Kikujiro

Cabrales, Are you serious? It was a couple of years ago and frankly I'm not sure anywhere I ate really merits much recollection. Because of timing, most meals were taken in the resorts themeslves. Having said this, I did try some of the allegedly better places, and it's easy to jog my memory using the web. Maybe Andy could chip in with more recent experiences ... Um. As I remember them. A Wolfgang Puck Café in Downtown Disney, much like the others: massive martinis; decent-ish, predictable food (tuna tataki?); a waiter who was writing a self-help slash cookery book. My one ever visit to a Rainforest Café, by the Animal Kingdom: annoying use of language pre-seating ('your journey is about to begin'); ridiculous decor; unconvincing thunderstorms; substandard gargantuan chicken salads which no human could finish. The California Grill at the Contemporary Resort (high modernist and now sweetly old-fashioned looking cold war concrete A-frame building) in Disney World -- Disney gets ambitious (current chef's name based on a quick Google Search is Clifford Pleau) -- I remember a pretty salad of a variety of unusual tomatoes that were presumably flown in specially (although that's no longer on the more recent but possibly now outdated menu I found here) and some edible but hardly exciting sushi. Restaurant Marrakesh (menu) at the Moroccan pavilion at Epcot, one of the better meals I had actually inside a theme park (as opposed to the outside-park but inside-resort Puck and CG) but this is a definitively relative statement. Also a drab smorgasbord for lunch in the Norway pavillion. Some or other fast food joint in (I think) Disney-MGM Studios, notable only for being the slowest service I have ever received in an over-the-counter fast food restaurant. Mythos Restaurant at Universal Islands of Adventure (where Andy rode the Hulk): I think this was okay, despite ridiculous theme overload (I believe my server was called Atlas); I remember OTT set design and odd custom glass tableware and nothing about the food, although it seems to be approved of by these people. There my memory ends. In Orlando itself, I remember a well-reviewed but fairly bad Chinese restaurant but have no idea what it was called, and some good shrimp po' boys in some bar somewhere. Are you going that way yourself?

Isn't it fantastic? Hope you caught the Spider-Man ride as well. Astonishing technical achievement.

That is one Flash-heavy website. (The lady also says 'Guess what I had at Little Chef last night,' and 'Fancy a bit on the side?') And one huge menu. For those who don't have the time, highlights included Brie and Redcurrant Tart ("You simply have to taste this to appreciate it"); Smothered Chicken; 7th Heaven Cheeseburger (served with either one pineapple ring or two onion rings); scampi 'complimented by garden peas' ('Those are lovely golden breadcrumbs you're wearing'?) and ... oh, damn, it actually looks boringly reasonable and there isn't much to snigger at. No prices, though: do they vary regionally or something? I remember the toasted teacakes from way back. Nobody has yet mentioned the Fascinating Aïda song. Oh dear. Should I crawl under a rock right now?

Am not alone on American Hots, then. Actually, I'm not ashamed of visiting PizzaExpress occasionally. Especially the Dean St branch (hello Mose Allison, hello Norah Jones for the five minutes before she became too famous). Similarly, whenever I'm in an area I don't know (or Wardour Street), I am grateful for the existence of Starbucks (double tall skinny dry cap). And I just came back from Strada, where I went alone with a book, a profound and long-ignored hunger, and one of those Time Out discount cards that gives you a 25% discount; had a starter, pizza, salad, decent filtered water and some house red for £13 including service. (Their credit card machine wasn't working so I said I'd get some cash and come back and they said fine.) Um ... BK Chicken Flamer, with extra onion. (Forces a fresh one, do you see?) Lion bars, odd as I can't stand milk chocolate. Deliverance lamb biryani. Pret cinnamon danish. As far as I can remember, I've never been to KFC (oh yeah: once, outside Cape Town, with an ancient Catholic priest), but it's getting more mentions here than anywhere else, so maybe I'm missing out ... Mr. Rayner: Yo! Sushi is far too overpriced to be a guilty pleasure of this kind, surely? Or do you sometimes prefer it to decent sushi at the same price? Any particular dish do it for you? Simon: I think you made up the Little Chef line to shock us

