Ripe London

Wild, Wild East

A blogger needs to watch her back these days.

Who knew that a few days after I posted my latest alert on the state of Mexico in London, Natalia – make that Doctor Natalia now – would run into Brandon Stephens, the man who runs Tortilla in Angel.  Yep, the very same one whose black beans I blasted.

Doctor Natalia, helpful as she is, connected us over email.  Shortly came the “invitation”:

I'm interested to get your thoughts on what constitutes an ideal burrito and I can tell you about my burrito experiences in California, the limitations of tomatillo pepper availability on an island in the Atlantic (ie, Britain), etc.

Etc.  Even as I read this, I could tell Señor Stephens was ablaze with fury, his email no doubt delicately edited from whatever he had furiously typed at me first, removing a few extra jalapeños in the process.

I was right.  When we showed up at the appointed hour, Brandon’s eyes fixed me like a cowboy in an old Western.  He had a sidekick, too, a Brazilian banker from his days in business school.  And I had mine: Doctor Natalia.  Yin versus yang, which is, of course, an innate impossibility.

“I’m ready to fight,” he said.

“I’m not,” I told him, “I’m just a writer who happens to eat a lot.”

I had told Brandon in an earlier email that I had never been able to successfully re-create my family’s black bean recipe since moving to England and had put it down to lack of talent, not ingredients.  I’m not an expert, I told him, and if you read the blog you’ll see I’m not a food critic, either.  Love through food, food through love.

We ordered naked burritos, which is everything but the wrap.  I went with red rice, black beans (which Brandon insisted were the real deal), guacamole (nicely done with lots of fresh cilantro), pico de gallo, lettuce, cheese, onions and peppers.  As we got to work scooping it all up with tortilla chips, I could sense Brandon putting away the ammo as he picked up his Dos Equis.

“I love burritos.  When I went home to San Francisco one time, I had eight of them in one week.”  He wanted to get all the subtle differences from each place, storing the memories in his taste buds.  This is the kind of thing that should be on his site, I told him.

Meanwhile, the Brazilian banker kept up a running commentary as Brandon shuttled between our table and the kitchen.  "Look, there's Brandon cooking.  And look, free refills!  What's your blog, by the way?"

Two growing Aussie boys joined us on the bench with their massive orders: large (Tortilla offers two sizes), each wrapped in foil and nestled in a basket.  “I feel like it’s going to explode.  It’s like there’s a baby in here.  Look, it’s a crib.”

I noticed the guys didn’t say a single word to each other as they chomped through their new arrivals.  There’s yin and yang for you again.  I asked them what they’d think if they took out a girl and she downed the whole burrito.  “I’d be impressed,” one said as he cautiously dipped a chip in the smoking hot salsa Brandon had brought over, “but then I’d think: ugh.”

Tortilla is at 13 Islington High Street, N1 NLQ.  Tell him I sent you, and see what kind of look you get.

Battle of the Barbies

Barbecue season is upon us, so I talked to three self-proclaimed grillmeisters to find out: Who has the best handle on the barbie: South Africans, Australians or Americans? 

Can't Buy Me Love

I had no intention of writing about the Sex and the City movie until, in the same weekend, I had the good fortune of coming across a truly great film about love: The Waiting Room.

I know I’m in the minority here, but I thought SATC didn’t work as a feature film.  Actually, I’ll just come out and say it: I couldn’t stand it.  It’s like they took 30 minutes and thinned it out with high-fructose corn syrup simply because they knew fans of the series would knock back whatever they served up.  Loaded with labels and skin deep, it seemed to me like an excuse for a big-screen fashion show and product placement.  Starbucks, Pret and Key Food (which, as a former Brooklyn resident did bring a tear to my eye) all got plenty of camera time, but did a film with this kind of budget really need it?  As for the constant catwalk, I still remember the early seasons when the girls wore Gap and you could actually – imagine this – relate to them.  Who the hell packs up for a move wearing stilettos that should bear a warning label?  Likewise, do you or anybody you know wear pearls to bed?  If so, please contact me – I’d like to interview.

