Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who cannot understand why his new local Reform councillor will not returns his calls.
WHAT is it with this sudden invasion of Vietnamese restaurants opening over here? Unheard of 20 years ago, now you can’t bloody move for the things.
Clearly it’s the latest wave of wokeism to appease the elite metropolitan leftie brigade. Always wanting to try something new to prove how progressive when there’s a perfectly good British curry house just down the road.
Just the kind of thing a proper Prime Minister should be putting a stop to, instead of trying to scrap Brexit and shooting our fishing industry in the bollocks. All our chip shops will have closed down and becoming vegan will be mandatory before they’re finished, mark my words.
They’re a bloody brutal, violent lot too, from what I’ve seen. And before you get all offended and upset, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen Platoon. Not as if anything like that could happen these days. There’s so many of them over here now, there can’t be enough natives left living in Vietnam to start a scrap in a phone box.
Nevertheless, I’ve always one to challenge my cultural horizons, so I’m giving one a try. Though God knows what they’ll be serving up. Bats, whales and puppy dogs’ tails more than likely. Pulling up the chair at my table for one, I peruse the menu. Pho, I’m told, is the quintessential dish. Noodles in broth, basically. I can knock that up myself with a boiled kettle and a packet of Batchelors’ Super range, so move on.
And I have to admit, far from being a terrifying array of creepy-crawlies and kidnapped pet Alsatians, it’s incredibly mundane. Banh Mi is the other mainstay, and is nothing more exotic than a buttered baguette with roast pork. The food van in the Bullring does those. It’s basically a bacon sandwich with a bit of pointless salad.
I’ve decided to keep on their good side and only order things I reckon I can pronounce, so opt to start with Com Tam, which translates as ‘broken rice’. Seems fitting now we’re living in Broken Britain. The rice is topped with grilled pork – at least they claim it’s pork, could be stray cat for all I know – and a fried egg. Another steal from our Great British breakfast.
I pick the bits of pickled carrot off the top and tentatively try a forkful. Passable I suppose. There’s no getting away without some form of bloody noodle dish here, so I opt to follow it up with Mi Quang. It’s a kind of soup flavoured with turmeric and peanut oil, and comes with a choice of different protein options. ‘Would you like shrimp, chicken or snakehead?’ I’m asked.
I recoil in horror until the waiter rather tersely informs me snakehead is actually a type of fish. Nonetheless, I opt for caution and ask for chicken. When it arrives I ask what the strange garnish is on the top. ‘Sliced banana flowers’ I’m informed. I reckon they’re just taking the piss now. But, again, it’s edible if uninspired fare.
Meal done, I pay up and head for home. It’s not an experience I plan to repeat, but at least I got through without having to consume any reptiles or flying mammals. It’s a small win, but I’ll take it.
