Pigs’ trotters, calves’ brains and tripe – sounds offal doesn’t it?

Okay, so it’s still not going to be a long one, or indeed a fresh one. But, for those of you who haven’t read it on the Telegraph – well this is the link here.

I went to review an offal night at the Drapers Arms in Highbury and Islington for work, and though I love pâté, it turns out I’m not a fan of the rest…


Drapers Arms


Flat Iron

Sense of direction has never been my forte, but getting lost, well that I can do. Put me in a car and remove the Sat Nav, I’m a gonner. Once it took me three hours to get from Hertfordshire to Highgate. What’s more, I’m not a ‘oh I’m late, it doesn’t matter’ type of gal. I’m painfully punctual. Being late stresses me out, being lost stresses me out – the combination of the two; well it’s a dire formula. On the aforementioned occasion – a friend’s parents’ Bollywood-themed 25th wedding anniversary – my fake tanned face looked like a marble cake; such were the extent of my tears.

Anyway, I digress. Back to being lost, which is precisely where I found (ironically) myself last week: lost in the Autumnal rain mid-way down Carnaby Street. I’d looked at the map before I left; I’d marked out which roads I needed to go down, but to no avail. I must be genetically predisposed to be anti-directionally brained (not anti One Direction, no, I love them) and there I was, looking left and right with absolutely no clue. If I were pre 90s, I’d have been properly stuffed. But, as it was, I (embarrassingly) resorted to whipping out my Ipad and using the Sat Nav – to walk. I mean honestly.

But it worked…I followed the dotted technological equivalent to the yellow brick road and found myself (and my dining companion (already waiting)) outside the night’s eatery: Flat Iron. Another steak joint in Soho, my sister had recommended it a while back, but things had been (and still are) so hectic (and I mean B-U-S-Y) that there had just been no time. But, sometimes the schedule needs to be cleared for a special occasion. Sometimes you need to take a couple of hours’ breather, sink a good bottle of red and relax. This was my reasoning, well that and the fact that I was being treated. Turn down a free meal on the town? Rare. Turn down a free meal with the fantastic company that is Tom? Never.


My good friend – another Tom – was taking me out as a belated thank you for the South of France trip. He’d asked where I wanted to go and I’d given him the following options: Lima, Hawksmoor, Goodman or Flat Iron. In the mood for steak, but having frequented Hawksmoor and Goodman regularly with work, he opted for my last suggestion. And though last, it was by no means least.

And so it was that we arrived at Flat Iron last Tuesday. The restaurant was, surprise, surprise, a no-book (and small) so we had a 45-minute wait. That was on a Tuesday, I dread to think what it would be like later on in the week. But, with a bar next door, this went quickly and soon we were nestled into our seats. Well as much as one can nestle into seats at Flat Iron. They’re more seesaws than chairs. Luckily Tom is a 6ft-odd rugby player, so my side of the playground staple was up. But bear in mind, if your date is smaller than you…well it could be embarrassing. Fortunately it would take a fair few steaks to change the gravitational pull in our case, so I had no hesitation in tucking in.

meat cleaver

Much like Entrecôte before it, Flat Iron has few menu choices, but what it does serve, it serves well. And unlike Entrecôte (and indeed Hawksmoor and Goodman) it doesn’t burst the bank: £10 for a steak, £2.50 – £3 for sides, and £1 a pot of sauce. This wondrous news for the frugals among us, stems from the quality of meat; it’s not great. But Flat Iron masks this brilliantly through the ingenious mechanism of the pre-slice. What would be difficult to cut with knife, comes already chopped – and finely chopped meat is, well, very chewable – as in, easy to chew.


Tom and I partnered our steaks with a selection of sides…okay all of the sides: dripping cooked chips, creamed spinach, today’s market greens, Sophie’s salad (blue cheese, candied pecans, lemon dressing), and roast aubergine with tomato, basil and Parmesan. Then, after a few token pics with the meat cleavers, we attacked.

sides flat iron

The dripping chips tasted uncannily like McDonald’s french fries, which though unexpected, both tasted nice and were a pleasant nostalgic reminder of the journey back to school (past the Peterborough service station). Quite the feat for a bit of cooked potato.

