Anglesea Arms: Will you marry me?

35 Wingate Road, Ravenscourt Park, W6 0UR

tel: +44 (0)872 261 0000

"We could get married here," I said to my (now) fiancé on a previous trip to the Anglesea Arms. While I admit, I was slightly tipsy at the time (putting the blame quite firmly on the delicious - and cheap - house red) there is something about this glorious pub which inspires romance and revolution. In my eyes, this is truly a perfect pub. And my bloke, who has been set on getting hitched in our home and native land of Canada - didn't immediately dismiss it. Maybe it had to do with the moose antlers on the wall, evoking the spirit of the wild north true and free. Or maybe he was also feeling the love, after consuming some of the excellent ales on tap (Doom Bar from Cornwall, being the most notable). On my most recent visit to the Anglesea Arms however, I brought one of my bridesmaids Eli (it was Valentine's Day lunch - both our blokes were at home cooking us dinner - SCORE!) and I was gutted to find out that they were out of my favourite starter - a pint of prawns, served with lemon and garlic aioli. But we persevered with pork with crackling, braised cabbage and apples (for Eli)...

And roast mutton with parsnips, kale and roast potatoes for the bride-to-be...

Both meals were mouth-watering and cooked to perfection. My ONLY complaint was that the mutton didn't have heaps of meat. Sorry vegetarians out there - but I wanted more. Alas, we satisfied the teency weency disappointment with two delicious puddings. For moi: chocolate mousse with pistachio creme - and for Eli - bread and butter pudding with fresh custard (and clotted cream, which she didn't ask for, but I was happy to devour). 

My verdict: run, don't walk to this pub. As an added bonus: (or not if you think he's a wanker) it is apparently one of the favourite places of BBC Radio 4's John Humphries. I can see why. And even if I'm not getting married here, I can image many post-wedding post-mordems to be held on the sofas, right next to the roaring fire, under the moose antlers. 

Franco Manca: A tragic comedy

144 Chiswick High Road

Chiswick, W4 1PU

tel: +44 (0)20 8747 4822

Chaos. Pure chaos. That's what meets you when you walk through the door of this Neapolitan pizza joint. First off, there's a queue. It stretches right out the door. Which is a good sign, right? I'll come back to that. This is the second branch of the legendary hole in the wall Franco Manca (meaning Frank's missing) in Brixton Market. The original has received rave reviews. William Skidelsky from the Observer newspaper said it was "pizza that can rival the best in Italy". So, clued-up Chiswickians were happy to stand shivering in a long queue on a chilly Friday evening to wait for a slice of Italy. However, I soon realised that it's not the popularity of the place which had punters waiting in the cold. It's the incompetency of the place. Once we got near enough to the front of the line, we watched skinny Italian waiters running around the restaurant like headless chickens. I zoned in on one waiter in particular who was working the front of house. He kept bringing expectant looking customers freshly cooked pizzas - but without fail - they were always the wrong ones. "Number 1?" he would shout at a customer (referring to the tomato, mozza and basil pizza). The customer shook his head and shouted back, "NO! Number 5!" (tomato, cured organic chorizo and mozzarella). The waiter turned away in confusion and started yelling at other customers: "Number 1? Number 1?" People found this very amusing. Groups would look at the guy with pity and then burst into fits of giggles with each other. This went on every single time a new pizza came out of the oven. Either this waiter was the most forgetful I had ever seen - or really and truly - a dimwit. Once we finally did get a table - shared with another couple - we weren't immune from the confusion. After waiting for 15 minutes for someone to come and take our drinks order, I flagged down the curly-haired Italian manager, clad in a bright pink dress shirt. "Buono sera" he purred. "Yeah, hi, can we order, please?" I begged. "No problemo, I get my man to be right with you." After a slap on the ass, the panicked-looking waiter came over. I ordered a fresh lemonade and a Number 6 (tomato, garlic, oregano). There are only six choices of pizza, all on Franco Manca's famed sourdough crust - all under £7. My bloke ordered a beer (Sam Smith is the only choice) and a Number 4 (tomato, garlic, oregano, capers, anchovies). It only took five minutes, when the waiter came over with two steaming pizzas. "I 'ave a Numero 2 and a Numero 6" he yelled. The girl beside me claimed the Number 2. I claimed the Number 6. Which left both our men (and we weren't together) without pizzas for the next 20 minutes. And still no sign of drinks! 

