Muffins

I've eaten quite a few muffins recently. This is due to poor planning. Or possibly incredibly good planning, if we consider it from a just-in-time-delivery perspective; I go to bed late enough and sleep just long enough to get enough rest to remain conscious for the next day and still get to the station with enough time not to miss the train to be late for the office.
However, irrespective of whether I apply one interpretation of the situation or another, I do not have enough time for a hearty breakfast before leaving the house. Instead, I have to feed myself on food acquired between station and desk. So let's consider the different muffins I've eaten:
Pret A Manger orange and lemon muffin
The base muffin is quite good - light and fluffy, not particularly greasy. Not sure what it's doing for the amount of sugar one consumes every day, because the heart of it seems to be a wodge of orange jam (not marmalade, let's be quite specific here) that's been injected, and then a big sugary splat of icing on the top, in counterpoint to the warmth of the muffin itself.
Over time, familarity began to breed contempt for this muffin. When I saw the staff loading the baked goods cabinet at Pret with a battery of these muffins, out of a cellophane wrapped package (what happened to everything made instore, Julian?) some small part of my heart ceased to beat. But such infarcations aside, it was a mainstay of my breakfast routine.
Until I returned from Japan, and EVERYTHING CHANGED
The orange and lemon muffin was gone. In its place, because it was only a month to Christmas, was the Jingle Berry Muffin
To begin with, I was confused. The thing about having a routine is that it doesn't change; in this protean and infinitely mutable life of mine, it was a forlorn hope that there would be anything I could hold on to for long, but at least there was some illusion that when the clock struck three, there would be honey still for tea, or at least an over-sweetened breakfast good. But not so.
However, when I got over the initial shock of muffin-bereavement, I started to think this would be a nice change; it would give me the chance to get in the Christmas spirit, add some novelty to my life, and who knows? Perhaps after the festive season the good old orange and lemon muffin would be granted a reprieve.
Not that this would matter, because the Jingle Berry is doing quite a good job of putting me off muffins entirely

• It's got a stupid name. There are many indignities that one has to suffer, but does one of them have to be sounding like one of Santa's elves when you ask for some food?
• It's rather dry on the outside. Dusted with sugar and flour rather than moist icing means that it doesn't have the same pleasant mouth-feel that the orange & lemon delivered. Which wouldn't be so bad by itself except...
• It's like eating a gigantic abcess. Yes, you read that right. The outside of it looks like a muffin, but inside there's a cathedral-like cavity, the bottom half of which has been filled with pureed berry of some undecipherable provenance. It's a muffin. It's a baked good. There might be some goo inside it - that would be acceptable - but it shouldn't feel like a huge cyst that you're about to puncture. Apologies to the squeamish if this makes you feel at all unwell, but spare a thought for me when I'm trying to breakfast

More to follow - the puzzling unreliability of Starbucks, the horror of Cafe Nero and the cheques that Candy Cakes writes that it's unclear its muffins can cash to come...

Year of Eating Differently (56): Abeno, Museum Street

Headed east in search of okonomi-yaki today. This may have been slightly ill-advised; last night I left the office at 6 and then ran to Vernon Square, before doing two hours of shorinji kempo - one of those tough sessions where by the end of it you go down to the floor and then can't bring yourself to get back up again. Possibly it was the ten minutes of battering pads continuously that did for me, but today my legs feel screwed and I just want to sleep.
It's not a good look to pass out at your desk, so at 12 I nipped down to our faithful newsagent and bought some Frazzles - unfortunately, if you've just had a packet of crisps, ordering miso soup and okonomi-yaki may not be the best decision.
Good stuff though - once you've ordered, the food comes back and gets fried on the hotplate in front of you (although this does mean that by the end of the meal you feel significantly overheated) - and the miso soup actually tasted like miso soup for a change, after the miserable examples from Abokado and Soba in recent weeks. Service was a teeny bit slow (5 minutes to attract attention and get the bill) and tofu isn't the most fun thing to eat (I was jealous of my companion's bacon, and think the Osaka-mix okonami-yaki might be a better bet for those carnivores amongst us) but at least it felt like a Japanese restaurant rather than some strange English approximation thereof.

Year of Eating Differently (55): Abokado, Newman Street

Miso soup - hmmph. Not strong enough. It was homemade though. That's what the factory-made container had written on it.
Also, a felafel wrap, which seems to have given me slight indigestion.
Whole place put me in a bad mood, but that may be because I'd just gone to the Post Office next door (to buy a stamp for a postcard to Donegal) and somehow the Post Office always makes me disgruntled. Otherwise, ok. Not really worth the long walk up there unless you were desperate to get away from Soho, I'd have to say.

Year of Eating Differently (54): Mr Jerk, Wardour Street

Not to be confused with Jerk City, but here's a more spacious Caribbean restaurant, just two doors down. More of a restaurant than some kind of food counter (which means no bright yellow patties) but I do get the chance to try out a vegetable roti. Service was prompt, and there's lots of good reviews from magazines on the counter.
After that, I was actually quite scared that it wouldn't live up to expectations, but it was better than that. The vegetable roti was a proper filthy meal, complete with bright yellow sauce, wrapped up in a flatbread that was much superior to Hannan's effort yesterday. Good, warming fare on a cold wet day - although following Time Out's prediction, I may well be falling asleep at my desk later on.

Year of Eating Differently (53): Hannan's, Great Church Street

In an utter rage today, despairing and blindly lashing out at the world. Partly due to a weekend in Gothenburg, but also because as a consequence my phone doesn't work and the nice man in the Vodafone shop told me to whistle for it.
To calm down, went to Hannan's to order some curry for me and ver ladz; the Bollywood on the TV was turned up to 11, but it was prepped nice and quick, and came in very cheaply (under a tenner for two curries, rice and naan).
No photo today (since the camera is broken) and maybe a point or two down because I was the only person in there (I have a phobia of empty restaurants) and also the TV was too loud. And it's a bit rice heavy. And I'm grumpy today.

Year of Eating Differently (52): Patisserie Valerie, Old Compton Street

Time to wander south again; I haven't been to Old Compton Street since the disappointment of Paul all those weeks ago. Wandering down the street, I was a little worried at the possible eating venues. Play 2 Win arcade? No. Adult erotica? No. But luckily, was enticed by the window display of Valerie's. Whatever the food tastes like, the whole wrapping up your piece of cake in a box with a ribbon on it is hard to fault - it fills me with nostalgia for the over-the-top packaging in Japan, and makes the meal feel like an early birthday present.

Sadly, in a rush to leave early today for Sweden, so couldn't sit down to eat. Instead, I've brought an artichoke tart and the cake back to the office, to consume here. Feeling the need for hot food, there's a quick excursion to zap the tart in the microwave first, and then the tasting can begin...

It's good. Could have been hotter, and would have been better if not placed in a paper bag so that some of the topping fell off on the way back, but artichoke (and olive and caper) is a good way to have lunch. Pastry not quite as crisp as I might have liked, but that seems a small quibble here. The sliced onion forms a good, slightly acidic counterpoint to the artichoke, or possibly the other way round. Could do with some pepper though, I think. Or maybe it's just an attempt at being mellow.

On the downside, you're presented with so much cake, marzipan animals and every other constituent of an afternoon well wasted, that it's a shame to have to retreat to the office.
Anyhow, will spend the remainder of the afternoon with my face smeared with cake, going 'ummgggfgrhhh?' at anyone questioning my existence, and then it's the train to LHR in the not too distant future...

