CHICKEN A LA KING 1974

It’s 1975, I am 26. Another cheap cafe was ‘The Pot’ in Earls Court – a sort of slightly more up market combination of a student and working men’s cafe, catering for Earls Court’s Australian backpacker’s population. It was hidden down a narrow crack that widened as you went in, in the centre of a row of small shops just off the Earls Court Road, busy 24/7. The access to this alley was about a door width, but there was a quite a large restaurant at the end. Its ambiance and decor was more of a normal restaurant, with pine cubicles formed by U shaped high backed pine benches round six seater pine tables, with hanging raffia globe lights. It was part of a chain of establishments, all looking identical, offering identical menus. The first, I think, was in the King’s Road near Sloane Square – the ‘Chelsea Kitchen’, then there was  one just off the Haymarket, one in Soho, and another two in Earl’s Court – the ‘Hotpot’ and the ‘Golden Pot’; the names always incorporated ‘Pot’. It was never clear if they were actually a chain, or just ex-chefs copying a good Unique Selling Point, the fact the menus were similar hand written A4 offset litho sheets certainly implied a connection between them.

I was introduced to them by Laura, who lived in Earl’s Court, and suggested ‘The Pot’ for our first date – “There’s this really great value secret restaurant” and so it proved. Their ‘signature’ dish was ‘Chicken a la King’ – a dish apparently (at least under that name) unique to them – chunks of chicken in a creamy sauce on boiled rice, and for afters ice cream with real chocolate sauce; and I mean real melted chocolate, they kept a saucepan of it on the stove. It solidified as a shell round the ice cream. Plus a glass of wine, all for an incredibly low price, but in this case they relied on a high turnover. They were the sort of place young singles in their first jobs went for an evening meal after work, rather than a lonely sandwich at home,  and indeed one of my friends patronised the ‘Chelsea Kitchen’ thus for many years.

There is nothing quite as exciting as a first date, and the place remains special ever after (and ditto the last date, Berthe , but we won’t go in to that). Unfortunately The Pot was sold about 5 years later and transformed into a conventional Moroccan restaurant.

Back

FROGS, FROGS AND MORE FROGS 1974

It’s 1974, I am 26. Another cheap cafe was ‘The Casserole’ in Tottenham Court Road next to Googe Street station. It was very convenient  for my job at Leonard Manassseh, and I often patronised it for a meal after work.  It was in a basement under the Scientologist’ ‘shop’. This was unfortunate for footfall because there was always a rather ugly female Scientologist outside trying to buttonhole passers-by for a ‘Free Personality Test’. I did it once, it was headed ‘Oxford Personality Test’ (nothing to do with Oxford University of course), and was two sides of about 50 multiple choice questions. They told me (guess what) it showed I was in desperate need of Scientology.

Anyway, if you dodged the Scientologist and descended the stairs from a discrete doorway, you found yourself in a large basement eating establishment. I say ‘establishment’ because they operated a rather uncommon system. During the day they were a cheap cafe with rather good excellent value food. Then at night they transformed into an expensive posh restaurant with candle lit tables. I think the change over must have been at about 8pm, because I certainly eat there at 6pm. There was a half hour interregnum while they did it.

It was conducted by the gorgeous Anna Towle, who must have been my about age, and was my absolutely ideal woman (and as it transpired, a lot of other men’s). You have no idea how useful it is for a restaurant to have an apparently available, attractive, intelligent, fashionable, witty, friendly woman who indulges in very slight flirting, running front of house. I am sure most of the establishment’s success was down to her.

She occupied, with the till, a central workstation, where you paid. Somehow it got around that she liked frogs - perhaps she had mentioned it in some light banter to a male customer, and he had bought her a small china frog and presented it to her on his next visit. So not to be outdone, some other man bought her a stuffed frog, and someone else a brass frog, and so it went on, with her counter, till, and shelves being covered in frogs of all colours (not just green) and sizes and material. Sitting, standing, lounging, jumping, dangling their legs. Frog books, cards, photographs, poems, puppets (remember Kermit?). You could hardly see her. It got completely out of hand. Male combativeness over a female. Stags rutting.

I didn’t succumb myself, as I could see it was getting ridiculous. She probably didn’t even particularly like frogs. But it became a talking point, a Unique Selling Point, a curiosity, and attracted more custom. Alas, I never saw how it ended, as I was made redundant in the 1974 economic crisis. I did go back eventually, and of course the restaurant had changed hands. It seems that John Phillip Towle, restaurateur, of 67 Tottenham Court Road was declared bankrupt and The Casserole, established 1966, was closed in 1985; there is no restaurant there now, the Scientologists probably won. I expect there was a skip full of frogs.

Anna ( Jones ?), if you are reading this, please get in touch!

ANCIENT GREECE 1976

It’s 1976, I am 28. And yet another good value restaurant was ‘Jimmy’s Taverna’ in Frith Street, Soho. I never made it to ‘The Colony Room Club’ presided over by Muriel Belcher (a anonymous bell in Dean Street labelled with the solitary word ‘CUNT’); or to ‘The Coach and Horses’ pub in Greek Street presided over by the rudest landlord in London Norman Balon, and the home of Jeffrey Bernard who wrote a weekly ‘Low Life’ column in the Spectator (described as “The longest suicide note in history”). But I did make it to ‘The French House’ pub with a rouged and lipsticked Francis Bacon, and to Jimmy’s’.

‘Jimmy’s’ had been discovered by Pete and Jill years before as a great place to have a cheap meal, and introduced us to it; I think it had moved from where they had originally patronised it. It was again in a cellar, originally under just one property, but with a flamboyant entrance under a hemispherical blue vinyl canopy. It was staffed, and presumably owned, by elderly Greeks, who gave the impression they had worked there for 30 years, as did the décor. The service was slow and somewhat surly if they could drag themselves away from a card game. It was the first Greek restaurant in London in 1948. Plastic table cloths, and you were morally obliged to have a side plate of bread doorstops and butter; the best value, which I always had, was ‘Lamb Tava’ (apparently actually Turkish) - it was delicious, with Ouzo or Retzina. A Mike Shippobottom and I spent a New Year’s Eve there once - it was quite an experience! Eventually they annexed the next door basement and doubled in size, but it was much the same. It closed sometime around 1998.