Look lively, El Camino, Buen Provecho and Adobo, there’s a newbie in town and they just booted the last one of you out of the Taco Top Three. And as for El Camino on Brewer Street, best get the staffs’ P45s ready, because La Bodegra Negra is set to show Soho a really good time.

Much has already been frothed over this Soho upstart, brought to us by Will ‘Eight Over Eight’ Ricker and Serge Becker, a New York restaurateur who’s had the phrase “nightlife legend” surgically stitched onto his name by all and sundry (not least for opening the infamous Box last year).

And rightly so, really. It has all the elements we want and expect from a new opening. With a buzzy cafe slapped on Moor Street and a subterranean restaurant located behind the facade of an Old Compton Street sex shop it’s about as Soho as it comes and has mastered the art of spot-on simplicity that’s worked so well for Meat Liquor and Russell Norman’s ventures.

Margaritas of course weren’t as lethal as their Mexican, or even Californian, counterparts (there’s a place in Palm Springs were you can literally feel the units stacking up against your cerebral cortex as you drink), but they were acidic enough and did their utmost to usher memories of the day’s red-flagged emails to the door. Our rims were salty despite our initial protestations but then this is opening month.

A ceramic pot full of chewy, tomato-stewed chorizo provided a perfect amuse-gob when spooned into generous lettuce leaves with a sprinkle of coriander (and a sprinkle of that herb is all you need, really. I’m not a hater but it can be noxious in the quantities some places serve it) but it was the tacos that won our hearts and minds.

Contrary to some early reports I thought they shone. Sure, they’re far too small (their diameters were equal to most other places’ radiuses, maths fan) but the fillings – perfected by consultant chef Richard Ampudia, who comes from Mexico City via La Esquina – were insanely good.

Sadly they forbid the mix and match, so we only got to try two. Conchita pibil pork was tender, juicy and packed full of tomato and lime notes, its salsa verde fresh and clean. De camaron salteados on the other hand, recommended by our chirpy and irrepressibly enthusiastic waiter in a t-shirt with drawings of a suit on it, was even better – big fleshy prawns bathed in a creamy, spicy sauce that, and which is rare, was neither too creamy nor too spicey. A perfect succession of moderate mouthfuls to set you up for a night in London’s playground.

Chipotle, you just got served.

Why there are no good Mexican restaurants in London

Price per head: About 15 quid.
Soundtrack: Mumford & Sons and The Beatles jostled for airspace on our visit.
Website
Other reactions: Four stars from Time Out but Gourmet Traveller wasn’t so keen (they took great photos however).

Hands up who’s sucked on a second hand bike chain. Or surreptitiously sniffed the chiselled palms of an East End mechanic at the end of the day. No? Well surely you’ve nibbled on the odd burnt match, right?

These might not be normal activities, but they’re sensations unquestionably evoked when you spend an evening in the company of the Scotch Malt Whisky Society.

My wife and I joined a tasting in Bistro du Vin’s secret whisky snuggle this week (a comfortable glutton’s den in the basement of their Clerkenwell branch) as part of the SMWS Whisky Live Week, and we were whisked to a whole new world of alcohol appreciation.

We’ve done our tasting time in the wine world. We’ve supped and sipped from Paso Robles to Avignon (via some really questionable Groupon-sourced sessions in London) and come to terms with nose, bouquet, body, complexity and finish. We’ve swirled until our olfactory receptors cried mercy. But we weren’t quite prepared for the dedication of the whisky crew.

Over a four course dinner that begun with beef carpaccio and a gloriously gritty steak tartare / raw egg combo, continued via a butchery demonstration in BDV’s storage room and a dry aged porterhouse with roasted bone marrow, and finished on a pave au chocolat with delicously chewy honeycomb, we were privy to some of the society’s finest malts and witnessed an almost out-of-body enjoyment from our new friends.

The SMWS prides itself on selecting only the finest batches of whisky from 125+ distilleries for its members, and produces only a finite and often tantalisingly small number of each from a single cask. They’re numbered following a system of identification my grey matter has given up to the drink (but I think it was something about the distillery and possibly date) and given abstract names that would do Mogwai proud.