Year of Eating Differently (51): Glo, Paternoster Square

Many years ago, even before Mr Cushtie was a gleam in Mr Cushtie Snr's eye, or indeed shortly before Mr Cushtie Snr and Mrs Cushtie were Mr and Mrs, Mr Cushtie Snr proposed to the future Mrs Cushtie in Paternoster Square. So there's some kind of significance to this location, even if it may seem a bit of a cheat to nip out of Soho for lunch. However, I was back at my desk within the standard hour, so I think this can count.
No such emotional significance to Glo, however. It's just ok, poking its head above mediocre for just long enough to not earn censure. For some reason, I've recently lost my tolerance for places where you pay in one place and then collect your food elsewhere - I think the problem may be that these City boys are less capable of queuing than the meedja whores of Soho, and so I kept getting elbowed in the back or side, and thus had to struggle not to indulge my inner rage.
Here's lunch
Plus, the City boys are happy to pay over the odds - I got curry and rice for seven pounds something, and when you order 'fresh lemonade' you would expect it to come in a glass, not in a plastic bottle. Am I being overly snobbish here? The curry itself overpromised and underdelivered - not at all spicy, and although it began by tasting quite fruity, pretty soon that flavour deserted it. And there was either too much rice or not enough curry, but either way halfway through the meal I was left with half a bowl of dry rice. Hmmph.
On the other hand, it's well lit, pretty fast and, perhaps because it's individual stools rather than benches, doesn't quite feel like the whole Wagamama-lets-go-back-to-school experience. Although speaking of which, a visit to Lexington Street may be on the cards soon...

Year of Eating Differently (50): Govinda's Vegetarian Restaurant, Soho Street

In Govinda's favour, it's vegetarian. Against that, it's vegetarian, so there's not even anything interesting to read on the menu*, it's staffed almost entirely with trustafarian hippies who are probably having a year out finding themselves and slicing cabbage in between, and the food doesn't taste of anything much at all.
Lasagna. It was functional. I don't think I'm about to be sick, I'm not feeling like I need to eat lunch again, but there was no pizzazz, no excitement, no hope that this might push back a little against the gathering clouds of a miserable universe.

No, I haven't been reading Schopenhauer this morning; I've just had another knock back from one of the teeming army of internet dates that I've downloaded this year. Never mind. I'm sure by tomorrow I'll be full of joie de vivre again. In the meantime, Govinda's offers no solace against heartache. I had to cross the road to Starbucks afterwards to buy a muffin, in the hope that it would lift my spirits. No dice, unfortunately.
Or maybe it's not to do with personal strife. Maybe the one thing that really got my goat about Govinda's was when I ordered lasagna, and the person behind the counter asked me if it was hot enough. How am I meant to know? Should I have stuck my thumb in it? Given it a lick, and then told her it needed a few more minutes under the grill? Given free rein to my clairvoyant abilities? Good grief...
* Yes, I'm fully aware you could have a solely vegetarian restaurant with a decent menu, but this wasn't it, and neither was the place I went to in Oxford where they served up Linda McCartney pies without a trace of irony or self-awareness. That is all.

Running marathons / half marathons in Tromso

Things to consider if you're doing either the Polar Night Half Marathon, or the full Midnight Sun Marathon:

Night Half Marathon:

It’s really cold – it was -6 when I ran it. Had a pair of waterproof running shoes (it probably won’t snow, but you don’t want anything that’s vented to let the heat out), thick running socks, a thick pair of tights, two technical tops, a showerproof top, a waterproof top, a hat, and thin polyester gloves, and I was comfortable – not hot, mind. I did consider running with a balaclava, but you might find that’s too hot; what you probably want is a scarf that you can pull up over your face and breathe through it, but have some ventilation. (It can be cold enough that your chest hurts a bit in the first few miles). Probably worth having things you can zip and unzip depending on how warm you get.



What kind of shoes to wear – difficult to say, and probably not worth getting too hung up on. The first part of the race goes through the backstreets of Tromso and that was pretty icy, so rather slippery. The rest of it is either on snow (which is tiring) or on compacted snow (which is just like running on tarmac); some of the locals have Asic Arctics, which are like shoes for running on road (lots of cushioning) but with metal spikes to grip on the ice. I got away with a pair of offroad shoes, which weren’t particularly grippy on the icy part, and then weren’t very comfortable for the run up to the airport and back.

Sleeping:If you’ve booked yourself into the Radisson SAS hotel in Tromso, be aware that the bar plays really loud music until 1am every night, so if you want a good night’s sleep, make sure your room isn’t on that side of the hotel. Grumble over.

Don’t expect to go as fast as you would in UK temperatures. The winning time is something like 1:25 or 1:30, and I thought ‘oh, that sounds easy’ and then came in about 20 minutes off my expected pace.

Have fun! It’s really beautiful up there that time of year. You’ll get about 2 hours of daylight around midday, and then it’s properly dark by the time the race starts. The whole thing is well lit, so there’s no need to carry a torch with you. There should still be all the Christmas decorations up, so it’s really pretty in the town, and outside the town it’s like running on top of a giant Christmas cake… If you have any time spare up there, the Polaria museum is really good (if you like seals and other big aquatic mammals) and possibly (if you can get out of town) you can see the Northern Lights...



On the way back, there is very little at Tromso airport, and you’d be advised to get a good book to read at Oslo, because every single time I’ve come back, SAS have had a delay on the flight to London of an hour. Fine going out (although don’t forget to pick up your bag at Oslo and take it back through customs again – something which isn’t abundantly clear...)

Midnight Sun Marathon

The summer marathon is a slightly different kettle of fish.

(a) it’s usually quite a bit warmer (I got caught out by cold showers this year) and it’s mostly very flat, apart from running over the bridge.

(b) There’s a nasty sting in the tail – you run the first half and it’s around a beautiful fjord, and then you run back over the bridge, through the town, and up towards the airport, and THERE IS NOTHING THERE. Well, a load of industrial containers and some warehouses, the odd concrete bridge and nothing to look at. (at night this makes no odds, because it’s all covered in snow and therefore even metal boxes look quite pretty) After how nice the first half looks, the second half can be quite miserable. Plus the half marathon is running the same course as you now, which means people will start storming past you at some point and inflicting terrible psychological damage.

(c) It’s very, very flat for the most part, which means your legs really get punished because there’s no variation to it – expect a few days to get over it afterwards.

Year of Eating Differently (49): Subway, Dean Street

Long before this project started, I had the misfortune to go to the (now-defunct) Subway in the corner of Soho Square, where I had a sandwich so bland as to be offensive; I retaliatated by going to Make Mine for a few more monotonous months of filthy oil, and lo and behold the franchisee shut down. Sorry about that, but a cheese sub with nothing in it but cheese is something you should have refused to serve me, rather than pollute your brand values. Sometimes the customer is not right, and should be told.
So it was with some trepidation that I stepped out today and realised that Subway was on the menu. First I had to post something to Sweden, which necessitated hanging about in the post office for half my lunch hour, and then I had the whole Post Office depot between me and the Subway just north of Soho Square, so I ended up in the more fashionable environs on Dean Street. Slightly confused that the decor of all Subway has to include bare brick walls, slightly more confused that one of the guys behind the counter had a t-shirt designed to look like he was wearing a Hawaiian lei, and too frightened/cautious/reticent/introverted to ask to take proof.
That got out the way, was swiftly upsold from a 6 inch to a foot long sub, with a vegetable patty and cheese in it. The salad garnish is uninspired (sliced lettuce, tomato, cucumber, olives, sweetcorn, onions) yet utilitarian, so I paid (half the price of yesterday's meal) and made it back to the office.

Where I took this photo, which suggests to me that either I'm exploiting perspective for my own personal gains, orI have respectably LARGE HANDS, or that a foot isn't what it used to be.
And so to the sandwich. It stinks. This is a good thing, because it pollutes the office and annoys the drones around me who don't have their own eating-lots-of-different-things blog. And also it stinks in a good way, redolent of going to Pizza Hut at the age of 12 and then annoying your parents by (in full snotty-nosed child mode) refusing to eat "anything with tomato on it". Must be that mixture of oregano and every other herb they've flung on the bread that's provoking this Proustian type memory. Now where did I leave that madeleine?
The vegetable patty (what does that really mean? Anyone?) has the consistency of a fish finger that has been squashed flat between two volumes of an encyclopeadia (of the sort the father of my friend Barry Sheen used to hawk around post-war Germany, before selling hip replacements, but that really is another story) but has satisfying mouth feel. The salad I referred to just now is mostly extraneous, being swamped by both the texture and the flavour of the bread and the patty, and altogether it's a good, warming meal. Subway, I think you have redeemed yourself. Chapeau!
The astute amongst you may have noticed the worrying preponderance of Gallic references in today's post. (If anyone is actually reading this, that is.) This is mainly due to my brainwave today of having 'Ceci n'est pas une projet d'optimisation search-engine' as the title of the blog, and then realising that would be a mindbogglingly dense and probably quite unoriginal thing to do, as well as possibly self-effacing (see earlier)

An adventure in self-effacement

Here's a very good interview with Adam Curtis about the balkanisation of the internet and the overweening self-importance of bloggers. Which, having skimmed the first 4 pages, I agree with. But then I'm writing a blog. Is this just a lot of self-referential nonsense? Or should I take my lead from him and stop writing? Or just stop reading?
SOMEBODY MUST TELL ME WHAT TO THINK. Or there will be Trouble.

