Sushi in Soho: Kyoto

Kyoto, 26 Romilly Street, W1D 5AL

Dinner for two (with beer): £50 plus service

It is only the twenty-second of December, but already I feel jaded. It's not a wholly bad feeling, coming as it does from a few weeks of deliberate boozing and eating. However, even the best December sometimes wears thin and an occasional pretence at healthy eating can help to assuage the mince pied excesses of the month. Such was my reasoning when Mr F and I found ourselves in search of supper in Soho. For what could be healthier than sushi?

La Girole, Grenoble

La Girole, 15 Rue du Docteur Mazet, 38000 Grenoble

Dinner for two: 140 euros

Had Mr F not lived there as a child, it is likely I would never have thought to visit Grenoble. It is a long way away, more than six hours from London by train and an hour from Lyon by road. It is a small town, whose few well regarded restaurants are outshone by the gastronomic institutions just down the road in Lyon. However, all parts of France, even its most remote corners, have their own culinary highlights. Located on the edge of the Alps, Grenoble and its environs are bastions of mountain cooking, home of the gratin dauphinoise and an unusual dish of chicken and crayfish. Best of all, there are stunning mountain vistas and challenging walks to stir the appetite for all that cheese.

At home with Hawksmoor

Hawksmoor at Home by Huw Gott, Richard Turner and Will Beckett: Preface Publishing, 13 October 2011

October was a challenging month. Work sucked, I managed to gain half a stone seemingly without a concomitant increase in fun and I struggled to rise to the challenge of making the perfect burger at home, despite having invested in a cranky old mincer that must weigh half a tonne. To top it all, reading about how much fun everyone's was having during the soft opening of the new Hawksmoor didn't helped my rage. However, I can't complain. Whilst I may have missed out on the restaurant opening, the kind people at Random House sent me a copy of Hawksmoor at Home so I could recreate the fun myself. Rock and roll.

What would Hideo Nakata think of the Banana Tree?

The Banana Tree, 103 - 109 Wardour Street, W1F 0UQ

Back when the millennium was still young, Mr F and I went through a phase of watching Asian horror films. The early noughties were a bit of a golden age, particularly for Japanese scary movies, and we revelled in the fear for a couple of years until one fateful night in 2004, when we finally got around to watching Dark Water. We enjoyed the film but I was less than impressed by Mr F's subsequent attempt to frighten me by turning on all the taps in the bathroom and hiding behind the shower curtain. Oh how we laughed at that one... once I'd stopped screaming and trying to batter him to death with the shampoo. 

Our thoughts turned to those happy days when we ate at the Banana Tree last week. Not because the Banana Tree is scary or in some way possessed by a supernatural force - although it would be ace if it was. Rather because we remembered how we felt when we saw our favourite films had fallen victim to the West's need for a Hollywood remake. Yet this wasn't the crushing disappointment of a classic butchered by the upstart newcomers, rather this was something a teensy bit edgy rendered mainstream by a sensitive adaptation. 

The Hand and Flowers: popping my two star cherry

The Hand and Flowers, 126 West Street, Marlow

Every year, the publication of the new Michelin Guide generates congratulations and controversy in the catering industry whilst, at the same time, a crowd of naysayers pop up to point out how the whole system is flawed, antiquated or elitist. Neither reaction has ever really interested me, I can't get excited about stars because I'd so rarely choose to eat in that sort of restaurant. Yet whilst I'm no Michelin apologist, I do see its value - I'm a Bib Gourmand girl. However, the early publication of this year's results did have an impact on my Michelin equilibrium; we had booked the Hand and Flowers for a family meal, inadvertently throwing ourselves in the path of a gastronomic super star. Having never eaten in a Michelin starred restaurant, all of a sudden the Forks were booked at a place with two. 

Shake Shack sacrilege

Shake Shack, Madison Square Park, New York City

Burger, fries and a shake: $14

On my first trip to New York, I agonised over which of the city's super-burgers to try first. In what Shake Shack fans would no doubt view as a controversial move, I chose the Burger Joint. It was an amazing experience. This was before we had Meatwagon, back when Byron was still quite new, and the slightly pink, extremely meaty burger in the bowels of Le Parker Meridien was a revelation. I never made it to Shake Shack on that trip. So on my most recent visit, I felt obliged to queue in Madison Square Park and get my chops round one of the Shack's finest. 