We started with some lively openers, a 20 year aged, 54% zesty treat called ‘Classy & Attractive’ and ‘An Angel Fallen To Earth’, which came in at 50% after 36 years of aging and had a kind of vanilla, arctic roll hit to it. ‘Xmas Cake & Afghan Coats’ followed, a spicy, leathery, clovey kind of beast, and ‘Hot Embers At The Gates Of Hell’ certainly tried to live up to its name.

The seemingly benign ‘Oak And Smoke Intensity’ was the stealth bomber of the evening though. If I’d noticed the tasting notes – which talked of TCP, cinder toffee, diesel-soaked cherries, onion bhajis and mechanic’s hands – I might have been prepared for its Kwik-Fit kick. Uncompromisingly unusual but phenomenally moreish. It seems wrong to enjoy a drink that a professional taster has likened to “a lion-tamer’s whip”, but what can I say?

We had to leave before we developed a fetish.

Whisky Live London takes place this weekend – details here.

January sucks. There’s no two ways about it, it sucks big Simon Cowell balls. It’s particularly painful if you’re trying to adhere to a healthy regime, and as I’m three weeks away from my wedding there’s a crushing spartanism to our household’s diet right now. In fact, my fiancée won’t go within three feet of cheese, wine, bread, glucose, carbs, Coke, egg yolks, etc etc, anything fun god I’m boring myself thinking about it.

It doesn’t leave you many dining options. Google ‘healthy restaurants’ and try finding one outside California. Dig a bit deeper and you’ll get the odd half-hearted feature from some eating site on London, citing Saf (God help us) or, bizarrely, Masala Zone. Let’s face it, though, going out to eat and worrying about what the food will do to your waistline is more depressing than the words ‘president Newt Gingrich’. It defeats the purpose.

Still, I insisted we went somewhere during the Jan gloom, and fortunately Chalk Farm’s Hill Brasserie offered not only a post-festive freebie (disclaimer delivered) but a whole menu of healthy choices.

The boozer’s been tarted up in the last year, and the dark den of iniquity is now as light and airy as you’d expect for a North London pub, comfortable and pretty quiet, and dishing out Pacific American delights, many of which would sate the most belly-conscious health freak. From the raw bar: sashimi, salmon, yellow fin tuna, salt-water scallops; from crustacea corner: rock oysters, jumbo prawns, langoustines, shellfish and lobster; from the fish: salmon, sea bass and more scallops; from salads: quinoa concoctions and soba noodle piles.

I defied our penitent pledge for a lobster bisque which came creamy and smooth, perhaps taking a little too much pleasure in the thick buttered rolls, before a burnished brown sea bass, somewhat small but easily forked into unctuous mouthfuls, swimming in a puddle of butter aside a small mound of pea shoots. Considering it had all flown enough miles to earn it a free upgrade (it’s not just the owner that comes from the westernmost extremities of Northern America), it was fresh as you like. Tuna carpaccio, meanwhile, was soy-marinated and pretty pleasant although its noodle, carrot, cucumber and chili nest needed something more.

Virgin Marys (yes, really) could also have done with more of a kick but with a healthy dusting of pepper fooled me into thinking I was stroking the hair of a non-existent dog for a moment, and overall we left pretty chuffed. As we walked back down the hill to Chalk Farm tube, the whole of London unfurled through the winter haze before us. I’d not noticed that aspect before (presumably too drunk) and we walked home pretty pleased with ourselves and thinking that this time of year aint all that bad, really.

Price per head: Free for us but probably £20-30 a head.
Soundtrack: The Norah Jones end of the spectrum
Website

The Hill Bar & Brasserie is part of the Taste London scheme, which I warbled on about at punishing length last year.

Say what, a decent Mexican takeaway? In the middle of London’s arid burrito desert? That isn’t another Tortilla factory full of cheerless automatons churning out bland slop for a fiver-plus (guacamole 50p extra)? You’re joking, right? Fortunately not, and although it’s taken me a year to find it, Holborn now has a place worth checking out.