The aubergine mix tasted like Moussaka, the Sophie’s salad moreish, but not enough blue cheese (I’m a blue cheese fiend), the market greens were true to their name – green beans, and the creamed spinach was definitely creamed. Creamed to smitherines. Why blend spinach? It’s so delicious in its entirety. I wanted a side, not soup.

But back to the main event – the steak. As touched upon, it was not the best quality, but it was cooked very well and amply seasoned (rocks of salt…yummy). The chef/s had tenderised the flesh brilliantly (a good battering with rolling-pin perhaps?) and made a weak cut, a good eat. Hats off to them!  (Go for the béarnaise).

flat iron everything

Would I return? For that price – most definitely.


Flat Iron, 17 Beak St, London, Greater London W1F 9RW

Burger & Lobster

On February 1st 1996, an episode of Friends aired on NBC entitled The One with the Prom Video. Please find synopsis (courtesy of Wikipedia) below:

After getting his big break with Days of Our Lives, Joey pays Chandler back with $812 and an extremely tacky engraved gold bracelet. Also, an unemployed Monica is hard up for money. A home video from Monica and Rachel’s prom night reveals that Monica was previously overweight, and that Rachel had a large nose. Rachel seemed to have been stood up by her prom date, so Ross puts on his father’s tuxedo to take her to prom himself, but Rachel’s date shows up and they leave before she learns of Ross’s plans. The video then shows a speechless and devastated Ross standing at the top of the stairs. The candor of Ross’s heartbreak compels Rachel to kiss Ross.

A well-rounded overview, yes, but it fails to mention that this is also the episode in which Phoebe has some of her most famous lines. You know the ones? They’ve been quoted time and time again. No? These ones:

Phoebe: Hang in there, it’s gonna happen.
Ross: What? Okay, now how do you know that?
Phoebe: Because she’s your lobster.
Chandler: Oh, she’s goin’ somewhere.
Phoebe: Come on, you guys. It’s a known fact that lobsters fall in love and mate for life. You know what? You can actually see old lobster couples walkin’ around their tank, you know, holding claws like…

How is this relevant you ask? How is this related to a restaurant review? It’s three-fold. Firstly, like Phoebe advises, I have hung in there when it comes to dining at Burger & Lobster. Not once, not twice, but three times have I been turned away from the non-book restaurant due to over-booking on the night (ironic, I know), but I kept returning, knowing that at some point there would be a break in the crowd. This has felt like a ‘life-time’ (point two), and finally, well Phoebe is talking about Lobsters, and that – as the restaurants name suggests – is what we’d be eating. Tah da! Tenuous, I think not.

At 9.45pm on Tuesday, two companions and I voyaged from Victoria into the heart of Soho. Even at this hour we faced a 40-minute wait, but already fuelled by a bottle of Balls Brothers’s wine this passed by without complaint. Indeed, spent at the restaurant’s bar drinking a thick green Thai cocktail, and two beers for the boys, it positively flew by.


Before I knew it, we were led around a series of bustling tables to our own. This was situated just by the serving area of the kitchen, which though was great for perving on the food, was not so great for maintaining a pleasant body temperature. At points the heat from the have-to-squint-it’s-so-bright kitchen lamp verged on uncomfortable. And there’s really only so much food perving one can do on three dishes:

1) Burger – served in a bun, add bacon and/or cheese.

2) Lobster – Half a lobster served with butter and choose either steamed or finished off on the charcoal grill.

3) Lobster Roll – Lobster meat served in a soft brioche roll with a Japanese mayonnaise.

