RESTAURANTS

OK, I'm in the mood for getting right down to it this week. Yes, you heard right. I'm going to get right down to it without any rambling, shilly-shallying, time-wasting tours of my pathetic home life or other distractions, such as pondering on life's imponderables; which is impossible, actually, when you think about it, because if something is imponderable, how can you ponder on it? But, then, if you didn't ponder on it, how would you know that it was imponderable? So, I shall ponder away. Tell me, why isn't there mouseflavoured cat food? And, if you followed to the letter the 'lather, rinse, repeat' instructions on a bottle of shampoo, would you ever be able to stop? And, if love is blind, how come lingerie is so popular? And if. . . now I've ruined it. haven't I? I haven't got straight down to it at all. I'm a disgrace. The other week I said that if I were to meet myself, I might quite like myself, but now I've changed my mind. Now I think that if I met myself, I would find me extremely irritating and would give me a big fat bop on the nose. In fact, even though I am me, I'm going to give myself a big fat bop on the nose. There. Just done it. It bloody hurt. If only my reflexes were quicker, I might have been able to dodge it.

Still, I'll try again. If at first you don't succeed, fly, try, try again. That's what they say, isn't it? And I guess it goes for most things, apart from positive HIV tests and the like. So, straight down to it. Well, there I was on Sunday evening, panicking rather, because my copy deadline is Monday lunchtime and I'd done nothing, been nowhere, eaten just the usual rubbish, and would likely get sacked by Boris who would, I'm sure, do it nicely — 'Look, old sport, I've got some rather unripping news for you... ' — but a sacking is a sacking and I'd find it hard not to cry. So I thought: I know. I'll get the local directory, open it at 'Restaurants', close my eyes, stick in a pin and that's where we will go. So that's what I did. I opened the Thomson Local Directory, closed my eyes, jabbed with a pin and what did I get? I got Busan on the Holloway Road, the only entry under 'Restaurant: Korean'. It was in very, very small type which, at that point, was OK, because I'd yet to bop myself on the nose and so was not suffering from double vision. So I put it to the family: we're going Korean tonight. And?

They were fine about it, probably because it seemed quite a World Cuppish thing to do and they're mad for the World Cup. Our son is already practising the tummy ache he's going to have when there is a big match on at noon on a school day. Our son, actually, is more up for it than anyone because he's never had Korean before and is the most adventurous eater, the opposite of fussy. I'm not quite sure why this is so, except that when he was little and I'd say to him. 'Look, you'd better eat that, because if you don't, there is nothing else,' he knew that it was true. There would be nothing else in the house. I am the most rubbish housewife. I hate fussy children. Indeed, I have one niece who is so fussy that she'll eat only white bread, pasta sauce that has to be a certain shade of reddish pink, and fish goujons but not fishfingers. Why she will eat fish goujons and not fishfingers is anyone's guess. Anyway, one time she came over and I'd forgotten about this goujons/fishfingers thing and, being the rubbish housewife I am, all I could find was a packet of fishfingers that had been in the freezer for ever, if not longer. 'Please, will you eat fishfingers?' I begged. 'No,' she said. So, yes, I spent much of the afternoon defrosting fishfingers and trying to reshape them so that they looked goujonish. But was she fooled? 'What are those?' she asked. `Goujons,' I said. `No they're not. They're squashed fishfingers,' she said. 'Don't be ridiculous,' I said. 'Do I look like the sort of person who'd spend the afternoon trying to make fishfingers look like goujons?' Yes,' she said. She pleaded for six ice-pops and a packet of Quavers instead, but did I give in? Yes, although I did hold Out for about four seconds. Is this yet another glimpse into my pathetic home-life? I'm failing on all counts today, aren't I? The moment I recover from that bop on the nose, I think I'll give myself another one.

So, off to the Holloway Road, which, of all the major roads that bisect London, must be down there with the North Circular as one of the most charmless. Busan, it turns out, is situated up near Highbury Corner and next to a small weighing-machine factory. In we go and, from the moment we do, I know that I've hit on a little gem. I'm not quite sure how I know. I just do. It's not smart. Quite the opposite. The walls are decorated with rather lurid Korean prints, and apart from that I can't remember a thing about the inside except that it felt less like a restaurant and more like the extension of someone's front-room. The first page of the menu is a little welcoming note from the owners, Lee and Kim, and I guess that Kim is also the waitress. Kim is petite, beautiful, serenely elegant. At 7.30 p.m. there is only one other table occupied, but the place suddenly fills rapidly and is pretty much full by 8 p.m.. What is more, a lot of the diners are oriental-looking, which must be a good sign. Plus, a lot of them seem to be regulars, which must be an equally good sign.

We order. For my starter, I order Kim Chi, 'pickled cabbage in Korean traditional spicy sauce', at £2. I don't know why I order this; must just be in the mood for pickled cabbage, I guess. It's delicious. It's large chunks of juicy cabbage in the most gorgeous, subtle chilli sauce. Next, we order three dishes to share. We order Se Woo Fry ('breaded and deep-fried prawns served with vegetables' at f7.90). 0 Jing 0 Bokuyrn (fried squid with vegetables in a hot chilli sauce' at £6.90) and Bulgogi (prime sirloin steak marinated in a traditional Korean sauce, cooked at your table and served with lettuce, carrots and bean-paste sauce' at f7.80). It was all terrific: very fresh, with none of the MSG gloopiness you get at so many bog-standard, high-street oriental restaurants. The Bulgogi is, indeed, cooked at the table by Kim with a little gas-burner thingy and a wok. You then wrap the meat in crisp lettuce with some of the bean-paste sauce. It's heaven, even though midway though cooking at the table Kim gets distracted by someone jogging past.

'Oh, look who's jogging past. It's the MP,' she says.

'Which MP?' I ask.

'The local one.'

'Chris Smith?'

'No, although he often comes in for a take-away.'

'Jeremy Corbyn?'

'No, the blond one.'

'Not. . Boris Johnson?'

'Yes. And he sometimes comes in for a take-away, too.'

I am minded to run after him, yes, but, as I've already said, my reflexes are useless and by the time I peer out of the window he is gone. Or at least [think that he's gone. I peer and peer and peer. and I do see something very bright and glowing up on Highbury Corner. It could be Boris but, then again, it could just be a traffic light turning amber. Still, I've dined in the restaurant Boris Johnson jogs past, which must count for something and might even delay my sacking. Although I'm not that bothered about getting the sack, actually, because it would give me more time to ponder on life's imponderables, such as: if you try to fail hut succeed, which have you actually done? Hmm.

Busan Korean Restaurant, 43 Holloway Road, London N7. Tel: 020 76078264.