With so much to take in on the surface, we never get what a film is supposed to deliver – rich characterization and something to really think about on the way home, if not longer.  The rare moments this film works are those that are devoid of labels and go the heart of what all these characters are searching for: Steve and Miranda on the bridge, Carrie talking Big off the fence the night before the wedding.  Everything else is a headache-inducing blur of cotton candy and that awful bag Carrie gives her assistant.

But, just to prove how things can change in a heartbeat, something truly screen worthy comes along my path.  It’s hayfever season, so while everyone else was out enjoying the long-awaited summer weather, I had to seek refuge in dark, enclosed spaces.  That’s how I came across The Waiting Room – a low, low budget film set in South London. 

A chance meeting at Wandsworth Common station between a single mother (Anne-Marie Duff) and a care worker (Ralf Little) sets in motion a series of events that changes their lives and those close to them.  It’s a heart warming and extremely real story about the journey of love.  There’s undying fidelity, heartbreak, the thrill of a crush, the daily grind, the value in learning from our elders, the importance of standing still; and it’s all delivered in such an honest way, that you don’t even think twice about the ASDA juice carton or the Sainsbury’s plug.  In fact, I’m all for whatever this little gem of a film needs to get the word out and get people to come inside and watch, which is why I’m asking you to see it.  Watching it almost back-to-back with SATC was a perfect foil for the box-office blockbuster, showing how you can’t put a price tag on true romance. It’s so low budget, you’ll see more of the lithe and luscious Little than SATC ever dared.  And he’s a fantastic dancer.  Can you tell I’m still thinking about it beyond the ride home?

I saw SATC at the Electric in Notting Hill, a swanky cinema with leather seats and wine if you want it.  In stark contrast, I saw The Waiting Room in shabby Shepherd’s Bush and was so moved I stayed long enough to watch the end of the credits, a variation on “characters in this film are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental.”  I had to smile.  Something tells me you will, too.

The Waiting Room by Roger Goldby is showing in cinemas across the UK.  Don’t wait.

California Dreaming

We interrupt this broadcast to bring you another update on the state of Mexico in London.  Ay yay yay yay, canta y no llores!  So goes the famous verse which literally means “sing, don’t cry.”  I’m trying. I really am.  Because Mexico is under fire over here.  Dangerously so.  It’s not that the food is too spicy.  I only wish.

This week freelance life took me to Islington, so I finally got a chance to try Tortilla opposite Angle tube station.  The sign outside promised California-Mexican cuisine.  That’s a big promise.  The only place that does Mexican better than Mexico is California.  The food there is so good, competition drives prices way down and £5 can get you a week’s worth of burritos. 

To me, the mark of a good burrito is good beans – beans that aren’t swimming in water but rather the thick sopa they’ve been marinating in.  So, when the guy asked “black or pinto?” I said to give me whichever they make best.  I got black beans, or rather black water with a few beans.  I’d hate to see what the pintos look like.

A few weeks ago, I took a chance on Mexicali in Notting Hill.  Both Mexicali and Tortilla claim to have the best burritos in town, which is of course impossible – they’d actually have to be burritos to begin with.  On a similar note, I should have walked the other way when I saw blueberry pancakes on the menu at Mexicali.  I love blueberry pancakes, but at a Mexican restaurant?  Still, having learned my lesson on first impressions, I forged ahead.   But as soon as I got inside, I knew.  Too fancy, too slick.  Here we go again.  Chilles rellenos (at an astounding £12) were drenched in cheese while the black beans, although creamy, were served in tiny froufrou pots.  Again, I like Mexican food that requires a bib, served in cheap and cheerful surroundings that scream fiesta.

For all this and more, Taqueria still wins with flying sombreros.  On my last visit the guava juice was fresh and frothy, the plantains were perfectly caramelised, I could stand a spoon in my beans and the tacos were turned out to a T.  The food keeps improving, so maybe next time they’ll surprise me with LA-style fish tacos and a lunch deal that’s really something special.  A girl can dream.

