Smiltė Restoranas, Walthamstow

I’ve nothing against Lithuania, or Lithuanians. The exact opposite, in fact. A few years ago, I spent a fairly blissful few days there, drinking beer amongst the myriad shady cobbled courtyards of Vilnius’s old town, promenading on the longest wooden pier in the world at Palanga, and messing around on a boat on the tranquil, light dappled lake surrounding Trakai Castle. My travelling companion and I cycled along the fine white sands of the Baltic shore and through the paridisiacal botanical gardens of Édouard François André. The sun was bright, the air clear, the days were long and the Švyturys lager flowed freely. The food, on the other hand... well, in all honesty, the food was piss poor; always deep fried, always with vast quantities of sour cream and dill swamping everything. It hit you with a soporific and cloying calorie-load that made you queasy for the rest of the day. More often than not, we would seek out pizza, burgers, Ukrainian restaurants - anything rather than endure yet another fifteen litre helping of sour cream and grease. Oh, and don’t get me started on the smoked chicken stomachs and pigs ears (hairs normally intact). So why, you may well ask, did I suggest that DC travel to a Lithuanian restaurant in far flung Walthamstow? By way of defence, I would offer a lack of trust in my own recollection of the overwhelmingly dismal food that I experienced on that holiday: 'It couldn't have been that bad, surely? I should find out! And drag several other people along with me while I'm at it!'

The evening actually started out very well indeed. Walthamstow Village on a warm, early summer evening was delightful, as was the pub - the Nags Head, Orford Road - where we convened. Not only was the beer garden large and pleasant, we had also stumbled by happy accident upon a small beer festival. Barrels were heaped on barrels along the side wall of the pub, and I found myself enjoying several halves of exotically named bitters and ales. I was therefore slightly appalled by my companions’ failure to also enter into the spirit of things, and when Sarah joined she unapologetically announced she would be ordering a pint of 'crappy generic lager' at the bar. Oh well, their loss.

A short while later and we were approaching the Lithuanian restaurant named Smiltė. Dusk was looming, the shadows lengthening, and the frontage of the restaurant was an imposing wall of blackened glass, cracked into a spiderweb of shards in one corner. Our previously buoyant mood rapidly turned to one of trepidation as we filed into the gaudily decorated interior. A woman appeared and adopted an expression of appalled confusion when I inquired about our reservation. It was as if I had asked her if she would object to me urinating on the carpet. I repeated the name under which the reservation had been made, and she grimaced uncomprehendingly once more, before suggesting we sit down somewhere, anywhere. We settled in under a vast, wall-mounted flat screen TV tuned to some sort of Baltic MTV channel, muted so we could enjoy the Lithuanian pop issuing through the PA system. Our waitress re-appeared with menus and seemed in a cheerier mood than when we arrived, which wasn’t difficult. On my way to use the toilet, I noticed a couple of other groups were tucked round different corners of the actually surprisingly extensive establishment - some sort of family function seemed to be going on, with all suited and booted and in their finery.

We kicked off proceedings with a round of Švyturys - the unpronounceable but excellent Lithuanian lager (I perhaps should've mentioned earlier that what the country lacks in good eating, it makes up for in good drinking). I also recognised the 'beer snacks' on offer as a starter, and suggested we get a couple of plates of these for the table. When they arrived, things were (for the moment) looking up. The deep fried bread was flavoured with fenugreek and, when dipped into the accompanying molten cheese, incredibly moreish. Crudites, smoked sausage and salami were also provided, and on the whole - washed down with the beer - it was all very satisfactory indeed. Ordering the mains proved complicated due to the waitress regularly having to explain that the item we wanted to order was unavailable, but after a few false starts, we all managed to find something that was both available and that we were sort of interested in. I ordered what in Lithuania are commonly translated into English as 'zeppelins' - stuffed potato dumplings that I remember being atypically tolerable. The others (and I should perhaps mention here that we had a new member, Doug, joining us) all ordered variations on a similar theme - the overwhelmingly prevailing leitmotif of Lithuanian cuisine: stuff some bread/potatoes with cheese and/or meat, or stuff cheese and/or meat with bread/potatoes, deep fry, cover in sour cream and serve. My zeppelins (two ways - I know they were two half portions, but strange to serve them on separate, table cluttering plates) arrived quick smart, and were actually rather good. Sarah's near equivalent, which had arrived at roughly the same time, she didn't like at all - and I could sympathise as the plate was swimming with pungent oil. We noticed that several members of the family party in the adjoining room were now up and dancing, and a tall man (fact: all Lithuanian men are cyclopean) breezed past our table to the hi-fi and turned the volume of some Eurobeat abomination way up. The waitress thankfully then turned it down - slightly.

