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.

View Post

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:

View Post

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…

View Post

TOWPATH – Past, Present, Future

Towpath Cafe in Haggerston, London, with people eating breakfast on tables close to the canal

 

May 1820, Navvies’ camp, Haggerstone village

Danny looks disconsolately down at his breakfast: six rashers of leathery bacon – more fat than flesh – a small crusty loaf of day-old bread, and a tankard of insipid beer.

‘Stare at it any longer, Danny, and the crows will make off with it,’ remarks the woman serving the food.

‘Crows widnae dare go near this shit,’ replies Danny, taking a last couple of swift drags on a clay pipe, which he then duly lets fall to the ground.

‘You might be right, there,’ she mutters, stealing a glance towards the kitchen. ‘Best be on your way anyhow – you’re holding up the line.’

Danny shrugs, and slinks off to the table nearest the stall. At the far end, the Irish crew are in fine voice despite the early hour, singing like it’s a veritable feast day. On the other side, the English are already on their second pints. No Scots as yet though: he has the table to himself.

View Post

‘A Tale of Two Fish Balls’ – Trini Saltfish Fritters & Grandma’s Gefilte

A plate of Trinidadian fish fritters, alongside Jewish gefilte fish.

Brixton has an energy, a palpable energy, that I love. From the stalls that line Electric Avenue and Atlantic Road, to the shop frontages that spill out onto the streets, there’s often a buzz as the traders go about their business, hollering out the specials, or just casually chit-chatting under the tarpaulin.

This neighbourhood may be attracting the unsavoury attention of developers and landlords, who prefer to see it in terms of profit and turnover, rather than communities and livelihoods. But for now, the markets keep on going, nourishing and sustaining the various communities that call Brixton home: West African, Caribbean, Latin American, and many others besides.

And then there are the outsiders like me, who come for a few hours at a time. Like I am today – making the most of a glorious summer’s day, and a momentary lull in the global pandemic.

So after months where home has been both a haven and a fortress, I’m venturing out of my hibernation, stretching out stiff limbs, breathing in air that seems unusually fresh, and reconnecting with the outside world.

View Post