Limited options

I think we've already established in this blog that I am not very adventurous when it comes to food. It is unusual for me to try something new, but it does occasionally happen. For instance, I sometimes order my Veggie Delite at Subway in a wrap rather than on Italian herbs and cheese. Crazy, I know!

Of course, one can only do those sorts of things at restaurants that are willing to embrace very limited changes in their clients' regular orders. If you were such a person, imagine how excited you would be if you saw this:



Oooo, the possibilities!

Any portion of kebab, they say! You start wondering if maybe you should go beyond your normal order of lamb. Perhaps they have chicken kebab! Beef kebab! Offal kebab! (Which is in fact the Latin name for all types of kebab, regardless of what meat they're meant to be formed from.) The possibilities suddenly seem endless. And then you see this:

Oh, OK. I guess I'll have lamb again then.

Be consistent

In Herne Hill, Tulse Hill's upscale neighbour, there is a lovely fish and chip shop. Olley's is very much the pride of my part of South London. It is regularly named as one of the best chippies in the country and if you go to the takeaway section you can gaze at the photos of all the celebrities who have dined there (Jo Brand – quite impressive; Phil Gayle of The Big Breakfast – not quite as impressive; Anjelica Huston – perhaps I need new glasses).

On high days and holidays, I like to treat myself to a trip to this excellent establishment. The only problem is that it shuts one day a week. And I can NEVER remember which day it is. Only that it is always shut on that day. See, that's the thing about Olley's. It's consistent. Unlike this place, which would probably cause my brain to melt entirely:

Law breaker

I have a nasty habit of abiding by the rules. This post, then, is a little nerve wracking for me. You see, I'm going to be breaking the law. Here's why:

But you won't sue me, right?

It is therefore with a slight frisson of excitement (I'm a rebel at last!) that I give you this confusing logo:

Oooo, I could murder a pizza. Call Pizza Ring, you say? Yeah, trouble is if you ring them they bring fried chicken ribs.

I have nothing

I've noticed that most menus promise you something – if not an incredible dining experience then at the very least a free bottle of fizzy pop. All credit to this establishment, then, which has decided to stand out from the crowd by promising the exact opposite:


But then what's left?

I'm intrigued by exactly what "take away the eating experience" means. I order food, they deliver it, then they take it away? Maybe they don't do food at all, only drinks? Or maybe they deliver all their dishes in pureed form and with a complimentary naso-gastric tube? It's a mystery.

Be modest

Self-promotion is never something which has come easily to me. I think most of us are like that, really – the product of being told as children that we shouldn't show off; that we should be modest about our talents; that we shouldn't let on that Mrs Edwards said at parents' evening that we were better at English than our best friend. (That last one might just have been me).

It seems that restaurants also have these worries:

No, no, don't put five stars for food and service! That looks boastful! No, three looks like we think we're rubbish. Put four. We're good, but we're modest.

Is there parking?

I don't own a car but, if I did, I imagine one of my major concerns would be finding a space in which to park it. London isn't really known for its abundance of cheap parking, you see. Fortunately, one of my local takeaways is sympathetic to these worries and only too ready to reassure:

Er... where?

Lost and found

Don't you just hate it when you lose something? Like, say, a letter of the alphabet?

Now where did I put that second "e" at the end of Tennessee?

But isn't it such a lovely relief when you find the lost item?

Ah! There it is! Hmmm... along with a random "s".

Check the Score on the Doors

Remember the days when it was tough to judge whether or not a takeaway joint would give you food poisoning? You had to make your own judgements as to whether that mouse trap in the corner meant that what you thought were cumin seeds in your naan bread were in fact rodent droppings.

Fortunately, those days are long gone. Now there's the Scores on the Doors system. But sometimes proudly displaying your hygiene stars on the door of your establishment isn't enough. Sometimes you are just so damn hygienic that you have to shout it from the proverbial rooftops as well as from your non-proverbial front door:

Taste that hygiene!

What's that smell?

Remember our good friends at Pizza 2 Night? They're the ones who were literally begging us to order online.

Well it seems their pleas fell on deaf ears. Recently I received a new menu from them and it contained this bombshell:


Yeah, but to be fair the old managers offered free delivery as well

The new managers aren't about to faff about with begging. No, they're straight to the goddamn point. Sort of:

The world's first ever scratch 'n' sniff website

No need for charcoal

Spring is here and that means barbeque season can't be far off. Soon enough, any vaguely sunny evening (or any evening which follows a vaguely sunny day) will bring with it the smell of poorly cooked meat.