Maltby Street marvels

40 Maltby Street, SE1 3PA
Wine and lunch for two: £35

Aside from the important things - Mr F, my family and friends - I sometimes feel as if London is one of the great loves of my life. I don't feel that way all the time, particularly when it is grey and damp. However, on a sunny weekend such as this, I cannot imagine living anywhere else. When friends talk of their aspiration to live in the countryside, I find myself dreaming of a different, more urban sort of village. This weekend, it was Bermondsey village that caught my eye and, in particular, the unstated brilliance of Maltby Street.

The queue for coffee at Monmouth

Favouritism and Great Queen Street

Great Queen Street, 32 Great Queen Street, WC2B 5AA

Meal for two: £70

What is your favourite... surely one of the most irritating questions in the world?

I hate having to reduce my appreciation of something, whether food, music or literature, into such stark terms. Favourite or not-favourite, like good or bad, can never really capture the nuances of how I feel about a thing, a person or a place. And yet... here it is: Great Queen Street is my favourite restaurant in London, if not the world. There, I said it. If you disagree, that is your prerogative, but bear in mind that I will probably question your judgement if you do. Why? Because Great Queen Street is unquestionably marvellous and peerless in its seasonal and simple yet excellent cooking. Because it is affordable and friendly. Lastly, because Mr F took me there for the my birthday when it opened, one of his most thoughtful acts in our pre-married life.

The Diner Diablo: a burger coming of age

The Diner, 18 Ganton Street, W1F 7BU

I was invited to try the Diablo but it would normally set you back £9

It took me ages to wean Mr F off the Diner. It was a source of discord in our otherwise happy home: he liked the Diner, I preferred Byron. Thus, lazy Thursday evenings and hungover Sundays were peppered with disagreement and one of us was doomed to perpetual disappointment. However, in a flash of genius inspired by the Big D, I introduced Mr F to the Byron double burger and the Diner was history. Even with the cute booths, my favourite lager in the world and Blue Oyster Cult on the playlist, the vastly superior meat finally won him over. Result.  Could a preview of their special Halloween burger change my mind? It turns out it could. Watch out Byron, the Diner might finally be about to offer you some competition. It's about time.

Chicken with girolles

Autumn is one of London's loveliest seasons. The muggy, grey summer gives way to brisk, clear days and the oppressive expectations of earlier months fade into a muted appreciation of the last few light evenings. Even so, when I expressed this view to Mr Fork earlier this week, he rolled his eyes at me and reminded me, not unreasonably, that I say every new season is my favourite. "Not true", I countered. Like many of my countrymen, I hate winter because it is cold, dark and horrid, except for a brief flurry of fairy-lit gorging and debauching at Christmas. 

Autumn, however, is generally wonderful. The weather is mild, and one gets to try out a new winter coat and cute ankle boots. Along with the wardrobe excitement, which is surely a legacy of the back to school days, September is one of my favourite months for seasonal cooking. It's the time when the woodsman's arts are at their peak, bringing game and foraged things to the markets and restaurants of a city that sometimes feels too far removed from the countryside it encroaches on. Best of all, September means mushrooms and the chance to dust off the casserole and spend an afternoon cooking slowly. Things like this chicken with girolles that we ate a month ago on a sunny pavement in the Languedoc: perfect autumnal eating tinged with the memories of summer.

Four Seasons of meat

Four Seasons, 12 Gerrard Street, W1D 5PR

Poor old Chinatown. In some ways, it is a bit like the Aberdeen Angus steakhouses: one of those London institutions that the cognoscenti regard as the sole preserve of the hapless tourist. Unlike the Aberdeen Angus, which must surely be execrable, proponents of this view are probably giving Chinatown a bit of a raw deal. Yes, there might be countless crapholes serving up bright pink goo, but is it not home to the delightful Legends family, including its latest incarnation which showcases the food of Dongbei? What about Little Lamb with its clouds of steam and delicious fishballs? How about the dim sum at Chinatown stalwart, the Joy King Lau? I'd happily spend an afternoon attacking plate after plate of their squid cakes. The posher choices may be over the road in Soho, but the Baozi Inn, in the heart of Chinatown, is still one of my favourite places for a cheap and plentiful late night bunfest. Provided they haven't sold out. 

Paris pit stop: A la Biche au Bois

A la Biche au Bois, 45 avenue Ledru-Rollin, 12th
Dinner for two: 80 euros

I hate flying, love trains and adore Paris. Accordingly, when Mr F and I were planning our summer holiday in the south of France, the budget flight to Nîmes was not an option; not when there were adventures to be had on the TGV. Taking the train meant crossing Paris to change stations, and how better to spend a few hours in Paris than in the company of people who are serious about traditional French cooking? 

