So, it’s all change at Store Street.  Gone are the glum shops - it’s gained some glam. All the shops have quaint little signs hanging outside, like some dictat from the landowner.  Some of the shops are the same as the ones that were there when it was glum.  But obviously, now they do a more glam service than they used to.  And they have glam signs.

One of the new émigrés on Store Street is The Life Goddess.  She has squatted in the middle, next to a posh offie and Caffe Paradiso, which isn’t paradise and is stretching the word cafe (literally and metaphorically).  And she does food – Greek stuff.

London is full of little Greek tavernas, where they throw plates on the floor (intentionally) and serve lots of little dishes of houmous, taramasalata, halloumi and quail, but this bucks the trend.  It’s not about those lots of little dishes, this is about coffee and sandwiches and hearty Greek meals.  For lunch (and possible dinner).  And they sell lots of other stuff.  It’s a bit like a Polski Sklep, but Greek.  And they tell you it is all high quality, rather than “just” food for expats - I have no reason to doubt this.

So, there she squats, the life goddess suckling her customers in a shop off Tottenham Court Road.  I decide on a whim to go in there and grab a sandwich.  And what an array of nice looking foods is presented before me.  Spread out, legs akimbo.  And then there is more hot stuff.  Okay, life goddess, this is getting a bit much.  I’m not sure I can cope with this choice.

Behind the bar a veritable bevy of goddesses dance between one another, dripping honey and nectar amongst the sated masses who clamour for more.   I order a Greek salad sandwich, avoiding the hot and hearty meals which would surely keep me here for longer than I can cope.  Takeaway.  And the goddesses dance behind the counter while I look around in rapt amazement.  Apples surround me, and this immediately puts me on my guard.  Not the round, fruity variety that Eve got Adam with, but the computer that is a symbol of the smug people tapping away while they drink their lattes.

Lattes?  Hang on, I thought this was Greek.  Lattes in Greece might be a lovely new idea, but I thought Greek coffee is thick and grabs you by the short and curlies.  I blink and shake my head looking again around me.  There are no goddesses here.  Plenty of hairy men and people serving, but there is a kind of grim determination as they manoeuvre around each other. 

And they don’t have what I asked for down to an unfortunate conflict of desires within the life goddess.  So they give me a croissant with Greek Salad in it.

Awakening from a dream, I rub my eyes and look around afresh.  This isn’t a life goddess, they are trying to sell a lifestyle.  All the foods they sell are branded with The Life Goddess labels and their funny little goat symbol.  They are so polished, they have seemingly lost the patina of authenticity and honesty.

Anyway, back to my croissant….

How thoroughly continental.  Greek and French together.  I take it away and it feels quite weighty, which is reassuring.  And it tastes amazing.  Some kind of Greek hard yellow waxy cheese, salad (including tomato which actually tastes of something) and olive oil.  Oh!  The oil.  It lubes it up, it helps it slip down and it combines the flavours amidst a beautiful, unbitter flavour.  Then, at the end of the rapture, a smoky aubergine paste lets itself be known.

And to top it all off, I get a stylishy brown paper bag to keep it all in, and black napkins to mop my heavenly lips.

So, it tasted absolutely great, but I can’t bring myself to love it.  It just seems a bit too contrived.  Maybe I am being a bit harsh, but the Life Goddess seems to be trying too hard, studiously ticking every box and nicking the best things from around it rather than relying on the honesty and flavours of the food, slowly building up a loyal local gathering through staff who understand what they are selling.  I mean, it’s called The Life Goddess after all - that’s setting the bar a bit high isn’t it?  And who understands what she is about?

Time out – 10 minutes

Change from a tenner – 5.5

Taste – 8

Divinity – 2

This week, I was mainly eating chicken.  The last day of the week needed something different, so I visited ICCO, which is an acronym.

I know this is meant to be a blog about food, lunch, in fact.  But this is something that needs to be raised because it is bloody annoying.  “Nym” is a suffix.  It means “name” or “word” in Greek.  That’s right “WORD”!  So, you get something like BBC, or EU.  Guess what – they are not words.  They are initials.  Identifying something with its initials is called “Initialism”. But when you get something you can say, like SCUBA or LASER or NASA, that is a word.  And they are all acronyms.  And so is ICCO.  It is a bit of a silly word, but anyway, it stands for Italian Coffee Company.  And if you squint, Greece and Italy are basically in the same place on a globe, so there is the link.

