Another east restaurant...

...as I fortunately remembered after L and I ran away from the work thing we were supposed to be doing on Friday night... given we were in the vicinity of Befnal Green, we decided to rock up to Bistroteque, a brilliant venue tucked away in possibly the most unassuming building on the most unassuming street ever. I've not been there for ages but was reminded why I love it: the bar is a fabulous shade of gun metal, mixed with flea market chairs, chandeliers and beautiful people; upstairs the restuarant is simple, loud, and on saturday nights, host to some lip-syncing trannies. Still, if that's what I'm looking for I guess I don't need to travel so far... one of these days I am going to get to the Royal Vauxhall Tavern (original home to Lily Savage), which I used to walk past in envy most days for how much fun its crowd always seems to be having. You don't have to be gay... but I think it helps...

Eastern promises

I spent large amounts of yesterday trying to deliver on my promise of organising a date, and kicking myself for forgetting that other Londoners are uncannily savvy and always getting in there first, doing annoying things like booking up all the places i'd like to go. However, looking on the bright side, (a) I spent lots of time checking out places that I intend to return to, and (b) I reconnected with the wonderfulness that is Time Out after a couple of months of ignoring it.

And as it happened, eventually a cunning plan came together, which proved to be lovely despite the inevitable lateness-caused-by-rubbish-traffic that always characterises my interactions with any area near Liverpool Street. We wound up at the Eyre Brothers restaurant, where I apparently ordered the thing on the menu designed exclusively for girls (herbs and cress and walnuts, yum) whilst S consumed a steak bigger than my head. This restaurant is text book good - dark wood, delightful waiters who forgave my earlier rudeness on the phone, well-spaced tables, great loos. I gather it is part of the chain that also runs Cigala so I unwittingly have been handing them fistfuls of cash in recent weeks. But I don't really mind cos they're lovely.

From there we went on to Green and Red, which I can't stop calling Green and Blacks, even though I don't even like chocolate much. N was full flow at her leaving do, and it was lovely to see her, and various other former workmates, as well as a surprising number of thinktank boys who all appeared to be there as the arm candy of their girlfriends who were in N's book club. A little out of place amidst music bordering on cheesy in a Mexican basement bar, but still...

It all got a bit messy thanks to sherry mixed with wine mixed with margharitas mixed with rum and cokes, but that was probably a good thing given we more or less walked home thanks to the serious lack of taxis (what was it T was saying about no one taking taxis since Bear Stearns???)

And I now have a whole bank of other nice bars and restaurants i need to pay a visit to in that area... including the Great Eastern Dining Room which looks gorgeous and would contribute to my mission to eat my way round the world without leaving London. Similarly, and coming highly recommended by L, the East room follows the Milk and Honey concept with the whole impossible to find entrance, deliciously dark and sexy interior, and top quality cocktails (not that I particularly want to think about that today). Slightly further afield is the Buen Ayre steak house in 'gritty' Hackney... er... or upmarket Broadway Market, depending on what you're reading... and according to this review, 'a good place to take fat friends to'. genius.

Stop press: booze that helps your memory

Hmm. Not sure about the logic of the argument that vodka in any form can improve your memory, but given the dire state of mine these days I'm willing to give anything a go. So (apart from being a welcome reprieve from last week's turkey and family overload) the Shochu lounge on Charlotte Street came in very handy - it sells shochu, a Japanese version of vodka that comes in hundreds of flavours, including the raspberry one which is the memory-helping infusion. You can also get help for virility, depression, humour (sounds like a number of my dates should be paying this bar a visit...)

The website for this place is bloody annoying but the actual venue is great. Perfect lighting, a wicked gimmick in the form of a HUGE ice block that they use to make the drinks, lots of enticing reds and dark woods which (a) make you feel cocooned and safe and (b) make you want to stay for much longer than you probably should. Clever eh. I'm pretty keen to go back there and try out the restaurant that Shochu hides beneath - Roka, the sister restaurant to Knightsbridge's Zuma, which has had all sorts of mouthwatering reviews.