Happy Birthday!

It is Get Forked's first birthday. A year ago today, I sat down and wrote about a soggy Japanese meal with friends. It was so wet, I took off my shoes to dry off my socks whilst we ate beautiful soft-shelled crab and braised pork. Since then, there have been a (rather measly) 60 posts ranging from an attempt to cook something from every cookbook I own (fat chance) to a much anticipated anniversary lunch at Dinner. 

London's best breakfast? Join the club

The Breakfast Club, 31 Camden Passage, N1 8EA
The Breakfast Club, 2 - 4 Rufus Street, N1 6PE
Breakfast for two with cocktails: £30

Despite growing up in a country responsible for one of the world's best breakfasts, my younger self often longed for the sort of breakfast we ate on family holidays in South Africa. French toast with syrup was the firm favourite - an exotic concept for my fledgling palate, which seemed infinitely superior to our prosaic eggy bread. However, it wasn't so much the food that enticed me, more the possibility of going out to a stylish, non-greasy place for our first meal of the day. 

While we may lead the world at frying eggs and serving them on grubby plastic tables, most of us fine English folk can probably still remember a time when a nice breakfast or brunch was hard to come by, save in hotels. Until relatively recently, one would have been forced to conclude that whilst we still excel at the fry up, our breakfast culture lacks some the sunny finesse of the antipodeans, South Africans and Americans. However, two happy meals at the Breakfast Clubs in Islington and Hoxton reminded me that there are more and more of these fabulous breakfast places opening in the capital. Their varied menus and excellent coffee could even give our faithful old artery clogger a run for its money, unless it is made by the Regency, of course.

Cycling to the World's End

BBQ Shack at the World's End, 60-61 London Rd, Brighton

Enough BBQ to kill a horse and sufficient beer to drown a rat king: £20 each

With all the meat love going around London this summer, I find it surprising that excellent examples of the flame-grilled genre are still hard, if not almost impossible to find. Perhaps our fabled fondness for the burned sausage at our own outdoor feasts is impeding an inevitable BBQ revolution. Many a foodie has lamented the lack of BBQ perfection in London. I had reluctantly concluded that only a trip across the Atlantic would satisfy this hunger, until I read an article that dared me to hope. A Texas-trained ex-chef-turned-BBQ aficionado? Only 50 miles from London? Get me to Brighton.

Resurfacing memories of New York: doughnuts

Doughtnut Plant, 220 West 23rd St, New York City

It's lunchtime on day two of a girls-only trip to New York and we're piecing together reminiscing about the previous night. Following an evening fuelled by martinis, we reflect on the revelation that one of us meows under stress, my plans for new world order based entirely around people with the same name and the mysterious head in one of our photos. They, quite naturally, want to know if I remember having a long conversation at the bar, leaving them waiting for drinks. More importantly, they wonder if I remember what it was that caused this unwelcome delay in an otherwise well-lubricated evening.

Of course I do. With an unfailing ability to sniff out a conversation about food, I had turned to the man standing next to me at the bar and started talking about doughnuts. Unlike many of the things I did that night, this was entirely sensible because he pointed me in the direction of the Best Doughnuts in the World. 

Trullo: simplicity as a virtue

Trullo, 300-302 St Paul's Rd, N1 2LH

In the past, I have always found Italian restaurants in London a little disappointing. With the exception of some fine pizzerias, my last two visits to Italian eateries in London have been underwhelming; leaving me with a creeping suspicion that perhaps I just don't fully appreciate the understated virtues of Italian cooking: a reaction at odds with my fond memories of simple but brilliant meals in Italy. This may explain why it has taken me more than a year to find my way to Trullo, despite its Islington location being mere moments from my Dalston haunts. If only I had ventured there sooner, I wouldn't have spent the last year wondering when I stopped loving Italian food. I would have spent it in Trullo.

Three ways with Moro

Long before we visited their restaurant, my Ma and I developed a deep-rooted affection for Sam and Sam Clark. Their cooking, inspired by the food of Southern Spain, North Africa, and the Eastern Mediterranean, was faithfully recreated in our Nottingham kitchen. We debated their take on paella, aspired to make our own sourdough and the monkfish rice was cooked for one of Mr F's first visits to our family home. Since then, we've shared one much-thumbed and oil-splattered copy, which is the subject of occasional negotiations about who gets to have it next. The spine may have given up and the pages of rice recipes may be stuck together, but we still love it.