Zeppelins, two ways

Meanwhile, I had finished my food and was fit to burst. However, apart from Sarah, the rest of my dining companions were all still staring grudgingly at the empty space before them on the table. Our waitress seemed to have evaporated entirely. A good while later, and two more of our party were lucky enough to have food. There was still no sign at all of Katie's food arriving. We ordered more beer while Lucy wondered whether they perhaps only had one frying pan. Doug seemed to enjoy his crepe fritters with cheese, Lucy less so; but hers seemed to have been garnished with an additional ladle-full of acrid grease. Time passed, and while I was beginning to worry that my intake of deep fried carbs and high fat cheese had perhaps gone beyond what would typically be regarded as advisable, Katie was still going hungry. 'We are not leaving a tip', she announced with a barely constrained snarl. Our waitress seemed unconcerned, however, and was busying herself elsewhere in the largely empty restaurant.

Sweet and sour, Lithuanian style

Eventually, long after even the beer had lost its previous lustre, Katie was presented with her food. She had ordered two small dishes from the main menu, and she got them both at the same time, despite the fact that one of them was clearly a dessert. One would have thought that either she would've been advised of this when ordering, or the two dishes could've been served sequentially. Maybe we should've just been thankful that they were served at all. We asked for the bill, left no tip, and left as speedily as we could. No acknowledgement of our exit was made by anyone in the place. To be honest, we couldn't wait to get out of there. Any sensitive souls may want to stop reading at this point, because it was only a few minutes later that my earlier concern over the volume of grease I had ingested proved justified. Dear Reader, I vomited. I'm not suggesting in any way that there was any reason for this other than a constitution presumably too delicate for Lithuanian cuisine. But facts are facts.

Stuff it. Deep fry it. Sour cream it.

To be fair on Smiltė, we sought it out rather than were sought ourselves as customers by advertising or promotion, but even so, the lack of interest in even the basics of hospitality were staggering. I think the bottom line is that we were intruding on what is effectively a Lithuanian ex-pats social club. We were, in actual fact, not welcome and treated with little short of contempt because of that. I certainly don't remember any service as unashamedly derisory in Lithuania itself. Any positive things I could find to say about some of the food are made irrelevant by their attitude to service. If anyone can point me in the direction of a good Lithuanian restaurant in London, please do so - I would be keen to give it ago. Whatever Smiltė is, it isn't that.

Smiltė Restoranas

627 Lea Bridge Road

London E10 6AJ

tel. 0208 520 8430

Pasha Kyrgyz Kazakh Restaurant, Camberwell

After a rickety, over-long bus ride on the 42 from Tower Bridge to Camberwell Green, I debouched into the bitterly cold and miserable February night air and made my way to The Tiger to meet the rest of the Dining Club. It proved to be an excellent venue for the rendezvous and I enjoyed two pints of Double Dark, my glance occasionally distracted by the stuffed deer head on the wall wearing the bow tie.

A little while later and we were making our way along grim, litter strewn Camberwell Green Road in search of the Pasha Hotel, within whose bowels lurks the Kyrgyz/Kazakh/Turkish restaurant for which we had an 8 o’clock table booking. The hotel, easily identifiable thanks to the impressive array of flag poles outside the entrance, is a welcoming beacon of light in otherwise less than salubrious environs. Walking into the sedate and immaculately kept lobby from the blustery winter evening put one immediately at ease. I suddenly felt like I was on holiday. This feeling was amplified during the long stroll through red-carpeted wood paneled corridors, past pool tables and hair salons, in search of the restaurant itself. Like Alice disappearing down the rabbit hole, we weren’t in Kansas any more (if you’ll excuse the mix of literary references), but somewhere else beginning with K just west of the steppe.