Year of Eating Differently (48): All Bar One, Dean Street

The Marie Celeste of food-pubs
A spookily empty bar. I suppose even the reprobates of Soho look askance at going to All Bar One on a Monday lunchtime. Is that because they're in more squalid environs? Is it because the usual clientele are some stuffed-shirt gumpfs from Essex, up for the evening and up for a good time? Such bitchiness and prejudice aside, a pretty good meal today. Annoyingly, the vegetarian burger doesn't come with fries as standard whereas all other burgers do.

Where are my chips?
Then again, it's cheaper, so I guess you don't miss out on too much. Although this does raise the question of why the chips are missing - is this the token healthy option? And why are the menus sheets that you tear off a great big pad attached to one of the pillars? And why if the menu is like that is there a huge blackboard with the daily specials chalked on it? And why are the daily specials exactly the same as what's on the printed menu? Can't they just find a laminating machine and recycle?

One menu is small, the other is far away...
So many questions. But as it is, I've filled up on mushroom and halloumi, and with my newfound addiction to mustard, I'm a little fuzzed out and trying to bluff it out for the rest of the afternoon.

Year of Eating Differently (47): Lazeez, Dean Street

Curry at lunchtime is always a bit disorientating. Should you go and get bent utterly out of shape on Kingfisher, mop up the dregs of booze with a poppadom, and then slink back into the office? Or be civilised, eat your chicken tikka masala without recourse to booze and somehow feel the experience isn't entirely 'sincere' because it's not the same as those halcyon days with the rugby club back at 'uni' when you competed to steal items of crockery from the curry house?
Most confusingly of all is when your bosses' boss (or maybe his boss, but who wants to spend that much time traversing corporate hierarchy diagrams?) takes you all out for lunch. You might have been expecting to get a sandwich from some hellhole on Oxford Street, but instead we all troop down to the Soho Theatre, and thence down into the basement where there's a very passable Indian restaurant.
There's a mindbendingly expensive restaurant over the street (the Red Fort) which we'll deal with at some point, but it's best paid for by somebody else's expense account, so not today.
Anyhow, the menu's not bad at all. Not much vegetarian stuff - one 'platter' which consists of four different sauces, some rice and some bread - but nobody complained about the chicken/lamb/prawns/seabass on offer, and I was full up by the end of it, to the point that when I went off to shorinji kempo that evening, I didn't feel like I was going to die. Well, actually, I did but that was probably the cumulative effect of not enough sleep and too many missed dinners this week.
Oh, and we had homemade limoncello afterwards back at the office. That could never be a productivity boost.

Year of Eating Differently (46): Bon Appetit, Poland Street

A very large cafe, very well lit, with lots of green and mirrors. And some ferociously friendly geezers behind the bar, asking what you want to eat. I ended up with a jacket potato with mushrooms, which despite the horrible appearance in the photo, punched well above its weight. Cafe latte was good too. Caught up with an old lastminute.com alumnus and spent most of the hour putting the world to rights and deciding that our current wage-slave existences were worthless and we should both Do Something More Important. Looks like a new year's resolution or two in the works...

Year of Eating Differently (45): Silva's Grill and Sandwich Bar, Shaftesbury Avenue

Cold clear day, so what better than to wander down New Oxford Street, pick up some photos from Jessops and then wander south to the warm environs of Silva's? Had a tri colore pannino - very good, although afterwards I still felt hungry enough to go and buy some rubbish from Starbucks to go on top.

It's a bit crowded inside, but you can sit down at one of the bench seats, and then steak and chips somebody was having for lunch looked magnificent, in a prosaic "let's stuff the calories in at lunchtime in the form of a dirty big lump of cow" kind of way. How I miss meat...

Year of Eating Differently (44): Crepe Affaire, Wardour Street

Rather too much cheese, and the crepe can't be eaten one-handed by someone as clumsy as me, and when you try to unwrap it, half the crepe sticks to the greaseproof paper and so the whole thing disintegrates. So less than enamoured by the whole experience. However, it was swift (and pretty empty, which isn't a good sign at 12:45) and there's a reasonable selection of flapjacks and such. It stays open until 11pm on a Friday night, which raises the question of who exactly goes out carousing in Soho on a Friday and then at half-ten thinks to themselves "Hmm, in desperate need of a savoury pancake right now", but never mind that.
I will have the aftertaste of cheese in my mouth for the rest of the day, I expect. This greatly saddens me.

Year of Eating Differently (43): Soba, Soho Street

Back from Japan and nostalgic for miso soup already, so a quick dash to Soba to get some takeaway - udon noodles in what appears to be a feeble attempt at miso (far too watery to taste of anything much at all), and some vegetable tempura. Frankly, the tempura is rubbish; tastes very greasy and not at all crispy; I suppose it may be unfair to compare a takeaway in London with the genuine article in Tokyo and Nagoya, but for goodness' sake, how hard can it be to do things right?

Presenting things

A very nice post on how to use Powerpoint, and how not to:

http://presentationzen.blogs.com/presentationzen/2005/11/the_zen_estheti.html

Year of Eating Differently (42): Nusa Dua, Dean Street

6.95 for a two course set meal - you can't go wrong with that

Soupy Norman

It may just be an overdub on a Polish soap opera, but it's still great:
You could move hemisphere, but I'd find ye, and I'd come and offer you fish!
Thanks to the Donegal & Vancouver contingent for putting me onto it

Year of Eating Differently (41): Cafe Soho, Ingestre Place

Really, really impressed. Small unit, with three or four tables pushed up at the far end of the room, and all your orders taken on the spot and made there and then by a cheerful chap or two. Because it's tucked away a bit, less frenetic than Make Mine, say, and if you choose to sit down, then they bring you your sandwich on a plate, which always makes it feel more like a meal.

Sandwich itself - well, I was feeling unadventureous after the nauseating meals I've had for the last two days, so just a baguette with brie and lots and lots of salad, but the selection of drinks is very impressive; had some kind of goji berry drink with ginger, which, while not wholly successful, made a good change.
Did stop off at the newsagent on the way back to the office to buy some Frazzles though. And remarked upon the fact that I live in Soho, which is a somewhat concerning Freudian slip; are the hours in the office really that long?

Year of Eating Differently (40): Gourmet Burger Kitchen, Frith Street

I'm still feeling sick an hour and a quarter later. GBK is one of those places that has never been formally introduced to the phrase 'less is more'; you get a burger that's stacked a good eight inches high, larded with so much cheese, marinade and just plain fat that by the time you're halfway through it, you're already feeling revolted by life, yourself, the person sat across from you, the waitress who brought it over, the fact that your friend's camembert burger wasn't even warmed through and still has an icy heart from the time it spent in the fridge, cursing over unrequited lovers. Somehow I forced myself through the portabella mushroom monstrosity I'd ordered. My companion, Jenny, sent hers back and asked for it to be cooked properly, which took so long the second time (and resembled something that had been vomitted into a bun when it returned, so saggy and beat-down were the onions that topped it off) that I almost lost my lunch again.
Plus the milkshake is made without ice-cream (a cardinal sin in the eyes of Jenny, but she is American and therefore doesn't understand the complicated and hateful nuances of the relationship between the British and their food) and the chips were only so-so; no mustard, and the chilli sauce they came with looked more like watery salsa. I was relieved to escape, which is the first real low this project has brought me to.

