Austrian canvass of an idyllic, fresh aired, clean limbed, Elysian pasture of dairy cows, wild flowers and impromptu fillial choruses.

The fact that our image of Austria is not formed of seven centuries of imperial elegance and artistic expression but by a hackneyed musical from the 1960’s is an example of how television has blinkered our cultural viewpoint. It is unsurprising then that Austrian dining in London is not civilised Viennese aut cuisine but yeasty, yodelling, beer swilling pantomime. Despite the unassuming neon lit entrance of the infamous Tiroler Hut, within minutes of walking down steps into a dingy, airless cellar, reverberating with the echoes of frenzied yodelling, you know this will be an unforgettable evening. It as if an alpine lodge has been transported from the Tirol having been furnished en route by Shepperton Studios most eccentric set designer. It is soon apparent that this is more cabaret than cuisine. Alpine cow maidens with flirtatious costumes serve cavernous, foaming steins of beer while you browse the menu for the many variations on the pork, cabbage and dumpling theme.



Austrian cuisine is most noted for its delicate pastry deserts such as sachertorte and innumerable butter encased cakes and tarts. A Viennese Coffee house, with its laid back elegance, silver service and convivial conversation, puts our Starbucks to shame. But their dining is far less exotic and memorable, following the bland Germanic tastes of slow cooked meats and dollops of stewed vegetables. The Teutonic palate is not the most adventurous, with the danger of spice avoided in favour of the comfort of centuries old home cooked staples.



From our small table in a distant corner we saw a bow-backed septuagenarian in mandatory high waisted shorts and twanging braces make his leisurely way to an area suspiciously free of tables. The reason for their absence soon became clear as he stepped onto the impromptu stage and yodelled the tune of Edelweiss, that age old tune bastardised by the Von Trapps. It was difficult to tell whether the straining yodels were the result of a conscious tightening of vocal chords or an attempt to suppress a sneeze. It is said that the Yodel was invented as a way of communicating across the alps in the era before mobile phones, or even semaphore. It was an attempt to reverse Darwinian Theory and devolve to the level of cuckoos. But absurd a means of communication as it is it has remained an integral part of Austrian folk traditions. With yodellers and Morris dancers clearly cut from the same cloth we are not in a position to feel culturally superior. But while it was silly and faintly comic the good humour and hospitality, greeted by a stirring chorus of thing slapping, felt authentic. My medallions of cured pork on a bed of seasoned cabbage washed down with replenished beer the evening was more entertaining than most.



It was kitsch, certainly, but light hearted, unpretentious fun and frivolity. With the yodeller mopping his brow after an exerting stint another man appeared and arranged fourteen bells on a table, ranging from tiny to town-cryer size, with a couple of steel tea pots for good measure. He then reprised Edelweiss with a peerless performance of a cow bell chorus. With each bell of a different pitch and kettles providing the bass, by shaking them with eye-aching speed and a deftness of touch that betrayed his arthritic age, he received a standing ovation. This was an Austrian artist at the top of his game. Finishing my slice of cinnamon laced apfelstrudel I beamed from ear to ear.

Then the evening turned surreal. Not content with an authentic Austrian repertoire the yodeller reappeared and murdered a strongly Arian accented rendition of New York, New York by Frank Sinatra. I could have been in Rene’s cafe in Allo Allo. Rather than celebrate his native culture he had locked it in the gallows to be publically mocked. On cue a drunken stag party formed an impromptu conga line and a Korean girl grabbed the microphone for the most unlikely duet since Rod Hull and Emu. It was a scene straight from a Terry Gilliam fantasy. I half expected a dwarf on a unicycle to offer me schnapps.

From enjoying myself in an Austrian restaurant I sat helplessly by while my evening descended into a Benny Hill inspired stag party venue. I suddenly felt like a bashful Methodist who had unwittingly gatecrashed a naturist wine tasting; out of place and out of sorts. It had been the oddest evening of year. On the one hand it had been the most immersive cultural experience of the journey, but on the other it felt constructed and crass. Without the culinary range and popularity of other countries Austrian cuisine has sought succour in that nutritional niche, the themed evening. London is the richer for it, but it is certainly an acquired taste.

Australia

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.

