Picante Mexican Grill – Jolly Jalepenos

Yarriba yarriba!

A yellow flyer is thrust into my hand outside Victoria tube station as I trip over the fifth “Stylist” distributor and shuttle past the ninth Pret a Manger on the one road. Picante Mexican Grill it reads. A happy “Mexican Day of the Dead” skull smiles up at me, full of the promise of fresh and tasty burritos, chilli-laced tacos and and silky green guacamole. “HURRAH!” I sing – “There is a God!” And he is clearly as sick of bloody Pret as I am!

Dinky Dim Sum at Jen Cafe

Dumpling Heaven...

A bright green corner caff on Newport Place just before the entrance to Gerrard Street, Chinatown, Jen Cafe is an unassuming dumpling bar with formica tables huddled together, a less-than-salubrious looking steamy micro-kitchen at the back end and a counter top for loners to sit at.

Udon know what your missing ’til you eat at Koya

Every blogger, his wife and their three children has written about Koya – all glowing praise and with the kind of prose reserved for edwardian love letters that make broad-bosomed women swoon.And on that note I have little to add to such fantastic reviews such as the ones from TomEatsJenCooks orLizzieEatsLondon but like them, I went for the full on Udon shebang and was rewarded in so many stomach-satisfying ways.

Jedi Nights at Gordon’s Wine Bar

Continuing my foray into the world of internet dating… its amazing how fast two humans can arrange a second “date” once they’ve discovered a mutual affection for lightsabers (note: this is not an innuendo – I really am talking about Jedi techy stuff here).

So, not quite the Mos Eisley cantina, but dark, stuffy and sufficiently cavernous to pass for a distant Tatooine cousin, the Gordon’s Wine Bar near Embankment station was the setting for an evening of too much (good) wine, too much (good, smelly) cheese but just the right amount of good conversation.

Cracking Good time at Prix Fixe Brasserie

Meandering through the wierd and not so wonderful world of the post-break up, heart still a touch battered and appetite on a whirlwind of ups and downs, I decided to amuse myself by exploring a little light-hearted internet dating.

Call it part social experiment, part desperate attempt to move on, part insanity.

Polpo – A Slice of Venice in London

Polpo touts itself as a Venetian bacaro in London. I’ve never been to Venice, so far be it for me to say how authentic it may or may not be, but frankly it looks just like an enoteca to me… It serves the Italian equivalent of tapas, “cicheti” the kind of small, taster dishes you’d find in any good wine bar in the major Italian cities.

The place is always buzzing and you can’t book, just bowl up and don’t expect to find a quiet table. The one really authentic Italian element to this place is the noise level, and that’s without the massive family christening parties with screaming babies.

Local, “open-sauced” foods at Cornercopia

Brixton Cornercopia is run by husband and wife Ian and Anne Fairbrother, a small cornershop, deli and cafe serving delicious simple food made from tasty seasonal ingredients at reasonable, recession-worthy prices.

Located in unit 65 of “Brixvill”, you’ll notice it from the pretty red and white tablecloth bedecked tables garnished with fresh flowers and fashioned out of upturned crates. Oh, and the constant buzz of people wanting to eat there…

Chais Nous – Le Blinding Bifstek

If you’re looking for crisp white tablecloths, stalker-like service and Chateau Lafite, look away now, book a cab to Pètrus and be prepared for an evening of smears, reductions and waiters who appear to have rods up their arses. If, however, you are looking for a melt-in-the-mouth, buttery, juicy, dribble-down-your-chin, fat Angus bavette, cooked to bloody perfection at a non-heart-attack inducing price, let Jérôme, the suitably unimpressed patron of Chais Nous, usher you in to his wee French haven tout-de-suite.

Gastrogrub at The Compass, Islington

Those that know me know that little piggies, and any possible edible derivative of them, are things that I like very much. Possibly a bit too much in fact as I regularly dream of the day when a prosciutto Spa opens in London where I can be wrapped in slices of Parma and be fed tidbits of Coppa by some semi-naked Lothario dressed in a loincloth made… of pork loin…