London has brought me a number of successes. Food is one of them. Dating is not. My latest review demonstrates acutely why I am destined to die fat (happily) and single (jury’s out).
I was excited to try well-known Beirut street food restaurant, Yalla Yalla. I’ve walked past its Shoreditch pop-up often and admired its lofty, open plan bench arrangements. Plus any cuisine involving numerous plates of food, family style and open for picking, is always going to be a win with me. And so, when invited to dinner by Mr P (20-something, moderately hunky rugby type, met at a press event) and asked where I’d like to go, Yalla Yalla seemed a fair pick.
I’ll admit…the timing wasn’t ideal. I’d slept 3 hours, possessed that kind of port-hangover that qualifies one for a disabled parking pass, and had spent the entire day at an oyster festival recording with the radio. This latter fact was causing me anxiety on a few fronts. A) There was a reasonable likelihood likely that I smelt of fish (yum, and no time for a shower) and B)…what about their well-known aphrodisiacal effect?! Moreover, that Saturday saw Indian bloody summer come to London in the form of sheeting monsoon rain. I don’t own an umbrella.
British, aka endlessly practical, I bundled myself up in a protective ensemble: bobble hat, full coat and woolly scarf, turban-style around my head, defending coiffed hair and snazzy outfit. In summary, I looked great.
I was excited to try well-known Beirut street food restaurant, Yalla Yalla. I’ve walked past its Shoreditch pop-up often and admired its lofty, open plan bench arrangements. Plus any cuisine involving numerous plates of food, family style and open for picking, is always going to be a win with me. And so, when invited to dinner by Mr P (20-something, moderately hunky rugby type, met at a press event) and asked where I’d like to go, Yalla Yalla seemed a fair pick.
I’ll admit…the timing wasn’t ideal. I’d slept 3 hours, possessed that kind of port-hangover that qualifies one for a disabled parking pass, and had spent the entire day at an oyster festival recording with the radio. This latter fact was causing me anxiety on a few fronts. A) There was a reasonable likelihood likely that I smelt of fish (yum, and no time for a shower) and B)…what about their well-known aphrodisiacal effect?! Moreover, that Saturday saw Indian bloody summer come to London in the form of sheeting monsoon rain. I don’t own an umbrella.
British, aka endlessly practical, I bundled myself up in a protective ensemble: bobble hat, full coat and woolly scarf, turban-style around my head, defending coiffed hair and snazzy outfit. In summary, I looked great.
Yes. An actual Bedouin warrior.
But it was okay, really it was! I planned to arrive and whip off my eccentric gear, emerging sleek, smooth and nymph-like for my date. Simples. Anyway, Yalla Yalla’s steaming plates of sautéed pomegranate chicken livers (one of Time Out’s Top 100 dishes 2013) and lamb pastries motivated me.
Arriving to Oxford Circus early, I decided to time my arrival and wait out the storm inside. Feeling more than a little ridiculous and rather the subject of Spanish tourists’ amusement, I prepared to jokingly text friend a photo of my enrobed-self.
Disastre Uno: As I was taking the charming above photo, Mr P came up the stairs and caught me. Caught me A) looking like (insert famous Arab) and B) taking above-evidenced ‘selfie’. There are a couple of As and Bs in this story, but sadly it was A) revulsed shock and B) regret that visibly passed across his face.
Gingerly he pressed on with the date. More fool him. But luckily there was decent food to distract us. Hummus topped with tender lamb, deliciously smoky baba ghannouj and an absolutely excellent tabboule salad were the dishes we began with. Tabboule is a middle eastern salad of cracked wheat, garlic and mint with lots and lots of chopped up green parsley. Delightfully fresh, deep in herbs. I wolfed it down.
But it was okay, really it was! I planned to arrive and whip off my eccentric gear, emerging sleek, smooth and nymph-like for my date. Simples. Anyway, Yalla Yalla’s steaming plates of sautéed pomegranate chicken livers (one of Time Out’s Top 100 dishes 2013) and lamb pastries motivated me.
