Mash at PITT CUE, London's Evolving

Evolution. Some say the zenith of human intellectual thought and scientific method. The proposition that life evolved through natural selection of the fittest genes, that humans arose over millennia and not created from dust, has forever changed our understanding of ourselves and our place in the world. Whereas the Big Bang theory ripped up Genesis chapter one, Evolution did it for chapter two, putting it squarely in confrontation with religious Creationists ever since. And here we stand today, in a world deluged in violent conflagration between the forces of progressive rational scientific enlightenment and those of a fanatical mediaeval barbarism.

Anyway, on perhaps a lesser scale, there's also a spot of evolution going on in London's food scene.

Ode to Charoseth

Jewish cuisine. To some, an oxymoron. To others, the warmest cosiest hug your stomach could ever have.

Either way, laden with heavy carbs and cloying fat, regular consumption guarantees a lifetime of Gaviscon dependency, with the very real possibility of major cardiovascular surgery by the time you're 60. Or even 50.

But not all Jewish cuisine is the same, there being a rough division between Ashkenazi (communities originating from Eastern Europe) and Sephardi influences (from Spain, Portugal, North Africa and the Middle East).

My family’s origins are Ashkenazi, coming from Latvia and Belarus, amongst others. I do wonder what led my ancestors - back in the day - to settle in these bleaker lands in lieu of warmer, gentler Southern climes...

Mutton at APOLLO BANANA LEAF, Scores On The Doors WTF?

Some restaurants aspire to three-Michelin stars. Others set their sights on glowing press reviews, perhaps a Fay, Jay, Grace or Giles. A TripAdvisor Certificate or perhaps a Time Out award.

However, in the bustling saturated world of restaurant evaluation – what with all those annoyingly excitable bloggers armed with camera phones [eh humm cough]– there is still one code of merit which rises above them all. What is this cherished accolade, you may wonder, that make countless eateries across the land festoon their frontages with its myriad shiny green labels.

Scores on the F**king Doors. What is that about?

Peas at THE DAIRY, Spring Is In The Air

Spring. The season of rebirth. Revered by world religions with festivals of joy, hope and redemption: Easter, Passover, Spring Equinox. Even Jedi-ism marks the sacred season with holidays such as Ewok Monday and Luke-I-Am-Your-Father’s Day. And if ever there was a season where the Force reveals, surely it is Spring. Life erupting from the Earth’s very crust, green shoots exploding from the ground to greet the sun’s rays.

London. This city of brick and bustle. Once plagued by the putrid stench of medieval road-side sewerage and smothered blind by blankets of thick tarry smog. But in this century, Spring’s tendrils emerge across London’s parks and squares, heaths and commons, gardens and window-boxes, blossoming into fields of resplendent colour. Daffodils so copious in number that one wonders how local councils prioritised floral park embellishment against such fiscal austerity...