1Dish4TheRoad
"1 Dish 4 The Road".. Fusing food writing with whatever else I find on the road – fiction, history, poetry, humour, diversity, family stories & London.

Timeless Pleasures at Paul Rothe & Son

Paul Rothe & Son sandwich counter chalkboard menu full of different types of fillings

 

A scrawled blackboard menu usually signifies a food offering that’s in constant flux, a snapshot of the moment – miss it and it may be gone forever. At Paul Rothe & Son however, whose expansive blackboard menu sails over the sandwich counter like a celebratory birthday banner, it indicates a place that’s indefatigably old-school, where nothing really changes, a steadfast bulwark against the whims and fads of modern city life. For this place has been around since 1900, handed down the generations like a treasured family heirloom.

Stepping through the chocolate box frontage, and you’re stepping back in time, into an Aladdin’s cave of condiments, a magical place of heaving shelves and shimmering jars. The counter is lined with bowl after bowl of pâté and pickles, mixes and fillers, home-roasted meats and deli delights – all ready to be layered between slices of bread or the embrace of a bun. Or, if you’re feeling particularly exotic: a ciabatta.

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Breakfasts and Blessings – Rituals and Spaces in Synagogues and the Regency Cafe

The exterior of the iconic Art Deco Regency Cafe in London.

 

“Ko-ha-nim…“

The cantor stands on the bimah, the raised platform in the centre of the synagogue, facing out towards the East, towards Jerusalem, towards where the Holy Temple once stood, before it was destroyed by the Babylonians, and then rebuilt, and then destroyed again, this time by the Romans, and yet whose legacy is such that it remains a spiritual lodestone, to where all synagogues are orientated, all the synagogues around the world.

The cantor now addresses the kohanim: the segment of the community who affiliate as descendants of the biblical priestly class. They shuffle in as one, cloaked in white tallis prayer shawls, setting themselves in a row at the front. Then, turning silently to face the congregation, they slowly raise their arms aloft, as is the tradition for this prayer.

And then they chant.

 

*

 

“Set beans, set tomatoes, hash browns. Any sauce?..”

The Regency Cafe is an old-school caff in the heart of Westminster: an old cabbies’ haunt where the drivers take their early morning victuals before a long day crisscrossing the city streets and circumventing its dysfunctional ring roads.

Nowadays, you’ll find more international tourists than taxi drivers, lured by glowing reviews in guide books, or its many featured cameos in films aiming to portray a characterful slice of London. Still, there’s always a smattering of old-timers and greasy-spoon traditionalists, and the occasional gang of ravenous construction workers on a morning break. It does the best fry-ups in town.

But more than that, thanks to an operation that stretches for almost eight decades, and a proud management with nostalgic sensibilities, the place is awash with rituals and symbols. And that is why visits here, however obliquely, remind me of synagogue.

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Goats, Stews and Stories; Ayamase at Chishuru

Nigerian goats ayamase stew at Brixton restaurant Chishuru

Goats have a habit of finding themselves in stews and stories. It’s their fate, their destiny, and it’s been like that for over ten thousand years…

 

🐐

 

According to a Nigerian folk tale, there was once a rich man, who went by the name of Abdullahi. He owned a considerable number of cattle, sheep and, most of all, goats. However, he was a lonely man, with no family or friends for company.

One day, he met the judge of the town, who advised that when he died, all his cattle, sheep and goats would pass to the chief.

‘I don’t want the chief getting all these things,’ replied Abdullahi disgruntledly. ‘I’d rather sell them and enjoy life while I still can.’

Now words have the habit of catching on the wind, and little did Abdullahi know that he’d been overheard by the town rascal, who was already hatching mischief with his gang.

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A Warm Embrace at HALWA POORI HOUSE

Halwa poori plate of three dishes: halwa, poori, and aloo ki tarakari

I peer up at the news. I don’t understand what’s being said, but I find myself transfixed anyway.

Urdu flows along the bottom of the screen, the white script drifting over a ribbon of azure, like passing clouds on a sunny day. I wish I could read it, then I’d know what the item is about.

At the centre of the screen, a man talks intently to the camera; he looks very serious. For some reason, they have projected his image onto each corner of the picture: a multi-headed hydra in beard, suit and glasses. My eyes struggle to settle, flitting incessantly from head to head.

A waiter beside me is also gazing up at the five-headed man. He occasionally nods, sometimes strokes his chin, and every so often frowns. Either way he is resting on every word.

My curiosity eventually gets the better of me. I reach for my phone, and search up Pakistani ARY News. A series of English headlines flash over my screen:

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Nutmeg Custard Tart at FENN – A Journey into Dairy-based Nostalgia

Nutmeg custard tart with slices of rhubarb served at Fenn restaurant in Fulham

“And could I interest you in some dessert?…” asks the waiter.

“Erm.. okay, go on then” I reply, feigning a momentary hesitation as though dessert hasn’t even crossed my mind when, to be honest, it’s the main reason I’m even here.

Of course, the waiter probably sees through my little charade, my phony tango of will-I-won’t-I; he’s seen it all before. In fact, of the two of us, it is I who ends up being deceived – for what I’m yet to realise is that I’m not really here for the pudding, but for the past…

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