ncreasingly over recent months, a number of people have suggested
I try a Greek–Cypriot restaurant called Vrisaki, which I have resisted until now mainly because it's in N22, which is Bounds Green, and is much further north than I would ever usually go. Indeed, as far as I am concerned. London pretty much ends at N10 (Muswell Hill, where Space NK has its very last outpost) and anything beyond that is just being silly. But everyone seems to be talking about the place: it recently won the Evening Standard/London Tonight Restaurant Award (as voted for by the public) and you now have to book a couple of weeks in advance. So, N22 it bravely is, with a girlfriend of mine rather than my son who, ever since school finished, has been lounging about and nagging me to get off the computer and basically just getting on my nerves. He's 11 now, and bigger and stronger than me, so I have to rely solely on mental cruelty rather than physical intimidation to keep him in his place. 'Why can't I come, Mum?' he asks. 'Because,' I say. The great thing about mental cruelty is that it doesn't have to be that sophisticated.
My friend, by the way, has a son the same age as mine and used to live next door to us. I remember particularly when they were toddlers, and her son started a 'wormery' which prompted my son, who is fiercely competitive, to start his own 'buggery' — a jar containing, if I recall rightly, a onewinged ladybird and several frightened ants. I kept telling him it was an 'INSECT FARM!', but he wouldn't have it. 'Do you want to come over and do buggery?' he'd call out to my friend's son over the hedge. Oh, how my friend and I laughed all the way to Islington social services where we were held for only a few days before being released. Now, where were we? Oh yes, off to N22 and, in particular, the tediously named Myddleton Road, which, fittingly, turns out to be very tedious indeed. Largely residential, lots of pebble-dashing and stonecladding, with a small parade of shops in the middle including a newsagent, a convenience store that does a nice line in black bananas and mouldy onions, and Vrisaki itself. Now, don't be put off by the Vrisaki façade. It certainly looks like any other post-pub kebab place, particularly as the front is given over to the takeaway part of the business. But press on through into the back and, well, there are two cavernous rooms, already bustling and jam-packed even though it's a weekday night and still only 7.30 p.m. Now, you don't come to Vrisaki for the decor, that's for sure. Mostly, it's all woodchip, hilariously bad oils of scenes from back home, and even an old wagon wheel on one wall. (Actually, I might have imagined that. But if it didn't have an old wagon wheel on a wall, it should have, if you know what I mean.) And I don't think you come for the waiters, who are Greek and swarthy, pot bellied and largely 60-ish and not especially good-humoured. 'What does Vrisaki mean?' I ask our waiter as we sit down. He says something under his breath rather begrudgingly — it might have been 'fountain' — before swiftly insect-farming off, So, you don't come here for the address. Or the decor. Or the charming service. Which can mean only? You come here for the food! It's a good job, frankly, that you have me to work these things out for you.
The menu? Well, you can order the traditional Greek stuff — moussaka. kleftiko, shish kebab, for just a few quid each — but the thing to have, we'd been told, is the mezze, a little bit of everything, for £16 a head. So we order two, which prompts the rather Essexy chap in the England shirt on the next table to lean over and say, 'You ain't been 'ere before, 'ave you?' We have not, we confess. He simply looks at us pityingly. The service is fast, and our starters arrive almost immediately. Olives, hummus, minced aubergine, parsley and coriander rice salad, butter beans in some kind of tomato sauce. 'Thanks,' we say. 'Super.' The waiter grunts. Mr Football Shirt looks on knowingly. More comes. Mixed seafood, taramasalata, samphire, crab salad, marinated prawns. 'Thanks. Super.' More comes: tzatziki, chickpeas, warm pitta, a tuna mush thing. 'Enough!' we cry. Yet more comes. Vast garlicky field mushrooms, spicy sausages, . . . this is turning into a memory game. All in all, 25 starters! Twenty-five! 'Bloody hell,' we say. 'The fing is,' says Football Shirt, 'you should just order one mezze between two.' 'Oh, insect-farm off,' we do not say, because we are cowards. 'Good advice,' we do say. 'Nice shirt.' The starters are delicious. We unwisely stuff ourselves, because next it's onion-stuffed aubergine, smoked salmon rolls, butterfly prawns, kalamari, a whole, beautifully fresh fish cooked on the open charcoal fires (as everything is), huge grilled prawns. Then lamb kebabs, chicken legs . . . as it happens, we are defeated by the time the meat course arrives and ask for it to be put in a box to be taken home. The staff are happy to do this.
Vrisaki is great: a fantastic local restaurant with a lively atmosphere serving implausibly plentiful portions of topquality food at remarkable prices. Vrisaki knows what it does and does it brilliantly. It may even be worth the trip to N22. In fact, now I think about it, I'm insectfarmed if I know of a better place.
Vrisaki Kebab House, 73 Myddleton Road, N22. Tel: 020 8881 2920.
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