Cameroon

By Boeing: 6390 miles

By Boris Bike: 6.2 miles

I had been looking forward to only my second African foray. Algeria, on the Barbary coast, had been fascinating, but is a world away from the heart of the continent.

My perception of Cameroon has largely been formed by an image of their enigmatic footballer Roger Milla’s flamboyant corner flag dance routine at the 1990 World Cup. This seemed so fresh and exuberant compared to the firm shake of the hands that Bobby Charlton may have exchanged with a stern faced Alf Ramsay.

The unbridled, unbounded joy of the fans, blasting their trumpets and beating the incessant rhythm of song, left a lasting impression, so different from the image of the despairing, despotic Africa presented on the news. This image was developed at the recent world cup in South Africa, where a much maligned, misunderstood continent showcased its passion to the watching world.



So when I traipsed through the glum, grotty streets of a suburb on the fringes of the tube network I expected a heartfelt welcome. Unfortunately my visit was treated with suspicion and unease and I am unable to share the details of the restaurant or location and those who want to will find it much harder to discover the flavour of Cameroon.

Nestled between the ubiquitous string of kebab shops and fried chicken establishments that characterise the urban fringes, this community restaurant was dimly lit and dingy. The interior looked like a cross between a Leatherhead sub-office of a cable television provider and the plush waiting room of an eccentric dentist. The grey, flecked, asbestos riddled ceiling tiles, bare carpet and municipal tables were complemented by random bursts of colour courtesy of murals, asymmetric patches of paint and lurid serviettes. The lines of tables were broken by a lounge area , where the sullen owner and her friends sat in huge, sumptuous, grey leather sofas in urgent, vociferous chatter.

As with many of the restaurants on my journey it marketed less to the casual diner than the bride, the betrothed and their brethren. The menu catered for such large groups offering plates, platters and party discounts. The house speciality was a two foot long grilled Tilapia, a popular African fish, but I, as ever, sought out the national dish, a rich stew called Ndole. Unfortunately they didn’t offer that as it was too difficult to make (this is a common theme with national dishes, I encountered the same problem in Albania). So instead I opted for a similar staple, a thick, flavoursome stew in which fragments of goat vertebrae could sometimes be found.

This Egusi came with a mound of pounded yam, the continental variant of mashed potato, but with the gelatinous consistency of semolina. It was spicy and nourishing and reminiscent of the curried goat I had enjoyed on my first stop off in the Caribbean, unsurprising of course given the cultural ties between the regions.

The wine list wasn’t what I would call extensive. Even the greenest of sommeliers would have little trouble discerning the good and the grape. It contained three options: red, rose and white. I opted for an imported beer instead, which complemented the stew well. As a sampler I also ordered Suya, beef smothered in a spicy peanut sauce and skewered, a popular street food and extremely moorish. A dish very typical of the region, that I will look forward to tasting later in my journey, is Jollof Rice, a medley of tomato, pepper and chunks of fish or meat. I considered the ‘assorted meat’ soup but winced when told it contained tripe.

I have heard rumours that bush meat is considered a delicacy and can often be ordered ‘a la carte’, so to speak. But however hungry for new experiences and tastes I may be a Chimpanzee cutlet is never going to be a tantalising, let alone ethically acceptable, prospect.



Cameroon stands at the crossroads of the continent, a former French colony buttressed by the British protectorate of Nigeria. With a ready supply from river and sea fish dominates the diet of all but the richer classes. Shrimp paste is a common ingredient, even in meat based stews, and this is reflected in the name of the nation, which is derived from the Portuguese for ‘River of Shrimp’. Its cities are more cosmopolitan and the urban elites are increasingly getting a taste for burgers, Indian and Chinese.

As is the sad fate of many post colonial African nations progress and peace have been hampered by corruption and infighting. 41% of the population are under 15 and the life expectancy is a depressingly morbid 53. Life for most Cameroonians remains one of struggle and subsistence. The mixture of cultures, tribes, colonial influences and refugees from neighbouring countries has created a complex ethnic and linguistic tapestry.

