Colombia

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.

China

Restaurant: Tai Ka Lok
Location : China Town

By Boeing: 11508 miles
By Boris Bike: 2.2 miles

China is a conundrum: like a sudoku puzzle some unlock its secrets and derive great pleasure in the process, while others look on bemused and befuddled. It is a country that is at once familiar and unfathomable. Familiar as we all have a take-away in our local parade of shops, unfathomable as even though it is just round the corner it seems a world away.

It is fitting then that China Town is one of London's most intriguing districts. Tourists arrive on strange oriental tricycle contraptions driven by excitable jugglers who, struggling to fill a beret full of coins in Covent Garden, wreak peddling bedlam on the bustling streets. A huge brick Pagoda stands sentry at the head of Gerrard Street, it's central thoroughfare. But like Brick Lane's Bangla Town its street signs are bilingual. It may well fall under our jurisdiction, but this is Chinese soil.

Boasting 80 restaurants i wasn't quite sure which to chose, choice being a luxury i haven't enjoyed that often on the Fork and Flag odyssey. But having reached ‘Crispy Duck’, and moved on to ‘Four Seasons’, and walked further to the amusing titled ‘Dumpling Legend’ I decided i wanted the untranslated experience. Remarkably that left only one choice, Tai Ka Lok. And seeing that it filled my other criterion, having glazed fauna roasting in the window, i walked in.





My choice was smaller, tattier and less enticing that its Anglicised rivals and therein, i hoped , would lay its authentic charm. I was pleased to see some Chinese families busy in urgent chatter, slurping soup, bent over the bowl, in a manner no Englishman would. The other restaurants I had passed had installed high-backed chairs and small water features. Diners had no option but to pay a ‘fountain tax’ for the privilege. But Tai Ka Lok kept the prices down and diners had to make do with red lanterns and a picture of cascading water on a plastic poster, struggling for freedom against the adhesive oppression of blue tac.



The menu was reassuringly incomprehensible. No chef in the country can produce the range of dishes this man can, spread in tiny print across seven pages. I ordered some Jasmine Tea to aid my ruminations. Ever intrepid I ordered shark fin soup, but was told they didn’t serve it but included it on the menu in case Gordon Ramsay visited. Not even a sozzled Spike Milligan could have dreamed up a more perplexing response. But it was said with such earnestness that i didn’t question it. Instead i ordered Won Ton soup and some steamed pork Dim Sum to start, which seemed to cover most appetiser bases.



China Town is an intriguing, often comical, mix of local Chinese, Londoners and tourists. The latter group largely comprises of clinically obese Americans wearing high waisted shorts, obscenely titled ‘fanny-packs’ and over-sized baseball caps. One such specimen was on the adjoining table. He seemed determined to prove that the waiter did not enjoy a monopoly on bizarre behaviour. His lack of adventure coupled with a mind-blowing ignorance of cuisine or culture was excruciating to bear witness to. “ Are your noodles like pasta? You know like the Italians have; pasta?” he asked, before clarifying “You see I just want pasta with vegetables on it. Can you do that? Can your chef just do that for me?” The menu had almost everything you could imagine but, unsurprisingly, it didn’t have pasta.

Given the sheer scale of China it is unsurprising that there are a multitude of different regional cooking styles, each with their own distinct flavours and traditions. Us British are most familiar with Szechwan and Cantonese, but there are many, many more ranging from mild slow-cooked stews to fiery hot curries.

As with Indian food the British have cultivated their own variants of Chinese cuisine and rarely venture beyond them to subtler, healthier flavours. Our favourite is the toxic, iridescent gloop that is sweet and sour sauce. With deep fried pork balls thrown in it almost competes for calorific value with a meat feast pizza or a Tikka Massala. Scoffed in front of the latest rom-com from Blockbusters and you have the template for a perfect Friday night-in. But Chinese food defies simple classification. While at one end of the scale it is the staple sustenance of the sofa slobs, at the other it can be the most fragrant, flavoursome delicacy a diner will ever sample.

Bamboozled by choice i decided to follow the promptings of my nose and ordered the roast pork, that was lovingly turning on its window mounted spit. I ordered a side of Chow Mein for it to rest on. These ‘ever-ready’ noodles have also been anglicised. It is a well established truism that students need only two items to survive: a Che Guevara T-shirt and a self-replenishing cupboard of Pot Noodles. But i’m pleased to say that my chow mein was a little more refined.

I then tried to order Sorghum wine, a traditional Chinese tipple. The waiter begged me not to and when i didn't heed his protestations he called over the manager. He was equally as adamant but i defied them. It was the most foul smelling liquid i have ever had the misfortune to be in sniffing proximity of. But authenticity was all, and down she went.



Rather than stay for a scoop of ice-cream i decided to venture along the street for something sweet. I found a Chinese mini-mart that was a shrine to that Chinese cultural phenomenon, Hello Kitty. You can buy Hello Kitty chocolate, milkshakes, probably even branded corned beef if you wished. It is a national obsession. I chose the Poki, small biscuit wands half coated in strawberry candy. Delicious.



