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.