This rich diversity of cultures, tribes and colonial influences is made more complex still by the mix of religious groups. Christianity and Islam are widely followed while ancient animist beliefs are still prevalent away from major cities. Witchcraft, although forbidden, is still practised and can incite sporadic mob violence when a witch is declared.

This ethno-religious melting pot can be an obstacle to commerce and cultural transaction but In urban centres a solution has been found in the form of a new dialect known as Camfranglais, a pragmatic pidgin of French, English and local slang. I can only assume that the unprounceable surname of the country’s icon, Samuel Eto’o, was its only etymological error to date.

I left Cameroon harried and in a hurry, unable to savour the tastes or get a feel for the country. I very much hope I can stay a while longer, and be welcomed later in my journey.

Cambodia

Restaurant: Lemongrass
Location : Camden

By Boeing: 1032 miles

By Boris Bike: 1.9 miles

Cambodia is the Asian destination de rigour. Its troubled, insular recent past means its cultural tentacles stretch far less far than its more established, modernised neighbour, Thailand. It is a backlit backwater that promises timeless mystery and untainted treasures along the meandering course of the Mekong.

While Thai food has become almost as ubiquitous in London as Chinese, Cambodian restaurants remain an oddity, tucked away off the beaten track to be discovered only by the brave few who venture beyond established Asian cuisine. Lemongrass is just such an example. Although located amidst a cavalcade of cuisine in cosmopolitan Camden it is just set back from the bustle of the busy, popular streets that throng with the colourfully curious and the plain hungry. Though spartan and unassuming it lacks the frenetic energy and bustling bonhomie of a Chinatown canteen and yet has little comforts for the sartorial sophisticate or sloany supperer.



The charm of Cambodia lies in its rustic, ritualistic, parochial character. It seems like a country suspended in time, unfazed and unfettered by modern convenience and the western, materialistic template for progress.

French colonial rule has left its culinary markers. The odd, almost abstract, practice of dipping baguettes in curry must be a surreal image to behold. But when the French left Cambodia became first a pawn in the Vietnam war and then the anti-modernist, anti-western, anti-intellectual regime of the Khmer Rouge. Its simple, pastoral lifestyle may appear charming but was attained through suppression. But Cambodia is beginning to find its feet again thanks to the debt it owes to a far older, far grander era in its history. In the early middle ages the Angkhor civilisation was the most powerful in the region. To celebrate this might they built the largest capital the world had ever seen. It is thought that at its zenith Angkhor had almost a million inhabitants, making it the largest pre-industrial settlement on earth.

An enduring symbol of this golden age is the temple of Angkor Wat, the main tourist attraction in the country, the silhouette of which dominates the country's flag. As the Asian Machu Picchu, Angkhor has become a focal point of an increasingly well trodden tourist trail. Cambodian cuisine shares influences with its neighbours and aficionados of Thai will be warmly familiar with the coconut milk based soups and mounds of glutinous sticky rice. But there are also some surprises. Chilli is rarely used in Cambodian cooking with heat generally provided by black pepper.




After a slightly stodgy leek cake and a bowl of garlic smothered mushrooms i looked forward to a Lok Luk steak curry, that came with a promise of authenticity by the chef. Its peppery intensity was very enjoyable but somehow felt more European than Asian. If i closed my eyes i could have been in a French bistro but a million miles from a Bangkok diner. Although I must say i would have welcomed a Baguette to soak up the rich sauce.

Presumably attempting to serve the taste for Thai, Lemongrass offered few traditional Khmer dishes and instead served Thai derivatives and pan-asian staples. I was disappointed not to try Prahok, a salty, fish paste, that is used as the base for many of the nation’s dishes. It's tart, salty flavour is clearly not deemed a taste the west will be sold on. Instead blends of regional spices such as ginger, lemongrass, turmeric and galangal are used liberally both in soups and stir fries. But as the only diners on a Thursday evening it seemed that the policy of serving what are perceived as more popular dishes may have backfired.

