Of Poles and Twiglets

A new cuisine for the sophisticated London diner to experiment with

Ahmet is Turkish-English. He was born in Willesden, raised in Istanbul, then moved back to join his family here ten years ago. His shop, The Hamilton Stores, 2 minutes from my front door, sells fresh vegetables, household goods, inexspensive booze, and newspapers, from eight until midnight every day. It also has lots of little exotic items that reflect his Southern European heritage: crunchy sweet halva, a huge selection of fresh spices, bright tubes of Harissa.

A few months ago, these were joined, as they have been in almost every shop in the capital, by Okocim lager, aspic (last used in an English kitchen around 1930), a long shelf of pickles and perserves, and a large selection of salted pork products that sit oddly next to the Halal meat counter. A hand-written sign in the window informs the customer ‘Polski Sklep’ – Ahmet doesn’t know what it means, but he’s seen it on the windows of Polish-owned Delis and cornershops, and reckons it’s worth a go.

The reason for the presence of all these odd new things is obvious to everyone: London has just seen the largest immigration in its history. The most extreme tabloid estimates suggest that as many as half-a-million Poles have passed through the doors of Victoria Coach Station, and while we should take these estimates with a large pinch of paprika, Londoners do clearly have a whole new cuisine to learn.

My first experiments with cooking Polish (buy a few ingredients, hit google for recipes, invite sympathetic friends round) were not a great success. On the plus side, it did provide a wonderful excuse to drink vodka like students, and the Okocim was a cut above the horrible fizzy stuff that is the traditional drink of the British male. Unfortunately, a portion of Kielbasa Sausage with Sauerkraut and Bacon was delicious, but slightly higher in calories than a Double McLard Burger with Fat-Dipped Fries (or whatever those obese kids are eating nowadays) and the sour cream-smothered blinis were just as bad.

For this reason, Polish food is clearly on course to replace light, pretty Japanese dishes at fashionable dinner parties and £150-a-head restaurants. With the London Fashion Awards planning on banning unhealthily thin models, a big plate of duck-fat soup is the only way all the anorexic Twiglet-women of London Society will be able to put on enough weight to be allowed onstage. And for the rest of us, it offers an excellent excuse for getting drunk. Na zdrowie, everyone!

Return to Bender

“Drinkers Corner, Brockwell Park, Herne Hill” received its first ever official delivery of mail this month. A postcard sent by a London drunk on holiday by the sea was successfully delivered to his chums sitting in the outer corner of a south London park. Penned by “Pete”, the missive informed its recipients that the sender was “p***ed as a newt” and “having a great time on the coast”.

On the Thatchwalk

London’s biggest display of fashion trends had an unexpected muse this year. The tailored suits, square shoulders, crisp shirts and subdues tones that adorned the runways of London Fashion Week paid tribute to the clothing Conservative of Margaret Thatcher and the 80s. Shoulder pad anyone?

Height Club

After standing empty and unused for at least a decade, London’s iconic, Grade II listed Centre Point building has won itself a makeover. The Tottenham Court Road tower is to have its top three floors turned into private members’ club, complete with restaurant and vertigo-enhancing views. Better sign up fast – celebs including Graham Norton and Stephen Fry are already eating into the members list.

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