As well as restaurants and Hello Kitty window dressing China Town is full of herbalists. With operations on the NHS taking close to a decade to book in we are increasingly looking to the ancient remedies of the East to cure our ailments. A heady tea made from stewed leaves and twigs can cure almost any condition, or at least ameliorate it. And flick a few needles in for good measure and we'll all be fit as a fiddle. But then I remembered the Sudoku puzzle. We want to know the secrets of the East, but we don't always have the appetite to discover them. Even though we are a nation that loves to make tea, when it comes to ourselves, most of us will continue to swallow our prescription pills.

Chile

Restaurant : Sabor
Location : Islington

By Boeing: 5454 miles

By Boris Bike: 2.1 miles

Having visited a strongly backed contender for the world’s best country and been served cheesy chips I arrived in Chile wondering whether 4000 miles of coastline would yield anything more appetising than a spam fritter. But whereas Canadians have kept little of their indigenous indulgences Chile’s heart still beats to an Inca rhythm. Although conquered by Spain, Chile, in contrast to many of its neighbours, has remained largely insulated from European influence. Its peoples lack the lackadaisical Latino languor of the Brazilian or the air of insouciant arrogance of the Argentine.

But restaurateurs in rent rich districts like Islington cannot risk the wait for a unique taste to be acquired; safer surely to offer a range of tastes acquired across a much broader region. Whereas Brazilian samba and Argentine sirloin can command their own restaurants, other nations in the region are often subsumed into pan-South American eateries, each represented by a dish or two on a continental menu. Sabor, softly lit in understated minimalist white, styles itself as a fusion restaurant, offering south American flavours tailored to a European palette with a morsel rather than a mouthful of authenticity.

With a swanky South Bank style Sabor traded the cultural clutter of a neighbourhood bistro for a sparse, modernist feel with colourful table-tops provided a flash of colour. Looking around there were few clues as to the origin of the cuisine, other than painted animal heads jutting from the wall. The closest to us, a Bull, had angry eyes as if riled by a matador. Further into the narrow restaurant i saw a stern looking goat, a ram along with other random ruminants, each painted in bold, brilliant colours, like totems watching over proceedings. The animal heads, though more imposing than impressive, were fitting for a country who boast a wealth of flora and fauna in a landscape encompassing salt deserts, glacial national parks, snow covered peaks, fjords, peninsulas and promontories.



I had hoped to try an authentic Inca dish of Rabbit in a chocolate sauce. Centuries before pompous celebrity chefs claimed to have invented chocolate as a savoury ingredient, challenging perceptions that it was limited to sickly sweet deserts, the Inca peoples cultivated cocoa and infused it with Chile and spice to create heavy, hearty stews. But despite its novelty appeal it had clearly not proved popular for the delicate palates and pinched waistlines of fusion food aficionados. While featuring on the web-site it had been dispensed with presumably for more frequently ordered continental alternative.

But hidden amongst a vast array of starters were Quinoa fritters. Quinoa was a high yield, high protein Inca crop that has been wholeheartedly adopted by the smug suburban super-foods generation who swear by its nutritional value and seek it out in the organic aisles of their local Waitrose. They came looking like large falafel patties, with a semblance of salad and a dollop of an angry looking salsa. With a nutty flavour and the texture of buckwheat they were wholesome without being particularly memorable. My companion's seafood empanadas seemed to offer a little more by way of fire and flavour.

With fusion food what is lost in flavour and portion size is compensated by a supplement to the price. Starters are merely hors d'oevres on larger plates while main courses are tapas size. My Chourico was very good, but was conspicuous by its lack of a companion. In a transport cafe the minimum quota for sausage and chips would be three, but the rule-book is different in fusion cuisine. My companion had a seafood dish that came as a thick soup with a pair of langoustine eyes peering above the surface. Though the particular dish was of Brazilian origin it was typical of a Chilean seafood stew, a south American equivalent of a Bouillebaisse. Such is the sheer length of the Coastline there are species of fish unique to Chile and with such bountiful waters many recipes feature fish and crustacea.

With our meals we sampled a Chilean Red. A relatively recent import to Britain Chilean wine has become one of the favourites of the New world wines. Indeed Chile is now the fifth largest exporter of wine in the world.

With such a wide range of landscapes and ecosystems tourists seeking all manner of different holidays head to Chile, from apres ski enthusiasts to shaggy haired surfers. But Chile's unique tourist attraction is not in the mainland at all but far away in Polynesia. Easter Island, the UNESCO world heritage site, has captured the imagination of the world with its monumental statues of ancient faces that jut from the barren landscape. It is thought these statues were built by an ancient Polynesian peoples that travelled thousands of miles by canoe. Historians believe that the ancestor cult, veneration of which inspired the construction of the eery, ethereal statues gave way to a birdman cult. Easter Islanders to this day head down to Bognor Regis to throw themselves off their pier.