Back to ICCO.  It is not a chain restaurant.  It is a single shop on Goodge Street, and it is establishment as it gets for Goodge Street.  It is on the corner of Charlotte Street and you go past in the morning and it is full of people drinking coffee, eating pastries and hanging out (some of them smoking).  Lots of couriers hang out there as well with their thick coats in the winter and bikes parked on the kerb.  You go at lunchtime and you also see a whole load of people hanging out looking for pizza.  And there are two reasons for this.

1.        They are cheap.  Prices go from 3.95 for a takeaway Margherita pizza

2.       They are pretty tasty

So, I go for a Fiorentina pizza – tomato, mozzarella, spinach olives, egg, basil and some other herbs – simple but nice.  And it is good.  Not too much cheese, no cheesy rim, no weird barbeque sauce or some kind of cheese and garlic dip.

The bread is tasty.  It is thin and cooked.  There is cheese and tomato and the cheese is good.  The egg is egg.  Hang on, I’ve been here before.  Basically, everything tastes like it should and it all goes together pretty well.  No taste explosions, no amazing experiences of texture or flavour.  Just chewing, cheese, tomato and taste (and egg and basil and herbs and olives - I can't be bothered to alliterate those).  In summary, that sounds a little boring, but this is a place not pretending anything else.  That’s what pizza is.  You want to make it fancy and something that gives you mouthgasms?  Put fancy toppings on it.  You want to pay less than a tenner for a pizza that tastes pretty good?  Come here.

And if you want fancy sauces, you can put olive oil on it, or shake some dried oregano on it, or put chilli oil on it (which I did).  Simple, but good.  Like the food.

And actually, there is another reason to come here as well, but this isn’t really a great one.  They give you a little buzzer when you place your order and when you food is ready, the buzzer starts vibrating.  And they have metal/functional tables all over the place and if your buzzer is resting on it, then it makes loads of noise.  Which is kind of fun.

And you know what? I have never actually had a coffee from here.  They do other drinks, which I have had, like Snapple.  And they are quite nice too.

Time out – 10 minutes

Change from a tenner – 4.5

Taste – 7.5

You get what you pay for - 10

Street food.  Not picking stuff up from the gutter, not eating streets.  It's the new thing.  The word on the street perhaps.  Or maybe it is the old thing and the new thing is somewhere else.

Whatever the case, the people at KERB have pulled together loads of cooks and people with interesting food related ideas and put them in the same place at a particular time.  In this case, the South Quad at UCL (opposite Waterstone's on Gower Street's main entrance and up a road that looks private but isn't).

A panoply of pedlars pushing their goods, mainly to students, but there are a few suits walking around.  Go to the KERB website to see what is on and when.  They move around.

So, if you are feeling in need of a bit of excitement, why not put on your deerstalker and see if you can detect a way of getting yourself to one of KERB's lunchtime orgies.  If you find this tiresome, you probably shouldn't be putting yourself down for lunchtime adventures.  Why not head down to Boots?  They do a good lunchtime deal.  You can get a prawn sandwich, an Oasis drink as well and, while you are at it, some painkillers to numb the tedium of your boring life while you do your 9-5 job and say yes to your boss and sorry and go home to your spouse who you only ever kiss on the cheek and then eat a microwaved meal and watch tv anthen go to sleep to give yourself enough energy to do your crap day all over again tomorrow.

OK, breathe.  Back to these guys (and girls).  Garlanded around the quad, they are all there, doing their lunchtime things. There are a lot of beards, and people dressed in clothes that look comfy rather than formal (although the guys from one of the stalls are dressed as Victorian gentleman, AKA What The Dickens - the food looks amazing, but I am not sure what all that tweed is doing to their sweetbreads).

So much to choose from but I go with the nose and eyes and see some guys literally throwing brightly coloured spices around (yes, I do mean literally).  That has got to be worth a go.  I see the name (Mike + Ollie) and know that these guys forage food where they can find it (yes, that is right, forage!) and change their menu accordingly.  All the food comes from within the M25 and Mike, rides on a bike everywhere.  Which I reckon is quite cool.  Vive la difference, and all that.  I don't know how Ollie gets about though.