Tortilla is at 13 Islington High Street, N1 NLQ
Mexicali is at 147-149 Notting Hill Gate, W11 3LF
Taqueria is at 139-143 Westbourne Grove, W11 2RS
What do you say, amigos?  Let me know where you’ve been getting your "best" Mexican these days.

Let's Get Saucy

Strangely enough, hot fudge and sticky toffee weren't exactly what Men's Health had in mind when they asked me to tell their boys what went in to their favourite sauces.  But you can read about the others here, the first in a series of food shorts for the testosterone-fuelled site.

Birthday Suits

A wise friend once told me that men don’t care for lingerie; they’d rather just have you naked from the get-go.  Frilly peek-a-boo things, she insisted, were for women.  I love it when I get a Ripe London moment that comes together so transparently, one where the double entendres are there, ripe and juicy for the picking.  This is one of those moments.

Lingerie, corsets, bedwear, toys.  Everything a girl could want.

Scoop Gelato, positioned right next to this sign advertising the “adult” shop next door.  At least I think that’s what they sell.  Because which shop do you think has caught my roving eye?  Personally, I’d rather have:

Fior di Latte, chocolate, bacio, tiramisu.  Everything a girl could eat.

I’ve been dipping in and out of Scoop ever since I discovered it last year during a freelance stint near Covent Garden.  On my first visit, I learned that Matteo Pantani, the charming owner and gelato maestro from Tuscany, makes his creamy concoctions according to an authentic family recipe and that he was about to marry his long-time love from, of all places, Florida.  How could I not keep coming back?

Since that day, I’ve sampled quite a number of Matteo’s creations, including a pitch-perfect coconut during his tutti frutti event last Sunday.  I had purposefully scheduled a massage at nearby Neal’s Yard Therapy Rooms on the same day so I could enjoy a double whammy of bliss.  You think I have too much time on my hands?  Maybe, but I make sure it’s delicious.
  
Scoop is celebrating its first birthday on Sunday, 15th June from 12 noon – 11pm.  I’ll be there, glistening from aromatherapy oils and trying a new flavour on for size.  Corsets are so last year.

Scoop is at 40 Shorts Gardens, WC2H 9AB.  You should know that Ripe London doesn’t accept payment for reviews – not in pounds, Euros or scoops – and that Matteo never asked me to write this.  Which is precisely why I did.  Enjoy.

Belly Up

I love laughing as much as the next person, but the thought of going to live stand up makes me sick.  I was telling this to a guy who once asked me to a comedy gig, and before I knew it he launched into a different kind of act: that of armchair psychologist.

He leaned in with a real look of concern on his face. “Were you picked on as a child, Jessica?”

Yes.  Wasn’t everyone?  But it’s not really that I’m worried they’ll pick on me, it’s more that I start feeling nervous for the person on stage.  It’s like I’m up there with them, and I get butterflies in my stomach.  It’s not funny.

Yet I couldn’t resist when my married friend Debbie, who obviously thinks I need help, handed me an article about Deborah Frances-White’s show How to Get Almost Anyone to Want to Sleep With You playing at Watermans Comedy & Curry night.  Well, if there’s food involved…

So I dragged a couple of friends along, all of whom went insisting it was definitely for the food despite there being a curry joint on almost every corner in London.  An Edinburgh sell-out, the one-woman show was refreshingly tasteful, full of audience participation and very funny.  I won’t ruin it for you, but according to Frances-White, who is so damn confident she can pull any man in the room and put those of us with suppressed childhood anxieties at ease, a hat’s where it’s at.  Here’s what I remember: “A hat says I’m not afraid of attention.  A hat says I might like attention from you.  And that means I probably want you to talk to me.  And if I want you to talk to me, I may just want to sleep with you.”

Interesting.  My friend Tiffany owns about 50 hats.  I’ve lost count of how many dates she has had.  Maybe it’s time for an experiment.  But it’s finally getting hot outside.  A hat when it’s hot says I’m desperate for attention.  A hat when it’s hot says I’m probably having a bad hair day.  And if I’m having a bad hair day, I probably don’t want you to talk to me.  Maybe this experiment will have to wait until Autumn.