Armenia

Restaurant - Jakobs
Location - Gloucester Road

By Boeing : 8330 miles

By Boris Bike : 5.7 miles

Begrudgingly leaving the delights of Argentina behind I approached my next destination with a sense of intrigue bordering on trepidation. Before you set foot in a country, or in my case one of its food preparing exclaves, your mind builds a picture based on media projection and poorly sourced prejudice. I had already conjured up an image of Armenia of hirsute, hillside goat shepherdesses cowering from soviet skirmishes in the valleys below. Clearly I was safe from such internecine warfare in Gloucester Road but nevertheless to enter a restaurant uneasy rather than expectant does not make for the greatest start to an evening.

On being led to my table I was fortified by the thought that twenty years ago people may have had the same reservations about war torn Croatia, now one of the most popular holiday destinations in Europe. ‘Undiscovered’ can be a surprisingly powerful selling point even if it leads the more astute to question why it has never been discovered before. It is all very well a country offering ‘authenticity’ but if this comes hand in hand with ‘abject poverty’ and ‘occasional guerrilla uprisings’ it tends to take the sheen off the romance.



The restaurant was a hotchpotch of cultural paraphernalia, including some rather sinister looking dolls and grotesque anthromorphic figurines, and eclectic groups of diners. I got the impression that my fellow diners had chanced upon it through convenience or hunger and had carried out little or no research into its Armenian roots. During the day the owners, presumably in an attempt to increase patronage, transformed the restaurant into the ‘messy hands’ children’s pottery club. Whether the children were encouraged to mould Armenian fauna and flagons I cannot say.

Although a new country I immediately sensed I was in familiar territory. Like Afghanistan and Albania this is a land squeezed between east and west in the borderlands of Europe and Asia. Armenia, in the cranny of the Caucasus, is part of that huge swathe of Eurasia that on liberation from soviet yolk fragmented into an intricate jigsaw of national self-determination and fledgling democracies. In this hard-edged hinterland almost every village attests its unique ethno-cultural heritage and its right to be recognised as an independent nation. In ten years time it is plausible that this journey could encompass a further fifty or so countries in this region, some as small as Monaco and as non-descript as Wales.

Bordered by Turkey and Iran, Armenian cuisine has a decidedly middle eastern flavour. This was clearly evident from the buffet at Jacobs, the diner-cum-delicatessen, that offered local staples such as Aubergine, chick peas and cracked wheat salads. But as in Albania the national dishes were conspicuous by their absence. Fasulya, a stew of lamb, green beans and strained tomato was not available. Neither was checil, a pickled cheese, or a sour plum puree intriguingly translated as ‘fruit leather’. The generic regional fare was hearty and wholesome but didn’t offer a distinctly Armenian flavour. My stuffed aubergine was suitably satisying but I was left wondering whether it would have been enriched by a sip of the local Armenian brew of fermented bread. Similarly I was disappointed not to sample the speciality soup of lentils and walnuts. Though suitably nourished I felt that in distilling the national flavour they had distilled the dining experience. The commercial compromise of the owners had forced a culinary compromise on the customer.



We ordered three beers with our starters only to later discover that this modest order represented 75% of their available stock. I don’t know whether this was due to Armenian abstemiousness or whether the opposite was in fact true and that the lunch time frequenters had got more than a little merry. In any case it was the first time I have ever been at a restaurant that was unable to fulfil a drinks order.

My fellow diner wryly noted that his rice was ‘red’, and quipped that this was in homage to their soviet heritage. But looking around there was no bust of Lenin on the wall or hammer and sickle hung in the restrooms. Indeed the atmosphere and adornments reflected a small, eccentric land of folk-lore, not a colossal and uniform collective. But, alas, there was little to give identity to that land or resonance to that folk-lore. It was intriguing clutter that drew the eye but did not enlighten or enrich the beholder.

What tourist would chose to visit such a place? Unsurprisingly tourism is not playing as large a role as Armenians would hope in revitalising their economy. Left a legacy of crumbling soviet era industrial infrastructure the nation has returned to a more pastoral lifestyle and diversified into new markets such as finishing precious stones. This is a new country with an age old aspiration, to promote its attractions and attributes to the wider world. Rumour has it Armenia is preparing a case for membership of the European Union. But it will take a period of lasting peace and prosperity, not to mention a genius in public relations, for a common or garden Englishman to tell his kids that they are not going to Euro Disney this summer afterall, but the Armenian steppe.