Each are sold at £20, which though makes it easy for splitting a bill, does seem a bit skewed in terms of value. I mean we all know that Lobster is expensive; for me it was always the item on the menu that my frugal father urged me to steer clear of while growing up. The costly crustacean was to be avoided at all, well…costs. I’d never come across one of these decadent sea-dwellers for under 40 smackers, so at 20, it was an absolute steal. On the other side, in the blue corner (lobster must be red), was the burger and polar opposite; from a bargain and a steal came an extortionate meal – £20 for a burger, are you being for real?

Needless to say, none of us went for the burger. My companions tucked into the lobster, and I opted for the lobster roll. A friendly waitress speedily delivered our dishes (benefits of being so close to the kitchen – they didn’t have far to travel) and handed over three bibs. Almost always a spiller, this was decidedly useful, not to mention the perfect accessory to a series of token photos.


As the boys battled with nut-cracker-eque devices and sturdy claws, I happily used a fork to remove chunks of lobster from inside my roll.


Fleshy yet tender, and delightfully swaddled in a thick layer of wasabi-laced mayonnaise, I realised that it was probably a good job for my father’s bank balance that he’d banned this crustacean from my childhood. Wow it’s good. Sadly, however, its plate fellows weren’t up to scratch. The brioche was under-toasted, the chips not fried quite long enough and the salad a bit too balsamic vinegared.


In terms of photos, atmosphere and arthropods, Burger & Lobster excelled and is worth hanging in for, but the meal of a ‘life-time?’ I think not.


NB: In researching this piece, I sadly discovered that the concept of lobsters mating for life is a myth. According to scientist G Anderton: “Lobsters have a very tender mating ritual, in which the female is very vulnerable after shedding her exoskeleton, but after the deed is done she leaves and they never see each other again, and in fact, the male (usually being the alpha and dominant male in the area) will go on to mate with almost every other female in the area.”

The Chicken or the Egg complex

Sometimes in life we have to adjust our priorities and give up the old for the new. But sometimes it’s not quite that clear-cut: what if the new was conceived as a plan before the old, wouldn’t the new become the old? And the old the new? Something happening now, but that was planned before the previous plan? Even though the plan, planned after the plan of the new, would make it the new, because the new is happening makes it old, no?

A mind tangler, a brain boggler, a scabrous task if ever there was one – what to do? where to go? how to act? …Where does the loyalty lie…
I was in this predicament yesterday, circumstances led me to a modern-day Hamletian dilemma, ‘to blog, or not to blog,’ that was my question. Distraught at the thought of losing ‘The Audley Chronicle’; my favourite hobby, my online diary, part of my soul (oh a bit of hyperbole never hurt anyone), I sank into a melancholy state of deep thought. I knew what I had to do, but it conflicted with what I wanted to do.
I met a friend and together we roamed the streets of central London. We conversed lightly; the heat, plans, upcoming events. But ‘to blog or not to blog’, well that couldn’t be done without the ever-soothing glass(es) of wine. The dulcet tones if glorious grape being poured into a cooled drinking vessel – what sound is more mellifluous than that?
So we turned down Carnaby Street in search of an outside area to quench our thirst, and take respite from the still abrasive evening heat. Pubs bustled, jovial shouts of after work rendevous(s) wafted through the sticky air, “No, no, no; too loud, too full, look at that one it’s packed” I fussed. But then I spied it, an oasis of calm in loutish London – Kingly Court.

In we went, and as if Fate were there himself, we found ourselves (both food writers) not only at a new restaurant (just 6 days old), but at a new restaurant based entirely on the concept of chicken and eggs – which considering my dilemma on which part of my life really came first, well it couldn’t have been a more apt place to dine.
Welcome to Whyte and Brown an eggciting new eatery perfect for anyone feeling peckish, or anyone in need a place to carry out some free-range thinking…Sorry, I’m done, that’s the last gag I’ll crack…
Though cooped upstairs (here we go again!), outside was battery packed, our area was delightfully cool; a feat which most restaurants are struggling to master this summer. A friendly, supermodel-figured, auburn-haired waitress seated us, gave our table an extra wipe down and handed us a laminated A3 menu, which we instantly started clucking over. Who knew chicken and eggs could be so versatile? Mains swayed from Light Chicken & Langoustine Pie, Hanoi Chicken Noodle Soup and Twisted Chicken Caesar Salad to Wild Mushroom Tagliatelle (fresh egg tagliatelle), Pollo-Porno Pasta, and even a Lemon Leek Risotto Scotch Egg.
Ever the eggsperimentors we felt lost…not for long though, a new plan was hatched: we’d miss the mains and order an array of starters instead – half a dozen to be precise.
We plucked these from the menu:
Polenta-Crumb Chicken Strips 5.25