Washing my peppery steak curry down with spine-shudderingly ripe palm juice I looked forward to a little more adventure for dessert. Perhaps to inject some drama into the experience i ordered flambéed banana fritters, caring more about their flammability than their flavour. The waitress enjoyed lighting the dish that glowed briefly and unspectacularly like a Calor Gas capsule on a dull, wet Welsh hillside. They were fun, in the way plunging an impossibly long spoon into a knickerbockerglory is fun.



In not offering an authentic experience they have merely joined the rank of countless Thai restaurants liberally scattered across London. They have gambled in forsaking their unique selling point to appeal to a reliable and loyal market. This was also reflected in a dispiriting absence of cultural paraphernalia. A montage of historic temples and ancient artefacts would have injected some soul into the surroundings.

In most restaurants on this journey the walls have been festooned with the intriguing and the alluring, from bulbous stringed instruments, to intricately woven battle-dress and even bejewelled scimitars. These artefacts stimulate the imagination and sow the seeds of a future visit to the country itself.

The next time I am in Camden i half expect to walk past a Thai restaurant, the location of which is strangely familiar.

Burma

Restaurant: Mandalay
Location: Edgware Road

By Boeing: 4299 miles

By Boris Bike: 3.4 miles

Edgware Road, that melting pot of cultures running from Regents Park to St John's Wood is lined head to toe with ethnic delicacies. With a decidedly Middle East flavour I will be returning several times in the course of this journey. But in amongst the Iraqi kebab shops, Lebanese bakeries and Syrian haberdashers nestles 'Mandalay', London's sole Burmese restaurant. While its Middle Eastern rivals struggled for custom this unassuming, understated culinary curio was bustling with diners on a wet, windy winter night. I hadn't considered it necessary to book on a January weekday and as I walked through the door I rolled my eyes about how foolish I had been. But restaurants always have one spare table rudely obstructing a thoroughfare and we were glad to accept it.

The spartan, canteen style interior was charming in a kitsch, understated way. There was no mood lighting, co-ordinated colour scheme or comfy chairs in a pre-prandial anteroom. Mandalay falls into that elusive category of the 'hidden gem'. By implication, therefore, if it were to be too flashy and flamboyant it would lose its word of mouth charm.



But being a culinary embassy Mandalay's walls were festooned with maps, paintings and votive objects with a distinctly national flavour. A portly, cherubic owner, assuming ambassadorial airs, greeted us handsomely and proudly explained the origins of his cuisine and the distinctive nature of Burma's national characteristics and culture by pointing with purpose towards a map of Burma on a far wall, talking us through its provinces and how cultural osmosis with neighbours India, China and Thailand has shaped the nation. The country has a long coastline where, unsurprisingly, fish predominates in the diet while inland cities favour chicken and lamb.

The more pedantic amongst you may give me an admonishing rap on the knuckles for not using the nation's official name of Myanmar. Burma is, afterall, the country's colonial name bestowed on it by the British after they annexed the country and incorporated it into their Indian empire. But once you learnt and located a country on a dusty school atlas it is unsettling to have to use another. There are Septuagenarians in Herefordshire who still refer to the long since emancipated dominions of Rhodesia and the Gold Coast. I'm neither seventy nor from that most verdant of western counties but i remember my spitfire piloting grandfather talking of Burma and for me, at least, Burma it will remain.



Burma is in many ways a bridge between worlds: To the north and west lies India and the subcontinent, while stretching away to the south the exotic Far East. Its location, low profile and relative poverty have meant it has absorbed communities and culture from its neighbours. Its traditions are ancient and its own but its margins of modernity are largely borrowed. This trend is clearly reflected in the cuisine. On a Burmese menu Indian sourced Naan Bread appears alongside Malay style noodle soups and Chinese influenced stir fries. The national dish, a thick coconut soup with either river fish or chicken, is similar to the Malaysian staple of Laksa, while fish curries, fritters in tamarind and ginger infused, wok -tossed dishes complete the tastes on offer. This far east, rice, rather than potato, is the staple accompaniment.