So, they take my order, are all very friendly, and give me a lamb wrap in flatbread (by this point they have thrown around their brightly coloured spices, mainly on my food, which is what I expected).  They also ripped up some figs in front of me and placed them on the flatbread as well, which was more surprising.  At this point my mind wandered and I started thinking what would happen if they did a time and motion study of their efficiency in this stall.  There would be lots of bad marks I expect. They should do all the preparation before so they can maximise the number of people they serve most efficiently.  But that would be missing the point.  Lunch is about all the senses and part of the enjoyment can be in the prep as well as the eating. And it wouldn't taste so fresh.  So, I suspect that theoretical time and motion guy has now gone off to eat his theoretical lunch at theoretical Boots.  And actually, they were very timely with the food.  I didn't wait for very long at all.

But what about the flavour, I hear you ask?  Actually, I don't - a literary device that doesn't really work in this case.  Anyway, forget the flavour, the first thing that hit me like a soft pillow was the texture of the flatbread.  It was soft, like a pillow, and bready, not doughy.  Then the flavours come in.  The shredded lamb, moist and flavoursome, the figs add sweetness and the raw spices give it all an edge.  There is hummus, yoghurt, even toasted seeds.  There are layers of flavours in here, all working together and jostling for position. If I stopped eating and lay my head on my flatbread and fell asleep, this could be a dream - loads of people around me are walking around, enjoying their food.  There is nothing cynical here, no marketing techniques.  Just good food, flavours and happy people.

Invigorated I walk back to the office, past a man in a suit looking glum with a pocket full of drugs.

Time out of the office - 20 minutes

Change from a tenner - 5.5

Taste - 8.5

Pillow - 10

Past affairs.
They always come back to haunt you.

Gail’s.  I see you so often and can still feel that bitter taste of disappointment when you stole  my lunch time and gave me an empty wallet. Yet, I keep looking, hoping that there  is something I missed, yearning for
I can’t resist.
Yes, I know there are other people who will give me lunch, but there is something mysterious, something exciting about that place that claims it sells artisanal bread.  And everyone else seems to love you.

So I go back to you.
I take a bit more time, pondering.  I am a bit earlier, and there are less people around.   It is all less crowded and confusing.  I can see your lovely artisanal cakes. I can see the variety.  I can see the restaurant attached.  I think of all the good things people have said about this artisanal place.  I must have been wrong.  I think I need something hot, something soupy.

So I ask for soup.

A delicious sounding sweet potato and crispy pancetta soup.

Oh yes! The lady starts speaking to me, hurriedly running through the different breads they will give me.  I smile politely, lost in a haze of yeast and choices again.  The bread choices fly over my head (not literally, that is a different story for a different type of blog).  I catch a French sourdough, sounds good, and what sounds like cherry bread?  With soup?  So outlandish and wrong I decide I must have misheard the nice lady and ask for whatever she thinks.  I give myself to her. She hastily says both types of bread go with my soup and  stuffs it all in a bag.  The man who takes my money points me to the cutlery corner to take away.  

I grab a spoon and some napkins and leave.

As I pick up the spoon I look at the material – it’s made of wood!  How artisanal!  How quaint! How  eco-friendly!

Maybe I was wrong about Gail’s.   Maybe I am trying to draw too many conclusions from one unfortunate experience.

I get back to the office and sit down.  I  look at my bread and that is when the creeping feeling that I may have been
fooled again by that artisan baker.  I dip some of that French sourdough in the sweet potato soup.  Delicious.  A bit more
sourdough and then I try a spoonful with my lovely artisanal spoon that looks like it is made of balsa wood.  It gives me a strange sensation in my mouth.

I get a bit of soup, and the sweet potato absorbs the smoky, salty flavour of the pancetta nicely.

But then I also get the texture of the spoon.  Rough, a bit like sucking balsa wood (if you haven’t done it, don’t
bother). And as I continue to spoon in the soup, I notice the spoon is also absorbing the smoky, salty pancetta and sweet potato soup and I observe the concave of the spoon slowly reducing until eventually I am balancing a spatula of soup into my mouth. Amazing – such a simple concept yet they have given me a spoon that doesn’t work!