This time is not a particularly pleasant one for vegetarians who like to open their windows. Traditionally, though, it has been a good time for sellers of charcoal. Sales figures for this good ol'BBQ fuel have in years past soared by 110%* when March begins. But it seems the times they are a changin'. Now it's apparently possible to run a barbeque on a couple of pieces of lettuce, a slice of cucumber, and a bit of the old rocket:

It's sunny! I'm gonna fire up the barbeque. Get me a big bag of salad – quick!

* Guesstimate.

Catering for a very specific audience

Only got one taste bud? Have I got the restaurant for you!

They're poets and I suspect they didn't know it



Speeling Checkhas Dunt Always Help

So I'm a writer and editor for a living. In this role, I am sometimes expected to offer the benefits of my expertise to those who don't get paid for spotting misplaced commas. Sometimes, this is a joyful experience – a collaboration which results in something better than either party could have come up with alone. More often than not though, it's miserable. Here's why: everyone thinks they can write. "Hey," they think, "I've been writing since I was five. I know what I'm doing! And, sure, sometimes I make mistakes with spelling and grammar, but that's what Word's spelling and grammar check is for! I certainly don't need some namby-pamby writer and editor telling me what to do."

Here's the truth though: they do need help. They really do. After all, I have been doing basic sums since the age of five but it doesn't mean I'm a mathematician. And having access to a calculator doesn't change that fact – I can't interpret the results it gives me. Same applies to spell checkers. Sure, they'll pick up some mistakes. But you can't rely on them for everything. Here's a case in point:

Classic

If you're in a pizza restaurant with me, there is no need to ask me what I am going to order. 99 times out of 100 the answer is going to be the same: Margherita. Some mock this choice, suggesting that it is unadventurous in the extreme. I have always confidentally countered with the argument that I am ordering a classic pizza. Mozzarella, tomato and basil: how can you go wrong? I tell people I favour the original and best (and, yes, I am also a big Kellogg's fan).

I am sad to report that it now seems my confident pronouncements have been highly misguided. I, it seems, have no idea quite what is meant by a classic pizza:

A pizza ain't a pizza without a meat that most people only eat once a year!

 To borrow from the mighty David Letterman: boy is my face red.

Do you think we should order more?

It can be tough to know whether the food and drink you have ordered is going to be sufficient to satisfy the hungry and thirsty mouths around your table. So I always like it when a restaurant specifies how many a menu item is likely to serve:

Hmmmm... so one can of soft drink only serves one person. I didn't know that. Had we better order more?

Overegging the pudding

There are some people who are just incapable of calling a spade a spade: estate agents ("needs some work" = destroyed by an earthquake a century back and not touched since); recruitment consultants ("you'll need to be ready to hit the ground running" = previous postholder was hopeless and left a shitload of work); and, of course, our dear writers of takeaway menus. I offer the following beautiful example:

So essentially just a bit of pineapple, then?

Fish 'n' fungi

Back in the late nineties, I held the very prestigious post of News Editor at the University of Reading student newspaper. My success in tracking down stories about the latest ant infestations in halls of residence was such that I was eventually promoted, first to the post of Deputy Editor (a brief tenure during which I wrote an editorial which managed to alienate pretty much every Irish person on campus) and then to the heady heights of Editorship.

When I left the News department I handed the reins over to one Ms Sally-Anne Johnson, an ace news hound who supplied me with an array of interesting stories with which to fill the paper I was now editing. A decade later and the situation has reocurred – this morning, Sally sent me this lovely example of Nonsense on the Menu taken from a menu she saw in Morocco.

I'll have a sea-bear with a side of mould, please.

Incidentally, Sally too climbed the ladder to Editorship of Spark. To my knowledge she did not insult any Irish people on the way and, after she left university, she became an actual proper journalist. Sally has her own lovely blog which tells you all about her adventures in modern day journalism.
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What's that you say? You too have an example of some menu nonsense? Well send it to me, if you please. Or just Facebook me because, let's face it, if you're reading this then chances are you're a Facebook friend of mine. Which reminds me: why not become a Facebook friend of Nonsense on the Menu?
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Does what it says on the tin... sort of

Why don't you?

I hated Why Don't You?, the school-holiday-time BBC kids TV series. It always bothered me that the central conceit of the show was contradictory – on the one hand, they wanted me to turn off my TV and do something less boring instead, but the on the other I had to have my TV on in order for them to tell me this. And, of course, for them to be able to show me some awful arts and crafts project which would apparently relieve my boredom.