The choice of 'Manderlay' for the name of restaurant tells a story. For this city was the focal point of British colonialism in the country, where stout, starched officers of the realm were stationed to keep order and uphold decency in a far-flung outpost of empire. Rather than celebrate independence and nationalism this name evokes the colonial era and emphasises the links between the two countries.

With former residents including Rudyard Kipling and George Orwell, Manderlay became a city synonymous with adventure and the exotic. 'The Road to Manderlay' evoked the romantic spirit and spiritual freedom that Victorians saw as the very antithesis of the corseted conformity of late 19th century England. This feeling was reinforced in the public consciousness when Daphne Du Murier chose to set her Cornish Romance 'Rebecca' in a house that shared its name. The most famous and evocative opening line in literature surely remains 'Last night i dreamt I went to Manderley again.'

It is sad that such a romantic place is now beset with violence, infighting and bitter reprisal. A simple, spiritual land where the monastery is the fulcrum of existence and meditation is part of everyday ritual is ruled by a cruel and uncompromising military junta. So corrupt, inefficient and narrow-minded is this ruling elite that Burma has remained a wild, rural wilderness while its neighbours have modernised and industrialised. In the paddy fields that cover much of the country rice is still cultivated using ox-drawn carts. This may appear like an untouched paradise to tourists seeking the true undeveloped, unsullied east but in truth it merely attests to the fact that this verdant, blessed country is on its knees not to a beneficent Buddha but to the garrulous greed of generals.

But our host continued to show his humanity. He proudly explained that a proportion of the restaurant proceeds are sent to homeless children in his homeland who have become orphans in the violence that has blighted the country. The emotion and compassion in his eyes was a moving reminder that you cannot break the spirit of a people in which spirituality has suffused through a millennia of generations. My meal tasted even better on reflection.

Bulgaria

Restaurant: The Crazy Cock
Location: Willesden

By Boeing : 6543 miles

By Boris Bike : 7 miles

Walking along the mile long stretch between Willesden Junction and Dollis Hill I wondered how many fast food options an area needed. Seventeen fried chicken shops appeared to be flourishing despite the competition. Add to that pizzas, kebabs, Chinese and curry and i began to wonder whether anyone in this postcode ever dined in. Amongst the cuisines vying for custom was the city’s sole Bulgarian offering.



I had an inkling of what it held in store as i’d read a few online reviews of the Crazy Cock. It was difficult to discern whether people were being accurate or unkind. This recent trend of restaurant reviewing is a curious one as like disgruntled owls people regurgitate their meals for people to pick over. And for the restaurants they come as a mixed blessing, for while they offer publicity they can also be searingly cynical. In my case I had no alternative so i read with a resigned, detached amusement. If i believed what i read I was in for an evening bereft of hope, comfort or nutrition. But such things are subjective. Or so I hoped.

Entering the Crazy Cock it was immediately clear that this wasn't a Bulgarian restaurant but a Bulgarian themed restaurant. It was like a less charming imitation of Austria’s Tiroler Hut. After a few bemused minutes i realised that they had tried to recreate a kind of Bulgarian pastiche of a Dickensian street scene, with windows jutting from the wall, and crudely painted rustic types gathering kindling below. In Austria such staging would be fun taking us on a flight of fancy to the rolling hills of the Tirol and comely milkmaids bashfully frolicking in the meadows.



Our preconceptions of the Tirol are warm and welcoming. The same cannot be said for Bulgaria, which is one of the least romantic destinations imaginable. To assume people will want to be transported there is absurd and insane. Instead of being charming, festive and fun it was a little sinister. If everyone was in on the joke it might be different in a kind of 'it's so terrible its brilliant' way but being the lone diner in a vast, dimly lit room I felt the joke was on me. The waitress clearly thought it oddly amusing i had turned up.