While Waterloo workers have Buen Provecho, Kings Cross denizens got Eat Street, and the Tottenham Court Road office bods have been enjoying Chipotle for some time, round these parts was always a bit of a Chilango fest. But thanks to Adobo that’s all changed.

I was turned onto this place by a commenter on my (somewhat dated) Mexi moan, a long rant about why there are no decent Mexican restaurants in London (something that hasn’t really changed; in fact, one of the best ones, Green And Red, closed). And it was a great tip.

Three tacos seems as good a way to judge a place as any, so it was one pork / carnitas, one beef / barbacoa, and one marinated chicken. Portions were generous, and while the meat was a shade dry that would be the only complaint. Corn salsa added pep, fresh salad spilled out onto the huge bowl they were delivered in, marinades got lips smacking all round, mature cheese tasted of cheese rather than PVC, and little nuggets of chewy chorizo were an inspired extra. They even do a meatball filling too.

In a city where most fast food dishes are constructed with all the care and attention of Francesco Schettino and the aesthetics of a Nuts spread, they were put together thoughtfully, with a smile and even a glint of passion, which goes a long way in this mean and impersonal town.

Abodo on t’interweb
Why there are no good Mexican restaurants in London
SUBSCRIBE TO £31.75

A systematic and unbiased round-up of London’s movers, shakers and jokers in the restaurant world during 2011, aka an SEO-grabbing re-run of places I visited throughout the year. Tis the season for repeats. Enjoy and as ever make your own thoughts plain below.

If you’re new to the blog subscribe to updates here or follow my ramblings on Twitter. Until 2012…

Best New Opening: Dinner by Heston at the Mandarin Oriental
An obvious choice but still the highlight of the year ten months later.
Read the original review

Most Hyped Opening: Meat Liquor
This little burger joint gave Twitter more palpitations than Fenton, Tram Lady and the recent death of the ‘Dear Leader, who is a perfect incarnation of the appearance that a leader should have‘ combined. It deserved it though.
Read the orginal review

The Underrated Joy Award: Meatballs at Farringdon
A cosy little place serving mouthwatering balls in a Grade 1 listed building in near-gastronomic no man’s land that begged for double entendre-filled blogs. Of course I obliged.
Read the original review

Best Street Food: Buen Provecho
Every time I succumb to the Tortilla in my office building and submit to the money-grabbing chain’s thumping euro house, robotic chorus line of underpaid burrito-stuffers and remedial tacos, I wish more than anything Buen Provecho was located half a mile east of its Waterloo location. Salvation from London’s dire Mexican offerings and one of the few food stands worthy of the London hyperbole.
Read the original review
An honourary mention should be made for Annie Mae’s and Eat Street too – read the review

Best Steakhouse: Wolfgang Puck’s CUT at 45 Park Lane
Of course Hawksmoor is a vastly superior place to hang out, but no slice of cow came close to the cuts at CUT. Their penchant for classic rock won bonus points too.
Read the original review

Most Disappointing Restaurant Of The Year: The Gilbert Scott at St Pancras
It’s hard to say exactly why; the food was OK, the building was kind of impressive, the service was no less indifferent than many other places. Somehow though, the entire evening just left a meh taste in our mouths.
Read the original review
Also worth a mention: the vastly overrated Kopapa – read the review.

Best Cheap Eats: The Kentish Canteen
Kentish Town’s best dining option shows you don’t need to break past a tenner to get suitably stuffed in style.
Read the original review

Best Supperclub: Burger Monday
A weekly cult meat up centred around burger worship. Great fun.
Read the original review
Plus the real-life Come Dine With Me, the Secret Dinner Party, was a lot of fun too – original review.