There are two sections to the by then already bustling restaurant: the first with low tables surrounded by cushions and exotic wall drapery, the second over the bridge (yes there is a bridge) to the more traditional dining room style section. Our table was in the latter area (a relief for a non-nomad who doesn’t really do crouching very well) and as we sat we shouted our thanks to the waitress who seated us, over the din of the already well underway entertainment. This took the form of a saxophonist and a female singer performing vigorous versions of Russian pop songs to a karaoke style backing track at unnecessary volume.

The menu looked promising, if bewilderingly extensive. Investigating the Russian lager on draught was the first task and while everyone else went for tried and tested Baltika, I had a go on the unfamiliar Stary Melnik. It was fine but a little sweet and perfumed for me – I switched to the reliably dryer and crisper Baltica for the rest of the evening. Although the set menu looked pretty good value, none of us opted for it as other items had already caught our eye. There was a brief discussion about whether it would be in breach of Dining Club rules to order any of the Turkish items on the menu, and I successfully argued that since these dishes surely must be Kyrgyz/Kazakh interpretations of Turkish cuisine, they were therefore acceptable.

To start, Lucy went for a simple salad, Sarah went for the borsht and I for the 'Pasha special'. Katie ordered the borsok, which turned out to be a bit of a bad move. They were a basket of savoury doughnuts with a yoghurt dip, and while laudable in themselves, were clearly more of an accompaniment appropriate for the table rather than an individual starter. The waitress really should have advised us of this. I wasn’t overly fond of my 'Pasha special' – sliced smoked Turkish sausage and pickles in a thin tomato sauce. The sourness from the pickles and vinegar overwhelmed everything to the extent that any other flavour was extinguished. I eyed the borsht jealously, as it, on the other hand, looked pretty good.

We waited for our main courses while I tried to pretend it was perfectly normal for a saxophonist to be wandering from table to table blasting a rendition of the theme from Austin Powers in people’s faces. For the rest of the evening Katie would intermittently ask me if I was 'finding it weird yet', but against all evidence to the contrary I resolutely stuck to my guns and claimed there was nothing remarkable in any of the subsequent entertainments laid on, eccentric as they appeared compared to our rather more demure British restaurant traditions.

From a cursory bit of research I had discovered that the national dish of Kyrgyzstan was Beshbarmak, which I understood to be a sort of stew incorporating large pieces of a dismembered animal (occasionally a horse), including the head. I was therefore pleased to see this on the menu and excitedly ordered it. I was a bit crestfallen when what arrived looked less like a stew and more like a drab bowl of wide strips of pasta in a thin consommé with small pieces of mutton on top. It tasted absolutely superb, however. The pasta had been cooked in a very rich, very concentrated salty stock and the slow cooked lamb melted in the mouth. It was intensely flavoursome, sensational in fact. The other diners seemed to fair less well and their responses to their mains veered between diffidence and antipathy. Lucy actively disliked her Chicken Alaturka, and indeed, I sympathised when I tried a small piece of the dry meat in a very unexceptional tomato and pepper sauce. Sarah’s stuffed peppers were “ok”, as was Katie’s Plov. The latter was plain, vaguely spiced rice with some undistinguished lamb – this was especially disappointing as it seemed to be heavily promoted on the menu. Another slight niggle was the vodka that I ordered to finish my meal. It was served warm and, at £3 a pop, this was irritating.

The spectacularly good Beshbarmak aside, a disappointing evening food-wise was tempered by the atmosphere and buzz of the restaurant. Families lounged in the cushioned area, while larger parties were clearly settled in at their tables for the evening. When the belly dancer appeared, I hardly raised an eyebrow. The welcome was very friendly, the staff efficient yet relaxed and the service was leisurely in a good way.

Maybe a return visit one day will establish that (apart from me) we were just unlucky with our choices from a very extensive menu. The many variations on savoury stuffed pastries and dumplings in evidence on other tables looked particularly worth exploring. The fact that I’m not only willing but slightly keen to give it another go speaks more for the atmosphere and intrigue of the place than it does for the somewhat underwhelming (with notable exceptions) food that we experienced on the evening. 

The Camberwell Steppe.

Salami and vinegar

Another Russian salad.