Amidst this rather odd never-everland, with walls bedecked with folk costumes and pencil-sketch collages of Bulgarian sprites and folk legends, was a raised stage and a small keyboard. For the Crazy Cock, as the menu declares, is first and foremost a party venue. And a party isn't complete without music. From out of the shadows a portly man in a tracksuit shuffled behind the keyboard, limbered up, and then played the odd chord to accompany a disco track blaring through the CD. If you closed your eyes you could imagine Terry Wogan at the Eurovision song contest in 1993.A centre-spread in the menu showed parties of people dancing on the tables. I concluded that they were either paid or coerced at gunpoint.

Having acclimatised and ordered a Bulgarian Beer I perused the menu. The first three pages consisted of salads, each less appealing than the last. The following pages didn't get much more appetising with dishes such as 'tripe in butter' and 'pork liver, village style' hardly whetting my appetite. Having read that yoghurt was thought to have originated in Bulgaria i went for the regional classic, Tarator, a yoghurt and cucumber soup laced with garlic. Having been a frequent fork and flag visitor to Eurasia i knew that pork would feature heavily in the cuisine. I am becoming an expert i thought as i saw pork in an array of guises, from skewered kebab to casserole.



The waitress suggested I ordered a 'babushka hotch potch'. She felt it was marginally more authentic than the 'Monastery style pork'. The Tarator was an acquired taste that after several spoonfuls I had clearly not acquired. The Hotch Potch came in a steaming clay bowl. It was the kind of dish a bachelor would concoct to nurse a nagging hangover. The odd morsel of pork could be found between bits of tomato, potato and mushroom, all doused in a thick, semi-molten tasteless cheese.

After the main course was served I was advised by the keyboard player that a belly dancer was due to perform. It promised to be the least seductive aspect of an evening bereft of romance. Thankfully, i was spared the spectacle as the young lady in question had twisted an ankle en route. As I was contemplating dessert a group of thirty shady men in tracksuits and leather jackets clambered in and sat at an adjacent table. They cackled in a local tongue and rudely admonished the waitress at every opportunity. They ordered bottles of the Rakia, Bulgarian plum brandy, and set about an evening of laughter and dubious transactions. I already felt bored and disconsolate and now I left unease. I left. Quickly.

Brazil

Restaurant: Favella Chic
Location: Old Street

By Boeing : 6363 miles

By Boris Bike: 9.3 miles

It is a quirk of the alphabet that two of the world's most beguiling and bewitching countries fall within the first two letters. This means I had the great pleasure of experiencing Brazil with the taste of Argentina still lingering tantalisingly in my mouth.

For the English, a largely conservative, risk-averse race, peculiarly accustomed to and comforted by rote and routine, Brazil provides the antithesis to the calculating conformity of their everyday lives. While we would panic without such order we still yearn to escape. And where better to escape to than Brazil, that global brand encompassing exuberance, flair, passion and impulse in a heady cocktail of hedonistic sensory abandon.



While Argentina seems to be the tourist destination of the moment its neighbour Brazil has been adopted by many as their second country. This is seen through a striking cultural marker. For most young men wearing their national football shirt is to quite literally bare a badge of honour, wear their hearts on their sleeves. Imagine a Welshman wearing an England football shirt. Now imagine that welshman lasting more than ten minutes in a Swansea skirmish. And yet that same welshman could happily sport a Brazilian shirt without so much as a raised eyebrow or signet ring imprint on his brow.

On suburban greens and sink estate wrecks boys dazzle and dribble, leaving hapless defenders in their wake in a yellow Brazilian haze. On the football field, the playground, the beach and even the litter strewn courtyards of provincial shopping arcades to be Brazilian is better than British. Given that in football, and by cultural osmosis the whole way of life, Brazil is expression, invention and virility, the legendary Pele has spent the last decade promoting erectile dysfunction. Well not promoting it as such, but, how do i put this, raising its profile.



