Bullied By A Hotpot

If you don’t eat out that much, how the fuck do you review restaurants, was the very fair question put to me by my friend Luna. I sat her down and explained that actually people don’t really care about the food bit of a review. It’s showbusiness innit, not the michelin guide. The thought stayed with me though, thanks Luna. Also the always feeling that you should probably be trying more food in the city, taking advantage, going exploring, entering new worlds not that far from your door, all that Bourdain stuff. Which is also true.

Plus I’m a waiter Luna, in a Michelin listed restaurant, like you, where we’re having this conversation. Plus, not to be underrated, I have a life’s worth of eating under my belt, most of it pretty good thanks to Mum. My credibility shall not be questioned! My ego is intact! As I stand over our tattered friendship, over before it ever started.

So I have absolutely nothing to prove as I go into Chinatown (the centro one, not the Usera one way out there). I’m thinking about gentrification (good of me, it’s always the ones thinking about it isn’t it…). The Trippn World Madrid guide came out. I love Trippn. They have an ethos I like. But, man, gentrification is ironic, isn’t it? You bemoan gentrification in Carabanchel, but recommend it to a HUGE audience for basically the gentrified things! The studios and the wine bars. It’s so cool. It’s so happening. No shit.

Anyway, this Madrid DJ guy who did the guide (who lives in Barcelona, hmm) recommended Sichuan Kitchen and I thought fuck it, I walk these streets off Plaza De Espana every day and this evening of all evenings I have to eat. Plus, listening to a Trippin guide is incredibly cool of me, and I thought, wow, how cool this is of me. I was so engrossed in gentrification thoughts that I almost tripped over a homeless man. I cursed them for their manners and carried onto food.

There were a few problems though. Firstly, I wasn’t very hungry. I’ve got really super into the little fried maize things, especially the big ones, but this little renaissance of mine comes with issues. You can’t find the big ones anywhere apart from this little alimentacion that I found on Calle San Bernardo on a late walk back from home (no data=no bike=HUGE maize things) except I was so waived I can’t remember which one it was. Then I found some at Carrefour, but they were disgustingly salted, like a cheap swimming pool with feet skin in it. Not nice. And the issue with the small ones is they’re barbecquey which is nice but I like them plain, fried maize flavour. Too much, hence why I was full.

The second was I’d intentionally not brought my phone (again, wow, cool) because I’m not the sort of person who needs that stimulation. Maybe you are, and that’s ok too. Food is enough, eyes are enough, my pen and paper and my book i didn’t read are enough for me. But I also immediately realised that my sister was on a date with a boy and I’d promised to be close to my phone if required. Not being able to leave, it did feel quite like I’d hostaged myself. She was fine of course, but I did fear, and a short short story emerged of a man getting bullied by a noodle soup whilst his sister rung him a billion times. Nightmare. Was it worth it?

The third was that this was a monday and Sichuan Kitchen was closed. Not an issue though, because next to it is Little Dragon which I’ve also often thought looks pretty good, pretty polished (although is polished what you want, for Chinese? I HAVE NO IDEA. There’s this Bourdanian idea that the scrappy places are best, but are they actually? If it looks bad is it because it´s the best food you´ve ever had, or because it´s just bad? He posed the question (revolutionary), but forgot to tell us mortals how to answer it).

Maybe Luna was right. A proper (!) reviewer would know their scrappy good from their polished good and have a coherent opinion on the thing. A well publicised reviewer would have a Subway Take. But me? Lost mate, absolutely lost. Couldn’t tell you my Sichuan from my cantonese.

It didn´t matter anyway because Little Dragon was also closed so I went to its opposite neighbour, a place called Juventud Malatang.

Not having my phone I couldn’t get at a menu, and then having the real menu (that they dusted off from the shelf) I was more lost than I was without one. I perhaps spent four minutes standing there like an idiot until a guy came from behind with a plastic box filled with ingredients. I was like what’s he doing? Let me do that. So I did that instead. Beef, broccoli, tofu, mushrooms, three types, thick udon noodles, pak choi, and some unidentified little things. Get in my plastic box!

Yes, a sopa, yes a bit of spice, I replied. How much? Level 2 I reckon, out of 5.

Naive. I sort of knew it was naive but also level 2 sounds so friendly. Doesn’t it?

It arrived after a bit, me writing, planning a publishing house (NO BRANDS IN BOOKS?), and then worrying about my sister, and I had plenty of time for it all because it was so bloody hot that it was inedible. And the bits that were edible were level fucking 2 spice. Which is like blow your white head off level spice. How to explain how red my cheeks were? They’d been slow cooked. 16 hours.

Bit by bit it became better, but never to the point of being a comfortable eat. Like I said, I felt like I was getting bullied. The guy there probably thought that too. He could barely look at me out of his embarrassment for me. But the mushrooms were GREAT. They were smokey and meaty and having never liked mushrooms as a kid, each great mushroom is a revelation.

I left battered and bruised, to be honest. I didn’t mind though. Food shouldn’t always be easy and it’s essential that it’s not always familiar. I got what I wanted, a trip in my own city, even if it wasn’t to the exact place that the agents of gentrification had directed me too, and me, far too ready to follow.

• Juventud Malatang  de los Reyes, 8, Centro, 28015 Madrid
• Location: 8
• Food: 7 (I think?)
• Space: exactly what it should be? Although not very comfy and very very bright, to be honest. most importantly though, extremely busy.

By Barnaby Shand – Owner of Barny´s