For the record, despite my eager raspberry shochu drinking efforts, I can't really remember what we did afterwards, but to my shame I think it involved doughballs.

Steaks, mmm

It's a strange fact of my life that everyone always thinks I'm vegetarian. It's a mystery to me, but I'm pleased to declare that I am really rather fond of proper meat these days (although Macdonald's can still go to hell). So sometimes a girl's got to eat steak. Generally speaking, I do it with a glass of red wine in front of a good film on a Sunday night. But I think I may have found a place where I'd like to depart from this ritual. The Bountiful Cow in Holborn is a rare find: a really lovely, warm pub, serving various forms of MEAT (as in proper, hardcore meat - i mean they even had rillettes on the menu), decent sized tables, space. I like. I like a lot.

I haven't yet sampled their food, as I've only been for a drink there (and a strangely comforting and honest conversation with S), but I fully intend to return when it's time for my red meat hit.

Other places that I'd like to eat meat include St John (still not been, in truth I'm a little intimidated), and the Cheyne Walk brasserie, which is possibly one of the prettiest restaurants I've ever been to, and a great line in cooking your steak or whatever on the grill in the restaurant. It's been too long since I ate duck at Mon Plaisir; and one of these days I want to get to Roast in Borough Market.

I don't want to be a grown up

On the cold, wet and miserable day that was Friday, J-J and I fought against the elements, and made it to the champagne bar at St Pancras, as noted in a previous post. What a station. I really loved it - everything from the beautiful blue girders, through to the considerate announcements over the tannoy about a couple who had left a pink bag in their taxi. OK, so the waiting staff were bordering on outrageously rude, but they had great uniforms and frankly nothing was going to get in the way of a J-J/SP night out.

We were remembering previous evenings of fun. Like the time we rocked up at the Met bar at the height of its popularity. Our chances of getting in looked pretty glum, until some considerate soul hurled a cupcake (?? - don't ask me why) out of a window high above us. It landed on my head, and in alarm, the doormen waved us in. Or the time we ended up at G-A-Y getting a little too friendly with some randoms. The less said about that one the better, I think. Endless nights out in the shitty pubs of Westminster village also feature heavily in our back catalogue, alongside a host of random unidentified injuries, embarrassing texts and gender-bending antics. Happy times, guaranteed carnage and a lot of laughter. Who wants to grow up and have dinner parties?

Au revoir, Lav

So tonight I visited the Lavender for the last time and now I'm sad. I've been going there for 6 years now, and still remember the first time I went, with M and my parents, to have a glass of wine and discuss why it was that buying a tiny, almost uninhabitable flat for £250k in Stockwell was such a bad idea (clue: it was none of the reasons stated here).

Since then I've been countless times, but in the last 18 months it really has come into its own as the haven that C and I retreat to every fortnight or so for exactly the same thing (she: chicken, no red wine jus crap, glass of chianti; me: tomato bruschetta and rocket, glass of sauv blanc; us: extensive gossip of all things work and boy related). I am just SO SAD that it is closing. We have yet to formulate a plan B that combines the same things of ridiculous proximity to both of us, great waiters who know us inside out, and guaranteed table.

There are of course other branches, as I well know - after all I did live above one of them for 2 years. The good news is that the closure of 'our' branch sees their pizza oven being donated to the Vox branch. And then there's the one on Lavender Hill. I remember going there once with GJ, only to find their oven was broken (this has happened to me three times, am I a jinx I wonder??) so there was nothing to do other than resort to wine.

Goodbye Lavender, we will miss you.

Railway stations: not just for transit you know

Against all the odds, and because I'm a hopeless romantic (or a transport geek) I love railway stations. So I am *very* excited that I've just arranged a night out at the new champagne bar at St Pancras. Can't wait to see what they've done to the station to restore it. And Paul Day's statue for the new Eurostar terminal gets at why stations can be so very sexy. They're about hellos and goodbyes, departures and arrivals, and as such most of us have at least one or two important and emotional moments that have taken place under the timetable boards, when everything goes still and we become oblivious to the noise of announcements, and the impatient rushing of the commuters determined to get their seat at whatever cost.