Best Pop-Up: Pale Blue Door
Not new, not cheap, not easy to get into, but the only one that combines hearty Brit fare with true English eccentricy. And cross-dressing cabaret.
Read the original review

Best Russell Norman Restaurant: Spuntino
Having not been to Mishkin’s yet I’d rate his burgeoning empire thus: Spuntino, Da Polpo, Polpetto, Polpo. This one was all about the sliders and PBJ dessert.
Read the original review

Best Dessert: Pollen Street Social
Unsurprisingly, really, considering it held London’s first dessert bar inside. The mains were hit and miss but we were there in opening week and lots has changed since. Watching a variety of exquisite puddings conjured in front of you more than made up for it.
Read the original review

Most Insane Restaurant: Gilgamesh
Just read the original piece – this place is barmier than a bucket full of frogs, crass, tacky, and totally fun.

Twattiest Clientele: L’Anima
Look up hellhole in the dictionary and, well, you know the rest.
Read the original review

Best Sunday Roast: TBC
This is still ongoing, and unlikely to ever be decided definitively. The leaderboard so far. I will say The Albion in Islington has dropped well out of favour though.

The Best, Worst And Weirdest London Restaurants Of 2010
Subscribe to £31.75 or Follow on Twitter.

Where were you when you first heard about the Meat Wagon? I was here, in front of my computer, and reading Cheese & Biscuits. It was May 2010, pre-van theft, pre-Meateasy and at a time when the gales of hype were just an area of high pressure somewhere far away.

A few months later I got to try the actual thing at a Dalston pop-up (believe) and joined the cult. And so when a tweet went out two days before #MEATiquor (as it’s known to its weak-kneed, slavish followers) opened, reading “hungry carnivores might find themselves in luck if they pop down tonight”, I was there.

Forty five minutes after they opened the doors and their dark den of flesh and booze was a hive of status updates, phone photography and furtive twittering. I’ll get my food blaggger’s contractual obligation out of the way now:

Meat Liquor is utterly amazing / worthy of the hype / the best burger place in London (delete according to your propensity for hysteria). My first visit involved their bacon cheeseburger, that now iconic blend of ground chuck steak, charred piggy, French’s mustard and of course that brilliantly bland America cheese fused into the whole thing by the steam of a cheeky squirt of water onto the hotplate at the last minute, and some headband-sized onion rings piled into a little volcano of battered joy. Add a double absinthe Memphis Steamer to wash it all down while the Yardbirds, Blue Oyster Cult and Screamin’ Jay Hawkins yell into the gloom and you have one hell of a place to get your burger and booze on and kick-start your evening.

A second visit saw a static queue that sent me packing so you’ll have to rely on others for more. Food Stories gives the history and a decent review while Cheese And Biscuits probably knows their wares the best. Hamburger Me is pretty comprehensive too, while Burgerac’s the best on the decor, a “dark, clandestine and rebellious” place according to The Perfect Trough where, in the words of Spoonfed, you can try their “slutty” burgers in a “dive bar slaughterhouse“.

The most startling thing about Meat Liquor, though, is the sheer scale of its popularity. There’s been buzzy openings before (Russell Norman’s revered quartet of Polpo, Polpetto, Da Polpo and Spuntino and the Hawksmoor three spring to mind), but this is something else. Forget talked-about, Meat Liquor has been bellowed about from every rooftop and smart phone in the city; I don’t seem to know a single person that hasn’t eaten there when it was their little secret unknown baby, DJ’ed at a party there, worked with the designer or delivered Yianni’s post back in the ‘90s.

This one’s transcended food geek speak. The Evening Standard’s been, Time Out’s made a video with the owners, and even that guy at work who thinks the Gourmet Burger Company represents the sharp end of London’s gastro-scene has knocked back a couple of Dead Hippies. For many Londoners, 11/11/11 wasn’t Remembrance Day or Black Sabbath Friday or fun for binary nerds, it was the day Meat Liquor saved the city. Queues after 5.30pm move slower than the cogs in Tram Lady’s bigoted head.

The hysteria tells us three things: Meat Liquor is a restaurant of rare quality, serving arguably a top five burger for the capital at a recession-friendly price in an effortlessly cool room backed with inventive cocktails and an insouciant charm; Londoners love being there first – they just can’t help themselves; there’s a dearth of similar places elsewhere.

