For which, read: we like to eat. We both keep lists of places we'd like to visit, because each meet-up is a topic of frequent discussion, and we both keep our eyes and ear open. And one place we had both put near the top of our respective lists, was KERB.
KERB is a project which organises independent traders and runs markets for food lovers across London.
Which pretty much means KERB is a slice of gourmand heaven. Independent traders from all over London, selling food from all four corners of this floating rock. Korean, traditional English, Spanish. Taiwanese, Indian, North American. Hot dogs, burgers, burritos. Tapas, pizzas, ribs. Tacos, handmade ice lollies ('lolly ices' to my Scouse readers...), curries. Kebabs, noodles, enchiladas. Beers from local breweries.
Food magpies will rarely have it better.
KERB takes several forms, in different locations. They pop up in miniature form at The Gherkin, at Lamb St
Spitalfields, King's Cross; but for maximum KERB bang for your buck it has to be the plaza adjoining the South Bank Centre.
This being the South Bank, it was busy. Long trestle tables provided a no-frills respite from queues but the emphasis here is on the breadth of choice on offer, not creature comforts. After a walk across Westminster Bridge and negotiating the various merits- and demerits- of the street performers- we had little time to waste.
First up- Bao Bar.
They usually operate from Hackney's Netil Market, out of a tiny hut which seats a mere six. We had talked about them a while back and PY had tried them out and been impressed on several counts- quite apart from the food, he arrived with his two sons as they were closing for the day, but upon finding out he had come across a muggy London with a pair of under-sevens in tow, they promptly reopened and fed them. That kind of attitude leaves an impression.
Their KERB menu was short and sweet: classic pork bao, daikon bao, Taiwanese fried chicken.
Operating in a tiny space, a hefty queue is served quickly in a blur of activity. The bao (milk buns) themselves are steamed in front of you and filled with slow-braised belly pork, ground peanuts and sprinkled with coriander to make a remarkable handful-mouthful. The fluffy milk buns, crunchy peanuts and homemade pickles, zingy herbs and melting pork were a promising start and repaid our decision to make a beeline for the stall.
Thigh meat- always the thigh- silky under a well-spiced dry, crisp crumb. Ridiculously simple to prepare, laughably easy to miscalculate, remarkably adept in this execution.
Laced with a punchy chilli sauce, this was food to devour and worry about the state of your fingers and cheeks and chin later. This was chicken to have you counting the hours until they opened next week.
The trestle table vantage point afforded us good views of our next target. Like fried chicken, hot dogs suffer from association with the cack-handed and the substandard, but Big Apple's Hot Dog's reputation had them in our sights.
An aside: I'm firmly against this current trend for putting good-quality butcher's handmade sausages into a roll and calling it a hot dog. That's a sausage sandwich, brother.
A dog is another beast entirely, and they should not be confused.
Big Frank for PY; I had a Big Pole. Stop sniggering at the back.
Fully loaded with ketchup, French's mustard (a prerequisite for this kind of thing), gherkins and sauerkraut, this had the texture of a good coarse grind, a blend of beef and pork that had the snap of a 'proper' sausage and the subtle warmth of cayenne, while still being recognisably a dog. PY, no stranger to Poland, sampled it and reckoned it was as close to a genuine kielbasa-type sausage as he's had recently.
The Big Frank, more your classic oak-smoked pork dog, had the same coarse grind in evidence and was pronounced a certified hit. Again, fully loaded. A cracking pair of dogs- comfortably, the best I've tasted.
One ox cheek, one pulled pork shoulder later. The meats were superb, showing the benefits of hours and hours of patient cooking.The tang of fermented vegetables worked so well, as did the contrasting textures throughout... if I had one reservation, it would be the presence of the cheese. I'd happily omit that next time.
Swift pint at The Hole in the Wall (you can't beat a drop of Doom Bar while overhead trains rattle the walls), Jubilee Line to Canary Wharf, DLR to Mudchute. Feet up for a bit before making our way out to Bermondsey for the main event of the day was the plan.
Job done. For now. Or so we thought, because one stall we had been keen to find was notable by its absence on the South Bank. Bleecker St Burger.
We tracked them down to Street Feast in Dalston. Buttoning our shirts to the top, adjusting my quiff and stopping only to don ironic glasses, it was DLR to Shadwell and Overground to Dalston Junction. Cash only, security inspecting bags, nay blue stamp on the wrist.
Disused shipping containers and wood-burning oil drums made for a suitably moody backdrop against which traders old and new served the crowds. Bleecker, nestled in the far corner, have a pared-down menu that mirrors their no-nonsense philosophy.
Four burgers, four choices of fries. That's it. And if you wanted any proof that keeping it simple can be the perfect way forward, look no further. A lightly toasted seeded bun. A well-seasoned patty, cooked the promised medium-rare. Melting blue cheese (a lettuce leaf, a little superfluous.) The 'angry' fries, laced and loaded with blue cheese and chilli sauces.
No fuss, no flannel, no hype. But damn it. What a fine, fine burger. Not the most impressive one you'll ever see: it doesn't tower precariously or threaten to disgorge its overloaded contents. It's just about the taste. And what taste. Charred smokiness, medium-rare beef. A superb example, and illustrative of how many just get it so wrong. You'll see more ornate burgers; you won't taste many better.
As we left the queue snaked right back onto Dalston Lane. You couldn't blame them. Right, back down to Canada Water, the Jubilee line and stops to London Bridge. A walk around the Shard before Bermondsey and José. The day was yet young.
(London street food part 2 is here. )
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