Argentina

Restaurant - Buen Ayre
Location - Hackney

By Boeing : 6322 miles

By Boris Bike : 8.6 miles

I had intended to remain in Africa and move south west from Algeria to the former Portuguese colony of Angola. However, the proprietor of the sole Angolan eatery in London, a ramshackle restaurant that only opened on request, called me to say he had closed due to disagreement with the taxman. The recession has clearly made existence at the margins of marketable cuisine a hand to mouth affair.

As I took the jubilee line to Bethnal Green for my next destination I wondered whether London will lose its multicultural flavour in this double-dip downturn. Will the culinary outposts that make this journey so rich in discovery disappear off the map? How sad it would be if London’s diversity of cuisine was reduced to only those familiar staples of mass consumption, such as Chinese, Indian and Italian, and if, god forbid, at some time in the future this journey would yield as many unique aromas in Croydon as London!



Broadway market, in Hackney, is a bustling thoroughfare of eclectic trends and al fresco dining. The market abuzz with pre-prandial pleasantry and po-faced pretension I found my way through the cultural milieu to Buen Ayre, an Argentinean asado with an unassuming entrance but crackling atmosphere.





A lithe, lascivious waitress met me at the door and asked whether I had booked. I was taken aback. It was just past six and I was struggling to find a table. Then it struck me: Argentina is the first place on my journey that is a bona fide tourist destination; a place people chose to visit. If people dream of visiting this South American utopia then of course they will book early and often for a night sampling its culture and cuisine.

Led to a rustic brushed wood table I had pride of place by the vast open barbeque that was the focal point of the restaurant, already loaded with steak. Charcoal, imported, I was proudly informed, from Argentina for its unique aroma, glowed as the effusive chef, surrounded by patriotic paraphernalia such as football scarves and photos of tango dancers, flirted with the waitresses. In Argentina every sense is not only entertained but entertained to excess. Argentineans simply don’t do restraint. To them to abstain is to forego pleasure.



As I sampled my starter of deep fried empanadas I watched agape as huge ribs of steak and bulbous sausages were loaded onto parillada, large sizzling platters for entire tables of salivating diners. Looking up I noticed a wire mesh bulls head protruding from the wall, like a pagan idol, venerated by an entire nation.

To a Londoner growing up in the eighties a steakhouse means red velvet, high-backed benches, battered, bone dry onion rings and a solitary grilled tomato. Meat would be well done to the point where you needed a hacksaw rather than a knife to attack it. Every arid morsel would scrape down your throat and lay as ballast in your stomach for months. Thus raised I naturally asked for my steak ‘medium well’. This request was met with a stern rebuke. In place of chips were flame grilled sweet peppers and a piquant oregano pesto called chimichurri. In an Argentinean restaurant groups chatter rather than sit in silent concentration trying in vain to chomp through rigid, risible rump.



Although a Spanish colony Argentinean food and festivity is most influenced by the waves of Italian immigration that arrived in 19th century. Now roughly 60% of the population are of Italian descent and adopt the custom of supper as a social rather than purely culinary experience. The Asado barbecue is far more than a neighbourhood nosh: It is where friendships are affirmed, family allegiances strengthened and the very fabric of society woven. Food is never an after thought or eaten for convenience. It is said that cheese with quince jelly is the favoured snack of Buenos Aries truck drivers!

From architecture to sport European influence is felt more than anywhere else in Latin America. From the Spanish they got horsemanship, from the Italians flavours and fashion and from the English a penchant for high tea and polo.



Eating my steak, with a glass of Malbec in one hand and a Quilmas beer in the other, I chuckled as I reflected how we went from larger than life in his playing days to larger in life in middle age. I suspect that what took him from over-bearing to overweight was Dulce De Leche, a national delicacy. For desert I ordered pancakes smothered in this milk caramel. It was, without question, the richest, most decadent dish I have ever eaten: toffee with the density of diamond. You couldn’t create anything more filling if you tried, not even if you smothered a cornish pasty with syrup and threw it in a Glaswegian deep fat fryer. As if this wasn’t indulgent enough It was accompanied by helado, a rich and creamy Italian style ice-cream.



In Argentina you are not meant to leave wanting more, rather you berate yourself for not ordering less. It is nothing short of state endorsed gluttony: not a deadly sin but a rights of passage through paradise.

