It isn’t normal, unfortunately, to go to the pub on your own as a youngish person. There’s no real reason for that: it’s just that, if a friend saw you, they would assume you were an alcoholic. I’ve had the odd solo pint, usually while waiting for a train, but I dread, even far from home, being assumed to be on the same path as Shane MacGowan if an old acquaintance passed by the window.
This is silly and I should get over myself. Of course solo drinking is fine. As Christopher Hitchens said, solitary drinks ‘can be the happiest glasses you ever drain’. But I can’t quite be bothered to lead the resistance. So what are the options if I want to decompress while out and about? Do I ride the bus in a circle? Do I find a library? Do I sit in a café and – God, GOD – have a herbal tea?
My favourites all give you soothing anonymity: no friendly service, no rushing you out of the door – just a hot bowl of food for £10 to £15
No, I’ve found the perfect decompression chambers, or rather, a million of them. My London Chinatown has never been the Cantonese one in Soho: it’s the one that sprawls from roughly Great Portland Street in the west to Gray’s Inn Road in the east. We may reasonably worry about Chinese espionage at universities and the state of university halls where the Chinese students live nocturnally and don’t talk to you (I should know, I was in one). But the Chinese effect on UCL, KCL and LSE-land has been marvellous. Most of the restaurants around here are wheat-based, being northern Chinese cooking, and I prefer noodles to rice, so it all suits me, at least.
I’ve got about ten favourites, and what they all give you is soothing anonymity: hardly any friendly service, no rushing you out of the table and a hot bowl of food for £10-£15.
There is, however, a problem: frequent changes of ownership can lead to variable experiences. This was particularly annoying for me a few weeks ago. I was taking Giles Coren out to lunch (‘Wow Angus, you are cool, and did I say handsome too?’) and we got a bit of a dud. We were at BaMan on Caledonian Road. If you Google that, you’ll find that it suggests the British Association of Medical Anaesthetic Nurses. Now, our lunch wasn’t so bad that I was contacting those ladies afterwards, but things were a bit limp.
Hunan-style spicy stir-fried beef (£12) is meant to rip your head off, but it tasted rather a bit too much of cow, not beef. Changsha-style braised pork belly had an oversaturated red hue but was decently tasty (£12). Better was the ‘saliva chicken’ (£12.90), my favourite northern Chinese dish – a cold poached chicken submerged in a sesame-heavy chilli oil.
I nodded along as Giles explained why the century egg with tofu (£12) was a miss, neglecting to mention that I didn’t, until that lunchtime, know what a century egg was. Meanwhile, I gnawed on what were on the menu as lamb chops (£16.50), but were, in fact, ribs. They were far too fatty but still pleasant to absent-mindedly put in your mouth, like a cigarette.
We got given, erroneously instead of a portion of pig’s ears, sliced ox organs in chilli sauce (£12.90), and I’m glad I just had the tongue before realising. An hour and ten passed before any of our bowls were cleared.
These restaurants are charmingly democratic. Behind us, two gents waiting for a train ordered sweet and sour chicken, salt and pepper chicken, and salt and pepper chips. These places are the new ‘third spaces’, and I will continue to love them for their inconsistencies. Who knows: if I pop in again, BaMan might be brilliant.
BaMan, 13 Caledonian Road, London, N1 9DX; tel: 020 3336 3664; thebaman.co.uk
Comments