I'm sorry, but this conversation is beginning to drive me a little mad Peter, your rather stringent version of Italian food is hampered by being just as over-generalised (a description I prefer to 'naive') as Macrosan's (not entirely unreasonable, if rather Southern) summary. Veal would look very out of place on many Venetian menus for example, whereas polenta wouldn't, however far from rustic and cheap the restaurant might be. And it's obviously not true that you 'get a similar standard of food throughout Italy'. There are superb restaurants and bad ones there, like most other places. I assume what you mean is that the average restaurant in Italy offers a better level of cooking than the average (Italian?) restaurant in the UK. What you are touching on, I think, is a version of 'authentic Italian' that neatly packages the widespread conservatism found in much of Italy, which finds expression in a much greater degree of uniformity than is apparent in, say, London or New York. When we say Italians dress well, we mean they all dress according to a very rigorous and unvaried version of 'good taste'. (I know Italians who dress in torn jeans and leather jackets in London, but are never out of well-cut MaxMara at home. Alessandro dell'Acqua, a young Italian designer, is based in Milan but hardly sells any clothes over there.) Similarly, when you recite the 'rules' of Italian eating (beer, not wine with pizza), you're invoking a whole tradition of codes part of whose attraction is the ease with which they define people as insiders or outsiders. I once had a meal at Cracco-Peck in Milan (no veal on the menu that day, although there were some very interesting Chinese vegetables). We got chatting to the charming waiters, several of whom had just come over from Isola in Knightsbridge. They raved about the wine-by-the-glass system, but scorned Bruno Loubet for not being Italian: I mean, they said by way of grotesque illustration, he put balsamic vinegar with taleggio! No! I said in horror, and made a mental note. We non-Italians love these rules (I know I do) because they're so easy to learn, and you can quickly become (95%) confident you're doing the right thing and snigger at people who aren't. Your reference to "Italian" disdain for tourists (who 'don't know the difference') and Americans (who go to high-end restaurants, poor misguided fools) is related to this, being part of the way that conservative Italian culture is commoditised for people like you and me, which by positioning it as something we get and the masses of our fellow countrymen don't, but keeping us constantly aware we can never fully own it, makes it the perfect luxury/aspirational good. Of course, what we should be feeling is rather sympathy with the innocent and poorly-treated tourists. Pizza Metro (with you on this: my favourite Italian restaurant in London) sells its Italian-ness as forcefully as its pizzas, with a heightened performativity that sometimes makes me think of Ian Holm's restaurant in Big Night. It's both very genuine and utterly hyper-real. Just as I know Italians who dress differently outside their home town, I know several who, in London, will quietly down a cappuccino after a meal, which they'd never do at home. Does that mean they're not Italian? No, it just means they're not being "Italian". It turns out that following the rules can be an act of conscious self-representation on their part too, rather than 'natural' behaviour. Just as there are Italian designers who, um, think different (sorry for the mixed reference there), there are plenty of good restaurants in Italy that don't conform to the 'rules'. This doesn't stop them being Italian. It just stops them being 'Italian'. This doesn't mean they're not authentic; it just means that Italy is less of a country in aspic than some of the people who most romanticise it would like it to be. As for Gill, the point of his remark was, as ever, to sound snotty and provocative and clever; I think he managed, as ever, one out of three. Whoops, this post got a bit out of hand. Sorry

Went a week ago. Was rather too sloshed upon arrival to write up a decent report, but I remember a very good entrecote, served bleu and just as Miss J describes, apart from the disappointing frites, which were actually fried potato slices with no crispness to them at all; pleasant service from the waiter who drifted between French and English apparently randomly; burnt tarte tatin and slightly curdled crème brûlée. My takeaway was that it seemed pretty authentic but execution was flawed in a couple of places. I'd give it another go, though.

Well, actually it's a 2,600 percent markup, but that doesn't detract from your overall point Oh, and thanks for the Guardian link on the same subject. By the way, isn't the board quiet? Have the rest of you all gone away for the weekend?

John, I have a bottle of Botran here that seems to be called Solera 1893. Where does that fit in the list?

Same here in the UK. Caipirinhas are now standard offer in most bars (well, those I go to in London anyway), and seem to have been introduced mainly in an extraordinary marketing coup by Pitu, with which they're always made. As I discovered caipirinhas for myself in Cuba, I was under the happy impression they were made with white rum, and I tend to prefer them with HC3, which is creeping into lots of bars too. Not convinced by mixing really aged rums in a this kind of drink; seems a waste as the lime and sugar are pretty powerful ingredients. At home I use ice cubes instead of crushed ice, which obviously makes the whole experience a little stronger

If you're in London and can't face Milk and Honey, I'm fairly certain I've seen Zacapa on sale in Gerry's Wine and Spirits in Old Compton St. Haven't bought a bottle myself yet so don't sue me if I'm wrong. When I was in Guatemala I thought I'd buy my Zacapa on leaving at the airport. Idiot, idiot.