It’s the last  one that’s most worrying. Why is Meat Liquor such an unusual beast? Burgerac proves on a weekly basis that good burgers aren’t that rare (although the best are cooked semi-rare), great places to drink are ten a penny if you look hard enough and London has more than its fair share of thoughtfully-designed spaces. Somewhere that combines all of the above, though? That’s harder to find.

Surely there’s plenty of keen food enthusiasts and budding chefs with good taste in music and decor, and a similar understanding that popularity through fairly-priced quality will make you as much money in the long wrong as overcharging for crap. So what’s holding them back? The initial funding? The risks?

Hopefully the fervid devotion shown by Meat Liquor’s endless queues and platoons of unpaid promoters will show anyone thinking about giving it a go that the rewards can be handsome. This place is great, but we could do with a few more of them.

Why do you think Meat Liquor is so rare / popular? Have you been? How long would you wait?

What time do you start drinking? 6pm? 5pm? Half five? Midday? Hell, it’s always cocktail hour somewhere. How about 6, 7, or 8am?

Drinking within hours of sunrise might sound like the preserve of the depraved and the deranged, the homeless and the can’t-find-home, but it’s a fine tradition in certain parts of London. Pubs, usually somewhere near a market and platoons of strange shift workers, have been throwing open their doors to eager drinkers for years, from Borough’s Market Porter to The Hope on Cowcross Street. 24 drinking isn’t a new invention, and the right drink (I’m thinking Guinness over flaming Sambucas) can set you up for the day.

Hawksmoor have just opened a new restaurant in Guildhall, and the third branch of the legendary steak and cocktail chain takes this concept and runs with it. They offer all manner of fizzes and fogmatics to lift the funk of the night before, and my juice and coffee came with several boozy asides. I hailed a Bloody Mary, always a good indicator of a barman’s capabilities, and this one was spot on with a cherry on top (or rather two cherry tomatoes). They also offer a do-it-yourself bar to concoct your own, a breakfast buffet of potent things. While that was being made I was coerced into laying into something called Shaky Pete’s Ginger Brew.

A frothy, murky jaundiced-looking thing with a crunchy shaved ice head, it was a devastating mix of gin, ginger syrup, lemon juice and lashings of London Pride. It’s created by Seven Dials barman Pete (who I presume is nifty with a shaker, or just has the shakes, which is a bit worrying – better keep drinking) and is described as “a turbo shandy for the discerning drinker”, a summation that highlighted the fine line between cocktail connoisseur and all-out vagrant. In fact, it brought back memories of uni days drinking Merrydown Vintage in the afternoon and thinking that the only difference between us inside and the less fortunate twenty feet away on Deptford High Street, really, was a student loan.

Before we go on, a warning: Hawksmoor will ruin your life. I didn’t think about steak that often before I dropped by their Seven Dials and Spitalfields branches. Now, thanks to more than a few chargrilled slabs of buttery flesh, it’s a regular occurence. It can’t be healthy – I’ve got the mindset of that animal from Man Vs Food and when I see the word “Hawksmoor” pop up on my Twitter feed I start salivating like Dominique Strauss-Kahn in a hotel cleaning cupboard. Put simply, they are Pavlov and I am their bitch.

This new one is located in Guildhall (take a tube to the campers demonstrating against city boys, navigate the surrounding streets full of oblivious city boys, look for a place that seems identical to the Seven Dials branch, you got it), apparently a few feet away from the original steakhouse Dolly’s.

The reason they’re getting London drunk at 7.30am is to promote a new breakfast endeavour, available from 7am to 10am and encompassing all manner of traditional treats done Hawksmoor style. To anyone familiar with their fare it’s textbook stuff, a subterranean cavern of wood panelling, comfy armchairs and low lighting reminiscent of a rural boarding school. Or rather, the staff quarters of a rural boarding school.

Tables are bedecked with the best of British – HP and Heinz 57 seperate individual kill zones – and most of our feast was flawless. Gripes first. They had no soya or low fat milk (make of that what you will) and one of a pair of poached was overdone. This was a soft boiled launch and if that’s the worst of their worries, they’ll be filling this huge place in no time.