The thing is, until St Pancras, there's been nothing to like about stations apart from them being sites of these important moments. So despite the retail hell that characterises most London stations, I'm inexplicably happy every time I go to Paddington, reminded of the many hilarious train journeys I've had with friends as we head down to Cornwall. Victoria reminds me of being a teenager, finally allowed to go out with mates, and always being just a teeny bit panicky that I'd miss the train or end up on the non-stopping one to Bromely South. Kings Cross is somehow more associated with work; every time I'm there I seem to be late, worried the train I need is actually going from Euston, and too short of time to buy coffee.

But I guess it's Waterloo that holds the most history for me. First kisses at the top of the escalators, trips to and from Paris to see G, hell, I was even offered my first ever real job at this station. So why can't we have more stations in the St Pancras/Grand Central station genre, and less in the 'you wanna shit coffee? you wanna queue for 10 hours for a machine that doesn't work? you wanna pay 20p to pee in god-forsaken toilets?' vein. Let's hope that the interest and excitement around the new Eurostar terminal kickstarts a desire to find a way of recognising that curious place that railway stations hold in most of our hearts. And that St Pancras proves that all good stations should have champagne bars. That would make me very happy.

China in your hand

Ever since I went to Shanghai in 2004 I've been on the look out for good Chinese places in London. It's now the standard Time Out line to assert that the days of bad tempered waiters and MSG on Gerrard Street are over; but it's still hard to find places that really hit the spot. I'm not a Chinese purist but what I want is the tastes and colours of the orient. my that sounds colonial.

Of course, there's Hakkasan, where I went, unexpectedly, for dinner with J a few weeks ago. Sadly my unpreparedness meant I was carrying a luminous yellow Snappy Snaps carrier bag. Pure class. Not necessarily my accessory of choice for a place so stuffed with carefully produced women in expensive clothes. However, I don't think it's so much better than Bam-Bou that it can justify its eye-watering prices. Bam-Bou: heaven, via Caprice Holdings. I could eat their salt and pepper beef forever. And the bar at the top is one of the best kept secrets of the west end. Don't really know why I'm talking about it here in fact. Shanghai Blues also deserves a mention - the food's not anything special, but I love their upstairs cocktail bar and they play great jazz.

However, for those times when a full-on meal is not in order, there's always Yauatcha. Though it's not easy to get in there - in which case I am seriously impressed by a new discovery - Dim T. I went to the one on Charlotte Street, but there are others, including one at London Bridge, otherwise known as a depressing food desert. Really good dim sum, amazingly cheap and would you believe it, they even have a branch in Maidstone. That means there is a reason to go to Maidstone. Incredible.

Other places I'd like to try but haven't yet: Pearl Liang (Sheldon Squ), Royal China Club (Baker St), and Bar Shu (Frith St)...

Kensington Roof Gardens

I remember going to this building when it was a big, hot goth's dream. How different it is now... there's the Whole Foods supermarket with canteen (well, next door anyway) and this roof garden which sounds genuinely excellent - and it's a huge 1.5 acres big... Friday and Saturday nights involve Tudor barbeques (??) and a club.

Actually, more reasons to go to Hammersmith

As I was writing about the Lyric, I kept on thinking of other things that are good about Hammersmith. So before I write the whole place off, other things I like about the place:

Riverside Studios. Great double bills on sundays. nice bar overlooking the river, that is much less crowded than some of the manky, chip-stinking, toff-stuffed pubs further down. I've always wanted to live near somewhere like this - art, film, music, good coffee - mmm yes please

The walk from Hammersmith Bridge (which actually I really like too, nice and green) down towards Barnes. Pretty pretty.

The Polish Cultural Centre. Great food, a lot of vodka and tends to stay open pretty late. bring it on.

The vintage fashion fairs put on at the bunker-like town hall every now and then. I fantasise about being one of those people who know what to buy at these things; sadly, I just tend to wander around paralysed by the fear of wanting everything and knowing nothing.

So - more reasons to hang out in Hammersmith than Bromley then. Hardly a ringing endorsement but not bad, given I'm generally a bit allergic to west London...