Impeccable calligraphy

Pasha Hotel,
158 Camberwell Road,
Camberwell,
London,
SE5 0EE
http://www.pasharestaurants.co.uk/

Tatra Restaurant, 24 Goldhawk Road, Shepherds Bush, London W12 8DH

The venue for the Dining Club Christmas Party 2010 is significant as it is just across the road from another Polish restaurant – the superlative Patio – that was the venue for the inaugural Dining Club evening, all those many (well, maybe one and a bit) years ago. (Which reminds me that a return trip should be planned so I can give the place a proper write up.) Anyhow, the business of this evening (seasonal festivities aside) was to see if Tatra can compete. We meet for pre-dinner drinks in the baroquely named but always pleasant The Defectors Weld pub, on the corner of Shepherds Bush Common. I see someone walk away from the bar with an unusually tall and narrow pint glass of black beer and am immediately intrigued. It turns out to be something German called Köstritzer Schwarzbier, and its dark malty fizz is definitely worth seeking out.

Opened in 2008, Tatra is bright, modern, smartly furnished and - despite its modest size - feels more like a branch of one of those restaurant chains than we at DC are normally used to. No bad thing in and of itself, and we felt in safe hands with the friendly staff, despite them disappointing us with the news that, as we weren’t a pre-booked group of more than 8, we weren’t eligible for the special Christmas menu. The large pre-booked group of more than 8 on the seats opposite us were, on the other hand, eligible and busy ordering from the Christmas menu. We swiftly moved on from dwelling on this churlish piece of bureaucracy, puzzling from an otherwise small and hospitable independent restaurant, and focused on the permitted menu instead.

To start, I had the pierogi (also available as a main), and they were really very splendid. Polish cuisine has several stunners in its repertoire, and these small, ravioli like, delicately spiced meat-filled dumplings are one of them. Other starters investigated by the Dining Club were smoked salmon and blinis (which Lucy reported as "fine"), pickled herring (apparently delicious) and the special that day - pigeon breasts. Sarah graciously allowed me to try the latter, and it had a smokey gamey intensity which, while she found overpowering, I very much enjoyed. The several pieces of shot we both subsequently had to spit out were unwelcome, but also reassuring evidence of its wild provenance. Although I sensed I was a little less fazed by their presence than Sarah, I was still pleased to have a large glass of Tatra beer on hand to cleanse the lead from my palette.

It was a struggle deciding what to have for my main purely because I absolutely adore stuffed cabbage, and to a somewhat evangelical extent. It was very difficult to see beyond that item on the menu (in the guise of their Polish manifestation, Gołąbki), but – remembering my responsibilities as a Dining Club member to not play too safely – I asked the waiter what he recommended and, following his advice, ordered the hunter's stew (or bigos). I was almost inconsolable when the stuffed cabbage that Katie and Sarah had ordered was placed in front of them. It looked perfect – clean, green leaf parcels of minced pork, crisply fried off on one side, perched enticingly in a pool of a rich tomato based sauce. To worsen the blow, Lucy’s Chicken Kiev seemed to be a Platonic ideal of that noble dish as well – a large, plump chicken breast coated in golden breadcrumbs, producing a deep garlicky liquor when punctured, which spilled out its rich butter flavor onto the accompanying cabbage. (The insipid pre-made supermarket versions have given Chicken Kiev a bad name, which is desperately unfair - seek out a good home made version and I guarantee it will knock you out). Alas, although actually perfectly serviceable, my hunter’s stew suffered terribly by comparison and seemed heartbreakingly bland and uninteresting. Needing to somehow avoid plunging into a slough of despond for the rest of the evening, I reached for the vodka list, which I had noticed before looked very exhaustive and very reasonably priced. Undissuaded by the waitress who rather bizarrely volunteered the information that she found vodka “disgusting”, I ordered a shot of the Potocki for the simple reason it has the same name as the writer of one of my favourite books. It arrived at the table perfectly ice cold and proved, after the first tentative sip, absolutely delicious. I ordered another, and very quickly my spirits were restored enough to inquire after the apple strudel and ice cream to those who were eating it. It was apparently very good.