Buen Provecho at the Zoo

Buen Provecho, London Zoo Lates or Lower Marsh Street

3 tacos: £6

There's only a week left to check out London Zoo Lates, the late night opening at London Zoo that sees drunken grown ups overrun an attraction usually reserved for family outings and dance like idiots at a silent disco. If like me, the idea of a looking at animals leaves you cold, then fear not - the delightful people at Eat.St have arranged a street food fantasia to reassure us that not all animals end up in cages. Some are destined for sandwiches.

Defying the weather: ice cream in London

Chin Chin Laboratorists, 49 - 50 Camden Lock Place, NW1 8AF

Tub of ice cream with sauce and one topping: £3.95

Gelupo, 7 Archer St, W1D 7AU

Waffle cones with two scoops: £3

I've called London home for more than five years now, so my expectations for the summer weather are pretty low. I can deal with the stagnant humidity and the near-constant lack of sunshine, if that's what the city demands. However, even with my hard-earned stoicism, this summer has enraged me. I find myself simmering with fury at its dark, cold, rainy skies. Tired of waiting for another brief patch of warm weather, I decided to go and eat ice cream at two of London's finest, hoping to shame the sun into putting its hat on.

After the nitrogen: Chin Chin's creations

The Perfect Picnic: Mangal style

Mangal I, 10 Arcola Street, E8 2DJ

Picnic for two: £10.50 

One of the things I love about East London is the proliferation of makeshift BBQs, which fill up our open spaces as soon as soon as the temperature hits twenty degrees. By contrast, the residents of Clapham, whilst favoured with a spacious Common, are generally more law abiding when it comes to park regulations. However, there is a downside to the Victoria Park BBQ anarchy: food envy. How can even the most luxurious of hampers compete with proper grilled food? It can't but, fortunately, it doesn't have to.

Fette Sau: the BBQ benchmark

Fette Sau, 354 Metropolitan Avenue, Williamsburg, New York

Meal for three starving people (excluding drinks): $75 or £46

It feels like it's all about BBQ here in London this summer. Not the burnt sausage, crappy burger kind but the sort of cooking one associates with the Southern States of the USA: all pulled pork, sticky beans and shots of bourbon by the pit. Within the space of a few weeks, we've had a new restaurant open up in Hoxton and a van pull up under Hungerford bridge (review on its way), both dedicated to the fine art of cooking with fire and smoke. However, whilst both make an admirable attempt at recreating that American stalwart, neither of them have quite got it and they fall short of smoky perfection. Even with our new-found love of the BBQ pit, we still have to leave our beloved city for the good stuff. Having put off writing up my recent (ish) visit to New York, BBQ disappointment has finally given me the impetus to blog about the opposite: BBQ heaven. For as I discovered on my last visit, our urbanite cousins in New York can hook themselves up with fantastic BBQ at the drop of an artfully distressed hat. Mind you, they do have to leave Manhattan which is perhaps just as traumatic for some. Fette Sau is the sort of place I would love to see transplanted to London. In fact, I would even sell a fairly vital organ in order to make this happen. 

da Polpo: it's not you, it's me

da Polpo, 6 Maiden Lane, WC2E 7NA

Meal for two (with 50% off food): £50

For many, da Polpo is all about family. It's the youngest child trying to live up to the awesome foodie legacy of its older siblings. It's not the original (Polpo) nor is it the most iconic (Polpetto). It isn't even the slightly edgy one that your aunt suspects is on drugs (Spuntino). It's the Conrad Hughes Hilton of the Polpo Family. Poor da Polpo,  it must hope for a visit from one of the few people in London who haven't already fallen in love with its sisters. Someone, perhaps, like me. 

It's not that I wasn't keen to go and eat at this infamous family of restaurants before. I just never got round to it. This may have something to do with the queues. I made it up the stairs to Polpetto once but couldn't face the two hour wait. So da Polpo was to be my first encounter with The Family. I was so keen to see what every other right-minded foodie was on about, I even made it there before its official opening.

Rock Lobsta: pop up and pay

This week's latest pop up is a temporary lobster shack in deepest Shoreditch. Here for one weekend only, it's worth a look if you like the idea of a posh pop culture picnic and you don't mind paying for it.