Opening the door of the old street based Favella Chic I was hit by a wall of sound as the samba beats of the house band blared out at an ear-bleeding volume. It was an assault on the senses; the eyes drawn to the decadence of the decor, the almost kitsch over elaboration of detail adorning the walls and lines of shelves serving no other purpose than to mount votive objects and popish paraphernalia. Waiting for my dining companion to arrive I ordered that most Brazilian of cocktails, the Caipirinha. Made from fermented sugar cane it is eye-wateringly sweet and cheek-pinchingly strong.

Favella Chic had drawn a eclectic crowd. There were businessmen on their way home from work, art students in small, beret wearing groups and the odd couple craning towards each other to whisper sweet nothings amid the din of the band. The name of the restaurant is intriguing. A favella is a shanty town and ramshackle slums with their communal scenes of profound poverty are seldom described as 'chic'. It is like a Liverpudlian describing the Toxteth estate as 'cosmopolitan'. But such is the lure of Brazil that even its seediest, least civilised aspects are imbued with an exotic mystery. Rather than the squalor and misery of a slum, we project an image of a favella as a vibrant, vital district with children playing football in the street and impromptu concerts performed on steel drums. The fact that its residents are defying poverty makes their lust for life and irrepressible spirit all the more romantic.

Brazilians display that visceral emotion and raw passion that has come to define Latin America and is seen it its music, dance and cinema. Not even an emotion as discrete as mild annoyance is internalised, and this is illustrated by my waitress who throws her hands in the air in consternation when I explain that I need a few more minutes with the menu. For a catholic country, with a strict moral compass, Brazilians rarely miss an opportunity to let their hair down. Looking up from my menu I noticed that I was sitting below an alter; a painted wooden statue of Jesus peering down at me. It was, in miniature, like Brazil's most iconic monument looking down over the notoriously sinful city of Rio De Janeiro.

Having travelled from Argentina via Bolivia the menu had a familiar feel, with an emphasis on meat and staples such as potato, and beans. As with its neighbours, being such a large country, Brazil borders no fewer than nine south American countries, the cuisine is an amalgam of local traditions and foreign influences from the waves of immigration in the modern era. With Portuguese rather than Spanish colonial influence, the food has echoes of its former imperial masters with bacalao, salted cod, and chourico, a spicy, salty sausage.

After stumbling through several days in a pork induced malaise after my Bosnian adventure i was keen to explore alternatives. But wishing to be authentic i ordered the national dish, Feijoada, a black bean stew with various cuts of pork, including belly, ribs and sausage: Very rich, very salty and very filling. It was a delicious dish. The food and drink echoed the excess, swagger and brash braggadocio of Brazilian culture.

Ordering wine was something of a challenge as the waitresses, alluring but bolshy, preferred to dance rather than serve. But in Brazil no-one works when they can play.

Bosnia

Restaurant: Mugi
Location: Ealing

By Boeing : 6830 miles

By Boris Bike : 9.2 miles

While Croatia and the Dalmatian coast has become the de rigour European tourist destination neighbouring Bosnia is still associated with shells, Serbs and Slobodan. The Balkan conflict has done for ‘Bosnia’ what a dissenting disciple did for that perfectly agreeable Christian name Judas. Given this unfortunate branding it is perhaps not surprising that finding a Bosnian restaurant in London was a difficult task. The slightly bemused Bosnian Ambassador told me when i called that one of his clerks had driven past one in Ealing. An extensive internet search and an impromptu pilot of Google’s translation service confirmed that there was indeed a Bosnian Cafe called Mugi in Ealing Common.

