The good food guy
AFTERTHOUGHT JOHN WELLS
Colonel Chamois Loon, who left the Ministry of Defence last year after sensational revelations about government snooping had been made in a daily newspaper by Mr Chipman Grabber, with whom, according to the Prime Minister, the Colonel had been on 'over-close terms,' has since turned his hand to full-time gastronomy, and writes a regular column in an evening news- paper about restaurants which he has visited. Restaurants reviewed by the Colonel are so inundated with new customers, according to the evening newspaper, that it is impossible to get in without booking some time in advance. This week the Good Food Guy takes an impar- tial sniff at what's cooking in Clap Street, Soho.
Enrico Mafioso and his brother Molto 'Con- crete Overcoat' Mafioso are two of the most charming Sicilians one could wish to meet on a dark night in London's somewhat louche Latin. Quarter. After years of patient and backbreak- ing toil on their tiny lasagne plantation in the south of Sicily where they slaved from dawn to dusk in order to support their frail and ailing mother, Signora Mafioso, and their fourteen year old sister—I did not have the honour of making the little lady's acquaintance, though Enrico and Molto insisted that I should—the two brothers regretfully decided to abandon their native land and to come and seek employ- ment in London. Their description of leaving their lady mother, their hot tears at parting, their protestations of passionate patriotism— Enrico had no inhibitions about falling to his knees on the none too hygienic pavement to demonstrate how he stooped to kiss farewell to the soil of his beloved island—were enough to melt the proverbial cockles and to bring a tear to the cynical old eye.
After such a story it was impossible to resist their invitation to 'step in the side,' and it was in this way that I found myself being escorted down the rather steep steps of 'II Joint' (31b Clap Street, WI) and into the smoky light of this authentic Sicilian cucina dei ladroni not a mile from Marble Arch. The restaurant was already comfortably full of fashionable sophisti- cates, dressed in the colourful Chicago gang- ster-style suits currently a la anode in Carnaby Street, and the exhilarating murmur of cosmo- politan conversation. This fell suddenly silent as I reached the foot of the steps, and I was momentarily afraid that my upswept mous- taches, striking perhaps rather a jarring and outré note against my sober city suiting and discreet club tie, might have caused my fellow- diners to recognise me and to become bashful about their choice of wine or selection of dishes. I need not have worried. A sign from Enrico, and a garlic-laden roar of Neapolitan laughter put me entirely at my ease.
As an appetiser, Molto Mafioso—an enor- mous man with shoulders like a cathedral door and a deep reassuring laugh—recommended his 'Droppi di Knockout.' This, as far as I could ascertain, is made with a gin base, equal measures of Bacardi and something out of a small black bottle that Molto poetically de- scribed as 'the buttled moonlight of Beirut,' a twist of potato peel and a generous dollop of Daddy's sauce. This, I was told, should be drunk with a flourish at one draught, and the glass afterwards crunched up into fragments and swallowed. Such a feat, I fear, was beyond the capabilities of my War Department Issue false teeth, but Molto demonstrated how easy it was, chewing the glass with an unusual grind- ing sound and swallowing with a gulp before treating me to a wide and disarming smile. The 'Droppi' packs a considerable punch, and I would not recommend the second brimming tumbler I immediately demanded to anyone whose liver is not weathered and seasoned to a mahogany consistency as is my own.
But now to the menu. This, surprisingly enough, came fitted into a gold menu holder bearing the royal cipher—Enrico explained that Her Majesty met Signora Mafioso in a cafe in Marseilles and was so impressed with her fine singing voice that she pressed a trunk of gold plate on her as a mark of her royal esteem— and agreeably simple. For starters, an alterna- tive of Sopa di pahnolive or sheep's head tar- tare: for the main course either the Anathema Touristique, a kind of fricassee of cold boiled jellyfish served in sour cream with vinegar, or the Fleau des Borgias, a mysterious inky-black stew not unlike bouillabaisse and eaten through a straw. I plumped for the sheep's head and the fleau, washed down with a flagon of Enrico's Fluide d'embaumeur 300 per cent proof 1891, which he tells me he imports from Sicily in bulk.
I cannot recall a restaurant in London where there is such a splendid spirit of camaraderie and unstuffy chumminess on the part of hosts and customers alike. No sooner had I downed my first 'Droppi' than an enthralled circle gathered about my table, some watching with affected wonder as I polished off my first flagon of the potent fluide, some chattering in the musi- cal argot of Tuscany and the Campagna, some leaning forward as I delved into the cranial recesses of the unusually piquant Tete de mouton and miming exaggerated distaste, some even clapping a hand over their mouth and run- ning precipitately up the steps and out into the street. Others roared and wept with rich Sicilian laughter, throwing their arms around each other's shoulders and encouraging me to eat more. Then a big 'Ah' as the Fleau des Bor- gias arrived. What concentration as I ingested the contents of the deep bowl with a single sus- tained draught through the straw! Indeed, as I gave the moustaches a quick dust with my nap- kin and settled back with a sigh of satisfaction I almost detected a sense of disappointment.
If I have not done justice to what Enrico obviously considers his coup de grace I can only apologise. (Sorry, Enrico, sorry, Molto!) The climax to the evening came when Enrico himself returned to my table to perform a cere- mony which I take to be typically Sicilian. Raising a large Indian club in a gesture not unlike that used by Her Majesty in the dubbing of the great and good Sir Francis Chichester, he brought it down with a withering crack on the back of my head. Had it not been for the anaesthetic fumes of the delicious fluide I fear it might well have disturbed my aplomb, but as it was I was able to return the gesture with a grave bow and a brief epigram in dog Latin in lieu of thanks. For a moment my fellow diners seemed dumbfounded: then they shrugged, gesticulated, and began dancing lightly about the room, uttering strange cries. The bill, pre- sented by a now somewhat subdued Enrico, struck me at the time as modest, coming in all to £57 lOs 6d. To this I added £35 tip. To sum up: atmosphere, exotic; food, unique; wine. amazing; service, delightful. As Enrico said, as I was assisting him to climb the steps, before stepping into a taxi and bidding him farewell : 'I think it is, Signor Colonel Loon, that we prefer to do things your way!' Il Joint,' I would predict, has a considerable future before it is among the top ten eateries in London. Buon Vecchio, Enrico! Asti Spumante, Molto! Wel- come to the Club.
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