Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic, who gets a disturbing stirring in his loins every time Trump is on the telly.

IT always feels out of order talking about Africa and food in the same breath. All those guilt trips from Oxfam with starving kiddies and asking for money. It’s enough to put you off your dinner. 

I thought we sorted all that out with Live Aid anyway? Just a tax evasion scam for Bob Geldof and Midge Ure if you ask me. And don’t get me started on WaterAid. Three quid will supply a family for a month? We should all move there. It sounds a bloody sight cheaper than my bills from Severn Trent.

Putting my doubts aside, I’m off to try a new restaurant in town which promises ‘A true taste of Africa’. Better watch what I say though, or I’ll end up in the pot, hahaha! No, seriously, I am a bit worried.

Like the broad-minded chap that I am, I begin by trying to engage the waiter in conversation. ‘Whereabouts in Africa are you from?’ I ask. ‘Smethwick’ he replies, with a look that could cut me to the bone. Which, given my earlier concerns, is even more disconcerting.

I quickly change the subject by ordering a starter and opt for egusi soup, a West African speciality, apparently. With melon seeds in it. Melon seeds. In soup. The world’s gone mad.

It’s accompanied by injera bread, a spongy sourdough affair. It’s rank. No wonder they all look starving on the telly. I’d rather go hungry myself, who can blame them?

There’s a bewildering array of mains, consider it’s a continent with bugger all to eat. The bunny chow is, surprisingly, not a rabbit dish, but a hollowed-out half loaf of bread filled with curry. No thanks, I can get that from the half-time food vendors at the Villa. 

There’s also biltong, cured, dried meat from South Africa. Utterly pointless in a world where there are Peperamis in every supermarket. That comes with chakalaka, which sounds like a 1970s disco group, but is actually a spicy vegetable relish. I skip those as well.

Things don’t improve. There’s bobotie, a hideous-sounding concoction of minced meat, dried fruit, eggs and milk. It’s like they’ve got in from the pub and just thrown everything in the fridge in a saucepan. I’ve done the same myself after a skinful, but it didn’t cross my mind to set up a restaurant serving it.

I’m too scared to even ask about the Zulu chicken, so, running out of options, I go for the jollof. Rice, vegetables and meat. What’s the worst that can happen?

I soon find out when it arrives and is spicy as f**k. The menu says it’s a ‘symbol of unity and cultural identity’. If your idea of unity is all having the shits at the same time I guess it’s true.

I brave a dessert and go for the number one speciality, malva. It’s a baked sponge with apricot jam and cold custard. Palatable enough, but no sticky toffee pudding substitute.

Keeping my smile firmly fixed for fear of reprisals, I duly pay the bill and leave. Would I go back. You’re taking the piss, aren’t you? I’ve eaten, after a fashion, and made it through the door without becoming tomorrow’s chef’s special. I’m taking that as a win.