Best thigh meat in golden polenta crumb, with our mellow Garlic Mayonnaise made fresh for dipping. (F)

Half a Dozen Croquette Balls 5.45

croquette balls

Shredded chicken & pancetta, speckled with chives, lemon & melty béchamel. Served with our own Smoky Tomato sauce. (F)

Bangkok-Scotch Egg on Pickled Cucumber Salad 6.25

scotch egg

Minced chicken thigh-meat mixed with lime leaf, coriander, mint, lemon grass, chilli & ginger. A wild soft-boiled centre.

Chicken Liver Paté, Grilled Sourdough & Sprightly Salad 5.75


Big scoop of smooth paté sitting on a board with toast & salad of capers, shallots & parsley.

Pea & Ricotta Poached Egg Bruschetta (V) 5.45


Crunchy-soft stack of smashed garden peas, ricotta, lemon zest, Parmesan shavings, mint tips & pea shoots. Egg like a sunny cloud on top.

Harissa Hot Wings 5.95


Baked chilli chicken wings served with caramelised orange wedges, coriander & minty yoghurt dressing. (F)

Well done Whyte and Brown, well done. Everything but the bruschetta was absolutely fantastic, and that was by no means fowl, just a tad bland. The harissa wings fell off the bone with sticky delight, the scotch egg was gooey-centred bliss, and the croquette balls crunchy wonders. This restaurant pulled off the inventive; it took the simple and made the complex, and it did it well – and not too expensively either:


So gather your brood and get down to Carnaby Street because once this restaurant gets the press it deserves people will flock in…
Kingly Court  Carnaby St, London W1B 5PW
020 3747 9820
Oh and the blog, well sometimes forces above take pity and you don’t have to peck, sorry pick, one or the other after all!
Happy Friday!

Bone Daddies

Throw me a bone fellow bloggers…don’t rant and rave in superlatives about restaurants when there is absolutely no way that they are, or ever could be, ‘the best’. Don’t allure me with edited snaps, don’t tease my palate with delectable turns of phrase, stop duping me.

These internet gobbets, these fantastical notions of culinary expertise, did just this last night; they duped me. A red herring of a bone if ever there was one, in fact, a multitude of red herrings masquerading as bones, led me, ironically, to Bone Daddies.

Leaving work at the pinnacle of rush hour – which in Victoria translates as a ferocious battle to get to the tube (we fight to clamber into sweaty carriages underground, while the sun shines above), a commuters’ mosh-pit – I shoved myself into the crowd of irritated workers, surrendered my freshly applied face of make-up to sweat and made my way north to Soho.


Now before I take you through the swishy black drapes and into the heart of the restaurant, I should make it clear that despite my vehement annoyance at being duped into expecting Bone Daddies to be ‘the best’, this doesn’t mean that I think it is ‘the worst’.

So now that’s clarified, welcome in. Bone Daddies is a self-professed ‘Rock n Roll Ramen Bar,’ which is ‘headed up’ by ex-Zuma and ex-Nobu head chef Ross Shonhan.

If you’re wondering what Ramen is, of which I confess I wasn’t 100% sure, here is the ever trustworthy Wikipedia definition: “Ramen is a Japanese noodle dish” which “consists of Chinese-style wheat noodles served in a meat- or (occasionally) fish-based broth, often flavoured with soy sauce.” Considering I was served this (see below), I assume it to be spot on.


