Milly Mossop

Balham kitchen & Bar, London SW12

...so having got into the mood at The Landor on Thursday night, Mozz and I tubed it back to Balham, but not before I'd craftily texted Logan, Mozz's bezzie mate who's moving from Balham to Cape Town in a couple of weeks in pursuit of sun, sea and feisty babes. The agenda for the rest of the evening was thus set by the refrain "well we have to have another drink because Logan's leaving the country soon".

One of the very best things about living in Balham is having Balham kitchen and Bar, as they call it, or BBK as most refer to it, as a local. It doesn't really need another glowing review as it boasts plenty already, however I'd only add that if I travelled across London to drink or eat there I'm sure I'd find something to complain about, simply because making an effort to go somewhere does that to me. As a local wine bar though it's superb.

I love the way the bar tender greets my boyfriend with a knowing handshake (he knows that Mozz's credit card is about to take up residence behind his bar) and that Logan's favourite spot on the rounded corner of the steel bar with 3 stools is always available. I'd like to think that this is because said bar tender recognises our collective shape (very tall Logan, almost as tall Mozz and little Milly trying to keep up) coming down the street and sweeps any interlopers from our spot, wiping down the bar as they hurry away. In reality I think it's because most people prefer the comfy leather sofas and various other seating options in the bar area, probably not even realising that the rounded corner of the steel bar where the ice and slices live is designed for paying customers to occupy (I'm not convinced it is myself).

Our fixed round (Henricks Gin & Tonic, pint of Stella and large glass of merlot or pinot grigio depending on my mood) is self-replacing in BBK, reinforcing my impression that this is a drinking destination of minimal effort.

The one time I've eaten there (normally there's no need, with our own kitchen so near by) we sat at a huge round table in the corner of the restaurant, on leather sofas that defy you ever to leave, and indeed when we did finally stand up it was only because someone else had reserved the table and we continued with cocktails in the bar. The food is fine, closer to the fine of 'fine food' rather than the 'not worthy of discussion, it's just fine' sense, albeit a small galaxy away from being Michelin starred.

I'm boring myself with this review so I'll stop there. I've lost the benefit of first impressions with BBK so I can't really say anything original. And as I once said, if you can't think of anything original to say, don't say anything at all. Which is the sort of pretentious thought you can only say once really.

On the upside, I did walk past a promising looking house in Clapham North earlier today, we're going to see it on Monday evening. The Landor is its local, so if Mozz buys it I'll be making sure we keep a full larder.

The Landor, London SW9

Mozz is buying a house. Correction, Mozz is trying to buy a house but no bugger wants to sell theirs unless it’s too small, too big, too decrepit or too far away. But on the upside, after another wasted viewing in Stockwell yesterday evening we traipsed up to Landor Road, collecting our friend Neville from his much coveted house en route and mulled the housing market over a few pints in The Landor.
The Landor is legendary in this popular and over populated corner of London.

Until recently it was famous for holding pool tournaments, a legacy hung on to by its own website but I’ve always known it as a good, local (not actually local to anywhere I’ve yet lived, but it’s got the homely feel of a local about it) theatre pub.

Thing is, The Landor’s one of those pubs that I rate highly before I go, higher still after I’ve been, but never actually think about what happens inbetween. When I do, which I have just now, a less convincing picture emerges. The 6X was musty and sort of lethargic, as if it couldn’t really be arsed, the IPA we moved on to was at the end of the barrel and disappointing, although not disastrous or to merit complaint, finally the London Pride was fine really, which is just what it always is.

We were hungry, so Neville had a tuna baguette which did its job adequately, and Mozz and I both had fish & chips with salad: why oh why would you ever serve fish & chips without mushy peas? It’s like roast beef without Yorkshire pudding, or spaghetti Bolognese without parmesan, or Top Gear without Richard Hammond. Utterly senseless. Fortunately for the chef, Neville had distracted me by asking about my favourite topic (me) so by the time I realised the fish wasn’t a fish at all but a mashed, flattened and fried tennis shoe, I’d finished it.