Year of Eating Differently (39): Konditor & Cook, Curzon Cinema, Shaftesbury Avenue

So, I've been away for a few days in Donegal, doing advanced research into blending Guinness and Heineken, and thus hardly felt like eating at all today. The loooong journey home didn't help much either, nor did the continual dry retching. But then again, there's no other in-flight entertainment on Ryanair, so maybe I was doing my thing for everyone else's benefit.
But back on the quest for novelty in food - this time, down to the cinema at the bottom of Soho, the furthest south I've been yet. Feeling rather sick afterwards - a very rich sandwich of pesto and mozzarella and aubergine, which was good, but possibly rather ambitious after the weekend. That, combined with a huge piece of chocolate cake with vanilla icing that felt like it was almost an inch thick, has left me struggling with the world. Only another ten and a half hours before Monday is over, however...

Year of Eating Differently (38): Grab-A-Bite, Oxford Street

Bit of a discovery, this one. Right by Pret and Cafe Nero, but it seems to be a one-off rather than a chain. Lots of variety - got a sandwich, and a freshly heated up vegetable samosa (and there's lots of spring rolls, sausage rolls, caribbean patties, doughnuts, fruit, and most stuff on the spectrum between healthy and fried, plus peri peri something or other) and was back in the office pretty quick, because unlike Pret and Nero, it doesn't seem to be cursed by queues (or indeed customers at 12:38 on a Tuesday afternoon...)

Year of Eating Differently (37): Blue Cafe, Bateman Street

After a heavy weekend, a chilly day in London. Popped out to get a sandwich, had an omelette instead. Not so sure about the presentation of it - basically a cowpat of yolk studded with mushrooms - but some bread and a little salad to make up for that, and it was filling enough. Cheerful staff, quite poor paintings on the walls that you could pay 150 pounds for if you really wanted to, and sadly Norah Jones was on the stereo singing some rubbish by Meredith Brooks. Or Garth Brooks? Who knows? The woman behind the counter was the spitting image of a friend's New Zealand girlfriend, but with a more exotic accent. Somefin foreign, aintcher?

Lakes Trip

Back from the Lakes - 5 hours 22 minutes of driving, three visits to the toilet (damn that Saturday night curry / 8 pints of lager), 300 miles, etc etc.
Bought a new bike on Friday, went mental on it and beat everyone else up all the climbs. Then, predictably enough, arse fell out of me on Saturday and I spent that day and Sunday dying too.
Here's some GPS of what we did. Your challenge is to do it faster. We had glorious weather on the Saturday, you may suffer in the rain. Ha.
That is all.

Year of Eating Differently (36): Richmonds, Bateman Street

Possibly cursed by its location, tucked away a little from the busier Frith and Dean Street, but on the other hand, it's not crowded, and thus it was quite a pleasant experience to go here and order a sandwich. Two staff, big coffee machine and panini maker, so it's probably worth the odd detour for caffeine before reaching the office every morning. And cheap, too - certainly one of the better experiences in the last week.

Year of Eating Differently (35): Sainsbury's, Charing Cross Road

Busy day today so a quick run to the supermarket. Covent Garden soup, which looks like bright yellow baby food/sick and tastes similar after three minutes in the microwave. Yogurt's not so bad though, although after those two things and the chocolate bar and a vegetable samosa, I started to feel quite nauseous and therefore I've stuck the pasta in the fridge to eat before I go out fighting tonight.

London by night

Bit of a sporty weekend, all in. On the way home on Friday, persuaded Ben Cushtie to do 7 pull ups on a crowded train - amazing how people avoid making eye contact. Went to the Castle on Saturday afternoon, did a few problems; finished off with a 4c boulder round 'Lust', a big grey lump about the size of a transit van. Sweating like a pig by the end of it; it's all upper body strength with the rock hanging away from you, so after spending the rest of the day feeling ok, was wrecked by about five minutes of this. This is the first time I've got all the way round though - challenge next time is to do it smoothly.
Went out in the evening; first to the Crown and Sceptre on Great Titchfield Street to meet Hugh, got caught out on my rather-over-simplified distinction between 19th century horror (fear of sex) and 20th century horror (fear of masturbation), mixed my drinks in amateur fashion - Hoegaarden, Guinness, Kirin - went to Anna Rafferty's birthday party, went home to bed.
Sunday morning woke up thick-headed. Met a Swede for breakfast, went to Leith Hill with Jonny to go riding in the afternoon, thought I was going to die. He's on a singlespeed, I'm on a hardtail with 16 gears that weighs more than my downhill bike. Understandably, Jonny got up every hill first. Hit my knee on the handlebar once and almost fell off, weeping with pain. That's a sign of something, right?
Anyways, after all this got home, cleaned up and then took the commuter up to Victoria on the train and rode over to Nick's place in West Ken. This is a miserable ride - out of Victoria and down to Chelsea Bridge is ok, but it's much longer than it needs to be, and the part round Earl's Court is rubbish (and a nightmare to do in reverse, with all the one-way streets round there).
But on the way back, Nick pointed me in the direction of Olympia and straight down Kensington High Street to Knightsbridge and beyond. Fantastic. A reminder of why London is so great - storming it down empty roads at 10 at night, everything lit up - Harvey Nicks, the Albert Hall, Hyde Park in darkness on the left, and you feel like you own the road. Didn't hurt that I could trackstand at every set of lights (why is that easier to do in an old pair of trainers than in SPDs?) and even the horror of Hyde Park (with associated desire to punch out a taxi driver) didn't crimp my mood too much.
Back to Victoria, missed train by 4 minutes, had to hang around forever for the next one home. Never mind: I had the iPod, so I listened to 2 Minutes to Midnight all the way home. Am I turning into an Iron Maiden fan in my dotage?

Year of Eating Differently (34): Nino's Paninos, Frith Street

One qualm as I explained this choice to my co-workers; panini is the plural, panino is the singular. So the name of this cafe is wrong, but perhaps that's balanced out by all the people who will sell you "a panini" or "paninis", usage that never fails to make my teeth grate after some cruel person first educated me about this point.
Anyway, it's a tiny place, about the same size as those holes in the wall that serve up pizza on Leicester Square. Recessed from the street, there's space for a table or two and a counter, but sadly the food isn't much better. I had a focaccia with cheese and roasted vegetables inside it, but the cheese was the consistency of (a) raw ricotta and (b) warmed up nasal mucus at the same time; couldn't taste the vegetables or the pine kernels nestled inside. So I doubt I'll return there soon.

Photos from Florence

Well, The Florence, you pedants, not Florence. But it was Friday night, I had a brand new Sony Ericsson K850i in hand, and what better way to get a few pictures of drunk people?
PS Saw The Counterfeiters - it was great.

Year of Eating Differently (33): Soho Thai, St Anne's Place

Was going to go to a different Thai restaurant, but it was closed this lunchtime. Anyhow, Soho Thai's not bad; had the Pad Khing Tao, which was something with vegetables and ginger, and less MSG than I've come to expect. Place was really very noisy for a Friday lunchtime, and the decor suggests, well, that they haven't finished decorating yet. It's also quite expensive (£30 for lunch for two, but that's what Mastercard is for, right?)
Oh, and just to feed the stereotype, I'm hungry again already, and it's only been 15 minutes since I stopped eating...

Year of Eating Differently (32): Starbucks, corner of Soho Street & Oxford Street

Very tired, very hungry today - probably a mistake to have more than a pint of beer last night after climbing. Shambled into work, felt starving hungry by 11.30. Thus an early trip to Starbucks.
On the positive side, the hot chocolate is good. Better than the insipid stuff I've had from Cafe Nero and Eat recently. On the negative, the panini took forever to arrive, probably because they were attempting to get it up to radioactive temperatures. Didn't really taste of anything apart from a burnt mouth.
Cake: Starbucks have gone downhill since they got rid of the ginger muffin. The apple cake is like eating some kind of packing materials that were stored near some apples once. And the whole damn thing costs too much. Nine pounds something for a panini, two bits of cake and a hot chocolate? Ho-bloody-ho.

Year of Eating Differently (31): Eagle Diner, Rathbone Place

Med-veg burger, mozzarella, roasted tomatoes, this and that. A little bit cold. Finished it in five bites. Skinny chips were hot and good, mustard mayo wasn't strong enough. Had to resist the urge to join in the conversation on the table next to me about why their company shouldn't change to PHP as a technology platform. Read the start of Pattern Recognition instead.
Bit pricy, considering nobody has bothered to clean the grease off the windows since the place was opened. Otherwise, hit the spot.