Lately, however, I have discovered some love for the phrase. It's all thanks to this entry on a menu:

Why don't you?

I feel it only polite to answer the questions posed. I don't try our new Chicken Tropicana because I don't eat meat. And I don't try our new Sweet Bake Pizza because it sounds nothing short of completely revolting:




Cheese, caramel sauce and a layer of sweet syrup: making chalk and cheese seem like a good combination.

 

Lppk wjen ypu tyoe

So I don't mean to boast, but I'm a relatively quick typist. It's the product of growing up in a house which had more computers than it did televisions, hours spent playing early graphic adventures, and working in a profession which requires you to churn out words quickly.

Nowadays, I can type accurately without looking at the keyboard. Back when I was editing an essay I'd written for History GCSE, though, the days of staring at screen rather than 'board were still a way off. Oh, sure, I fancied myself as a touch typist. But the reality was that not looking at what my fingers were doing was leading to an accuracy rate of about 50 percent and an essay which said "Hilter" every time I meant "Hitler".

My Mum, who was helping me cut back this over-the-word-limit document, pointed out that perhaps I should stop trying to touch type and just look at the keyboard. After all, I was a more than fast enough typer as it was.

This was sage advice. Look when you type. I wish someone had passed it on to whoever put together this menu:


Er... could you repeat that?

(After several Google searches and endless looks at my keyboard I can offer what I think is an accurate translation: the Kashmari dishes are "cooked with bananas".)

But does it come with cheese?

Ah, the excitement of ordering pizza from a new restaurant. You hope that it's going to be a truly wonderful experience; that this will be the best pizza you have ever tasted; that this new establishment will displace your previous favourite. But in the back of the mind is the thought that trying a new place might be a dreadful mistake. What if it's awful? What if, God forbid, their pizzas are missing a major component?

Well, my friends, no need to worry about that at Pizza Hotline:

Yup, it comes with cheese.

Spring Fresh Ice Cream

So you've wolfed down your soggy seafood pizza and now you're looking for a dessert. How about a lovely tub of ice cream?

Is it just me, or does this ice cream taste a bit powdery?

I'm sure that anyone ordering this deal does in fact get a nice tub of Cookies 'n' Cream. But I prefer to imagine them receiving something like this:

Tomato Saucy

A parental advisory necessary for today's post. Somehow, a previously-featured nonsense-filled menu has made its manager's pledge of high quality pizza sound like something from a Carry On film.

Barbara Windsor says: "Ooooo, tomato saucy! [Giggle]"



Chicken for chickens

You know those films where the credits are as funnier – or funnier – than the movie itself? Well, I proudly present the takeaway menu manifestation of this phenomenon. You'll grin in the middle but might just find yourself laughing out loud at the end.

Yes, this will be a perfect dish for you, you big, fat baby. You bockity bockity chicken, you. You gutless wonder who is scared of spicy dishes. Why don't you just grow up already? Yes, alright, I'll bring you your dish with smiling tomatoes. Will that make baby happy?

Mmm... soggy...

If, like me, your knowledge of human behaviour comes primarily from US television series then you'll be familiar with the concept of one lie meaning many lies. The essential idea is that if a person is lying about one thing, chances are that they are lying about other things. And if the initial lie is a big'un, it's likely the subsequent ones are too.

I've noticed that a similar principle applies to takeaway menus. Spot one mistake and chances are you'll soon spot another. Spot an absolutely massive mistake, and it's almost certain that you'll uncover an even bigger blunder just a moment later.

No menu better demonstrates this rule than one for a nearby fish and chip/pizza/kebab/pie/chicken restaurant. I will be sharing every delight from this wonderful document in due course but I've decided to start with one my brother spotted while staying with me this past weekend. If I tell you I hadn't previously noticed it you'll understand the extent to which this menu is chock-full of nonsense.

Mmmm, lovely 'n' soggy...

"Hello? Yes, I'd like to order one of your seafood pizzas but I notice that you say the base might be bit soggy. I was just wondering: will the cheese be mouldy? OK, great. And will the tomato sauce consist mostly of out-of-date ketchup? Excellent. And will the fish be full of bones? Brilliant! One Seafood Delight, please!"

Today's Special: Jack of all Trades

In my hallway, I have a framed advert from 1910. It is promoting one Alexander R. Arnott, a hairdresser, perfumer and wigmaker whose shop used to occupy 4 Electric Parade, Norwood Road, Tulse Hill. I like having a record of the history of the area in which I live; like imagining the way the streets I walk every day would have looked a century ago.