Personal misfortune (nay, catastrophe!) aside, the food was cooked and presented with a contemporary confidence that didn't betray its roots in the best of traditional Polish cuisine. Comparisons to the long-established and well-known Patio are unavoidable, but while that institution is held in justifiably fond regard for its home spun charm and eccentricity, Tatra is a very different proposition – forward thinking, smart and breezy. The one thing they have in common is the remarkably good Polish food they both serve.

Catch that pigeon

The Gołąbki that got away. It still breaks my heart.

A large bottle of Tatra lager

Tatra Restaurant

24 Goldhawk Road
Shepherds Bush
London W12 8DH

Tel: 0208 749 8193
Tel: 0777 913 2374
E-mail: info@tatrarestaurant.co.uk

The Village, 421 Green Lanes, N4 1EY

The Dining Club convenes in the Old Ale Emporium, which turns out to be a bog-standard boozer with mass-produced lagers dominating the taps, as opposed to the cathedral of hops, beards, tankards and sandals worn over socks that the name suggests. A bitter disappointment to be honest (bitter – geddit?), although one somewhat alleviated by the ‘77 punk singles blasting out of the jukebox on heavy rotation for no apparent reason. After a couple of bland, generic lagers we head up the road to The Village for Bulgarian food.

Unfortunately, we didn’t feel it necessary to book, as a cursory bit of research made it clear this was more of a café than a restaurant. And the place is full. Two intimidating gentlemen in shell suits, dark glasses and a few items of bling sit in the corner, nursing a half empty glass of coke between them, beneath a big screen broadcasting near pornographic, presumably Bulgarian, R&B videos that blend into a relentless phantasmagoria of accurately groomed facial hair, gold rings, pouts, pimp cups and grinding hot pant-clad buttocks. The extremely friendly chap behind the counter makes an unsolicited approach to these two Sopranos extras on our behalf to vacate their table. They sullenly look up at him, and then us, before we quickly back out muttering apologetically that we’ll come back in another half an hour or so when it’s “less busy”.

A short while later, we’re back and there is plenty of space. If I was being patronising (and I clearly am) I would say the menu had naïve charm. Certain items in the standard café section have an intrigue all of their own (“toast Hawaii”, anyone?) but we’re on Dining Club business, so it’s strictly Bulgarian all the way, starting with the beer. There are two varieties of Bulgarian beer on offer and both come in large 500ml cans. I can’t remember how I arrived at my decision to opt for one rather than the other, but it was a perfectly good lager and around 3 quid, I think. If the waitress was impressed by my gung-ho swagger in ordering the tripe starter, she hid it well. The plate of offal itself couldn’t be accused of dishonesty. It consisted of part of a boiled cow’s stomach cut up into small squares and each mouthful - salty sweet and delicious as it was – was followed by a supressed gag in response to the unadorned truth of what I was eating. I resolved to, in future, persist with offal, pursuing it at every available juncture, until I was inured to any such petty squeamishness.

Lucy’s main was an astonishing concoction of chicken in a ratatouille style stew but with the unique (Bulgarian?) addition of a thick layer of molten cheese covering everything. It was actually really very nice, and vastly proportioned; unlike Lucy, who was struggling after making only the most cursory forays into it with her fork. Sarah, Katie and I all went for slight variations on the same theme of grilled meat, fries and salad. This arrived in the form of a homemade beef pattie stuffed with a pungent (paprika-noted?) chilli sauce centre and was really quite wonderful. It was presented on a wooden platter with a pleasant green salad and perfectly acceptable fries. It’s worth noting that when Sarah had earlier been in danger of becoming permanently stranded in an apparently impossible choice between rice and fries with her main, the waitress gallantly stepped in and offered her half and half. We also had two salads on the side - one Russian and one Bulgarian (the latter duly dubbed the "salad mountain"). Yet again, the volume of food on the table was far too much for four and I think it all worked out at around £15 each in the end, including service.

If I lived on Green Lanes, or indeed in Stoke Newington, and this was my local café, I would regularly be found in there enjoying home made, flavourful Bulgarian food at more than reasonable prices in its down to earth but very friendly (Sopranos extras aside) surroundings.

PS This visit took place a while ago – last year in fact. My note taking was woefully inadequate and I failed to jot down many salient details, including the actual names of the dishes we ate, the actual names of the Bulgarian beer etc. I will endeavour to up my game in future.

The "salad mountain"

Meat and two carbs