It’s a smoky pub as well, which is partly my fault (enjoying it whilst I can ‘til the July ban which incidentally I’m hugely in favour of) so I probably can’t complain, but I sympathised with Neville, Mozz and the Kencoes, a young married couple who had something to do with me finding Mozz, who live around the corner and joined us later on.

So, variable beer, barely edible food and too smoky… but still a pub that attracts regulars on every level; locals with nothing better to do who have their own bar stool, locals who work 10 hour days and come in for pint and a laugh with their mates every other week or so, less local Londoners who make the trip to see something at the theatre (I did once, it was awful. But generally there’s some good stuff) and even less local provincial folk who pay a visit when in town to remember life before babies and a two hour commute.

If you can forgive its faults (and remember, to forgive is to be happy), you really can’t fault the place.

However, last night truly local drinks were required to end the evening, so after three pints and enough banter, we hopped on the Northern line to Balham…

The Player, Broadwick St (yes I know, it's still not a pub)

My very good friend Bonnie's 30th birthday yesterday, and after very little deliberation and discussion we plumped for The Player on Broadwick St in deepest darkest Soho (London, just to be absolutely clear).

Our reasoning, if we had any, behind this choice was that it was a Tuesday night, we've all got grown up jobs now (even me) so the only criteria really was somewhere central where 10 or so battle weary 30 something year olds will be guaranteed a table to share, and their own stool (which reminds me.. I took a photo of my face with my digital camera whilst in the ladies, delivering my own stool, thinking Mozz would like to see my expression as I did so. Luckily I came to my senses somewhere on the Northern line between Charing Cross and Balham and deleted the evidence).

Where was I? Stools... space...ah yes, The Player. Thing is, all anyone who lives in London needs to know about The Player (which is much more than anyone outside London ever needs to know) is that it's central, it's spacious, it's got a reassuring stock of toilet paper and no pestering attendants to put you off your stroke (look, I can't be the only person who values their mid-week post work poo) and most importantly, not many people seem to know it's there. Even if you do know it's there and have carefully printed out your Streetmap search results with yellow highlighter marking the otherwise invisible arrow, memorised the route from Tottenham Court Road Station so that you don't get pavement bullied for looking like a graduate trainee from Wilmslow with a printout of Streetmap; it's still perfectly possibly if not reasonable to walk straight passed it until you reach the end of Broadwick St wondering how on earth you could have missed the place.

So here's my top tip: look for the residential looking door next to Agent Provocateur, descend the scary stairs, head to the biggest tables at the back of the room, wait for table service, order a bottle of house wine and relax. And truth be told, there's not many places in central London where that will work.

I also need to add that although I was jolly sensible and left by 10.00, an email from Bonnie this morning suggests that most other people didn't surface from The Player until about 3.00 this morning, and an immensely fun time was had by all (sounds like the bar manager got involved, in a good way). So, unless you're looking for a quiet pint of Old Speckled Hen or only rate places where the Mojito is spooned by male models from a virgin's cheekpouches, can't fault the place.

In fact, in the hugely edited words of thanks to her friends from the birthday girl who was by all accounts still drunk when she sent this email:

Good morning fine young people - has to be said I feel top of the world today, that is what going to bed at 04.30am does for you!!!

I had absolutely the best night, seriously I was walking to work this morning with the hugest grin on my face thinking what fab friends I have.

First off - Sadie (our friend who'd given the strongest vote for The Player having met her lover and soulmate Face there. Actually she met him at My Single Friend first, but in the flesh at this romantic joint) - absolute beauty of a bar, LOVED it there and think I might move in and just live on my "birthday girl cocktail" for the rest of my life.

Apparently we are all welcome back anytime according to the manager and i just might take him up on that - he'll learn to regret that!!!!