Anthony Leahy, Contributor's Profile Page
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04-02-2021
I usually have a phobic fear of any eatery that insists on communal seating and an elbow-to-elbow dining experience, but Wagamama is the exception to the rule.
Once you’ve shaken the fear of being noodle splashed by a total stranger, you rapidly buy into the slick and efficient operation that underpins the whole Wagamama experience. From the hand-held device used to take your order through to the cryptic markings the waiting staff pencil on your place mat (lets the waiting staff know who is getting what…or maybe its simple abuse?) you are elevated above the carcinogenic pap of MacShite.
I’m a creature of habit so I rarely looked beyond my usual order of a Chilli Chicken Ramen (noodles, stock, various bits of veg’ and chicken); I usually encourage my eating companion to order something I haven’t tried and then use them as my surrogate food taster (taster being the operative word as I usually end up finishing their plate in true fat-cat-capitalist style).
The food is definitely Japanese food for a western palate, but it is fresh, tasty and delivered with ruthless efficiency.
Assuming it’s not too busy, you can usually use your powers of telepathy to gently persuade your greeter to seat you at a prime spot (away from the kitchen, nowhere near the front door and well situated in case a bevy of local celebrities come to dine). Enjoy!
Once you’ve shaken the fear of being noodle splashed by a total stranger, you rapidly buy into the slick and efficient operation that underpins the whole Wagamama experience. From the hand-held device used to take your order through to the cryptic markings the waiting staff pencil on your place mat (lets the waiting staff know who is getting what…or maybe its simple abuse?) you are elevated above the carcinogenic pap of MacShite.
I’m a creature of habit so I rarely looked beyond my usual order of a Chilli Chicken Ramen (noodles, stock, various bits of veg’ and chicken); I usually encourage my eating companion to order something I haven’t tried and then use them as my surrogate food taster (taster being the operative word as I usually end up finishing their plate in true fat-cat-capitalist style).
The food is definitely Japanese food for a western palate, but it is fresh, tasty and delivered with ruthless efficiency.
Assuming it’s not too busy, you can usually use your powers of telepathy to gently persuade your greeter to seat you at a prime spot (away from the kitchen, nowhere near the front door and well situated in case a bevy of local celebrities come to dine). Enjoy!
04-02-2021
Situated in the middle of Parkway, The Earl of Camden has the kind of deceptively inviting interior that seduces drinkers into believing they’ve scaled another rung of the social ladder (it’s easy to be impressed by the absence of smoke-stained interiors or flea-infested soft furnishings).
Devoid of gnarled and cantankerous regulars, the clientele is a blend of skinny jean clad boys and sumptuous numbers of young women so obviously beyond the reach of mere mortals that there’s no point plying them with wit and charm.
Once you’ve looked past the soft leather armchairs and distressed wooden floorboards, you soon come to realise that it’s little more than a faux All Bar One. In comparison to other ‘residents’ of Parkway, it lacks the piss stained non-conformist attitude of The Dublin Castle, or the sub ‘old man boozer’ quality of The Spread Eagle. Indeed, The Earl of Camden is a veritable banquet of 'meh'.
The draught beers on offer appear to have been finished in casks formerly used as latrines. The uniquely sulphur-like taste that accompanies every mouthful of (any) pint makes for a slightly unpleasant drinking experience. The tragic aspect of this tale is that this pub is one of the few in Central London that serves Decuchars.
The bar staff are your usual collection of drifters who care little for your woes or their legal obligation to provide a full pint. Once you’ve warmed their surly, hate-ridden hearts to the idea of serving you, you’ll find their service to be inefficient and impersonal.
The food on offer is just as unremarkable, so don’t expect Michelin star cuisine or gastro-pub style fare (Parkway is well served by enough restaurants to negate the need to consume frozen burgers).
In terms of positives – of which there are few – it does offer a multitude of television screens showing whatever game Sky has chosen to inflict upon you. It’s an ideal venue for the lunchtime Saturday kick-offs, both in terms of screen visibility and the availability of seats.
Avoid this pub unless you’re nursing a hangover (soft drinks rarely manage to insult the palate) and have a pressing need to watch football.
Devoid of gnarled and cantankerous regulars, the clientele is a blend of skinny jean clad boys and sumptuous numbers of young women so obviously beyond the reach of mere mortals that there’s no point plying them with wit and charm.
Once you’ve looked past the soft leather armchairs and distressed wooden floorboards, you soon come to realise that it’s little more than a faux All Bar One. In comparison to other ‘residents’ of Parkway, it lacks the piss stained non-conformist attitude of The Dublin Castle, or the sub ‘old man boozer’ quality of The Spread Eagle. Indeed, The Earl of Camden is a veritable banquet of 'meh'.
The draught beers on offer appear to have been finished in casks formerly used as latrines. The uniquely sulphur-like taste that accompanies every mouthful of (any) pint makes for a slightly unpleasant drinking experience. The tragic aspect of this tale is that this pub is one of the few in Central London that serves Decuchars.
The bar staff are your usual collection of drifters who care little for your woes or their legal obligation to provide a full pint. Once you’ve warmed their surly, hate-ridden hearts to the idea of serving you, you’ll find their service to be inefficient and impersonal.
The food on offer is just as unremarkable, so don’t expect Michelin star cuisine or gastro-pub style fare (Parkway is well served by enough restaurants to negate the need to consume frozen burgers).
In terms of positives – of which there are few – it does offer a multitude of television screens showing whatever game Sky has chosen to inflict upon you. It’s an ideal venue for the lunchtime Saturday kick-offs, both in terms of screen visibility and the availability of seats.
Avoid this pub unless you’re nursing a hangover (soft drinks rarely manage to insult the palate) and have a pressing need to watch football.
04-02-2021
One of the few pubs in London that doesn’t have a policy of burning Manchester United fans in wicker effigies. The landlord, Gerry, flits between buoyant humour and simmering fury – gender and ease on the eye being the tiebreakers – but that’s the price you pay for impunity. No surprises in terms of the beer on tap, but the Sunday lunch his wife, Mary, cooks is more restorative that the waters of Lourdes. The punters are your usual blend of old Irish men, locals and the occasional tourist who needs to use the toilet.
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