Year of Eating Differently (30): Coffee Republic, Soho Square

Thought I'd been here a long time ago, but not yet, not yet. Very cheerful guy at the counter (even called me 'sir' which makes me feel important for all of about, oh, ten seconds). Brie and cranberry baguette, freshly made with the brightest cranberry sauce I've ever seen. And the bread was fresh, which really does mark it out as something special, given prior experiences. Far too much salad in it though - feel like I'm eating rabbit food today...

Year of Eating Differently (29): Cornish Bakehouse, Dean Street

It does 'Award Winning Cornish Pasties' you know. Had the cheese and mushroom pasty, which is really rather vile, and fell apart in the bag as I carried it back to the office, and a spicy vegetarian sausage roll, which was very good, almost to the point that I suspected the regurgitated vegetable protein that made up the sausage to be animal in origin. After the weekend's exertions, just what I needed.

Dusk Till Dawn 2007

Went to Norfolk on Saturday and raced Dusk Till Dawn, for the first time since 2003. Rode it solo in its inaugural year (2002) on a fully rigid singlespeed, warming up for doing Sleepless in the Saddle solo. In 2003, did 6 laps on the back of a tandem, had back problems that took three months of physio to fix. And that was back when it was an 8 mile course rather than the 10.5 miler they had this year. After that, it somehow lost its appeal for a while.
So 2007: they'd banned tandems (probably a good thing really - Thetford isn't the best place for a bike that handles like a barge) and I had a bike with front suspension (although still only one gear). On the other hand, it wasn't titanium any more, only cheap steel, and the fork is a cheap Marzocchi with rebound set up so hard that after a lap or two it felt like it was rigid anyway. I also had four sets of lights: Hope LEDs, Cateye halogens, some old Vistalites that had looked like somebody had cobbled them together out of whatever they could find in the shed, and finally my trusty old Lumicycles. Attached them all to the handlebar before the start, to avoid faffing around and dropping shims on the grass at 2am, and then although the front end then weighed a lot more than it really should have, was good to go. (Plus there was some kudos for having a bike that looked like a Quadrophenia refugee.)
I also had a pit crew. In the first year I did it, Sylvain turned up, and hid in the tent after four hours of hanging around getting cold waiting to tighten a bolt on my bike. In the second year, my co-tandemee, Toby, and I had the joy of people running up to shout "the guy on the back isn't pedalling!" and other witticisms. This time round I had Toby plus his girlfriend, which turned out to be an important combination: with somebody to talk to, Toby stayed awake, and with Toby awake and waiting every lap, the temptation to pack was much lower.
Not that I didn't pack: a change to the rules meant that it was the most laps in the shortest time, and not the most laps in 12 hours plus however long you take to get back after the bell. This is more civilised, but there is a certain joy to seeing everyone emerge from the bushes just before the finish line at a minute past the time limit. (Or possibly some joker nipping up there 5 minutes beforehand, telling them it's time and then watching them get back and realise they have to do another lap after all.) As it was, I got to 7 am and, after a 2 hour lap, couldn't face another one - by then I was seeing things, and instead of that being faces in the undergrowth, it was corners in the middle of a straight trail. Not so good.
Thetford was great as ever, but tough too. Although it's flat (and even flatter this year, it felt, than previously) it's almost all singletrack, and almost all bumpy singletrack, so after half an hour your lower back is in agony, following by shoulders, neck, hands, forearms. My legs never got that sore, strangely (feet did) but after an hour or so the pain levels off and doesn't get much worse. In my third lap I was keen to chuck the bike away and go sleep, but it was clear that to do so would be the end of the race; hardly likely that you'd get up again to a freezing cold night and start racing again. Besides, with Toby + g/f around, I'd have felt too guilty to tell them I was giving up, after making them go all the way to Norfolk. So, Torq bars and apples inside me, off I went again, only to find my legs on the fourth and fifth laps, and actually enjoy myself. I was hoping to finish with 7 laps at 7.30, a respectable total, but due to our nocturnal arithmetic being a little shaky, 7 laps was actually 6.55, and realising this at the start of lap 7 broke my spirit; no chance of going for an 8th lap when all I wanted was sleep.
All the way through though, during painful times as well, you just had to keep reminding yourself that you were in rather a privileged position - there were only 800 people, after all, out there in the woods riding around in the dark, with a beautiful starry sky above them and all that prime singletrack. It was bloody cold though; in the first couple of years it was raced in August and it was hardly warm then, but the move to October puts it into 6 degrees weather (if you believe the BBC's website, at least). A bit of mist came in towards the end of the night, which you only noticed if you had big enough lights to make it show up. It was great to have the sun come up and ride a lap that started in pitch black and ended in daylight, but after that it was time to stop.
Things I've learnt:

• Take a few friends otherwise there's not enough pressure to just pack it all in



• Keep eating fruit especially. Previously I've taken lots of things that I thought would be comfort food, like sandwiches and yoghurt, but that doesn't feel too comforting in the middle of the night. Ended up with a banana or an apple, plus a Torq bar, every lap, and that seemed pretty much perfect (apart from bonking on my last lap, even after two bars...)



• LED lights are brilliant. The Hopes ran for four hours without giving out, and although that was on the lowest setting, it was still sufficient for the ride. Furthermore, the white light is qualitatively better than the halogens; both the Cateyes and the Lumicycles were just far too yellow in comparison. Head torches are good too.



• You'll get cold. Normally if you're comfortable on the start line you'll be too hot on the trail. Not in October. Long sleeved top plus base layer plus three quarter length shorts will do well, plus a Roach fully waterproof top for the last few laps when your heart rate is dropping and your body isn't so good at keeping itself warm any more. (This is probably different for non-soloists, but they're wimps.)



• Don't pack it in too early. Some people payed 28 quid in order to ride round the forest for 4 laps and then stopped, saying that a singlespeed wasn't appropriate or their bike wasn't right. Get a decent bike then. For the last week before I went to Thetford, I spent three days on the piss in Munich (including being punched in the mouth on a giant spinning wheel) then went climbing at the Castle until my eyes were falling out of my head on the Thursday night, and finished up with two hours of shorinji kempo on Friday night. Oh, and two hours driving around Croydon in a panic on Saturday morning when I should have been in bed, trying to round up lights. Still managed 7 laps though, and I'm not sure if I would have done more with suspension or gears - thinking really there's probably more to go wrong...



• Get some sleep the day after. Don't try to be a hero by staying up all day, going to see Fulham lose 2-0 to Portsmouth at Craven Cottage, and then take two hours to get home because there's no District or Circle line running on Sunday. Microsleeps might seem fun in retrospect, but not at the time



• Christmas carols will always cheer you up, particularly sung at the top of your voice as you ride through the campsite at 4am.

Year of Eating Differently (28): Crussh, Broadwick Street

A brightly lit juice bar, full of smoothies and other reprehensibly-healthy fare. I had a moment of nostalgia here; they were playing the Mark Ronson reworking of Radiohead's Just - I first heard this one night on X fm, driving back down to Folkestone and listening to the Cuban Brothers' barrage of eccentricities. And this was back in the day only slightly, before Ronson became hated for redoing a Smiths song and making it less depressing than the original.
So anyhow: another bento of sushi, hurrah. A little cheaper than the Itsu one, but no chopsticks, goddammit! Also, the presence of all this rocket salad is a mixed blessing at best - rather fiddly to eat out of a bento, regardless of whether you're using hanshi or a knife and fork. Grated carrot isn't bad either, and considering I was intending on a dirty burger from Nando's today, doing substantially better than I might have expected. (Did eat some crisps as well though, but I'm at kempo tonight and that should burn it off)
Oh, and the wasabi here is a bit stronger. I'm currently blinded with tears, my nose and throat are on fire - it's tremendous. Maybe a bit less next time though...

Year of Eating Differently (27): Sa Thai, Greek Street

Another noodle bar. Went in and asked for a green curry to take away. Got given a foil tray and sent to fend for myself in the lunchtime buffet. No curry. Quite depressed. But by then I'd handed over the cash, and my earlier protestation that I wanted a curry seemed to have fallen on deaf ears, so I've filled up on noodles and came back to eat it. More curry later in the week, I think.
Noodles are revolting - far too much soy sauce. Tofu's not bad though, probably because it has too much soy sauce. Would be a draw, therefore, except the vegetables taste foul and have the texture of runner beans. So let's call that 2-1 down.