Arriving to Oxford Circus early, I decided to time my arrival and wait out the storm inside. Feeling more than a little ridiculous and rather the subject of Spanish tourists’ amusement, I prepared to jokingly text friend a photo of my enrobed-self.
Disastre Uno: As I was taking the charming above photo, Mr P came up the stairs and caught me. Caught me A) looking like (insert famous Arab) and B) taking above-evidenced ‘selfie’. There are a couple of As and Bs in this story, but sadly it was A) revulsed shock and B) regret that visibly passed across his face.
Gingerly he pressed on with the date. More fool him. But luckily there was decent food to distract us. Hummus topped with tender lamb, deliciously smoky baba ghannouj and an absolutely excellent tabboule salad were the dishes we began with. Tabboule is a middle eastern salad of cracked wheat, garlic and mint with lots and lots of chopped up green parsley. Delightfully fresh, deep in herbs. I wolfed it down.
 Hummus, Tabboule, Vine Leaves |  Backlawa |
The rest of the meal passes in a blur of heady flavours; lamb, spice, salty cheese. Crisp, buttered pastry and flaking bread. Accompanied by a surprisingly decent Lebanese white, then a second and some sticky, sweet backlawa, conversation actually starts to flow and, dare I say, even a little wine-lubricated flirting. And because I’m a flirting-pro, I’m regaling him with a most beguiling story of my awkward teenage years of braces and head-gear.
Disastre Duo: Mr P smiles wolfishly (I knew that story was a panty-dropper.) and croons ‘Well, Lucy, your teeth are beautiful now (Yes, win! I knew I had this flirting business down!), but (…but??!?!…)…Do you ever get stuff stuck in them?’. Oh, God, no.
Yes. A full two hours with the parsley that made up the Tabboule, and our very first course, on my front tooth. You’d think Yalla Yalla could have issued a warning with the order.
And so, excruciatingly, we come to the third of my series of Yalla Yalla date disasters. After an evening of beetroot-blushing embarrassment, but rather nice food, the bill welcomely arrived. Removing my purse from my bag in a flourish betraying my eagerness to escape, I brought with it an unfortunate friend that fell into the middle of the table between us. Monsieur Durex, ribbed and ready for duty.
I’d like to say that was the end of it, but I can’t. The same thing happened again onto the restaurant floor when I got my coat out. A quite literal representation of the phrase ‘get your coat, you’ve pulled’.
I think, in summary, this evening succeeded in a few things. Affirming my destiny of well-fed celibacy, for one. For two, and on the half-full side of the spectrum, discovering a good little spot for middle-eastern street food, tolerant of contraception-tossing and liberal with the wine.
If I could face the staff, I’d be back.
Rating: 6/10
http://www.yalla-yalla.co.uk
12 Winsley Street, London, W1W 8HQ
020 7637 4748
Disastre Duo: Mr P smiles wolfishly (I knew that story was a panty-dropper.) and croons ‘Well, Lucy, your teeth are beautiful now (Yes, win! I knew I had this flirting business down!), but (…but??!?!…)…Do you ever get stuff stuck in them?’. Oh, God, no.
Yes. A full two hours with the parsley that made up the Tabboule, and our very first course, on my front tooth. You’d think Yalla Yalla could have issued a warning with the order.
And so, excruciatingly, we come to the third of my series of Yalla Yalla date disasters. After an evening of beetroot-blushing embarrassment, but rather nice food, the bill welcomely arrived. Removing my purse from my bag in a flourish betraying my eagerness to escape, I brought with it an unfortunate friend that fell into the middle of the table between us. Monsieur Durex, ribbed and ready for duty.
I’d like to say that was the end of it, but I can’t. The same thing happened again onto the restaurant floor when I got my coat out. A quite literal representation of the phrase ‘get your coat, you’ve pulled’.
I think, in summary, this evening succeeded in a few things. Affirming my destiny of well-fed celibacy, for one. For two, and on the half-full side of the spectrum, discovering a good little spot for middle-eastern street food, tolerant of contraception-tossing and liberal with the wine.
If I could face the staff, I’d be back.
Rating: 6/10
http://www.yalla-yalla.co.uk
12 Winsley Street, London, W1W 8HQ
020 7637 4748
