Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks Enoch Powell deserved a fair hearing
STREET food? What, like a burger van parked in a town centre at pub chucking-out time for all the pissheads?
Apparently not. Apparently it’s the hot new thing in London, there’s an event on only half-an-hour up the M40, I’m a broad-minded type and it can only be shit once so I’ve got nothing to lose.
First problem is there’s nowhere undercover and it’s pissing it down. Because we’re not in Phuket or Cancun, for which I offer silent thanks, but fucking Coventry.
What’s on offer? Nothing British, that’s for bloody sure. No baked potatos, no chippy van. The first stall is selling Asian fusion whatever that is. Loads of woks and frying plans that don’t look too clean.
I’m informed the food tastes best if the pans are ‘seasoned’ through use, which basically means they can’t be arsed soaking them in the sink. Move on.
Then there’s stone-baked pizzas, which is a drug reference. I’m not getting high off a Napoli laced with super skunk. And they’re ‘artisanal’ which I boycott on principle. I can make cheese-on-toast with a bit of ketchup at home.
La Cocinita’s Tex-Mex, all tacos and burritos and enchiladas which sounds like a breed of dog. And yes, I am suspicious about where they source their meat. It’s also no doubt a money-laundering front for a cocaine cartel. I can’t be getting mixed up in Breaking Bad shit at my time of life.
I went with the gourmet burger, though what’s thrillingly gourmet about slapping a gherkin and orange sauce on it is beyond me. You know what a real gourmet burger looks like? Ketchup, mustard and burnt fried onions. It’ll give you crippling indigestion for a week but you know where you are with it.
At eight quid it’s still a massive rip-off but I’ve been here two hours and I’m starving. How was it? Not too bad. Better than McDonald’s, indistinguishable from any city-centre buger chain. Hardly worth the fucking effort.
My first foray into street food will be my last. Too much pandering to racists who’ll eat any cuisine but our own, not to mention all the vegan crap. Halfway home I had to pull onto the hard shoulder to void my bowels, following the footsteps of, as I explained to the police, Sir Alex Ferguson. Sign of the bloody times.