Year of Eating Differently (26): Tesco's, Dean Street

So it's back to the wonderful world of supermarkets again. Time for some soup, to ease my aching mouth (courtesy of the Oktoberfest, but that's a story for another time).
It's cheap, but it's a bit dull. Sadly they don't sell loose mushrooms in the supermarket to upgrade the soup with, and there's no salt or pepper at the office. But it smells pretty good (much better than that awful Covent Garden Soup Co. stuff) so hopefully there's no complaints.

Year of Eating Differently (25): Ultimate Burger, New Oxford Street

It's like dying and going to dirty burger heaven. A portobello mushroom, laden with barbecue sauce and dripping with grease. Onion rings that have so much fat coming off them that the bottom of the takeaway bag is slick wet through. The whole thing is a big fat lump of taste; definitely far ahead of the now quite anodyne Hamburger Union. Really what you need after spending the night before out in the woods around Dorking, trying to not die while riding a bike as fast as you can.
On the down side - their roof is leaking, service is slow (20 minutes from order to burger) but then it was 1.30 on a Friday afternoon, when all the suited drones go out for their one big meal of the week, but please people, I'm a man on a mission. Got to get back to draw graphs in Powerpoint and sound competent to an international audience. I DESERVE MY LUNCH FIRST.
Oh, and no repeat of trying to deck the waitress (cf yesterday). Things are looking up.

Year of Eating Differently (24): Itsu, Wardour Street

Jolly good work this: a second day of Japanese food, although this time with a French woman behind the counter. Bento is a simple way to get some food in you, and there's a good amount of wasabi paste to spread on the sushi. I'd actually forgotten how good this stuff tastes - must be at least 6 months since I had any sushi at all. However, all and sundry are suffering from aggressiveness at the moment - when asked by the counter lady if I wanted a bag, had to bite my lip from yelling "Do I ****ing well look like I want a bag?" - why would that be? Is it the strain of a year in London, finally breaking my psyche? Or should I have got more sleep last night, rather than staggering back from the Castle at well past 11 and then having to feed the cat (a lazy feline that failed to wake me at the proper time this morning, I must add)

Year of Eating Differently (23): Wasabi, Oxford Street

Yakisoba. Ah, tofu yakisoba. It's cheap, it's quick, it seems to be staffed entirely by Japanese women who wear huge amounts of blusher. Good for a cold day. It must be said, there's not that much taste to a portion of noodles with tofu, but that's too bad - if you wanted flavour, you could either bash on a load of wasabi, or order something with meat in it.

Year of Eating Differently (22): Taste, Rathbone Place

Going here does raise questions about the whole enterprise. If you choose to have soup that turns out to be from a Covent Garden Soup Company carton, and it's warmed up in a microwave, and the sole addition that the staff make is to put some pepper onto it, are you doing anything different to going to Tesco's and buying a carton of soup yourself? But on the other hand, how many cafes are growing their own potatoes/baking their own bread/churning their own butter? If I were that concerned with getting back to the source of the food, then I probably wouldn't be eating out so much. Or I'd be eating out of the kitchen window of a farmhouse somewhere. But I digress.
Taste is ok. It's a shop by itself rather than a chain (what difference does that make anyway?) but the food on offer isn't much different to elsewhere. Seems a more limited range than Shellys or Make Mine, but I haven't dipped too deeply into it. And although the added pepper to the soup improves it, it can't get over the flaw of Covent Garden Soup - it's far too goddamn salty, and a bit of pepper can't overcome that. It's enough pepper to make your tongue tingle a bit though, which is a novel experience. Crisps - well, so what. They work. I did resolve to stop eating crisps recently. Then I went to Charing Cross station, and the experience was so horrible I could only get over it by eating a packet of Frazzles. How weak willed am I?
Akrasia aside, the chocolate coated ginger biscuits are good. Very good indeed.

Year of Eating Differently (21): Smollensky's Burgershack, Charing Cross Road

From the outside it looks a bit like a dirty burger joint, but this is probably because everything on Charing Cross Road looks filthy after about five minutes. Inside it's all dark colours, frosted glass and bare metal - upmarket diner? Dodgy strip club? Who knows?

Anyway, burger is very very good - spicy as, and despite looking like a dog's breakfast (I thought they hadn't cooked the felafel and had just chucked a load of paste into a bun, but that was the hummus on top) it went down a treat. The bun, on the other hand, was pretty awful - flavourless, dry and generally unremarkable.
Chips? Hmmph. Here's my bone of contention. If I'm having a burger and I order 'skinny fries' off the menu, that's what I expect to get. Not great big hoofing fat chip-shop chips, which is what I get, and which doesn't seem quite right. Apart from that they were quite competent, so what was the vibe they were going for? Fat potato obsessed pranksters? Upmarket downmarketeering? Who knows. I'll pop back on the 24th of September next year, and see if they get it right.

Year of Eating Differently (20): Malletti Pizza Bar, Noel Street

It's bright yellow, it bans mobile phones and it has a website at www.nowebsite.com.
Not so efficient when it's rammed full of people, but there's a good selection of different pizza slices to be had; I ended up with risotto instead - a generous portion for 4.50. (Made the mistake once of having risotto and pizza - couldn't move for the rest of the afternoon)
I think larding it with parmesan makes it a little over-rich, but it's all good - something warming on a cold afternoon when I'm dying from a Hot Puppies induced hangover...

Year of Eating Differently (19): Papaya, St Anne's Court

Red curry, three pounds fifty. Bit hot for me, but I'll live... A little corner of Asia, tucked away round the corner from Make Mine.

Year of Eating Differently (18): Planet Organic, Torrington Place

Off to get my dissertation bound today, so stopped off on the way back from the University of London Union and went into this organic/healthfood store. Picked up a plastic wrapped felafel wrap (certainly a leitmotif of this project, but the first one to be so suffused in quality polluting packaging), some crisps (or at least I thought they were crisps, but more careful perusal of the packet suggests they've been baked and are made from rice, so they're probably utterly disgusting) and finally a bar of Green & Blacks chocolate (recently acquired by the chocolate behemoth that is Cadburys, so there goes their 'alternative' credentials). Now I'm thinking how foul the rest of this meal is probably going to be, I'm kicking myself for not getting the giant bar of ginger flavoured Green & Blacks when I had the chance...

Year of Eating Differently (17): Paul, Old Compton Street

Sandwiched between pubs and gay bars, here's a boulangerie named after somebody called Paul. Flogging a succession of baguettes - here's one covered in sesame seeds and with camembert in it.
I don't eat many sesame seeds in my life. I always get them when I eat pizza in Tromso, but that's about the only opportunity. So this could either be an interesting diversion, or a bit revolting. Camembert, on the other hand, is rich man's brie, and I've already had a brie baguette recently, so on average, so much the difference.

Sadly, the bread is over-chewy and the cheese is just plain rubbery. Not impressed. Ah well. They've got a year to improve, after all...

Year of Eating Differently (16): Foyles, Charing Cross Road

A day behind on the eating plan, I suppose, due to taking Friday off with Being Ill. Ah well. I'm not posting pictures of me eating soup at home. Sorry.

So, Foyles. Or rather, not the bookshop itself, but the cafe on the first floor. Aubergine and mozzarella baguette, and, (a first since this started) the bread is actually decent - crusty crust, and soft, fresh bread inside. Nice. Haven't eaten aubergine since I can remember, so that's also another plus point, and it's no more expensive than surrounding places. The ambience is nice too (who doesn't like bookshops? Furthermore, it's a bookshop that doesn't play music, unlike the slightly unpleasant Borders over the road, which seems to assume that books must be so dull that you have to have canned music blaring away while you browse.) but unfortunately I had to head straight back to the office to sit down (crashing from drinking a giant latte at Cafe Nero this morning - bit of a tactical error, that).