An Idiot Abroad: Mr. Fork in Los Angeles, Vol. II

In-N-Out Burger, 7009 Sunset Blvd, Hollywood, Los Angeles

Combo Meal for one with iced tea and a promotional t-shirt: $16.98 (about £10.35)

Confession time: I was forced, totally against my will, to do some actual work during my recent trip to Los Angeles. As such, my ambitions of rigorously blogging every morsel to pass my lips went sadly unfulfilled. It’s not that I didn’t go to any bars or restaurants (quite the opposite) but I’m not sure there’s much interest in me reviewing the various “networking” events I attended. Plus, I seem to have mysteriously failed to photograph any of the identikit canapés that formed the majority of my food intake (if not my main source of calories) for the week of the show. Finally, I suspect that the buffet breakfast from my 2-star hotel in an insalubrious part of downtown is not of interest to anyone, let alone the kind of person who likes food enough to read a blog about it.

Red Dog Saloon: where's their smoke?

Red Dog Saloon, 37 Hoxton Square, N1 6NN
Meal for two (with 50% off food): £40

It doesn't take a genius to realise that North East London is changing. Where once there were only money lenders, Turkish supermarkets and secret warehouse raves, now the Kingsland Road sports those two well-known harbingers of gentrification: a Tesco and a Subway. The arch-hipsters, who remember when the area was the cutting edge of cool, have either moved to Clapton or are consoling themselves by producing ironic t-shirts and moaning about the changes in the Sunday Times Style magazine. Even Passing Clouds, once the sole preserve of the trendsetting elite who knew where to find its unadorned doorway, has started to advertise its presence with a sign. The restaurant business in this part of town is also changing to reflect its new market. The Turkish and Vietnamese places remain virtually unchanged but, in Hoxton and Shoreditch in particular, more and more recognisably mainstream places are opening, such as Busaba and Byron.

Even so, when I heard about a barbecue joint opening in Hoxton Square, my first thoughts were of the marvellous Fette Sau in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Those familiar with both New York and London will know that Williamsburg is the transatlantic ideal to which Shoreditch aspires. As such, I hoped that Red Dog Saloon would bring the same on-trend approach to BBQ that Fette Sau has successfully pioneered in New York. I expected rough wooden tables, artisan beer by the gallon and a selection of rare whiskies in mismatched glassware. Most of all, I had high hopes for the meat: I wanted meltingly tender slices of brisket, unctuous pulled pork and smoky slabs of ribs. Unfortunately, whilst Red Dog Saloon makes an admirable attempt at recreating these things in London, it doesn't quite hit the mark. 

The Corner Room: affordable genius

The Corner Room, Town Hall Hotel, Patriot Square, E2 9NF

Meal for two with much wine: £85

One of things I love about trying a restaurant for the first time is the sense of possibility. Whilst perusing the menu, enjoying a first glass of wine and in the moments before the food arrives, there is a chance that something wonderful is about to happen. The pleasure that comes with eating something brilliant is worth the risk of disappointment. Even more enticing is the possibility of eating something interesting and surprising, the sort of clever cooking that excites the mind as well as satisfying the flesh. Last week I paid a visit to the Corner Room, Nuno Mendes's new place in Bethnal Green's Town Hall Hotel, hoping for such an experience. I was in luck; rarely has a restaurant impressed me, and exceeded my pre-conceived ideas, as much as this one. Brilliant, beautiful and no need to book: the Corner Room is pure genius.

An Idiot Abroad: Mr. Fork in Los Angeles, Vol. I

KyoChon, 3833 West 6th Street, Los Angeles

Combo meal for one with Pepsi: $9.07 (around £5.50)

One of the perks of the “career” I’ve ended up in is the opportunity to travel to Los Angeles once per year for a “business conference”. In the past, this has boiled down to the daily cycle of meeting/boozing/sleeping/hangover that accompanies events of this kind. This cycle, combined with the fact that Thea is on the other side of the world and therefore incapable of cajoling me into eating offal, means that my diet for that week usually errs toward the immediate satisfaction of jet-lagged cravings for chilli burgers rather than embarking on foodie adventures.

Giant Robot: nostalgia and meatballs

Giant Robot, 45 Clerkenwell Road, London, EC1M 5RS

Brunch for two: £30

At any one time, there are several new food trends sweeping the capital. Of the current bunch, many seem to have their roots firmly embedded in the United States. Seoul may be the hottest foodie destination on the planet right now but back home, we are looking squarely west for our culinary inspiration. In amongst the promises of authentic, smoky BBQ and the proliferation of NY-inspired hangouts, one humble foodstuff is making a significant dent in the London restaurant scene all by itself: the meatball.  Six months ago, to my enduring shame, I didn't know what a slider was. Now it seems as if they are everywhere. The meatball has been quick and tenacious in its takeover - going from Campbell's tins to cutting edge dining in mere months. Arriving into Kings Cross in time for Sunday brunch, Mr F and I found ourselves cycling past Giant Robot, a fully paid up member of the meatball club, and couldn't pass up the chance to check it out.