A Full English is a subjective dish. Some prefer the £2.99 greaseball, others the fussy fine art concoction. I’ve wandered into Bendictine territory of late, tiring of heart-stopping fry ups in favour of lighter things. This plateful brought me back to where I belong. Charred bacon steaks shouted from the plate how they ought to be served – not streaky, not crispy, not diced or sliced as an afterthought for something else but big, salty porcine chunks that hogged (sorry) the plate. A Ginger Pig sausage did well at shifting attention onto what ought to be the star of the show. Eggs were present and correct, mushrooms not as black as iPhone suggests, tomatoes small and withered (which is a good thing; there’s nothing worse than slicing through huge raw hunks of the stuff). Devilled kidneys (usually on toast, I couldn’t take more carbs) were another treat from the Victorian age, little chewy nuggets in a thick Worcestershire sauce. If we’d brought more than one stomach each we would have annihilated the whole plate.

I like places that try to get you drunk – it shows a joie de vivre too lacking in our measured and miserly culture. And a morning snifter or two puts a spring in your step, hairs on your chest, wind in your sails and all those other phrases that whip round your head as you walk off the meal across the wobbly bridge, which is any bridge after a few Shaky Petes.

That said, I got bugger all done at work that day and crashed about lunchtime. It was worth it.

Website

SUBSCRIBE TO £31.75 UPDATES

Some balls are held for charity, and some for fancy dress. But when they’re held for pleasure, they’re the balls I like best.

I’ve not actually been to the Bowler meatball pop-up, but their flagrant misuse of perfectly innocuous AC/DC lyrics demonstrates an infallible truth about meaty balls: you can’t discuss them without turning into Frankie Howerd. From Euan Ferguson’s innuendos to Marina O’Loughlin’s “fnarr”s, every discussion of meatballs must start with a double entendre.

I went out to teste two places in East London, Meatballs of Farringon and Giant Robot of Clerkenwell, passing by the St Pauls campsite on the way up. Enough’s been said about this place over the last fortnight, but I did particularly like the despondent Monopoly man, and the picture of Che Guevara outside Starbucks (which was full of protesters).

Giant Robot is one of those totally laid-back ‘n’ funky diners full, on my visit, of post-work boozers and groups of birthday girls getting hammered to background synth pop that insists “if you like your lunch Italian, your brunch American, your dinner relaxed and your beer and cocktails icy cold, you’ll love Giant Robot.” Pause. New paragraph. “You’ll also love our balls.”

I got my mash puréed, my tomato sauce underseasoned, and my balls steaming. Meatballs & Mash (beef balls, spicy tomato sauce, pecorino for £6.95, although you can get yer balls for a pretty bargainous £1.35 each) was fine: a piping hot, relatively bland evocation of childhood meals for a decent price, the beef balls slightly rare, crumbly spheres that shone among their accompaniments. I was on my own, drinking free cucumber-infused tap water by the weak flame of a tea light, alone. Time to move on.

On the way out I noticed another catchphrase on the menu that made my heart sink: “You’re not in LA so no substitutions please”. If there’s one thing London’s restaurants could do with, it’s a bit of LA friendliness and flexibility. You’d expect to play by the owner’s rules in a rural Italian trattoria; in a major capital city you should be able to demand what you want, when you want, how you want.

Meatballs takes Robot’s free glass of water and raises them a full jug, plus a little warm crunchy toast slice spread with tapenade. It’s a great way to start the evening as you relax into wooden booths and take in the Quality Chop House’s Grade 1 listed features, its chequerboard floor and oppresive wooden window panels. Seduced by the low woozy tone of a saxophone thrumming under the sound of corks popping and convivial chat, I picked out a blueberry gin and tonic (a Hades red concoction packing fresh berries and a medium alcohol kick) and went hog wild on another affordable menu.