Anyway, sandwich is great. But better was the cake, which instead of being factory packed like everywhere else (think of that awful bit of shortbread from establishment 13 last week) does a good semblence of being homemade. A jaffa cake, no less - a sponge cake slathered with chocolate icing, and with a smashing orangey bit inside. Spirits lifted, back to counting planes...

Year of Eating Differently (15): Eat, Soho Square

The merchandising has gone all wrong. Suddenly Eat have these loathsome purple paper bags to put your food in. Otherwise, the song remains the same: here's a baguette (slightly stale. No, it's not 'crunchy'. It's stale. You can tell when you bite into the dried up bread and it sprays crumbs all over the desk) with branston pickle and cheddar inside. Looks a bit grim. Not sure how it tastes yet. Actually, this all sounds rather bitter but really I'm grumpy because (a) I've got a cold and (b) Eat don't seem to be doing pies this year that are anywhere close to being as good as they were in 2006. But still, the baguette isn't half as nice as a Pret one, which makes it rather a chore to eat. The yoghurts are better than The Other Place, though...

Year of Eating Differently (14): Shelly's, Dean Street

So, next door to Make Mine and kind of its personable alter ego. Again, you can specify what you want and somebody constructs it for you, but somehow they have recognisable personalities and actually recognise you if you go back a few times. Ah, the halcyon days when they knew to make me two marmite bagels every morning... And Ian Hislop (he of Private Eye) has a 'usual' when he goes there.

Shelly's tricolore gets toasted in a panini press, and possibly that, combined with somebody not slapping on the oil like their life depended on it, gives you a sandwich that's not half as oily. Ok, it's slightly bland compared to the Make Mine experience, but you don't have that feeling of oh my god I'm going to die soon from this sandwich that Make Mine can inspire. Plus the pesto, the sundried tomatoes, the cheese, the avocado are all perceptible flavours within the hole, rather than the sledgehammer effect of their rivals.
On the downside, service can be a little slow, but you can expect a queue anywhere at lunchtime in Soho. 4.00 for the sandwich.

Year of Eating Differently (13): Wrapid, Berwick Street

I only noticed this one appear since the project started, and it seemed as good a day as any to try it out. Apart from the awful pun of the name, not so bad: lots of different things, in wraps. Bangers & mash through to vegetarian balti. The balti itself is pretty good - very spicy and strong flavour, but the wrap itself leaves a little to be desired. Instead of being something soft and pancake like, it looks like some combination of cardboard and wholemeal something; maybe it had been festering on the grills for too long, but I don't want a wrap which is actually baked hard.

They gave me a loyalty card - I was going to be cruel and ask "what do I want that for? I'm not coming back, you know" but if this quest ends in failure before the 365 days are up, then I think I'd be happy to have something else here.
Cheap, too: 4.05 for the wrap, 90p for a piece of caramel shortcake with 29 different ingredients. Mmm, hydrogenated vegetable oil. Should have gone to Just Felafs for dessert...

Year of Eating Differently (12): Vital Ingredient, Berwick Street

Time was, when salad was something you got with 'shome shauce?' from your friendly kebab van, at 2 in the morning after you'd left some god-awful club. But we all grow up and stop being students eventually. And after years of fat-filled sandwiches, we feel guilty enough to eat a salad for lunch instead. Never mind real men don't eat quiche - just vegetables? It seems insane.
Get over that, and you're half the way to losing your self. But never mind such existential worries. Vital Ingredient is based around the innovative concept of choosing what you want in your salad. Since obviously nobody had ever thought of asking for what they want before. Then it gets tossed on the production line by one of the salad drones, and handed back to you in a plastic tub.
So I've got pasta, peas, olives, cucumber, tomato, and (in place of sundried tomatoes) 'sunblush' tomatoes - is it a brand? Is it just embarrassed by the sun? Who knows? Anyway, it's quite clean, rather than the filth I've been knocking back for the last week, so at least my poor body will thank me for eschewing burgers and such this week. At least until dinnertime...

Year of Eating Differently (11): Cafe Mezzo, St Giles High Street

Well, that hit the spot more satisfactorily. 6.10 for a ciabatta and a glass of orange and cranberry juice. They also do a happily filthy breakfast, but it's going to be a while before I can justify the full egg, beans and hash brown extravaganza - time to lose a bit of weight first.
Other fun things to do on St. Giles High Street - spot the skag head tramps trolling for money from people walking from Covent Garden to Denmark Street. Or loiter outside the Intrepid Fox and wonder what idiot thought a conservatory with a fake graveyard on top was really going to be as METAL as their clientele would demand. Then pop back to Soho Square and sneer at the emo kids queuing for the Astoria ticket office.

Year of Eating Differently (10): Hamburger Union, Dean Street

Just not very good. Bun is dry, vegetable sausage is lacking in flavour, chips are ok. Hamburger Union used to be good about a year to 18 months ago, but it seems to have lost the plot recently. The mushroom burger has got replaced with a disc of vegetarian sausage (a vegetable sausage makes scant sense at the best of times, but a slice of the stuff in a bun? what are you thinking?) and the sauce is lacking in flavour. Bun is a bit dry. Chips are about the only redeeming feature, and even then they're not great (although to be fair, I'm comparing against Cafe Provencal in Herne Hill, and the gastronomic delight of a garlic potato chunk dipped in Colman's mustard.
So anyway, £7.20 for burger and chips. Not especially dirty, so really not dirty enough.

Year of Eating Differently (9): Make Mine, Dean Street

Nicely packaged, but inside lurks a heart of darkness...

I spent six months eating nothing but Make Mine sandwiches, which probably is part of the motivation for this endeavour. Make Mine have one person taking orders at the till, then a production line of sandwich builders that chuck out your finished order a few minutes later. Works fine when there's nobody else in the shop, but at 1pm on a weekday the place is maxed out and the queue spills out onto the road, so it's not necessarily the best place to grab a quick bite. Contrast that with Shelly's (to be visited later) where the same person takes your order, builds it and then gives it to you. Although they're also really slow when you're in a hurry.
Anyhow, the purple and white colour scheme is intended to make the place look fresh and fun. At first glance, the sandwich shop counterpart to the white and orange of Imli. When you get the sandwich, you realise that fun was accidentally identified with cholesterol and nothing else. The damn thing is dripping oil. It's the closest thing to a dirty burger without there being a burger in it; the sundried tomatoes could just as well be oildrowned tomatoes, the sprig of salad hardly counteracts this, the avocado and mozzarella - well, they're just fat anyway and the foccacia itself has been liberally hosed with pesto that seems to be mostly oil too. Sure, it tastes good for the first bite or two, but by the end you're feeling nauseated by the whole experience and it becomes a triumph of the will to finish the thing off. (Not sure as I should be comparing eating a sandwich to Leni Reifenstahl, but them's the breaks.) Oh, and the foccacia was a bit burnt on one edge.
Tricolore focaccia, £4.00. Shame and guilt, well, I get those for free

Year of Eating Differently (8): Cafe Pompidou, Dean Street

Sadly, Cafe Pompidou doesn't resemble a half-finished art gallery in Paris. Oh well. Taking a break from expensive eateries this week, due to the current account being almost bare of funds. So instead it's a baked potato with mushrooms, a packet of crisps, and an apple.

Potato: nice presentation. Lots of herbs chucked onto it, which is a first. Sage? Thyme? Not basil. That makes me sad. I like basil. Sadly, the mushrooms are rather rubbery, but what can you do? The whole thing took about 4 minutes to arrive, so it's hardly as if they're not microwaving the whole thing, and for £2.25, what's the problem? (Assuming it hasn't been assembled in the Third World by somebody on a daily rate of 14p, that is - will globalisation affect my lunch?)
So that hit the spot. The crisps are revolting. I do wonder why I keep eating crisps when they're so utterly disgusting. Packet of salt & vinegar yesterday and they were horrible too. So from today I resolve: no more crisps. Well, maybe those lime Kettle Chips, but only in extreme circumstances. Oh, and Monster Munch (but they're really not as good as they used to be, are they?)
Apple: dunno, really. It's an apple. Starting in on it now. Will edit this post if it turns out to have a maggot in it.

Year of Eating Differently (7): Jerk City, Wardour Street

Where would we be without utterly artificially coloured Caribbean food? Whilst working in Victoria, I lived off Jamaican patties for six months, purchased from the 'health' food shop down the street. What kind of pretence of health could come from something like this, clearly stuffed full of all kinds of wonderful chemicals that make it bright yellow.