On arriving at the cafe it was immediately apparent that it served those it served. It made no attempt to lure in an intrepid haute cuisine hitchhiker or for that matter any intrigued passer-by. Mugi was perhaps the most nondescript shop of a drab, nondescript parade. Stark decor and lighting with a laboratory intensity greeted us we sat at a corner table. Fading yellow paint with peach melba alcoves were reminiscent of the set design for Hi-De-Hi. The cafe consisted of a long counter, four fifths of which was a shimmering shrine to pork, in all its shapes, sizes and smoked scrumptiousness. Next to that were some shelves of intriguing biscuits and large jars of pickled cherries. In the corner was a television showing Sarajevo soccer.



n Eastern homeopathy consumption of pork sends energy rushing around the body, and, like gravity defying funfair rides or jumping out of a plane with a rope around your ankle, is not recommended for those of a nervous disposition. As I looked at the choices on the laminated, wipe-clean menu I realised why the region develops so many top class tennis players. The stamina comes not from a gruelling training regime, but from a daily diet of hams, hocks and haunches. We then noticed, not on the menu but on a huge banner draped across the wall, that you could order an entire spit roast suckling pig for £95, just in case you didn’t want to limit yourself to a particular cut. Us English love nothing better than carving up a roasted pig at a wedding or a jousting re-enactment but in a cafe we generally limit ourselves to a bath bun or bacon bap.

With a brief respite in mind I ordered Burek, a traditional Balkan snack of cheese and spinach encased in a coil of pastry. It had the appearance of a battered Cumberland ring and remarkably was even more filling. It was heavy and hearty, humble and home-cooked, the chief virtues of Bosnian cuisine. For the mains it came down to a choice of what you wanted your pork stuffed inside. I opted for the traditional staple of pork wrapped in cabbage leaves. There is no pretence with Bosnian food, no mastercheffery attention to detail here, just three enormous dollops floating in a thin gravy in a bowl almost the size of a chamber pot. Though I couldn’t get through it all I nevertheless ordered an apple and nut Baklava for desert. Not only was this hearty and heavy, but also pupil dilatingly sweet.

I was disappointed that the only Bosnian restaurant in London was unlicensed. The wines from Herzegovina are reputed to be eminently quaffable and a tipple of local plum brandy would have been a warming elixir. The waitress pointed at a rickety fridge in the corner with flickering luminescent tubes casting shadows over Orangina and Sprite. I rashly chose the local cola variant. The taste was indescribable but I’ll give it a go: a fruity marmite cordial with a shot of Red Bull.



Having thought we were alone a snoop outside in the courtyard revealed a group of bewhiskered, bent with age Bozniaks crowded around a television, offering sage commentary in their native tongue. But on the Fork and Flag adventure nothing is quite as it seems, for this was not football but fencing! Then it dawned on me, this wasn’t so much a culinary outpost as a cultural centre. The diaspora would arrive in dribs and drabs to watch the television and meet with friends; if they were hungry they would gnaw on a pickled trotter or enjoy a slice of Baklava. We were out of place, not unwanted as such but certainly unwelcomed.

Mugi doesn’t advertise, in English in any case, doesn’t have a website or contact details and seems content merely to provide a haven for London’s Balkan community. Even if a visitor found it, they are not given much encouragement, beyond the good but limited food, to return. But this philosophy is clearly not recession proof as, much like the Albanian restaurant, Mugi offered English all day breakfasts to make ends meet.

After being crudely bundled together to form Yugoslavia, Balkan states are beginning to forge their own identities. While Croatia and Montenegro have captured the imagination of Western Europe Bosnia and Serbia are still largely introspective nations. But time has removed the Balkan status as a volatile region and with more and more adventurous souls seeking off-the-beaten-tourist-track destinations Bosnia could find itself a beneficiary of boom. In the meantime if you are a glutton for gammon or salivate over smoked shoulders then wend your gentle way to Ealing. It won’t be a window to another world but you won’t leave hungry.