Is this artisanal?  No, it’s balsa wood (perhaps).
Useless!  I throw away the spoon/spatula and decide to focus on the bread.
The sourdough is good, which I would expect from a bakers, especially an artisanal one. Then I move onto the next slice of bread.  That lady who had told me such outlandish and wrong things hadn’t been lying to me - sweet cherry bread!  With a slightly sweet and savoury soup?  What is going on here?  This is revolting.  I have been fooled again by that artisanal baker.
Like a jilted lover I leap up and run out of the room, a tear in my eye.
And return with a proper spoon.  I am not going to let this soup get the better of me.  With figuratively gritted teeth I chew my way through the cherry bread, which I am sure would be delicious mid-afternoon with some butter on it and a nice cup of tea.  BUT NOT WITH SWEET POTATO AND CRISPY  PANCETTA SOUP!

I then attack the soup and discover the pancetta, which is not, and the more I think about it, is unlikely to have ever been, crispy.  
Fooled again.  A promising but only mildly interesting soup, with bit of damp bacon floating about in it, with a spoon that doesn’t work and a slice of bread that seems just plain wrong.  Having said that it was only £3.50.
Gail’s - I want to love you, I really do.  But there seems to be something missing.  Maybe it is love for the food.  But like some kind of yeast infection, the memory keeps lurking - what could have been. 

Change from a tenner - 6.50

Time out - 25 minutes

Taste - 6.5

Bad itch - 8

What can you say about this place?  Everyone seems to have had a go.

It's the place to be -  now why is that?  Let's look at some of the reasons.

It might be because they do things a bit differently here. There are no reservations.

It might be because your name gets written on a scrap of paper and hung on the back of a door until there is a space available.

It might be because the staff wear knitted things and cotton.  They look like they could finish work and not bother getting changed.

It might be because they don't call you sir or madam.

It might be because you get a really short menu without many options. 

It might be because then you don't get a plate.

Even one of these things could be incredibly annoying - put them all together and what have you got?  Actually, none of this matters.... because... and you may have heard this before on the blog.  The food is amazing - that's why we are here folks.  Not for some kind of lunchtime hug.  We are here to eat.

And actually there is something fun about the relaxed approach to dealing with customers.  And actually, the customer service is good.

Once you are in and sitting down the food is served quickly.  If they make a mistake, they sort it out.

Then they serve the main part of the menu - a burger.

They are served in a brioche, which is a bit different (unless you are a hip burger place, in which case it is almost standard).  None of that "How do you like your burger done sir?" stuff.  You get what you are given.  Which is fine in my book.  They are the experts on cooking their beef, and they know where it comes from and they do it well. 

I had a "Jose Jose" Chilli Burger with chips, which is served with lovely cheese dripping all over it and chorizo, and it gave me a big greasy smile (both literal and figurative).  The chips came with rosemary salt, although it tasted of salt.  And mysteriously, although my memory may be escaping me, coleslaw.  Didn't remember ordering that.  And also some chicken wings, titled amusingly "Winger" Winger Chicken Dinner.  Which I thought was a bit stream of consciousness really.  There is no way that the chicken could count as a dinner, unless you were tiny, or perhaps a cat.  But then, if you were a cat you wouldn't want the barbeque sauce.  But I digress.

I'll summarise the food in a bit, but let me remember the chicken wings with their silly name.  They tasted delicious.  And eating food isn't just about flavours, it is about textures too.  How they do what they do to the chicken wings is a bit of a mystery to me, but they are crispy on the outside and melt in your mouth delicious on the inside.  I spent a few happy minutes trying to work out what the flavours were that made them taste different.  They were less vinegary than a lot of chicken wings with hot sauce that you get in burger places and there was something else - harissa.  But I might have been wrong.

Burger - great.  Chips - alright.  Coleslaw - a little bit too sweet, but refreshing.  Chicken - amazing.

In summary - a good place to have lunch.  Yeah, you will see how much change I got from a tenner, but it is worth it from time to time.

Change from a tenner: -9.00

Taste: 8.5

Time out: 58 minutes

Self referential hipness: 9


Patty and Bun on Urbanspoon
This is an egalitarian blog.  No lunch is off limits.

Some days, without inspiration, you just step out into the streets of opportunity and can’t think of anything to do.  

Today, that's what happens to me - In the distance, destiny moos and I hear it. 

In an apocalyptic mood, I walk into "the" middle class supermarket and look at the bank of sandwiches displayed in front of me for my middle class delectation - pretty colours, all very neat, uniformity - no imperfections.  Like some brave new world, all across the country there are about 280 branches all selling the same thing.  A brave new world of choices that are all the same.

