O perfil de marie_f

There are few things more disappointing than a bad curry. Curry nights are social; they’re catching up with friends and rolling home stuffed with delicious gossip and delicious food. But if the food isn’t up to scratch, then that night won’t be remembered as 'the time when Rachel told us that outrageous story that made us burst with laughter’, it’ll be 'that time when we ingested three litres of vegetable oil’.

Mirch Masala is bad curry. And I’m suprised, because we went there on a recommendation - that despite the basic appearance - canteen-style pale veneer tables and bare interior - that the food was good. And it isn’t.

Starting with odd poppadums that looked suspiciously like the packet ones you get in the supermarket - too round, and oddly spiced with large coriander seeds - not at all to anyone’s liking. The starters seemed more promising - odd explosions of onion bhaji - loose strands in crispy heaps, rather than the traditional ball, and some very spicy chilli paneer. But it all went tragically wrong with the mains. A terrible keema which was totally the wrong colour, and the kind of awful, soft, meaty mince texture that proves difficult to swallow. My saag chicken was a bowl of the most tasteless spinach and foul little lumps of chicken, but the most offputting thing about it was the inch of oil swimming on the surface. I do not exaggerate when I say it was pooled above the surface in dark, glistening yellow puddles, and I just couldn’t bear to break the surface and go fishing for another disgusting morsel. Two tentative forkfuls were enough and the rest sat glimmering menacingly.

All in all, a rather sad culinary experience, reinforced by sad little touches like the decor and the horrible mishapen plastic baskets they brought the naan out in. And, to top it all off, it’s more expensive than many others in the area - £7 for the spinach-in-oil and the same again for the keema-mush.

If I haven’t got an upset stomach within the next hour or so, I’ll be mightily suprised. Best avoided.

The George is a Wetherspoon’s pub, and, as such, it is totally devoid of history, character or charm. On the upside, of course, the drinks are cheap, and for a significany number of people, that’s a priority. Hence, Spoonie’s pubs attract penny-counting pensioners and students, and gaggles of after-work inhabitants of nearby offices, who don’t want to spend real money socialising with that twerp from the accounts department; The George is no different, apart from perhaps during shopping hours, when it gets in a new demographic: exhausted shoppers in search of cheap and quick food and a reviving pint. One key advantage is that its sheer size means your odds of finding a table are better than in many other places nearby.

Ultimately, I think The George, and Wetherspoons in general, are to the pub world what McDonalds and its ilk are to the restaurant trade: it’s not the real thing, but it has its place and it serves a purpose.

The Queen’s Gardens are a funny old bit of Croydon, tucked away between Taberner House and the Town Hall, away from the crowds in the town centre. It’s not a park in the traditonal dog-walking or running sense of the term, more just a relaxing green space for people to sit in and take ten minutes to unwind - something we get precious little of these days.

Because the gardens are sunk below pavement level, you are protected somewhat from the noise of the traffic on nearby Park Lane, and can chill out for a few moments on a bench, contemplating how different the scene must have been last century when this was part of the railway line!

As a student, I used to be lucky enough to live just a road or two away from the Columbia Road flower market, and I have never lived in such a colourful house. Our Sunday morning ritual involved crawling from our beds and walking our hangovers down to the market to collect armfuls of whatever was going cheap to adorn our living room - ginger lillies, roses, daffs - we weren’t fussy. But before collecting the flowers, we would duck into the food stalls off the courtyards on the left-hand side of the main road and stock up from the deli and bakery - almond and chocolate croissants, olives as big as our fists - piles of handmade goodies and treats to see us through the rest of the weekend and into the working week.

If this sounds decadent, it was, and the luxury of this spot and the goods on offer seems far removed from some of the sink estates which border it, but don’t let that put you off. The market is always busy and lively and you will come home laden with all manner of goodies, the like of which you never though east London could produce.

Leadenhall market is one of those little historic surprises that the city likes to keep tucked up its sleeve for you, and at no time of year is it more beautiful than in the run up to to Christmas.

Year round, the wrought-iron structure is a lovely place to walk through, but the addition of the huge Christmas tree in the centre turns the whole place into something magical. The shops within may not be anything spectacular - and nothing you wouldn’t get elsewhere, but it’s worth a visit just to admire the Victorians’ sense of space and presence with which they imbued their buildings. Best enjoyed from outside the Lamb with a pint in hand.

St Dunstans, just to the east of the city, between Monument and Tower Hill, is the bombed-out ruins of a medieval church which has been turned into a surprisingly tranquil spot in the heart of London.

Whilst much of the older part of the church was destroyed by the bombing campaign, the Wren tower, which had been added later, survived, and can still be seen in the gardens. Unlike other sites, the decision was made not to rebuild the church, and today it is a patch of greenery hemmed in by the ruined walls, much beloved by office workers in the area for summer lunches, but St Dunstans has something to offer at any time of year, and any time of day: for a dewy spot to enjoy your early morning coffee, or a crisp wintery breath of air, it gives a welcome break from its towering modern neighbours.

It’s astonishing how many people must walk past the almshouses every day without giving a second thought to what they are and why there are there.

This beautiful building is just one of the legacies which John Whitgift left to Croydon about 500 years ago. That it still survives when so much of the town has been replaced with concrete and glass is a small miracle. Opposite the almshouses, you used to able to sit in a small raised area (dubbed locally 'pigeon s**t square’ until it was demolished to make way for the tram), but now the corner is very much busier, and it is increasingly difficult to stop and take in the Tudor brickwork, the tiny windows and over-sized chimneys. If you turn your back to Primark, and claim one of the benches for 5 minutes, you might start to imagine what Croydon was like before the advent of the high street.

Ah, the Mudlark: the perfect spot for after-work drinks - within spitting distance of the city and London Bridge. Over the past couple of years I’ve lost many hours to the charms of its umbrella-ed in beer garden.

If you want a seat, you need to get in quickly once people start leaving work - the Mudlark fills up quickly inside and out during the week, though at the weekend you’ll find you have the run of the place if you pop in.

Sitting ouside you can enjoy the sounds of passing trains, and the view of the side of Southwark cathedral, while sampling the pots of bar snacks - pistacios and spicey rice puff things coming highly recommended.

I love the George. Or, rather, I love its big courtyard and the bar which opens through a hatch to the outside, so you don’t need to battle in to the main saloon to stock up on drinks for the smokers.

The building itself is low and dark and oozing with London history, but you do need to position yourself quite carefully so that your view of it isn’t ruined by the modern office blocks that make up the other three sides of the courtyard.

As it’s slightly further away from the city than haunts like the Mudlark or the Anchor, the George has that slight air of secretiveness, and you feel rather clever for knowing about it, but visit in mid-summer and you will find you are not the only Londoner who knows about its outdoor charms and leaded-window delights.

There are some people who would say that al fresco, riverside drinking in November is just plain stupid. My intellectual retort to this arguement is: PAH!

If you have a hood on your coat, a pair of pink striped mittens, a full bottle of wine and a packet of cigarettes, there is nothing the British weather can throw at you for which you are not prepared.

And, by this rationale, so began an evening of drinking in the Anchor Bankside. Or, rather, outside it.

I have to admit, I don’t think I’ve ever actually drunk inside this pub. The outside patio area on the Thames is so alluring that we always, but always, sit outside: in the summer, when it’s bursting with drinkers and you’ll be hard pressed to find a table, and on nights like tonight, when we were the only crazy people choosing to be buffeted by the wind and rain under the billowing and creaking awnings… The Anchor is the perfect spot for a bit of people-watching and putting the world to rights.