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.