Bolivia

Restaurant: Parrilladas De La Sur
Location: Old Kent Road

By Boeing: 6364 miles

By Boris Bike: 1.9 miles

This was always going to be a journey of contrasts and cultures clashes. But none will be more profound, surely, than that between avant garde Covent Garden and the dingy drudgery of the Old Kent Road. In one people clamour to arrive and be seen while in other every man jack seems hell-bent on leaving in the least conspicuous manner possible. It is ironic that the London district with the most intriguing name, the Elephant and Castle, proves to be the most dreary. What must be the largest and ugliest roundabout in any Christian realm sprawls its tributaries of kebab shops, betting dens and scruffy 24 hour mini-cab offices in all directions until they peter out with the promise of a more gentrified post code.

It is one of the wonders of London that the most drab and colourless areas house some of the most vibrant and colourful communities. Exotic soul singers and pampered preachers leer down from half torn-off frescoes selling their concerts and CD's. In amongst these is the only Bolivian restaurant in London. The entrance to Parrillidas De la Sur is, rather unsettlingly, set behind bars but as you walk through you are beckoned in with music and flashing disco lights.

On a Sunday evening the place was heaving with members of the Bolivian Diaspora, chatting away to the disjointed rhythms of Ricky Martin's less talented brother accompanied by pan-pipes hauled backwards through a primitive synthesiser.



A large open kitchen and grill is flanked by a wall of assorted guitars and plates, sandwiched between two enormous super-woofer speakers and another with a heart shaped Bolivian flag surrounded by lights, like a gaudy shrine to their homeland. After a look of utter consternation the waitress managed to source a laminated English menu. I knew from my Argentinean experience that in South America 'vegetarian' is a word tantamount to an expletive, and that a carnivore, from whatever country, will feel at home. I wasn't disappointed.

Taking my cue from the locals i ordered a platter of beef and chorizo, and a rather noxious home-made liquid that was half fetid root beer and half fermented ginger ale. The Bolivian home-brew, Chicha Cochabambina, was, alas, unavailable. I noted with furrowed brow that without exception the locals drank Fosters from cans.

I was half relieved when it became apparent that they didn't stock the national delicacy of cuy (guinea pig). I'm told their teeth become even more pronounced as their cheeks are sucked in after an extended grill! Like much of the region Bolivian cuisine is an amalgam of native traditions and European influence. The Inca staples of Corn and potato dominate with Saltena (baked empanadas) a popular deep-fried indulgence of a snack. Huge slabs of Pork and Beef dominate most dishes although German influence can be seen in the Silpancho a deep fried schnitzel on a bed of potato. I baulked when my meal was served: I counted no fewer than twenty six ounces of meat. I'm rarely out-caloried but in this case I had to admit defeat.

After negotiating several lingering stares, I was not sporting the latest Bolivian trends it must be said, I began to relax and enjoy the strange Inca flavoured pop. My fellow diners didn't seem to notice the ear-drum splitting volume and were engaged in animated conversation. There were young lovers on dates, old men recounting tales of the old country and family groups squabbling and bickering. I felt invisible amongst them, like an anthropologist observing their movements and mannerisms.

While Argentina and Brazil are exotic destinations known and envied the world over, Bolivia is relatively unheralded. Indeed the only conspicuous reference in popular culture is when Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid held off the Bolivian army from a ramshackle shed. Many also know it as the country where Che Guevara met his grisly demise in the late 1960's. A large country encompassing the Andes and the Amazon basin It is also poor with around 60% under the poverty line, so has few of the glamorous trappings of its neighbours. This has made given less international reach in a world where such glitz and grandeur are greatly admired. But in an era when tourists are seeking the authentic rather than auspicious, it is becoming a more frequent item on a travel itinerary.

Unlike Argentina whose Amerindian population is now a minority, most Bolivians are of Inca ancestry and in their poverty have retained many of their ancient customs, insulated from western temptations by a largely hand to mouth existence. Its tourist appeal lies mainly in its natural wonders with the vast and eery salt deserts and the islands of Lake Titicaca. My dining experience was odd and this is, apparently, in keeping with the land itself. It comes as no surprise therefore that two national symbols are that most random of ruminants, the Llama, and a very English Bowler hat.