I agree with Simon on both Tas (starters great, main courses good but just huge and therefore rather monotonous; the old get-your-variety-through-different-dishes thing -- luckily it's perfectly possible to eat well on entirely starters/mezze) and Don Felipe. The latter's food (fine, hardly exciting) has never bothered me as much as the service, which veers randomly (during the same visit) between fine, friendly, inept and appalling. I once went to DF with a friend and arrived to find it heaving. We asked the waitress to put our names down for a table. She said there was no list and we should just take one when it became available. We therefore hovered by one, and relieved its nice occupants of it went they were finished. At which point the manager came bounding up and said there were other people on the list who he had to give the table to. When we explained we had been told there was no list, he said that was strange but made no effort to deal with the way we had been made to waste our time. We should have left at that point but were too tired. Eventually we got a table.

Jon, I was there the same evening (got an 8.30 table for two a couple of hours in advance; when we were there there was one free table) and agree with you about the tough pigeon. In tribute to Cabrales, here's the menu in full. Ham broth with mint, sherry and egg / 4.50 Panzanella / 4.50 Poached sea trout, samphire, hollandaise / 5.50 Grilled chicken livers with piquant sauce, flat bread / 5.00 Salt duck and melon / 5.00 Spinach & ricotta rotolo, sage butter and parmesan / 11.50 Veal chop, broad bean purée / 12.50 Grilled marinated chicken, fennel, orange & chicory salad / 12.50 Roast pigeon with peas, lettuce and jersey royals / 12.00 Plaice, chips & tartare sauce / 12.00 Spiced chocolate cake, ginger cream / 5.00 Greek yoghurt & honey, cardamom & pistachio wafers / 5.00 Gooseberry & crème fraiche tart / 5.00 Iced rose petal meringue, strawberries & raspberries / 5.00 Neals' Yard cheese, plum cheese, oatcakes & sesame biscuits / 6.00 The trout was slightly resilient but delicious, and its accompaniments were great. The chicken livers were very good based on a brief taste. I didn't order the veal as upon inquiry (service extremely welcoming) I was told it was white, but my companion did, and it was one of the pinkest bits of white veal I've seen. Her puree was dynamite though. Neal's Yard cheeses, which we shared, were very nice (big surprise there) and served in some abundance. Ordering probably inappropriately from the high end of the wine list (which is mostly sub-20 pounds and doesn't reach 30) produced a pleasantish pinot noir that didn't seem to justify its relative expense. With water and coffee, this edged the bill to around 83 or so including service. Rather nice bread and butter, I thought, too.

I thought Bertorelli on Frith St had been open for ages. Certainly more than a month. It's listed in my 2002 Time Out Eating & Drinking guide, published 2001.

Tell me if I'm wrong, but I'm assuming the distinction between 'Indian' and 'Pakistani' food, which is based on fairly recent political contingencies and huge geographical areas, is fairly meaningless in the context of the large number of different styles we're lumping under 'Indian' in the first place. That is, there are not two entities that are being compared, but two supergroups with lots of overlap, and probably much bigger differences within than between the supergroups. Or not?

Although it has renamed itself. Now called Myna Bird. Menu still the same, apparently, and so presumably is everything else. Now it has an awful name to fit ... I walked past the other day and there was a waiter pimping outside, which is presumably a sign of sorts.

Per Tony's remarks about going further out, check the thread Authentic Indian Recommendations. Of these, for veg Indian, I'm going to plug Kastoori again, even though it's not central (it's in Tooting). Copy/paste: There are also recent-ish threads on nouvelle and simple Indian food in London. I'm surprised by the great reputation of Malabar Junction here. I ate there once a couple of years ago and wasn't at all impressed. But then the company (work dinner) was fairly awful so maybe that coloured the experience. Or maybe it's changed. Should I give it another go?

puts on flak jacket GR at Claridges heads for hills In terms of new discoveries, Capital in Gerrard St (which now seems to be called ECapital; can anyone explain this?) has cheered me up tremendously.

The Hospital is a project of not only Dave Stewart but also Paul Allen (the gazillionaire who co-founded Microsoft with Bill Gates). It's going to include a private members' club that will presumably be pitched at Groucho types. It looks like the restaurant will be part of the club but be open to others through advance reservation (?) The place itself is clearly going to make its presence felt; it's hard not to notice it when you walk down Endell Street. The website is at http://www.thehospital.co.uk/, where you can download all the minutes of their monthly meetings with local residents to discuss double glazing timetables, why the builders didn't recognise two minutes' silence for the Queen Mum, and other racy topics.

