Honouring Koya Bar in Soho London with seven haiku poems

[monday‘s haiku – “Steam”]

 

Amid Soho’s din,

A pot is gently bubbling.

Steam slowly rises.

 

*

 

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Rules Restaurant London does the best pudding in London - a dreamy syrup sponge pudding

 Covent Garden, 18th January 1804 

“WHERE IN JENKINS’ NAME IS MY GRAVY?… ” I holler at the waiter, evidently newly prenticed and a waif of a boy, whose smart attire barely disguises a demeanor resembling that of my poor cousin Henry just before he died of the pox. 

What dark times are these when a gentleman ventures into his preferred eating establishment and has to wait for his gravy! So enraged am I, that I find myself resorting to some choice utterances – namely involving that damn fiend Napolean and a frisky French poodle – before slamming my silver tankard down so briskly on the mahogany table that my ale splashes over my well-tended beard. Curses and curse again! 

Does he not realise that I am London’s foremost restaurant critic? Admittedly, we are but few in number, namely my good self and that blasted rapscallion upstart Charles Pendergast. Yet, it would appear this wretched boy dares test my ability to destroy reputations with nothing more than my quill and a pot of ink! View Post

To survive Brexit chaos, how about The French House in Soho, London.

Trump. Terrorism. Death. Okay, so not perhaps the most obvious of topics to stray into a restaurant review. But having somehow managed to do just that in some of my previous posts, what’s now left is a big Brexit-shaped elephant in my blog-room that’s still to be confronted.

But I cannot remain silent anymore. A deal has been negotiated. March 2019 is fast approaching. It’s time to talk Brexit.

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Indian Accent serves up this magical dish of makhan malhai, a golden dome of cream bedecked in all manner of opulent finery.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Time. Goodness me, how on earth do I go about talking about Time? On a food blog!

A science blog perhaps – yes, that’d be more fitting. Perhaps a post written by that amiable if ubiquitous Brian Cox chap who pops up on the radio now and again, and who looks way too young be a professor. And a physics professor at that.

(And am I really now at that age when everyone starts to “look too young to be.. a doctor? A teacher? A leader of a nation state?” But I guess that’s time for you – as Einstein said, it’s all relative.)

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Apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah, Jewish New Year, symbolise the hope for a good and sweet year ahead.

On Rosh Hashanah it is inscribed,
How many will pass and how many are born,
Who shall live and who shall die..
Who shall rest and who shall wander..

(Unetaneh Tokef)

 

As you can probably tell from this ancient verse, the Jewish version of New Year ain’t some breezy rendition of Auld Lang Syne, cheeky kiss at midnight, and fleeting resolution to give up chocolate. No, Rosh Hashanah is a very different kettle of (gefilte) fish.

In fact, it’s Judaism’s Day of Judgment no less – or at least its annual version – when one’s deeds are scrutinised, divine judgement is meted out, and our fates become sealed for the year ahead.

It’s basically one’s annual appraisal with God, with all the same apologies and promises, but without the chocolate bourbons. View Post