Jerk City's aren't the best: the pastry is rather stodgy and could do with being fluffier, but the vegetables inside are good and spicy. And also bright yellow. That, and the signed photo of Sean Paul with one of the proprietors, hanging up behind the counter, are enough to make it good enough to eat. Sadly there's no ginger beer in the fridge, so I won't be breathing fire over anybody this afternoon.

Consequences of felafel

Finally, after months of Amazon serving up links to Cushties, they spot the repetition of the word felafel of late, and offer DVDs of this fantastic film of the book: here.

Bicycles and carbon fibre

I try to commute to work by bicycle at least twice a week - the 11 mile journey takes about as long door-to-door as catching the train, and without the unpleasantness of being stuffed in a metal box with lots of other sweaty people. Plus I'm a little bit more awake than I would be if I just staggered up Charing Cross road and into the office.
However, as I try to up the frequency, I'm noticing how much my back, hands, arms and legs seem to suffer - at least part of which is due to the punishment that the road dishes out. In an attempt to alleviate some of this, I've tried throwing some cheap(ish) carbon fibre components on the commuting hack, to see if they soak up some of the vibration.
Normally, the motivation for carbon fibre is to show off how rich you are, and how lightweight your bike is. I really just want a bit of comfort. Having to ride to and from work and do shorinji kempo in the same day equates to 4 hours of exercise, so I feel I deserve a little bit of help where I can get it.
Hence a carbon fibre bar to replace the stock Bontrager Crowbar that came with the bike. It weighs 128g on the kitchen scales, vs 335g for the original handlebar. It's also flat rather than a riser - first time I've ridden a bike with flat bars since 2000, so it will be interesting to see how I get on with it, and finally it's at least an inch narrower, which probably doesn't make much difference, but might aid with wind resistance trying to crack the Crystal Palace descent record. Well, maybe.

Year of Eating Differently (6): Marks & Spencer, Tottenham Court Road

Walking out the office today, bumped into a friend from lastminute.com who now works as a sysadmin for a publisher in Soho. So instead of going for a salad, went up Tottenham Court Road in search of smoke machines. (He's guitarist in a Hawkwind tribute band, naturally.) After discussing the pole-dancing studio he's being invited to the opening of, and my chaotic personal life, ducked over the road from Maplins (who sell a fog machine for 39.99GBP, by the way) and bought a sandwich, crisps, fruit and yoghurt from M&S for 4.20.
I'm allowed to stuff my face this Friday, because I rode to work (11 miles by bike) and will be riding home again, and I'm off to shorinji kempo tonight.

Anyhow:
sandwich is a stock in trade - every time I get kind of drunk, modus operandi is to pick the last one of these out from M&S in Charing Cross station before getting the final train home of the night. Straight from the chiller cabinet there's not much flavour to it, but if you let it get up to room temperature, you can at least taste the avocado and the sauce.
Bananas a bit underripe. The crisps were pretty foul - not enough salt, and just dry and not particulary crispy. Kept the yoghurt in the fridge for after getting back from the dojo...

Year of Eating Differently (5): Imli, Wardour Street

If it wasn't for this project, I could probably eat for the next week at Imli. It describes itself as 'Indian tapas' which sounds terribly pretentious, and not very helpful. However, without wanting to denigrate any of the other Indian restaurants that I've eaten in, it just feels a lot cleaner experience-partly down to the presentation of the food, all on gleaming white plates, and partly the decor and the menus (almost wrote merchandising, which shows what a soul-less marketing drone I'm becoming) which are all bright orange and brighter white.
So the popadoms don't come plate sized, but pre-cracked into pieces about the size of your palm. The dips (which include a great peppery one) come in a white china tray, rather than the usual four round metal pots, and the lunch platter (which I ordered because I was feeling indecisive, rushed for time and had a woman sitting on the other side of the table that was more important to concentrate on than just idling through the menu for twenty minutes) was great - five different dishes in one, plus rice, and the stand-out at Imli, which is the hot lime sauce. (I'd say more about the individual dishes, but being somewhat distracted means I failed to keep notes - what a trial it must be for anyone ever reading this unreliable narrator approach to restaurant reviews...)
Wine was served in a highball glass, which I found a little odd. The thyme lemonade is disgusting (but don't let me stop you trying it) - stick to either booze or the fresh lime drink, if you want to be back at your desk and not slumping over your keyboard by mid-afternoon.

Year of Eating Differently (4): Pret A Manger, Frith Street

In a hurry today because of a morning spent dallying in Croydon (Gateway to the South) so no time for dirty burger. This makes a boy sad. Plus, the lunchtime queues in the sandwich shops on Dean Street made getting anything and getting back to my desk for a 2pm call quite impractical.
So for a second day, I'm eating felafel. This time from Pret: a spicy falafel melt.
Surprisingly, this is a lot better than yesterday's offering: much dirtier. There's some sort of spicy tomato sauce in there that's almost curry like in flavour, and the whole thing's warm rather than cold. OK, the wrap itself is a little brittle (probably been sitting there for quite some time, nicely hardening up) but that combination of chickpea, cheese and spicy filth means it's an acceptable hardship.
£3.50. Reestablished some faith in Pret to produce food with a bit of flavour (vs the green goo they call an avocado wrap, the over-refridgerated brie baguette, etc etc...)

Year of Eating Differently (3): Just Felafs, Wardour Street

My appetite for felafel is difficult to diminish. Last August I spent a week in Stockholm, surrounded by a multiplicity of different cuisines. And what did I eat? Felafel, at least once a day. One day, I ate felafel four times. Admittedly, the dirty felafel store was just around the corner from the bar where we were drinking, which increased its allure, but proximity is not enough. There has to be that terrible feeling of transgression, that the reformed chickpeas you're cramming into your gob are in some way wrong.
Just Felafs, unfortunately, instead of going for the junk-food-you-can-eat-in-a-kebab-house-when-you're-vegetarian vibe, tries to be all clean and nice. Ethical, even. There's a sign on the wall about how they recycle their glass bottles and run the place on wind-powered electricity. They're still flogging cans of Coke though - how does the big corporation fit into all of that? Pricing has changed recently, in such a way that you can't figure out the menu without a man explaining it to you item by item, but what is there to say? You get some felafels stuck in a wrap, some veg in there, a bit of hummous. If you were adventurous, you might choose something with a terrible pun for a name. I just had the FLT - Felafel, Lettuce & Tomato. It's a bit bland - previously, they made every one on request, so you could load up with chilli sauce, but now they're pre-wrapped and ready for take-away, you don't get the same zing.
And sadly, that's it. Filling, but a bit dull, and for £5.75 that's quite a lot to ask, especially when it's all ethical and moral. When you've a job in advertising/selling bombs/flooding emerging markets with cheap cigarettes you need some filthy food to take your mind away from the dirty mess your life has become. You need a dirty burger. Which leads us to tomorrow...

Camden

 

Took the camera out for a play, found these rather interesting reflections under a bridge near Camden Lock

Year of eating Differently (2): Bi Won, Coptic Street

My reference Korean restaurant.
Conveniently close to Tottenham Court Road; seats about 20. I always end up with the hotpot because there's only three vegetarian options. One has to be careful to make sure the serving staff pay attention when you say you don't want it with beef. I was less than assiduous in doing so a couple of weeks back, got beef, and had it mashed into everything else before I could protest.
But, that aside, it's good warming food. And they give you orange segments afterwards. I like oranges. Can't really say more because I'm bereft of intelligence today.

Year of Eating Differently (1): Pizza Express, Dean Street

Not much to say here. Pizza Express is fast becoming the McDonalds of quality pizza - you know what to expect, and it's always pretty much the same.
Mushroom pizza - ok, but only really enough food to give me an appetite for a pizza. Then again, I had been out until 4am that morning on a Guinness/grappa/white wine/cocktail binge, so I wasn't really feeling it.
However, specific to Dean Street - I wouldn't recommend eating at the tables at the back when it's raining. Two of us got dripped on, and the waitress didn't offer any kind of discount for needing an umbrella indoors.