Before I was served this, however, I had to get a seat. This was pleasantly easier than anticipated; the restaurant’s (which was all the rage a couple of months ago) popularity seems to have dwindled. Good news for me, I thought. Yes, I was behind the curve, yes I wasn’t going to unveil a new restaurant, nor tell you all about one that you haven’t heard of before, but I would get a seat. I wouldn’t have to deal with a Bubbledogs incident.

Indeed, after a mere 10 minutes my companion and I were seated. Five minutes after that we’d had drinks – and two visits from a petite waitress to inquire what we’d like. I say inquiries, but they were more like clutches…she wasn’t really interested in what we wanted, but how quickly we would be wanting it. Alas, the inevitability of the non-book restaurant, another in and out job where we’re treated as cash cows rather than diners.

“Which is the most popular ramen?” I asked.

“This one,” she replied and tapped the clipboard.

“The Tonkotsu Ramen?”


“Okay, I’ll go for that one then.”

She turned to my dining companion.

“I’ll have the soft-shelled crab and then a side of pulled chicken with the…”

“What wait,” I interjected. “I didn’t realise there were sides.”

The whole thing had been so rushed that I hadn’t scoured the bottom part of the menu, and I most certainly hadn’t been asked if I’d want any by this harlot.

“Oooh, I’ll have the (always a sucker for a douse of crude humour)…cock scratchings.”

She didn’t smile, or even give so much as a happy twinge of facial muscle. She wrote it down, got the remainder of my dinner date’s order and sauntered off.

She and the food returned, predictably, uber fast. The starter of soft-shelled crab accompanied the mains.



The food wasn’t horrendous, it wasn’t bad, to call it mediocre would probably verge on harsh; it was somewhere on the scale between satisfactory and good. Indeed, bits of it were good (the soft boiled egg), and bits of it were satisfactory (cock scratchings). It is also, I found, quite difficult, nay impossible to eat ramen elegantly…bending down so low a head rush is on the cards while chop-sticking cock into your mouth, well it’s not very lady-like.

To conclude, it’s not ‘the best’, it’s not ‘the worst’; I wouldn’t go for supper, or on a date. I’d consider it for a quick lunch with the ladies…if pushed – that’s the bone I’ll throw to you.

31 Peter St  London, Greater London W1F 0AR
020 7287 8581


Considering its length, it’s no wonder that people spend so much time talking about the King’s Road. There’s a lot to talk about.

On Wednesday night, nestled on a number 22 bus, my mother, sisters and I got to see a lot of it – for it turned out, that the restaurant we were dining at, number 571, was at the opposite end than Sloane Square tube. In fact, in terms of TFL guide lines, we probably would have been better off getting off at Fulham Broadway. Our bus voyage, however, was actually rather pleasant.

Perched on the top deck, we picked out the restaurants we wanted to dine – and had dined – at, and peered at copious window displays, which were filled with beautifully dressed skeletal plastic mannequins –  clothes which, visiting the aforementioned restaurants would mean, we’d never fit into. One pair of hot pants and strapless bikini later and we found ourselves outside number 571, Megan’s.

We were shown to our table, sadly the quaintly decorated terrace was fully booked, but our cubicle upstairs was, nonetheless, decidedly agreeable. A level up to the rest of the restaurant, it gave us a great panoramic and seated seven comfortably. Seven? Yes, in addition to the four Audley girls, there would be three Mintos – and both of these families descended from the Shores. In simplified terms, we were out to supper with our cousins. Some of you may remember my post on Made in Italy. Well after the success of our shindig at this King’s Road pizzeria, we decided that another sister/cousin, female family, extravaganza was a must. So, three months and a dozen emails later, we finally made the rendevous, and I’m happy to report that it was just as great as the first. Company was first-rate, food was – though overwhelming in portion size – very agreeable and service came with a smile – if a little slow. Here are some snaps of the evening.

female familyThe female family


IMG_2305Coarse chicken liver pâté

Fish soup (soupe de poisson)
Fish soup (soupe de poisson)
Chargrilled Salmon, chips, salad and a parsley & butter sauce
Chargrilled salmon, chips, salad and a parsley & butter sauce
Côte de boeuf, salad and béarnaise sauce
Côte de boeuf, salad and béarnaise sauce
571 King’s Rd  London SW6 2EB 020 7371 7837

Siam Central


Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but, as I found out last night, not fond enough to warrant a goosing. Well, an attempted goosing. (Don’t even go there.)

