The newly released Zagat survey has just named the top ten most popular London restaurants and put Wagamama, a cheap noodle bar restaurant, at number one. So how come I’ve never been? Especially when you consider there are now 50 of them worldwide, 24 of which are in London, and a new one appears to open every ten minutes. Go and answer your door and there’ll probably be one in your living-room by the time you get back.
I think it’s possibly because I have always equated Japanese food with sushi and, while I know sushi is very fashionable and an art form and all that, I’m afraid I just don’t care because I don’t like it. Last time I thought I would give it a go I bought a tray (from M&S, I think), but then didn’t eat it and neither did anyone else. In the end I put it down for our cat, Gnasher, who took one sniff at it and then walked disdainfully away, and this is a cat who spends all day every day licking his own balls with what appears to be great relish, so I think we can safely say I have a point. Gnasher also likes raw grass, which I am thinking of weaving into intricate parcels and serving up expensively to the Japanese as grashi. It will, of course, be served with something green squeezed from a tube to blow the roof of your mouth off.
Wagamama is, apparently, London’s favourite restaurant, according to a poll of 5,000 diners. I am pleased to say that I was not polled. Last time I was polled was outside Harrods by a lady doing a shopping survey. One of her questions was: ‘Do you dress for a) style or b) comfort?’ Then, just as I was forming the word ‘style’ in my mouth, she said, ‘I’ll just tick ‘b’, shall I?’ Pollsters! What a rum bunch! Anyway, my companion for my first visit to Wagamama is my mother, sometimes known as Ga-Ga Mama, as her memory is not what it used to be, but then neither is mine. I can start searching for a word at breakfast and if I get it by supper that is a good day. I phone people and then forget who I have called as soon as they pick up: ‘Um …who are you?’ I have even forgotten who I am when asked who’s calling. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve no idea. Do you think you might have a guess to help me out here?’ My mother is much the same and telephone conversations between us often go something like this:
‘Who’s that?’
‘No idea.’
‘Bye then.’
‘Bye.’
Ga-Ga Mama and I decide to try the Wagamama at Brent Cross, as it is handy for us — I tell you, wherever you put us in the world, we’ll always be able to find our way back to Brent Cross; it’s a Jewish north London thing — and if you park at the John Lewis end it means you can walk through the first-floor gift department to see if the large gold crane with the fish in its mouth has finally been purchased. (Nope. Still there. Never knowingly sold.)
My first ever job, actually, was in Brent Cross, in Fenwick, as a waitress in their restaurant, which was then called Window on The World and nicely overlooked where the A1 joins the North Circular. ‘Can I have a window table, please?’ people would ask. ‘I’m sorry, they’re all taken,’ I would say. ‘We’ll wait,’ they would say. ‘Why?’ I wanted to say. ‘All you are going to see is where the A1 joins the North Circular, you silly moo. We’re not exactly talking about a great natural beauty spot here, although I accept that if you crane your neck, you can just about catch Toys ‘R’ Us and the roof of the Holiday Inn Express.’
Wagamama is up in the Food Gallery, where you will also find Pizza Hut and Burger King and McDonald’s, all of which are dead, while Wagamama is absolutely throbbing. It appears to be mostly full of young mums with babies. The babies are all merrily squashing noodles into their faces. Wagamama is a canteen-style place with big communal tables where you have to squeeze in where you can. I end up with merry noodle-squashers either side of me, but then one is Ga-Ga Mama, so what can I say? Only joking. My mother has exemplary table manners, and no more so than on the days when she can remember where the table is.
Wagamama, it turns out, is delightfully sushi-free, being loosely based, instead, on traditional Japanese ramen noodle houses. The menu runs from various ramen (egg noodles in soup) dishes to soba and udon noodles cooked on a flat grill, spicy curry noodles in a curry soup, as well as stir fries, rice dishes, and side dishes like pan-fried gyoza dumplings. Orders are taken on electronic handhelds and zapped though to the kitchen by radio signal, whereupon the food is cooked immediately, so it arrives very fresh and very, very fast.
I have the ebi kare lomen, a spicy soup made from lemongrass, coconut milk, shrimp paste, chillies, fresh ginger and galangal, served with ramen noodles garnished with chargrilled king prawns, beansprouts, cucumber, lime and fresh coriander. I would like to be sniffy about it because I know that restaurant critics are generally sniffy about Wagamama. ‘It’s a Japanese aesthetic perverted to a Butlins camp mentality,’ writes one. Rubbish. The broth is extremely characterful — creamy yet beautifully spiced with a good kick — while the ramen noodles, somewhat plonked in the middle, are nevertheless firm rather than soggy. As for the other ingredients, they are so wondrously plentiful that even I, the greediest pig there ever was — sometimes, I have breakfast before I go to bed in case I oversleep in the morning — cannot finish it. It’s just £6.95
Ga-Ga Mama? She has the summer special, the yasai natsubi salad, a vast mound of marinated courgettes, aubergines, shitake mushrooms, asparagus, caramelised red onion and oyster mushrooms mixed with seasonal leaves and dressing, topped with crunchy wonton crisps. It is sprightly and crunchy, well-dressed and citrusy and, again, the portion is huge! It, too, is £6.95. We also share a portion of edamame, steamed green soya beans which you hold up to your mouth, squeezing the surprisingly moreish beans straight from the pod. Yum.
Our bill amounts to less than £20. I do think Wagamama is the bees’ knees when it comes to non-destination dining on the hop. It even beats The Place To Eat in John Lewis, which we can see now really isn’t. Ga-Ga Mama and I say that we will come back, unless we forget, in which case I’m guessing that we probably won’t. That’s just the way it is when you get to our age.
Visit www.wagamama.com for a list of locations.
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