I also like looking at the language. It's so formal. My favourite line even chucks in a bit of Latin for good measure: "Advice gratis on all matters relating to the hair."

Sometimes I idly wonder if, in a hundred years' time, a resident of Tulse Hill will decorate a hallway with a framed hairdresser advert from 2011. I wonder if that person too will spend time imagining what their surroundings might have been like a century before. Most importantly, will that person realise that in 2011 the English language wasn't being treated with quite as much respect as in 1910? Take this sign for the current occupant of 393 Norwood Road:

So basically good at nothing, then?

Specialising in everything, eh? Mr Alexander R. Arnott, who provided advice gratis on all matters relating to the hair, would no doubt be bemused by the language used in modern advertising.

(Incidentally, the print of the Alexander R. Arnott ad came from Lambeth Landmark, a website which "showcases the best 10,000 images from Lambeth Archives collection of over 50,000 photographs, drawings, prints and watercolours" and allows you to order reproductions. If you live in Lambeth, or have any vague interest in the borough, I highly recommend a visit.)

Shall we just buy a bottle of drink?

Everyone loves free stuff. Especially when you only have to order a bottle of soft drink to get it.

Best. Offer. Ever.



Today's Special: What's taking you so long?

The focus of this blog is, of course, the delights of South London takeaway menus. But I fear that by only including menus, my faithful (and extremely limited) readership will be missing out on the amusement which is provided by the other business communications I come across – be it a leaflet through the door, a sign above a store, or an advert for a whore.

(I included the last in that list because it rhymed, but frankly cards in the windows of many South London newsagents do fall into that category.)

I have therefore decided to institute a special category – "Today's Special" in which I look beyond menus for chunks of comedy goodness. I begin with this lovely mailshot from a cleaner:

The words of a desperate cleaner

"I'm cleaning your neighbour house for more than a year"? A year?! What's taking so long? You poor, poor person.

Physicists might disagree

An unlikely claim

Forget the atomic theory of matter. One of my local pizza takeouts has made a major scientific breakthrough, discrediting that centuries-old theory once and for all. Quality is in fact matter. Who knew?

What's in a name?

I must admit I was a little sad when I first heard that Tulse Hill was to gain a Thai restaurant. This isn't Hoxton or Notting Hill, for crying out loud. We don't do culinary trends here. We do the classics: pizza, Chinese, Indian, and fried chicken. A hell of a lot of fried chicken, in fact. We do not do Thai fusion.

My worries vanished as soon as I learnt the name of this new establishment:

A rose by any other name... would in this instance be much better

You can sort of see how it happened: "Right, we're setting up a Thai restaurant. Let's have a pun in the name! Ideas, anyone?" You can imagine the moment that some bright spark said: "Wait! I've got it! Thaicoons!" You can envisage the people round the table making appreciative noises: "Yes! Thaicoons! Brilliant!"

What I can't understand is why, after the intial enthusiasm, no one gave it any deeper thought. Why did no one suddenly wake up in the middle of the night and realise that they were setting up a restaurant with a vaguely racist name? And, better than that, they were setting it up in notoriously cosmopolitan South London?

We may never know the answers to those questions. But what I do know is that Tulse Hill's only Thai restaurant hasn't changed the character of this little area of South London. It has simply strengthened its wacky charm.

No one likes desperation

Please? Oh, go on... Pretty please?

Pizza 2 Night are apparently unfamiliar with the concept of "treat 'em mean, keen 'em keen".

Why am I here?

Ah, one of life’s great imponderable questions. Is it to learn? To procreate? To have a damn fine time?

I cannot answer that question. But I can tell you the reason I created Nonsense on the Menu and why I think your visit is worthwhile.

(Oh, that’s what you were asking in the first place, you say? Jolly good, then.)

Since 2000, I have lived in the mighty Tulse Hill, South London. Like much of the Southern part of our capital, this corner of the city is blessed with numerous takeaway food outlets. From fried chicken to Indian to, er, fried chicken, quick and occasionally tasty food is never far away.

Frankly the market is flooded. What that means is that us South Londoners are bombarded with takeaway menus on a more or less daily basis. Once – not so very long ago – I regarded these pieces of paper as nothing more than an environmentally wasteful annoyance. But then I started reading them. And I realised that these menus are so much more than a guide to the food offered at your local takeaway. Sometimes, if you’re very lucky, they are works of comedic genius.

I started collecting particularly wonderful examples of South London menu comedy and sharing them with my brother. But it quickly became clear that these works deserved wider attention. And so “Nonsense on the Menu” was born.

Enjoy.