Again, I begged the suave manager, "please can we have our drinks? And please can these men have their pizzas?". The chaos was so out of control, it became comedy. People were looking at each other with bemusement and understanding because we were all in the same vortex of confusion. The chefs were yelling in the waiters in Italian. The manager was busy flirting with every female in the place. And couples sat waiting: one with pizza, one without. I had finished mine by the time my bloke's finally arrived. Yeah, and speaking of the pizza: it was okay. Just okay. Certainly not legendary. And certainly not pizza that "rivals the best in Italy". And though it seems like a strange thing to moan about: WTF was with the lemonade? It was a cloudy orange colour and didn't taste like lemons at all. In fact, it didn't taste like anything. Well, maybe a hint of ginger. So strange. Sigh...Franco Manca. It's cheap, it's chaotic, but it's a friggin' mess - and very, very average. In fact, I'd say Pizza Hut makes better pies. Maybe the one in Brixton truly is better. If it is, I'd like to know.

Annie's: Nice eggs, shame about the place

162 Thames Road, Chiswick, W4 3QS

tel: +44 (0)20 8994 9080

"London is bereft of good brunch spots." So declared a friend of mine who lived here for many moons. I used to agree with her. Until I tried the Wolseley on Piccadilly. And Bistrotheque in Bethnal Green. And Aubaine in South Ken. But you know how it goes. Good news travels fast. Those places fill up quicker than you can shake an egg at weekends. So, I decided to go brunch-hunting in my own backyard. That's when I found Annie's. Nestled on a pretty street near Kew Bridge, it's only a stone's throw from the Thames. Giant wicker chairs and tables with bright pink and blue cushions and oversized vases of flowers adorn the outside. The inside is oh-so-cute too. Tres boho/shabby chic. I was in a little bubble of bliss, imagining throwing my 30th birthday party there when a clipped "have you booked?" from the waitress snapped me out of my reverie. I replied I was very sorry but I hadn't. "Fine then, sit over there," she snipped, waving a menu in the general direction of the corner. Such rudeness! I was tempted to walk out right then and there. Well, aren't I glad I didn't. I ordered an eggs royale (like benedict, but with smoked salmon). It came with perfectly cooked roasted potatoes, and home-crafted hollandaise sauce. Oh my it was good. Very good. I happily sipped away on my latte, read the paper and enjoyed every mouthful of my breakfast, wishing my London-brunch-skeptic friend was with me now. I had almost forgotten how nasty the waitress was until she slammed down the bill seconds after my last bite.  But if you're a London, you can handle rudeness. So walk on in with confidence, take a seat and demand the eggs royale that are fit for a queen.

The Pilot: Flying high after near nose-dive

56 Wellesley Road

Chiswick, W4 4BZ

tel: + 44 (0)20 8994 0828

My local gastropub gets the honor of being the maiden entry for this blog. Over the years, I've had a love-hate relationship with The Pilot. When I first moved to Chiswick five years ago, I was jumping up and down with excitement to find this little beauty of a pub within stumbling distance from my flat. The food was incredible. The Irish landlord treated me like a long-lost sister. And there was equal attention paid to the wine list as the on-tap beer selection. But then something dreadful happened. Fuller's bought the place out. My Irish mate disappeared. So did the fantastic Australian chef. A lackluster menu and staff replaced everything that was good about the place. After one visit where I sent my raw roast chicken back three times, I boycotted the pub for nearly a year. But one night, when the rain was pelting down and my fridge was empty, I ran to The Pilot for respite. I was beyond delighted to see that it was all-change again - and this time for the better. The menu is exciting: rabbit tagliatelle in red wine jus has become a firm favourite. As has the moroccan lamb burger with sweet relish (must get recipe) and homemade chunky chips. Tender shoulder of lamb with shallots and puy lentils is beyond delicious. And the puddings...oh the puddings. Sticky toffee pudding is almost the best I have tasted. The dark chocolate brownie with white chocolate ice cream was the culprit in breaking my New Year's resolution. A friendly new staff of Brits, Americans and Eastern Europeans has been the cherry on the cake. After a near-nosedive, the Pilot is once again, flying high.