Before long, my balls dropped. The first three were beef and ricotta with tomato sauce, dense, ample cojones of minced, pressed protein (much harder than Giant Robots’ balls) that offered only a minor threat of cheesiness. As the background sax gave way to a tinkling piano, Greek lamb balls with a cucumber, dill and yoghurt sauce rolled forth, a relatively benign bundle overpowered by its sauce. Pork and rosemary with a parmesan cream was much better, as was a crunchy side of peas with lettuce, spring onions and (more) cream – a dish here served warm, which was unexpected but worked. Our unseen DJ, meanwhile, had moved on to ‘Come Fly With Me’, which for a wet Wednesday in London was a bit much.

Meatballs are also associated with auterity – making do and mending, last night’s ingredients turned into today’s treat, last year’s city-wide move towards Meatball Monday to fill empty restaurants – and I for one am loving the cheap, small plate invasion.

So where are the best meatballs in London? Here, there, elsewhere? Leon? Let me know.

Giant Robot Price Per Head: £7.82
Meatballs Price Per Head: 16

The Bowler Gourmet Balls, Pop-up – Website
Luca Italian Meatballs, E8 – Website
Meatballs, Farringdon – Website
Giant Robot, Clerkenwell – Website

I’m going to need a street food score card soon. Or maybe an I-Spy book. Five points for a rustic BBQ ‘n’ bourbon truck. Ten for a taco shack, and an extra two if it’s really good. A certificate from the tubby tyre man if you get three pop-up stands within a month.

There’s such a proliferation of mobile munchies in the capital now that an umbrella organisation has been established to bring many of them together. Eat Street are a group of such traders who wobble at the seams with enthusiasm for what they do, declaring their line of work “a wonderful life that has no time for abstraction or office politics”. Think too hard about that and the next time some chump sends you a red-flagged email at 17.56 you might just throw in the towel and pick up the tongs.

The group have set up camp on London’s newest road, running a micro market on Kings Boulevard, a wide open space between the side of St Pancras and Goods Way. Google Maps hasn’t caught up yet but you just follow the smells and the sounds of jackhammer drills. It’s still a building site, with not nearly enough seats, and hardly a relaxing spot (even on a balmy October lunch hour), but it’s jam-packed with street food joy.

Operating on Thursdays and Fridays from 10am – 4pm and switching spots daily, its mission seems to be to offer as many different options to the lucky denizens of Kings Cross as possible. On our visit we ticked off Kimchi Cult, Choc Star, The Ribman, and Annie Mae’s, sampling the latter two.

The Ribman stand keeps it simple. Ribs. From a man. Rib meat in baps, or in flour tortillas. The rib man stands by a metal tray shredding meat by hand as if its a world record attempt. I ask how long he’s being doing that and get a slightly pained grunt in return, which I think is fed up for ‘f’ing ages’. “Want a chair, love” he’s asked as we pick between a simple festival bun or a wrap.

It was pretty damn good, the odd tooth-snapping crunchie bit aside: a thick slab of flawless flesh that almost didn’t need the choice of BBQ, hot, or ‘holy fuck hot sauce’. How Not To Do A Food Blog and Food Stories were also particularly impressed on their visits.

A quick jog up and down le boulevard and it was time to stuff down some serious macaroni cheese. I’m not sure how I feel about the bastardisation of mac cheese. Generally, I prefer it plain, when you can pick out the gruyere or the mature cheddar with each face-widening bite, when it’s one thick, gooey puddle of soft pasta trailing slightly burnished cheese strands. When it looks like this.

Annie Mae’s play all kinds of merry havoc with the recipe but get away with it. Jalapeños and sour cream ought to be kept further apart from mac cheese than Sarah Palin and a public platform, but somehow they add a new dimension even if they do divert attention off the all-important dairy blend – a piquant and potent mix.

And it should hardly come as a surprise that something as exalted as bacon makes an appearance in their range of “pimped out” mac cheeses. A carton of sloppy carbs loaded with basil and pesto worked a treat but the addition of small crunchy bacon sprinkles seemed superfluous. Maybe it’s just me. I’m sure this guy would disagree.

I’ve never quite got the fetishisation of sliced pig butt but it seems to be getting worse – only last week someone launched a new bacon alphabet, taking typography to somewhere it never knew it wanted to go.