Algeria

Restaurant - Numidie
Location - Crystal Palace

By Boeing : 951 miles

By Boris Bike : 9.7 miles

Fantastically vibrant and colourful television commercials paint pictures of a distant paradise and ‘bewitch’ the senses; tourism is the bread and butter of many a national economy . But like a 1950’s public service announcement Albania’s advert would be brief, black and white and bemuse. So it was with a great sense of expectation that I travelled south across the Mediterranean to my next port of call, Algeria.

Of all the continents Africa is perhaps the most bewitching. The recent world cup, the first ever to be hosted on African soil, finally allowed a continent with more than its fair share of despots and despondency to showcase its rich culture and newfound confidence to an expectant world. The dazzling delirium of the opening ceremony showed that this is not a continent wanting for passion or personality. But to compare Algiers, that northern outpost of fading colonial splendour, with Soweto is like twinning Syracuse with Stockholm. Africa, I soon saw, was anything but homogenous. Contrast, contradiction and calamity were as much its bywords as colour and carnival.



My visit to Algeria saw me leave Kilburn for one of London’s most famous landmarks. Well that is to say the site of one its foremost former landmarks. Crystal Palace was once the fulcrum of South London socialites. Now it is a scruffy suburb that sits bashfully in the shadow of the 220 metre faux Eiffel tower and its manicured gardens. In truth since the great fire of 1936 destroyed its crystal citadel the district has struggled to retain its glean and glamour. Apparently Sebastian Coe once ran marginally faster than Steve Cram here, but that is one of the few times it has made the papers. It is now a venue for hire not a site to inspire. As I walked from the station up Anerly Hill I recalled my last visit, some twenty years ago, when in one of the vast regency gardens, at a football swop shop, I struck up an exchange with a musty misanthrope and swapped a sticker of west ham’s reserve goalkeeper for the Swindon Town squad.

Algeria is a country that though geographically in Africa has, during its troubled and eventful history, been drawn into the compass of the Islamic Middle East. And like many of its continental neighbours only in the earliest and latest chapters in its history has it been master of its own fate. In between a succession of pirates, plunderers, princes and potentates have forced subjugation and left their mark in the culture and cuisine. It was no surprise then that Numidie, a small, unassuming bistro set amidst a parade of gaudy bars and neon-fronted noodle houses, has a provincial French air. Its low-lit ambiance, rustic furniture and elegant mirrors were in keeping with the understated charm that was the legacy of 130 years of French occupation. Moving the other way in this cultural exchange between victor and vassal, Algerian footballer Zinedine Zidane became one of the most celebrated and enigmatic French superstars of recent times.



The bitter civil war that followed independence in 1992 saw 160,000 die and in a recent study Algiers, despite its Gallic glamour, had the lowest quality of life of 132 capital cities. With the French removed Algeria once more sought to define itself and its relationships with its African neighbours and Arab allies.

‘Numidie’ is the name for an ancient Berber kingdom. Along with neighbouring Morocco, Algeria is the ancestral home of the indigenous peoples of North Africa. They were dispersed and marginalised by the arabization of the region in the 11th century but their culture has survived and is now flourishing once more. This can be seen in the cuisine, which is distinct from middle-eastern traditions. Its dishes and delicacies are drawn from the varied landscape of the country that includes Mediterranean ports, fertile plains, the Atlas mountains and southern deserts.

My starter, a traditional fish soup was very much a Mediterranean dish with a rich tomato and herb base while the Merguez, the national speciality, was a hearty, spicy sausage eaten for centuries in the mountain regions. The Berber staples are couscous and chickpea. These feature in most dishes, not least in the most popular main course, a rich stew called a tajine. Algerian food is less spicy than its Moroccan counterpart and my chicken tajine was delicate and salty. The flavours were subtle, balanced and without the fiery heat and intense spice found in neighbouring Morocco and Tunisia.



Olives and grapes are a major harvest, although since the French left the wine has become, according to my blushing waitress, ‘variable’. Nevertheless in season Algerians enjoy bountiful fruits and serve these for desert. Algeria ,afterall, has been suggested site for the Garden of Eden. My pudding was truly delicious and the highlight of the meal, a pear poached in red wine, aniseed and spices. Like the rest of the meal it was simple, fresh and mouth-watering. It was, to my mind, far more indulgent than the richest chocolate concoction an American diner could dream up. Algerian cuisine combines regional flavours and styles with French gastronomic traditions to pleasing effect.

I leave Algeria wiser and well fed. I look forward to returning to Africa soon to see what is familiar and what is different and learn a little more about a land whose mystery is its mirror to the world.