Pork off 2011: Piggy chow

As soon as we moved to London, I started to crave outdoor space. Not for growing plants or lounging in the sun, pleasant as these pastimes are, but instead for making fire and cooking meat. However, for our first few years here, we lived in a tiny top-floor flat and had to content ourselves with looking down onto other people's gardens. I think it was my South African DNA asserting itself when I demanded that our next flat must have some sort of outdoor area - no matter how small. This was also how I justified the rash decision to buy a BBQ (or should I say a braai?) as soon as we moved into a flat with a balcony. Before the Ikea shopping was unpacked, before we even had a bed - we had the ability to grill meat just outside the cramped comfort of our own home. Never mind that the balcony is small and wooden. That is why, when I heard that there was a competition to cook a dish made almost entirely of pork, it made sense to crack out the fire or, in this case, the smoke. It had to be 8 hour, slow-cooked, hickory-smoked pig also known as pulled pork.

But what to serve with the pulled pork and how to elevate it above humble pig sandwich? These were the questions that plagued me in the days before my Pork Off cook-off. The dish had to contain three different cuts of pig and thus far I had only settled on one: the shoulder. Then, whilst eating a banh mi and marvelling at the way they had made more space for meat by removing some of the bread's middle, it hit me - why not make piggy chow, a porked up bunny chow? It was the South African DNA again.

Get Forked for less in Istanbul

Nevizade sokak at night

There are plenty of reasons to love Istanbul: its long warm summers, its location by the sea at the point where two continents meet or the proliferation of historic buildings which feature on the list of things one is supposed to see in a lifetime. However, for a glutton such as myself, Istanbul offers more than enough to justify the journey on that count alone. Moreover, if you find yourself there without many liras to your name, as we did, it need not affect your enjoyment of the city's culinary delights.

Though I generally prefer cities to the countryside, even for a holiday, some places are incomparable in their atmosphere and style (and have bloody good restaurants). Whenever I visit one of these cities for the first time, I irritate Mr Fork by declaring a desire to either move there or, if it has been a truly successful trip, to rearrange history so that I can be from there. I mention this merely to illustrate my sincerity when I say Istanbul is a marvellous place, peerless in its happy mix of cultures and lately top of my list of places I would leave London for.

Shanghai: in search of comfort greens

Shanghai, 41 Kingsland Road, E8 2JS

Whenever I am feeling sad about something, Mr Fork knows that there is only one thing for it: steamed Chinese greens. Guiltlessly healthy, almost crunchy but slightly slimy and slick with garlic, they are the one of the few things that can make the world better. Pasta with tomato ketchup and melted cheese is the other but, when work drives me to real despair , Mr F knows that overdosing on Heinz just won't cut it. In these situations, we are both immensely grateful that we live near a good local Chinese restaurant.  

We have eaten at Shanghai dozens of times, several of them since I started this blog, but I have never written about it for some reason. Perhaps because going to Shanghai almost doesn't feel like eating out for us, the former pie and eel shop turned restaurant has become an extension of our living room by virtue of the amount of time we spend in it.

A fairly lengthy menu and the rare option of dim sum in the evening are overlooked - the latter is invariably disappointing, in favour of roast pork, steamed greens and rice. Unadventurous but always satisfying, Shanghai excels in getting these basic offerings right. The greens are crisp, fresh and cooked to perfection. The pork is sticky and rich or crispy and fatty, depending on our choice of pig dish. Sometimes roast duck graces the plate, sometimes we have fried rice rather than steamed, but the greens are the constant, drawing us back whenever the thought of cooking casts an unhappy shadow and marital strife looks imminent. 

We chose Shanghai to cater the London end of our wedding. I think we felt we owed them something because, but for steamed greens and comfort, we might never have lasted long enough to get married.

Haché: five years too late

Haché, 24 Inverness Street, NW1 7HJ

That things change is an irrefutable facet of existence. Sometimes frightening, usually unsettling; it is frequently-observed fact of life that almost nothing remains constant. However, there is one aspect of my life where time has done only good things: the evolution of the British burger. 