Eat Street is welcoming Tongue ‘N’ Cheek, Big Apple Hot Dogs, Annie Mae’s, Banhmi11, Kimchi Cult, Luardos and Yum Bun this week, and will be serving up street food on Thursdays and Fridays for the forseeable. Details here.

Get more macaroni cheese porn over on the Guardian’s Word Of Mouth blog.

On the long, long list of things I love about America, the country’s unashamed hard-on for classic rock is currently very much top five (somewhere between Drive-Thru Starbucks, In-And-Out, DFC, and Man Vs Food).

Whether you’re jammed on a freeway, languishing in a spa, or wandering round some shopping cathedral, you’re never more than five feet away from ‘Free Bird’ or some such tune. Go skiing in Europe, it’s silent on the slopes. Take a board down Big Bear, and it’s all beers in baskets and balls-out denim rock pumping from gargantuan speakers.

So it was nice to turn up to Wolfgang Puck’s new place, CUT at 45 Park Lane, and find that – among the glitz and pomposity of a brand new hotel restaurant parked up next to (and owned by) the Dorchester – they’re ripping out Led Zeppelin’s greatest hits. Loudly. It was somewhat surreal, and reminiscent of Iron Maiden’s complete takeover of the O2 last month, to be listening to ‘Your Time Is Gonna Come’ while what looked like the cast of The House Of Eliott posed outside by vintage cars. Ditto seeing staunch men in bow ties tapping toes almost inperceivably to Journey and the Steve Miller Band.

Puck is America’s favourite chef by some accounts, caters the Oscars and counts the Obamas as clients at his LA outposts. In my experience, though, he’s the guy whose name’s emblazoned on a truly shitty pizza restaurant at Virgin Atlantic’s LAX terminal. Which means he’s somehow cornered both the highest of the high and the lowest of the lowliest low end of the market in the States. No mean feat.

His first foray into London is as American as the right to bear arms. A proper proteinfest focussed almost purely on steak, it boasts (on the website) “the widest and best selection of beef available in London”. And there’s a lot of meat to navigate, from sirloin skirting the thirty quid mark to the finest wagyu at £85 a pop. You’re introduced to the cuts, which come swaddled in napkins and rolled out on a trolley like, well, like dead meat really. A helpful waiter runs you through them, air fondling the marbled marvels from Kansas, Australia, Chile, Devon and New Zealand, and once chosen they arrive (a good half an hour later, in a flurry of choregraphed serving involving about 16 people) grilled over hard wood and finished under a 1200-degree broiler.

And, I gots to say, they were damn good. My own CUT, 10oz of New York sirloin from Casterbridge Angus in Devon and one of the cheapest at £27, was impeccable – soft and almost buttery and splicing itself in two at the merest suggestion of a blade. Its surface, meanwhile, was uniformly charred and almost gravelly in texture. A delight, although perhaps superceded by the 6oz petit filet mignons that landed elsewhere on the table.

Sides are, to put it mildly, extortionate, but in the case of the skinniest onion rings we’ve ever seen, a mac cheese of such pedigree it could only have originated from across the Atlantic, and roasted carrots, pretty much worth it. Mushrooms, less so. Everything landed in a flurry of serving spoons, whispered introductions, and black jacketed silhouettes around us.

Bookend this feast of comfort food with some jalapeño cocktails upstairs in the bar, cheese sticks (complements of the chef, the generous thing), a mish-mashed magma crumble of blueberry and peaches that was served from the pan in front of me with a lozenge of ice cream, and an (admittedly stingy) board of English-only cheeses, and you’ve got a pretty decent new way to stuff yourself in London. Second equal with Pollen Street Social in terms of new openings this year so far in my experience.

Price per head: Yeah, a little over £31.75. Actually, just under three times that much, but we were hooked up to a Tempranillo drip for most of the evening.
Soundtrack: Almost identical to this place.
Clientele: No-one you’d want to go to the pub with, but they weren’t noticeable.
Website
More: AA Gill just wrote a review of Cut, if you have a leg up over the paywall.