That is not a sandwich made with love.  That is a production line.  And where do the ingredients come from?  How do each of the sandwiches taste the same as their comrades in stores around the country?

I see some baguettes and pick out a prosciutto ham, cheese, mayonnaise and salad sandwich in granary bread.  You can’t go wrong with prosciutto I think and time is marching on – I don’t want to regret leaving the decision too long and run out of my lunch hour.   I stop pondering and get on with things - in a self referential whirl I think that I can ponder this later when writing a blog post.

Back in the office, I tuck in.  Prosciutto is delicious in this sandwich.  Salad still works like salad – maybe the tomato was a bit soggy and the leaves were a bit boring.  But I’m missing the important bit here.  The dynamics of eating a sandwich made of granary bread.

Now then - granary.  Should be malty.  Not too much fibre.  But this bread is purgatory.  Any good and bad experiences my taste buds have had are neutralised by this experience.  It removes the flavour from the other ingredients.  While your taste buds are battling with the paper like flavour, the cardboard like texture and the various seeds and crumbs, the rest of the ingredients just get lost.  You have the occasional flash of delicious prosciutto and the mayonnaise does its emulsified egg magic, but really, it’s all about the cardboardesque bread.  And that is not much to be about.  The only things to look forward to were the sweet caress of two standards - Dr Pepper and some really sugary chocolate for dessert.

I like the fact that Waitrose is run a bit differently from other supermarkets with “partners” instead of staff and they sell interesting sounding ingredients.  But then it is all so sanitised.  These people sell ready-chopped garlic.  And I think that kind of sums it up for me.  It's convenient.  And that's it.  New ideas shouldn't be convenient (unless they are new ideas about convenience) .  They should be exciting, they should challenge you.  And we all go into the shop, see the exciting ingredients neatly arranged and nicely packaged, buy what we want and walk out again without getting our hands dirty and seldom thinking about it.

Waitrose is a bit like its own glossy magazine (in the case of the baguette in flavour as well as concept) – pretty, not much substance and a little bit disturbing.

Change from a tenner: 4.66

Time out: 10 mins

Taste: 5

Stepford wives: 8

The 4th Earl of Sandwich – the epitome of a Legend in his own Lunchtime.  We all know the story from our Great British perspective.  But he wasn’t the only guy to find a convenient way to eat lunch without a plate.  We have seen how the Lebanese do it with their truncheons of deliciousness, the Mexicans with their spicy nappies, the Americans with their hamburgers, the Italians with their pani…. Oh, forget it.  I could go on and on.  What fun is a list?

Indian is the way forwards this lunchtime.  So, what do the Indians use as their sandwich?  Well, India’s a big place, but in Delhi and Bangalore, apparently it is Roti.  It’s a type of unleavened bread, and you can get it wrapped around delicious spicy food.  The guys at Mooli's have turned it into something even more amazing.  Mooli – a slightly inappropriate vegetable.  Let’s just say there are lots of other shops in Soho that sell things with a similar profile that are much less digestible.

They opened in Soho a few years ago and the queues were, quite correctly, very long.  Queues have diminished a bit since then, probably in search of the next big thing.  But the queues are wrong.  This is something that shouldn’t be turned into a passing fad.  This is Indian street food, according to the clever marketing people at Mooli.  It’s authentic.  But most importantly, it’s delicious and it’s bold.  It’s different.  No bandwagons here baby.

Marketing actually doesn’t count for much when you have amazingly tasty food.  Especially if it is named after a vegetable that looks like a bit like a knob. 

Pork , goat, paneer, choices, choices…   I went for a chicken mooli.  A staple of every sandwich was there – lettuce.  After that, well, we are not in Kansas anymore Toto.

Chicken with fenugreek.  Then some potato.  POTATO, in a wrap!  Yes, I know.  These guys don’t care.  They will put pomegranate seeds in with your pork if you’re not careful.  Sorry, I digress, POTATO, in a wrap.  Yoghurt, chickpeas, turnip.  You know what?  This is wild.  You don’t get root vegetables in a sandwich.  Or liquid dairy products.  But like the knob shaped equivalent, this is a wholly inappropriately named mooli.

And it tastes really good.  The roti has enough flavour to get past on its own.  But then the chicken, with its spices, could also probably do that.  No it couldn’t actually.  It’s a bit dry.  Then, like a white knight on a minty horse, in comes the yoghurt, to save your mouth from an arid death of spice.  Turnips crunch, chickpeas (I’m sure I saw some chickpeas in there) hang out, the potato gives it a bit of texture.  Yum.