All this reminds me: I was thinking of ordering the kohlrabi (£5.50 on the web menu today) and asked how it was done. 'Well,' she said, 'it's not really ... done ... as such. It's served raw. It's very refreshing.' I think she might have said they slice it, or something.

I think you're right.

Um, yes, it was. The menu just read 'peas in the pod', not 'huge bowl of raw peas in the pod'. And it wasn't me that ordered it I did initially find this so unlikely that I wondered whether I was missing the fact that they had been steamed for eight seconds or something. But the slug rather confirmed the rawness of the enterprise. Who knows: maybe they forgot to cook them ...

Ate at AL Frith St on Saturday, having secured an 8.30 table for two that afternoon. We were warned we might have to be seated downstairs, but ended up in the main room. From the fixed-price menu, £35 for three courses, I started with a risotto that was allegedly built around courgette flowers. I couldn't find a single one of these (had they melted? I rather suspect they had instead run out), although it did feature an abundance of fresh broad beans. It was in the soupier mode, and the flavour was subtle, a little too much so (read: slightly insubstantial), but somehow enjoyable nonetheless. My companion's starter has, alarmingly, already slipped my mind completely. My main course seems to me stereotypically AL: grilled lamb with merguez sausages, tabbouleh and hummus, and was a pretty perfect rendition, helped along by an unadvertised puree (red pepper?) and a piece of wonderful flatbread. My companion helped push cod further towards extinction, with the help of Jansson's temptation, layered potatoes with cream and anchovies; I tried this and can sympathise wholeheartedly with Mr Jansson. A good gooseberry crumble was served in a hot little iron skillet with very good ice cream. Friend's pudding has followed his starter into oblivion. With a pleasantly punky NZ pinot noir (£30), water and coffee, £106.50 before service. Service was laid back and friendly as usual, although the starters did seem to take an age to arrive, even allowing for the time it takes to make a risotto. There's something elusive about the totality of the AL experience that I am inordinately fond of, and I'm glad to find that still palpable.

Had a mixed experience at St John the other night (Friday). I hadn't eaten there for a couple of years, although I do buy bread there a lot. The room was full of people enjoying themselves, including a birthday party next to us that seemed to be going delightedly through a different menu from the rest of us. My starter -- chicken necks with chicory -- was extremely good. The necks were almost collapsing, more reassuringly meaty than I had feared they might be, with a superb flavour, and very hot, in contrast with the chicory, in a cold salad with almost-caramelised onion. My companion fared less well; his peas in the pod were very fresh, but ... just a huge bowl of raw pods served very abruptly, making for a laborious and repetitive experience, complete, it turned out halfway through, with a rather adorable little slug. The (friendly and well-informed) waitress reacted to the latter in the house style -- 'Oh, look! A little bit of nature!' -- and although she subsequently apologised and offered 'something on the house later on', this subject was forgotten and nothing on the final bill was actually comped. I then had Middlewhite (not pre-smoked; I checked) with prunes, the most expensive course on the menu I think, and unexceptional. I'm still obsessed with my memory of the acorn-fed pork at Eyre Bros., which wholly eclipsed this dish for me. Friend's brill looked fine. Puddingwise, if it looks like pannacotta and tastes like pannacotta it is, apparently, buttermilk pudding; but it was a very good version, served with cherries and a fantastic thick slice of ginger biscuit. All in with water, Fleurie and coffee, around 90 quid. As far as local restaurants go, I'll be hitting Eyre Bros. again sooner.

Re. Indian food, can I make another plug for Kastoori in Tooting? They serve strictly vegetarian, E African/Gujarati food, very affordably in rather dull surroundings. The cooking itself is tremendously accomplished, through, and interesting to boot (chilli banana curry, which you should order if it's on the rotating list of specials, springs to mind). Its reputation does seem to be spreading (they have a review from some NY-based magazine on the wall comparing them favourably to Zaika) so you may need to book. Have the dahi puri. 188 Upper Tooting Road, 020 8767 7027. Oh, and The Lion King has many more pleasures to offer than you might expect.

Thanks for the sympathy Without wishing to flog a dead waiter here, the problem with just being direct is that as the guy in question just kept refilling regardless of the level of wine in our glasses, he was either (a) simply bad at his job or (b) trying to get us to drink more quickly. So it was hard to ask him to stop without being at least implicitly critical (maybe this is just a British concern of mine ...) and I didn't want to sour things as he was otherwise very pleasant and I wanted to have an untroubled meal in other respects ... Oh yeah: and it was my friends restaurant recommendation, and I didn't want him to feel criticised either, yadda yadda. Life is so complicated.