Longer-term residents of our fair isle will recall the dark days when the choice between McDonald's and Burger King was the only real decision required when dining on burgers. It is unsurprising, therefore, that the advent of Gourmet Burger Kitchen and their ilk - who made meddling with the humble burger into a multiple-outlet mega-success, was largely welcomed by a populace starved of variety. However, is anyone really sad that the intervening years have seen a growing maturity in our attitude to burgers, as we realise that something simple, made with top ingredients, is an infinitely superior choice? The folks at Haché must be, for in their world it is 2005, they are the best burger place in the city and variety still reigns supreme. Shame it's 2011, chaps.

Critters!

Contrary to appearances, the cookbook challenge has been progressing fairly well in March and April. Less successful, this time, have been my efforts at writing up my attempts. The Larousse buckwheat pancakes remain unblogged and photos of my sticky toffee pudding triumph languish unloved on my computer. The full write up will have to wait for a bi-monthly summary at the end of April. Instead, this is a note on one of my favourite books, which was put to use in respect of one of the craziest things one can cook: crayfish.

Crayfish occupy a special place in the Fork household. By opting to wed in sunny South Africa, we inadvertently started a trend in gluttonous one-upmanship. It all started the day after our wedding, when one of our friends decided a steak was not enough to satisfy his hangover-induced appetite, and chose to chase his meal with a whole crayfish on the side. At this point, I should point out that a South African crayfish is not one of these snappy, perky little Northern hemisphere blighters. A South African crayfish is a prehistoric, seafaring monster which more than makes a meal in it own right. What followed our friend's bold move was a week of everyone else trying to outdo him, which for all of us, at some point, meant eating a crayfish along with a steak. Fools.

Year of the oyster

The Earl Spencer, 260-262 Merton Road, SW18 5JL

Meal with lots of wine: £35 per head

One of the most interesting pieces of food writing I have ever read was an interview with Grant Achatz in which he recounted the process of regaining his sense of taste after his  treatment for advanced cancer of the tongue. In addition to being an incredibly inspiring story, I was fascinated by the revelation that he regained his sense of taste in stages that seemed roughly akin to the process of learning to distinguish tastes as a child - beginning, as we all do, with a recognition of sweet things. 

On the cusp of my fourth decade, I am relieved to find that my sense of taste is still constantly evolving; albeit in a more prosaic and less life-changing way. This isn't limited to the serious matters, such as discovering that big hair is back, but extends into eating; where brief periods of obsession drive a long term shift in my preferences. Generally, this process leads to me discovering that I adore something I was previously only indifferent to and, recently, it has seemed like every passing year is marked by a new favourite. In 2009, it was pickles and, to a lesser extent, ale. Last summer was flavoured with grilled lamb's kidneys and a search for increasingly dry ciders. This year, it's oysters and, in particular, bars with oysters.

Fishballs and dreamboats

Little Lamb, 72 Shaftesbury Avenue, W1D 6NA

Meal for two with beers: £50

Falling in love as drunken student layabouts meant that Mr Fork and I never went on any proper dates. It wasn't until we moved in together and embarked upon the grown up task of making time for each other that we actually started dating; and, despite having been married for more than a year now, it's something we still love to do. I can only assume we are making up for lost time, as if a million good dates will permanently enhance our relationship, leaving behind its cider and balti-fuelled origins.

Typically, now that we are married, we have established certain routines. Date night invariably begins with cocktails and ends with whisky. However, between the boozings, there is always food; and for date night, we usually opt for something fun. When I stumbled across Little Lamb, a Chinese hotpot restaurant that had met with approval from two food bloggers whose judgement I respect, it seemed like the perfect place for our four hundred and sixteenth date. Having enjoyed the obligatory cocktail in a fabulously hip French bar, we made our way down into the basement to spend an evening waging chopstick wars over the choicest morsels left floating in the stock.

Slightly shabby sushi

Toku, 16 Regent Street, SW1Y 4PH

When Mr Fork chose to propose in Tokyo, he did it for two reasons: both fairly romantic but one a little more self-serving than the other. I had been to Tokyo a few months before he asked the question and he knew I had been utterly captivated by its borderline-bonkers charms. He also knew that cementing my recollection of Japan to the happy occasion of becoming engaged would ensure that I would forever be amenable to the idea of visiting one of his favourite places. Sneaky git. What he probably hadn't bargained for was my taking this idea even further, with a kimono-inspired wedding dress that prompted my colleagues to send us off to married life with a gift of vouchers for the Japan Centre.