Not much more to say... except that, actually, yes there is.  I paid a bit extra, and not only did I get a densely stuffed roti of flavour, I also got some dahl (yes, lentils really, but let’s be authentic).  With cardamom seeds I think.   And an elusive curry leaf.  Like some kind of amazingly tasty soupy accompaniment.  Actually, it wasn’t like one.  It was one (I don’t have a word count to reach here).

And the flavours?  Every time you take a bite, new combinations get you.  And they mount up.  And when you finish, you can imagine how good it feels to be slowly marinated with spices.  And even more, you don’t want it to stop.

So mooli, a rude shaped vegetable you might be, but amongst the shops selling ruder things, you should be carving out an empire.

The thing is, last time I went in here, it was almost empty, and there was a notice on the door stating they are moving premises, which I hope isn’t a euphemism.  Please people, don’t let a place like this close from lack of custom.  This is the definition of cosmopolitan.  Make this part of your lunchtime routine.  It’s immense (and as for the pork and pomegranate, well, that’s another story of love….)

Change from a tenner – 3.5

Time out – 35 minutes

Taste – 8.5

Tales of the unexpected - 8

Mooli's on Urbanspoon
For the lunchtime wanderer, London is full of sandwich bars.  Some of them are great, most of them offer the same thing every day heated up in a dish and smeared on bread.

But halfway up Charlotte Street, on the bit that most people don’t reach, beyond the borderland bounded by Bubbledogs, you come to Italia Uno.  See if you can guess what type of food they sell.  Hint, it isn't uno.

Italian food might be based on the idea that if you get some flour, some eggs and some water then you are set for dinner.  There’s your pasta.  If you forget the eggs you can make bread.  Then you just need to find something to have with it.  Or it might not.

Italia Uno subscribes to this formula (except for the salad).

So, geographically speaking, Italia Uno and Dino’s compete for the same punters.  Italian, based in London around Charlotte Street.  But while Dino’s very much caters for the takeaway crowd, Italia Uno has lots of people who will serve you on any one of the many tiny tables surrounded by metal chairs stuffed in the place.

And they put on Italian TV.  And like football. And have music playing all the time (when there isn’t football on).  And the guy behind the counter looks permanently stressed making all the food.

How Italian.  And if you don’t like football, Italian TV or Italian music then you might think this place isn’t for you.

Here’s the best bit.  They don’t care.  Or at least, they don’t seem to.

The food gets made and given out to the masses of people (and I looked around carefully for Italian customers, just to prove the old wives tale) who frequent this place.  And everyone loves it.  Big, steaming plates of pasta, panini stuffed with things.  My sandwich, which was "picante", had spicy salami (which had a beautifully meaty texture, not unctuous like so much salami), sundried tomatoes (which were a bit astringent, but hey, I was after something picante), cucumber and lettuce (cooling) and mortadella, which helped neutralise the combinations of flavours and added more texture.  Each little bit of that sandwich worked its own magic against the white bread that it was served in.  And like each of the bits in the restaurant – the groups of people talking to each other, some in English, some Italian, some other languages; the football playing on the tv or the Italian music videos playing away; the hive of activity behind the counter as the staff carry on filling those orders; the waitresses gliding between the tables dancing with the dishes – they all do what is needed to produce a lively and exciting lunch.

Don’t expect finesse.  Don’t expect quiet and peace. 

Enjoy the food and the atmosphere and leave remembering that life can be just fun amidst all the background noise.

Change from a tenner – 5.5

Time out – 15 mins

Taste – 7.5

Joe Dolce – 3

Bar Italia Uno on Urbanspoon
Yeah, it’s time for lunch.  In a quiet corner of the square off Goodge Street where the properly "street" food carts hang out, in the snow, is a little ray of sunshine called, completely inappropriately, Hoxton Beach Falafel.

And from there, you can get a falafel wrap.  Falafel, the very word sounds like dryness, fluffing up your mouth.  And then put in a dry wrap.  Yuck.

Right?  Well, yes, in most cases.  But in this case....

Wrong.  These guys put the elicious in delicious. Ok, they don’t actually do that, but the wraps are great.