In any case, we were here for the food.  So did the tandoori prove a turn on?  Sadly not.  For a fiver you get a dish of your choice with way too much white basmati and naan.  The deal may be tempting, but like most two-for-ones, it’s only good in theory.  Silly me.  Now where did I put my chapeau?

Watermans Comedy & Curry is at 40 High Street, Brentford, TW8 0DS.  These outrageously delicious Alphonso mangoes were a very kind gift from Arti and Sunil, fellow Le Cordon Bleu graduates visiting from India.  Namasté.

Parisian Slip

Oops, I did it again.  I’m in Paris, but this time on business.  I tried to communicate this to an inquiring employee at the spectacularly pretty food shop Fauchon.  “Je suis en affaire,” I announced, recalling the phrase book I devoured along with a brownie on the Eurostar last night.  He nodded and politely left me alone, at which point I proudly concluded my French was coming along quite nicely.  Only later did I find out I had come closer to saying I was having an affair, rather than “Je suis en voyage d’affaire,” which means business trip.  I think.  Funny how one little word can do so much!

Fauchon is at 26 & 28-30 pl de la Madeleine, 75008.  These generous spears appeared at an undisclosed market on the other side of town, as one would whether on business or pleasure.

Freeze Frame

Men are born with another, not so obvious, apparatus.  I’m talking about the switch.  You know, the emotional one they can turn on and off.  Quickly.  I was going over this with John while we were having lunch at Whole Foods – he a burrito, me brown-rice sushi.

“You girls analyse far too much.  We find it easier to move on.”

This, of course, was nothing new, though the point bears repeating.  Flashback to a conversation I had weeks earlier with another male friend.  I asked him what makes a man come back to an ex.  “Simple,” he said, “It’s the best sex he ever had.”  Now that was a revelation.  Hmm.

Hmm that I’m about to walk over to the gelato counter.  I ask John what flavour he wants, and he tells me to surprise him.  Astonishing.  I could never leave such a thing up to someone else – holiday destinations, pieces of jewellery, burial plots maybe – but my ice cream flavour?  Never.  But you see, John has the switch – the attachment switch.  Meaning he doesn’t get as attached as we do, because it’s biologically built into him not to.  Survival of man depended on non-attachment – no point standing around waiting to see what the big bear was going to do or why he did it.  This also explains their single-minded focus.  We however, were back at the hearth, mashing the maize, suckling the kids and concocting whatever hijinks must have been needed to keep the hunter bringing back his kill (see: "what makes a man come back" above).

I’m standing at the gelato counter.  I’ve looked at the creamy clouds of colour many more times than I’d like to admit, and John’s scoop comes easily: passion fruit.  It makes me think I should try something new.  Come on, Jess, you can do it.  Just this once.  You can have the usual stuff next time.  Nope, it’s one scoop chocolate, one scoop coconut.  I can’t switch.

By the way, as you’re walking around town make sure you stop and worship wisteria, this gorgeous climbing vine.  It only flowers until June and then it’s gone, until next time…

Blogs on Film

Ripe London made an appearance last night on UKTV Food's Market Kitchen.  Thanks very much to Kevin Braddock for braving it with me and to all the kind people at the show for having me.  I've just spent an absurd amount of time navigating the techie booby traps involved in getting this tiny clip on here, so I hope you get a giggle out of it.  Oh yeah, and don't ever take cake on a date.  Or give away all your pancakes too quickly.

Made to Order

The last time a man chased me down the street, he took off with my bag.  My friend Andrea, however, recently had a man run after her on the street, grab her hand and ask her for a date.  She told me the story at Notting Hill’s Lazy Daisy Café.

“I was walking home wondering why I’m still single when this John Lewis delivery guy stopped me, held my hand and asked my name.”

I put down my forkful of broccoli and feta quiche.  It looks like it has been nuked in the microwave, the natural bright green of the vegetable desaturated to a greyish gunk.  I beg her to tell me more.

