DEBORAH ROSS
Jam writing this at home, on an utterly gorgeous spring day. The air is crisp, the sky is blue, and daffodils and crocuses and hyacinths would,
surely, be out in our little back garden if only I'd ever been arsed to plant any. Oh, what a beautiful morning. Indeed, from my window I can see the sun bouncing delightfully off the council estate at the back where, almost nightly, we are treated to an absolutely first-class domestic.
'F— off.'
'No. You f— off.'
'No. You f— off, you c—.'
My young son recently asked what a might be. It's a biscuit from Germany, I explained, because, when it comes to these things. I'm a hopeless coward. My son will be off to secondary school shortly, where, I recently learnt, he'll be doing German in his first year. I am already thinking of ways to ban him from the school trip to Berlin in case he asks for one with his Tasse Tee.
Anyway, looking out as I do now on this idyllic inner-city London scene see how the sun, too, bounces off the hooded sweatshirt of the chap jemmying his way into one of the first-floor flats to nick the video — it is hard to believe we are on the brink of war. But here are this morning's newspaper headlines: 'War inevitable' (Independent); War inevitable' (Guardian); War inevitable' (Daily Telegraph); 'Posh and Becks in possible move to Milan' (Hello!). Hey, who smuggled that rag into the house? I know that I'm commonly believed to be a shallow person, but I have thought very seriously about this war, and have decided I'm against it. Indeed, I have been to Iraq twice, which, as all Londoners know, is in a big blue and yellow building just off the North Circular, between Tesco and Office World. I accept the regime is oppressive, but I think it's for everyone's good, because if you don't follow the yellow arrows painted on the floors, you can end up going straight from bathroom accessories through to bed linen, missing out on lighting altogether. This can be very annoying, especially if you are after a new lampshade for the hall, but I don't think it's sufficient reason to bring in British troops and bomb all those innocent Iraqi people, who are rushed off their feet as it is, especially on a Saturday. Shame on you, Tony Blair!
Still, life must go on, meals must be consumed; but where in these difficult times, and when you've already done most of the restaurants everybody has heard of? In the end, I decide there is only one thing for it. I will visit a restaurant nobody has heard of, not even myself. To this end, I get the Thomson's local directory, turn to the restaurants page, and stick a pin in the listings. Alas, my first selection turns out to be a Chinese takeaway. `No sittee downee here. No booky$ The next is Perfect Fried Chicken, which I know to be among the grimmest of grim takeaways. Third time lucky? The third is a place called Small and Beautiful, which I duly call. 'Can I book a table for three for tonight at 7.30 p.m., please?' 'OK,' says the voice at the other end. And that's it. There is no request for a creditcard number or a telephone number with which to hound me all day to confirm my reservation, Hakkasan-style. So I book and then inform my partner and son that that is where we are going. What sort of restaurant is it, they want to know. What sort of food does it do? 'I have absolutely no idea,' I say, and am totally disgusted at both of you to worry about such things during an international crisis.' We have a bathroom cabinet purchased from Iraq which, while assembled upside down, still serves its purpose nicely.
So, off we go on this adventure to a randomly picked restaurant I know nothing about. Will it be a little gem? Or a total duffer? Small and Beautiful is on the Blackstock Road. in a row of undistinguished shops in the no-man's-land between Highbury and Finsbury Park, another idyllic London beauty spot covered, at this time of year, by umpteen lovely bright yellow witness appeal boards. As it turns out. Small and Beautiful is neither small (the frontage isn't large by any means, but the dining area goes back quite a way) nor beautiful. Inside, it is all heavily coloured Artex, frosted carriage lamps of the kind commonly sold by Homebase, and odd things hanging from the walls — a guitar, a bucket, a bongo drum, the sort of oil paintings most frequently seen in the windows of Sue Ryder shops. But, and here's the good news, it is unbelievably chock-a-block, absolutely buzzing. And it's buzzing with all kinds of folk — middle-aged couples, gay couples in Milk Tray polo-necks, an ancient couple with their grandchildren, a long table of twentysomethings obviously celebrating a birthday. A little neighbourhood gem, I'm beginning to think. Oh, clever, clever me, to have randomly hit upon this place in these difficult times.
The food? Gastropub international, I would say, which is what British cuisine is now anyway. There's quite a pasta-heavy main menu, but also a blackboard of specials, with everything most reasonably priced: starters £2.504,5, mains £5–£10. I start with the salad of artichokes with feta cheese and red peppers, which, aside from being very fresh and delicious, is absolutely enormous, a meal in itself. This is the opposite of nouvelle cuisine. Vieille cuisine? My son has the moules mariniere (wonderfully garlicky) while my partner has the baby squid stuffed with prawns and tomato/oregano risotto. 'First-class,' he says. 'Well cooked, unpretentious.' By this time, I've practically worked myself up into a self-congratulatory frenzy, but then comes the next course. Oh, dear. I have the salmon Wellington, described as 'chunks of salmon with capers, dill, garlic and spinach in puff pastry, served with goat's cheese and pomado sauce'. And? Again, it's huge but, sadly, as dry as anything, almost wholly flavourless, with no sign of pomado sauce and a rather congealed blob of goat's cheese straddling the top. I think I get through about a quarter of it. My partner has the marinated pork medallions in beer served with mushroom risotto and peppercorn sauce, which he describes as 'incredibly disappointing. Pork as tough as old leather. Badly cooked, pretentious.'
I'm not quite sure why it's so buzzingly busy. Perhaps it's the service, which is efficient and friendly. Perhaps it's the large, cheap portions. Perhaps we just made the wrong choices. But pecker up, it's still the most gorgeous day. Indeed, see how the warm breeze, gently blowing through the open window, plays with the papers on my desk. My desk is from Iraq. too. It was a bugger to assemble. I agree. Took me the best part of a week, during which time I did, indeed, curse the Iraqi people who'd promised me it would be dead simple, so long as I held the instructions the right way up this time. Still, I don't think this, either, is sufficient reason to send in the British troops and bomb them. They are only doing their job, after all. Toodle-pip!
Small and Beautiful, 171 Blackstock Road, London N5; tel: 020 7359 9068.
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