So then pupils - falafel.  It’s like a big dollop of hummus deep fried with some extra spices and things (cumin, dill and garlic).  Most of the time in a sandwich it is dry and bland.  But not here.  These guys do it all fresh and you sometimes have to wait for a while. But it’s worth it.  Fresh fried falafel? check.  Fresh fried cauliflower? check.  Delicious pickled turnip, jalapeno peppers and parsley (unpickled obviously)?  Check.  Fluffy khubz bread and tahini sauce?  Check.  Wait, how do you make fresh fried cauliflower sexy?   Apparently they do it in Jordan all the time and eat it in their falafel wraps.

So, they ram it all in, they smash up the falafel and then tightly wrap it up into a Lebanese truncheon of falafel deliciousness, which you can take somewhere else to eat, or you could use it to hit people on the head.  Because of the heft of the falafel wrap, the latter is tempting, but I wouldn’t do that.  Mainly because it would collapse, spraying its delicious filling everywhere but in your mouth and then you would look a bit silly (although, maybe, filmed in slow motion it could look amusing).  Second because it would be a bit of a waste of money.  Third, because it is your lunch, and that is not what you do with your lunch.

There’s so much in there you might worry that it will fall apart, but no.  Like some moist magic pole of yum, this falafel wrap will do nothing to upset you (except maybe when you finish it because you want more).

Flavour?  Amazing.  Spices, herbs, pickles, chilli.  Each mouthful is a different combination of delicious flavours.  Dryness?  Almost zero.  This is one well lubed truncheon. Textures - loads of them.  Soft, hot falafel and crunchy, cold pickles.  

But wait – is there something missing?  Where’s the meat?  Forget it?  This is vegan.

What else can you say about this other place other than it has a slightly silly name for a falafel seller off Goodge Street.  And it’s delicious.  Go there.

Time out - 15 minutes

Change from a tenner - 5

Taste - 8.5

Understanding of London geography - 0

Anything mildly amusing to add on the topic of burritos?  Little donkeys, nappies, meaty spicy bundles, mount Vesuvius of grease, street food….

Not much to add on the topic of the burrito itself.  But before you go off looking for something else to read, you will see that the words continue on this blog.  There is a bit more to say on where you get burritos from and Freebird.   They are street food and the sharp eyed may have noticed that all the burritos reviewed here before now are from shops, which are very concrete and very stationary.

Today’s burrito comes from Freebird, a stall in the burrito triangle.  Authentic street food, see?  They also have a stall in Soho and some other places.

There is usually a queue here, although service is quicker than Benito’s Hat or El Burrito.  And the other main difference?  It’s cheaper and they don’t serve the burrito with corn chips, or have any fancy drinks.  And the two guys behind the counter aren’t enthusiastically trying to get you excited about the food.  It’s no frills, but none the worse for that.

So, what are the choices?  Standard – pork, beef, chicken or vegetarian.

But the ingredients look good going into the burrito.  The refried beans are bean shaped (rather than mush), the pork looks fatty and nice, the steak has good sheen of sauce on it (not too dry).

I went for a pork burrito, handed over my fiver (plus 50p for the guacamole) and walked back to the office to consume.  And it was good.  Well, ok, it was alright.  The outdoor origin of the burrito meant that it was never really hot and was only warm when I got back to the office.  When eating it, parts of it were, in fact, cold.  But, it was easy to chew, the pork quite tender and reminded me of Brussels pate in flavour (and a little in texture too) – I think that is an achievement.  And they weren't stingy with the fillings.  There were some good spices too.  The guacamole was inoffensive (that's guacamole), the chilli sauce was chilli and quite garlicky.  But every so often there were less inviting flavours, burnt bits or something else.  It wasn’t a complete delight but when you work on the street, you take what you are given baby.  

So, not absolutely amazing.  But it was a fiver, a point worth repeating.  You can pimp up a burrito all you like with coriander rice and crème fresh and flags sticking out of it and stuff, but the simple formula doesn't cope with too much tinkering.  It becomes something else.  This was a no frills burrito. And it was cheap (relatively).  And it was no worse for that matter.  It had flavour.  Not astounding, but certainly not bad.  Somewhere to go if you only have a fiver (plus 50p for guacamole) and are in a rush.  The taste of the spices in the pork and the garlic from the chilli sauce stayed with me for most of the afternoon (in a good way).

Change from a tenner – 4.5

Time out – 10 mins

Flavour – 7.5

Mobility - 10