My friend Jamie (see Erotic Book Club) has returned for a week from his energy plant in France. To celebrate the homecoming of this most missed ami, we (myself and two friends Ben and Robert) treated ourselves to a supper out on the town – at Siam Central.

A small Thai restaurant hugging the corner of Windmill and Charlotte St, Siam Central is certainly popular with Goodge St workers. Even with a reservation, we had to wait 15 minutes before being led to our table. Set over two floors, for square metre space they’ve managed to squeeze in a hell of an amount of tables. But though crowded, as we followed the waiter downstairs and to our little spot, I decided that it wasn’t claustrophobic.

Two laminated menus were handed to each of us, one listing an array of starters and sharing combos, the other the mains and the wine. Ravenous from a hard day’s proofing travel articles, I ordered some prawn crackers, and then we also decided to share vegetable spring rolls, chicken satay and prawn toast. The boys had beers and I had a glass of white wine.

Despite two reminders, the prawn crackers never arrived (and were put on the bill), but fortunately the starters, and a sensational peanut butter sauce, forgave this blip. Piping hot but not dry, the chicken satay was wonderfully tender and the cocktail sticks on which it was served were gnawed at like bbq ribs –  any remnants of meat were ripped off carnivorously.

siam - prawn toastPrawn toast (not the elusive crackers)

Stomachs appeased but not content, we moved onto mains. I chose the chicken drunken noodles, Jamie its beef sibling, Ben – chicken drunken rice, and Robert – Thai red chicken curry.

Glutenous, thick and heart-cloggingly delicious with a chilli kick to boot, there was no chance of me getting drunk after a plateful of drunken noodles. Oh the carbs, the wonderful, wonderful carbs. Jamie too, seemed to be a fan and polished off his mountain rapidly – after which – so enthused was he – he debated on ordering the dish again!

siam - drunken noodlesChicken drunken noodles

Ben and Robert were equally pleased with their orders which, though I didn’t try, looked stomach-grumbling good. More beers and another glass of wine, tales of the continent, tales of our lost friend Flash (the one that left for Singapore, see Almond Croissants) and a lot of laughter ensued.

All was going smoothly; we’d had a great evening and when the bill arrived we were delighted to see it was a modest £70. Very smooth indeed. But then, I tried to pay. I suppose being sent to review restaurants all the time, I’d forgotten that normally this is the form, and that to pay requires money. Money which (see below) apparently I didn’t have.

siam - card declined

It was embarrassing yes, but luckily I found a £20 at the bottom of my bag and all was well again. Except that I now have just £4.29 to get home with…

But I’d had a great meal, was drunk on carbs and laughter, and as they say- memories are priceless.

siam - alice and simmo

Alice and Ben


Jamie and Robert

siam - jamie and rob

Food: *** Drink: ** Service: *** Price: ££

14 Charlotte St  London, Greater London W1T 2LX
020 7436 7460

Review: Fish Market

A javelin’s throw from Liverpool St Station, new city restaurant Fish Market was the plaice to be last night. Amid the gleam of spring sunshine, the eatery celebrated the launch of its new terrace with an informal cocktail and canapé party.

Fish Market Underneath clusters of lantern lights, cheery waiters danced around the restaurant floor handing out seaside-inspired snacks. Miniature fish and chips lathered in tartare sauce were wrapped neatly in newspaper cones; scallops, placed in shells, paddled in olive oil; full-flavoured crabs were pushed into pasties.