“Well, I asked him if he normally holds random women’s hands on the street.”

She’s over-analyzing him, I think, as I peer down at the lacklustre assortment of tinned beans they’ve thrown together with red-pepper flakes and called a salad.

“And he said no, that I was amazing and he couldn’t let me go.  That he had to take me to dinner – if I wasn’t married, that is.  He looked at my finger and said that if I was married he’d go away and be a gentleman, but that he couldn’t let me go without trying.”

This isn’t the first time this has happened to Andrea.  She’s gorgeous, can easily get away with subtracting ten years and always looks like she lives in a fashion photo shoot, which is especially annoying when we’re at something like the Lazy Daisy Café and I’m in my standard can’t-cope-with-transitional-London-weather turtleneck, skinny jeans, furry boots and bike-helmet hair.

Anyway, you may have heard of cosmic ordering, a.k.a. “The Secret” a.k.a. the law of attraction.  Same thing, different marketing spin.  Andrea put out a simple-enough directive to the universe: I want to meet someone.  And the universe delivered swiftly, with brilliant intentional comedy.

My friend rejected the dotting deliveryman, even though she admitted – more than twice – that he was quite good looking.  Why did she say no?  Because he didn’t really fit with her idea of how her man would show up.  That’s the other thing to remember about this cosmic ordering business:  focus on what you want, but leave the how to the powers that be.  Otherwise you turn intention into control, and trying to meddle with Mother Nature always messes things up.

Bottom line: be specific about what you want; you’ll probably get exactly what you ask for.  Now that's service. 

Lazy Daisy Café is at 59a Portobello Road, W11 3DB.  Now you know why they call it “lazy.”

Double Timing

“Listen, I don’t want anything serious.  Just so you know.”

Ah, the eligible bachelor’s disclaimer.  I’ve lost track of how many friends have told me they’ve heard it from men they’ve just started getting close to.  Not that it’s unfamiliar to me.  What’s brand new is that I finally understand these men, because I am these men.

It dawned on me as I was getting ready to order breakfast at one of the few places I am a regular: The Plum in Hammersmith.

As a freelancer, I’ve been playing the field and fobbing off offers of going permanent for years.  The second I hear the word I get shivers up my spine, much like I imagine men feel when they’re hit with the eligible bachelorette’s “where do you see this going?” 

Am I commitment phobic?  Anything but.  I have no trouble – and relish – ongoing dedication to the myriad of people and projects that make up my life.  You know what's coming next: commitment comes when the right one comes along.

Hmm.  Will it be my usual scrambled eggs with smoked salmon – swapping the buttered toast for spinach – or will I go for the more generous veggie breakfast with the beans that bleed onto the potatoes?

It’s not that men are non-commital.  The reason they choose not to commit to certain women is so that they have the space to find the woman who makes them want to commit – either because of actual or perceived freedom.

Oh, but those pancakes over there look nice.  Nevermind, I can make them better at home.

We need to re-plate commitment.  I’m not talking about long-term.  Commitment isn’t about looking five years ahead, it’s about deciding to be fully present in the moment.  And you can’t really do that when you’re otherwise engaged.  Try typing an email and having a phone conversation at the same time.  Our brains aren’t wired to do it.  You end up cheating at least one other person as well as yourself.

I’m staring at the menu even though I’ve seen it a hundred times.  It hits me that while I’m pondering the array of options, the more I hesitate the further away I am from actually enjoying any of them.

Funnily enough, we’re programmed so that commitment to a single focus at any given moment – whatever it is – is the only way to gain the most enjoyment from it.  For our ancestors it meant the difference between having lunch and being someone else’s breakfast.  But men are far from being the only ones to blame.  Women must take responsibility for fostering this ovary-minded mentality that forces a displaced focus on an infinite number of variables rather than what’s actually on the table right now.

Café Plum is at 17 Crisp Road, London W6 9RL.  I go for my usual but throw in a hot chocolate just because.  It’s a good thing the Plum will be there for me next week, and the week after next.