Some say cookbooks are the new porn. I personally find them quite entertaining, if, and only if, there are lots of photos, and only if the photos are all of hot and steamy dishes. Visually stimulating, they can arouse my senses and heighten my desire for that nourishing-looking morsel on the page, immediately transporting me into a heavenly world of exquisite comfort eating.

As I scanned the menu at Champor-Champor, a fixed-price affair (2 courses, £25; 3 courses £29.50), I also wondered whether menu porn could be considered the new porn too. A good menu can be a titillating promise of the tasty things to come. It can occasionally be a tease too, making you want all that is offered when all the while you know it won’t be possible. On this menu, sandwiched in between the starters and the mains were the interestingly entitled inter-courses (with a £2.80 supplement). Porn anyone?

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Note: This write-up was based on a dinner I had before the fire earlier in 2009 which closed the restaurant for a number of months. The restaurant has since re-opened.

The mouth-watering chicken at Bar Shu

Walking down Frith Street to my destination of Bar Shu, a Sichuan (Szechuan) restaurant, I happened to notice Barrafina. But then Barrafina is rather hard to miss. With big glass windows, shiny white walls, plenty of elegantly dressed people perched high up on bar stools, it generally seems to sport an all round hip n’ happening crowd. It’s won many plaudits, but after the success the Hart brothers (Sam and Eddie) had with Fino, this was bound to be a sure thing. I would rather like to eat there, but one key factor has always held me back – their no bookings policy. Despite having shown my face at Barrafina on a couple of previous occasions, I was unable to secure a table without a very protracted wait and have invariably ended up leaving.

No doubt I would have enjoyed eating there tonight. So mark a no reservations policy as a major dislike in my world of dining out. But for those restaurants that do take reservations, just as irritating can be time restrictions, when you’re told after making a booking that they need the table back after two hours. It’s irritating because who would want the indignity of being rushed through a meal that you’re going to pay for?

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It’s mid-term and schools are out. There are no classroom lessons, but lessons from parent to child are taught on a daily basis. Some will be of the practical kind, like how to tie shoelaces, looking both ways before crossing the road or how to properly brush teeth. The kind of teachings about life that when we grow older, we simply take for granted.

Some of my life lessons I also learnt in my father’s kitchen. Like the one about always heating the pan first to the appropriate temperature to allow meat, etc, to brown. As a youngster, I knew not the science, but I knew it made food taste good, intensifying flavour by creating that little bit of extra crispiness on the surface of the food.

At a more technical level, browning occurs as a result of the moisture on the surface of the meat evaporating when it comes into contact with high heat. Consequently, a chemical reaction takes place whereby the proteins on the surface of the meat develop. It then leads to the caramelising effect which ‘browns’ the meat, adding not only flavour, but also a more appetising appeal with the added (brown) colour. ‘Browning’ is also known as the Maillard reaction, so named for the French scientist who first investigated the reaction. It is one of the reasons why when we partake in our beloved BBQs we always make sure the heat is high so that we get that wonderful outer layer of flavour and crispiness on our steaks and sausages. It is also the heat that creates that mouth-watering aroma of smoking, sizzling meat which makes the wait for the cooking food sometimes unbearable.

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When you’ve recently travelled back from Sydney to London on a 24 hour flight and had to suffer the injustice of an 11 hour time difference, presumably you could be forgiven for ignoring your friends. For a week or so after I arrived back in London, I hibernated in my flat and barely saw daylight other than to ward off hunger pains with the occasional visit to the shops. However there came a point when the explanations I gave for my absenteeism such as “I’ve been so jetlagged,” or “I’ve not slept,” were no longer acceptable excuses from not partaking in the social norms of reality.

Eventually the call to order arrived, a message through my hotmail account asking if I was still alive. And so it was that I awoke with a jolt, literally and figuratively as my stomach also stirred with grumbles for a satiable fill of my favourite pastime, a good meal out with friends.

So it was on a crisp autumnal evening that I walked down Conduit Street to my destination, Via Condotti, an Italian ristorante named after Rome’s most famous shopping strip (Via Condotti) and itself located within the reaches of some of London’s finest shops. As I approached the restaurant, I was met with a beguiling entrance which laid claim to a charming dining room lit with warm soft hues, peach and magnolia walls and light wood floors. White linen tables and leather backed chairs had been arranged comfortably throughout.

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