The food worked with poetic smoothness and unequivocally floated the epicurean boat. Causing notable grabbing from the guests were the crisp coated Scotch eggs. Perfectly battered, the bantam-sized eggs boasted bold coloured orange yolks, which were equally powerful in flavour. Further richness docked at tables in the form of broad bean and pea risotto, awash with an oil slick of cheese – delicious.

Sinking the dregs of the dairy-laden dish, guests took aboard rum cocktails and flutes of prosecco, before turning their attention to pudding. Served in crunchy wafer turrets, the creamiest of vanilla ice cream delightfully topped slices of strawberry. This fantastic dessert was then rounded off with a goody-bag filled with chocolate treasures.

Fish Market knows how to throw a party, has a team of great waiters and waitresses, serves a cleverly crafted menu and – with the sun finally out of hibernation – will undoubtedly be a hit this summer. Whether you’re a commuter, a Londoner, or just an avid Kooks fan, this restaurant is definitely worth a visit.

Alice Audley

Food: 16/20
Drinks: 16/20
Service: 17/20
Fish Market: 49/60                                                                                                   

To book a table at Fish Market, 16B New Street, London EC2M 4TR, call 020 3503 0790 or visit here.


Fish Market

At last I was back in my own territory, back in the comfort zone – reviewing a restaurant! Or, at least, I thought I was reviewing a restaurant, but on arrival to EC2 last night with younger sister in tow, I discovered that I was in actual fact reviewing a party. A restaurant’s party. More specifically, Fish Market‘s ‘we’ve opened a terrace’ party.

The review of the shindig is written, but it’s currently in the claws of one of The Upcoming‘s sub-editors, so until it is published there, I can’t publish it here. But what I can do, is to give you a sneak peek at some of the seaside snacks we munched upon.

Feast your eyes on these:

fish market - scotch eggScotch Egg

fish market - goujonsMini Fish & Chips

scallops fish marketScallops


IMG_2210Crab Pasty

IMG_2218Pea & Broad Bean Risotto

claudYounger sis tucking into some red

Make sure to get down to:

Fish Market Photo

16 New St, London, EC2M 4TR

020 3503 0790



Since starting at The Telegraph my eatery outings have rather dwindled. Pre-occupied with interviewing Eva Schloss, Barnes Wallis’s daughter, Caroline Quentin and Lord Carrington, my evenings have been spent with Dictaphone and laptop, not munching on the town’s latest gourmet offerings.

Hours and hours of transcribing sadly require remaining at the office, or at the make-shift office. Huddled over my PC, back aching, hands cramping, eyes straining, whacking out thousands and thousands of words – ah the bottom of the journalistic ladder! To think, I dreamed of this!

No, forgive the hyperbole. Even though the work is long, the clock never-ending, the words never finished, I love it. Every bit of transcription teaches something new, shines a little light on the lives of the extraordinary (bar Caroline Quentin) and leaves you feeling slightly more knowledgeable.

As for the food, well with Deliverance, the withdrawal from restaurants is appeased – almost. Deliverance is – shockingly – a delivery service that brings restaurant quality food (** restaurant quality food) to your door. One call to 0844 875 0400 (or a visit to their site) and 30 – 40 minutes later you can have anything from Thai Chicken Green Curry to a Hamburger on your plate.

Whatever you feel like, Deliverance caters for. And the brilliance of it is, if your friend feels like pizza and you feel like salad (or the other way around J), you don’t have to compromise. He can have a salad and you can have a pizza, I mean he can have the pizza and you can have the salad.

It’s not fine dining, but it does take the bitterness out of tucking into another bloomin’ cup a soup. There’s just no fun in cooking for yourself, who’s there to compliment it? £15 minimum order and you have a reasonable, at times good (Veg Spring Rolls), meal couriered to you – brilliant!

My order tonight? I said Deliverance appeases, not cures. I’ve finished my transcription early and am off to review Fish Market – a restaurant in Bishopsgate. A leopard can’t change its spots!