Oaxacan Celebrations

Wahaca, 66 Chandos Place, WC2N 4HG

Pacifico, mackerel tostadas and lots of lettuce

Standing outside Wahaca in Covent Garden last week, I received some very welcome news. It was a happy moment: they'd seated our table of ten within five minutes, there was a Pacifico Clara on the way inside and, thanks to a brief phone call, a dark cloud that had hung over my professional and personal life was soon to lift. Happy days.

Back inside, all was well: the service was cheery, the food was pleasant but unremarkable, and the company was excellent. However, after an evening of pork tacos, mackerel tostadas and chicken taquitos; the only real highlight was the news at the start. Some chorizo and potato quesadilas almost came close with their crunchy exteriors giving way to a filling reminiscent of fluffy cheese mash; but nothing bested standing outside the restaurant and hearing how things were about to change for the better. It turns out there is more to my life than food. 

Chicken guajillo tostadas - more lettuce

I LOVE black beans

How I stopped worrying and learnt to love the voucher

Zigni House, 330 Essex Rd, N1 3PB

Saving money is a faintly aspirational activity in the Fork household. Although we regard it as a laudable pursuit, it is invariably sidelined in favour of new cookbooks, the latest first-person shooter and meals out. My wallet is the envy of my waistline. However, even I have been affected by the money-saving mania that has been sweeping the capital: the internet voucher phenomenon. 

Usually, I behave just as the money saving profiteers expect you to: by signing up for the special offer and then promptly forgetting to take advantage of it. I know this about myself and usually abstain from all deal-based activities. However, a dear friend now works for one of the more successful voucher merchants and convinced me to give it a go. True to form, I found myself with a wealth of food-based vouchers and no plans to use them. Fully aware of this, Mr F suggested a deal-funded date night to ensure we cashed in at least two of the printed vouchers that had started to clutter the house. First stop: half price cocktails at Viajante.

Inconstant Italian

Zucca, 184 Bermondsey Street, SE1 3TQ

Meal for two: £85

Living in Dalston, I tend to think most other places are quite smart. I forget that it is normal to brush your hair and wear clothes that match; consequently, I am always vaguely surprised to find that most people choose to do this. Bermondsey, sleek, chic and stylish, is a welcome break from my home borough's scruffy charms.  On a quaint London village street complete with idyllic old church, Zucca embodies the upmarket but trendy feel that permeates this part of London.

All exposed concrete, open kitchen and well-judged art, eating in Zucca is like eating in the modern house of your parents' wealthiest friend: an intimate and charming experience that displays all the attributes of a great local restaurant. However, Bermondsey is not our neighbourhood, and it takes more than sharp design to entice me across the river. If the food had been consistently good, sustaining the quality displayed in the best dishes, I would have no hesitation in returning: for the cooking here displayed moments of real excellence. However, our meal was slightly overshadowed by inconsistencies, and it failed to live up to its stellar reputation.

Get Forked in Miami

When work told me that they were sending me to Miami for a week, it was a rare moment of sunshine in the oft-grey drudgery of my daily toil. In my mind, I would go and fill the breaks between meetings with seaside runs, I would find time to explore and I would extend my trip to spend a weekend eating the food of diverse cuisines - soaking up the culture of expatriate communities from Central America and the Caribbean. Unsurprisingly, this was somewhat ambitious. However, whilst my daily runs failed to materialise;  my trip, and Miami itself, were exactly as I expected them to be. The sky was invariably blue and the sun shone on beautiful people driving ostentatious cars.

Although principally there to work, my secondary aim was to eat as much as I could within a week. Food between meetings rather than exercise. My experience of the Miami restaurant scene veered from the sublime (excellent seafood served in view of the sea) to the mediocre (I visited a number of chain restaurants of the sort that will sell the unsuspecting diner vast quantities of generic, under-seasoned food). Somewhat disappointingly, in a week of Miami eating, I managed only a relatively small number of memorable food experiences. Fortunately, these were sufficiently brilliant to make up for the alternative: slightly generic American fare. 

February Fail

I have not done well with the Cookbook Challenge this month. However, this monumental fail is not my fault. I have several excuses:

1) I have been too busy checking out other people's burgers

2) Chinese Elvis gave me nightmares and I woke up too tired to cook

3) I spent so much at Dinner, I couldn't afford ingredients

So I can't really be blamed for failing so miserably, not with all that going on.