Chile is one of the more stable, affluent South American countries, blessed with an abundance of natural resources and stunning scenary. It is shame though, that in England at least, it remains a relatively unknown culture, without the exposure of the countries on the Atlantic Coast. It's own London restaurant that celebrates rather than comprimises its culture would certainly help.

Canada

Restaurant: The Maple Leaf
Location: Covent Garden

By Boeing: 5889 miles

By Boris Bike: 6.2 miles

In a recent poll Canada was voted the country that had the most positive impact on the world. Yet it borders a country seemingly hell-bent on policing the rest of the planet, wreaking havoc and sowing animosity in the process. This neighbourly discord forms the cornerstone of Canadian identity. In the Middle East Americans pose as Canadians to avoid the acrimony and anger reserved for a nation widely perceived as the malevolent meddlers of the modern age. Canadians meanwhile do the opposite, desperate to separate their identity from their American cousins and assert their differences and distinctions.



Geography has condemned Canada to remain in America’s shadow but there are some key differences that soon become apparent. While the USA is fiercely proud of its independence, Canada is not only a member of the British commonwealth but also Francophonie, the alliance of French speaking nations. While the USA gives mere lip service to the authority of the United Nations and other international bodies, preferring instead a knee-jerk, Gung Ho ‘who’s with us?’ approach, Canada is actively seeking closer ties with the European Union. Canada seeks to sit round the table rather than lecture from the lectern.

The culture of Canada is defined both by its stunning landscape and vast open spaces and its split British and French influence. Many in the French speaking province of Quebec seek independence. Their architecture, cuisine and lifestyle are based around a French model. Meanwhile the other provinces, while having sizeable French speaking minorities, tend to look to Britain for their cultural and culinary cues. But irrespective of language or location Canadians look to the life of the great outdoors for inspiration.



With half the population of the UK spread out across the second largest country on earth there is no shortage of space. The vast lakes, mountain ranges and tracts of tundra would take several lifetimes to explore. These natural wonders have become the symbols for Canadian products and tourism posters. The untamed, untarnished wilds of the North seize the soul of the explorer. Ellesmere Island, just 508 miles south of the pole, is the most northerly settlement on earth. While Vancouver and Ontario are cities of reknown, Canada is a land of unending idyll rather than urban ideal.



The Maple Leaf was adopted as the national symbol in 1965. It has become the flag-bearing, mascot-wearing image of Canada and lends its name to London’s sole Canadian dining establishment. Intended as a home from home for ex-pats its principle lure are huge plasma screens beaming the national pastimes of ice hockey and basketball. Half-Timbers have been crudely affixed to the walls to give the impression of fur-trappers log cabin and the walls are satisfyingly scattered with cultural paraphernalia. Framed Ice Hockey shirts, sketches of Inuit camps in remote mountain ranges and sepia photographs of the visiting Elizabeth Regina offer interest and intrigue. But dominating the room and drawing the eye is a stuffed bear, standing on its rear paws in a glass cabinet. On this journey I’ve become accustomed to the tacky but taxidermy is something quite new.



I had a good look at the menu while supping a glass of some imported Sleiman’s Honey Beer. North American favourites including burgers, ribs and chicken wings predominated. Indeed you had to look hard to find distinctions with the greasy grub offered up at TGI Friday’s. Pulled Pork, Corn Chowder and Meat Loaf were introduced as Canadian specialities but i opted for the Canadian snack of choice, Poutine. This is rather an exotic name for an almost embarrassingly simple dish: French fries, smothered with melted cheese and gravy. I threw some ribs in too for a bit of variety. The Canadians have made a national dish out of something students have been lazily throwing together on jaded Sunday mornings since time, or at least formal scholarship, began. But it was pleasant enough and I left, as I had anticipated, full to the brim.

Canadian food is not for the calorie conscious. The long treks of those pioneers who sought to tame the wilderness in this perilously cold climate developed man-size appetities, only be sated with large quantities of fat-fryed fare. The hunting culture, embedded in national consciousness, makes vegetarianism almost an unpatriotic act, and huge slabs of Moose and Cow are enjoyed in quantities that would make a European baulk. For variety Canadians have welcomed the cuisines of their immigrant populations, with Chinese a particular favourite.

Although a very successful, affluent economy Canada is a quiet and understated exporter to the world. Except that is for comedians. Many of the funniest people on the planet hail from Canada including the rubber-faced pair of Leslie Nielson and Jim Carrey and the golden lights of the younger generation, Seth Rogan and Michael Cera. With the USA so close there is of course no shortage of satirical material at hand but even so the number of graduates from the school of side-splitting is impressive given the relatively small population. So the Canadians are popular, peaceful, pleasant and, it seems, particularly funny: there is a chance that with all this adulation they will become just a little smug too.

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.