Oh goody, I didn’t think, Clapton. Just the one sodding hour on the Overground. But in the spirit of my New Year’s resolution to explore more, I thought I’d courageously venture all the way to the far-flung reaches of, er, Zone 2. All right, all right. I’m working on it.
Not a selfless schlep but a selfish one. In the sprint to Christmas, I heard Mambow’s name so often I’d begun wondering if I was suffering from an unusually specific form of tinnitus. Chef Abby Lee has gossip on her side. Her modern Malaysian, with the Chinese influence prominent, is a certified hit. At least down the pub it is.
Not that it looked so much of a hit on arrival, with pairs of guests pressed together in the square-foot entrance, trying not to push a bar-seated couple into the cauldrons of the open kitchen. Queuing has not been planned for. That kitchen, a counter of bubbling pots and grills, coughed smoke across the tiny run of tables, where there’s room for 40. We sat at steamed windows and peered out to faces peering in.
But — and isn’t it always the way? — this was a romantic comedy of a night. A bad beginning — think Harry and Sally, Darcy and Elizabeth — soon gave way to love. Flitting between bona fide hits and what might be called Forgotten Gameshow Gems, music helped. Candles flickered to the bass, tremored even. The sense of the place is fun.
Fun that presumably might be upped by the latter half of Mambow’s self-avowed formula, ‘Malaysian heat and juicy wines’ (juicy here meaning a generous showing of mostly natural stuff). Still heroically committed to Dry Jan (I must be a shoo-in for next year’s round of OBEs), we mournfully skipped the gin-sodden 100 Sours and bottles of gewürztraminer in favour of fermented tea, which is about as appealing as it sounds. But there was no pushing of drink, just a gentle warning of Cincau’s sweetness. It’s made of jelly, after all. “We used to have it as kids,” the waiter said, smiling but knowing. Later, I rubbed cola-coloured gelatine from my teeth.
As for the Malaysian heat? “Oh mate,” say two impish colleagues before I go. “You’re going to be ruined.” But I wasn’t, and you won’t be either — though buyer beware with the bak kut teh (pork rib soup). Lee has built a menu where spice is layered for detail, not distraction.
Achar, a jewellery tray of crunchy, pickled vegetables and shattered peanut, set us off. Necessary too, given the 50-minute wait for starters (this 50-minute thing happened at Jamie Oliver, too. I can't be any clearer: Oliver is not the gold standard). But forgiveness was swift once kam heong mussels came, the shells proffering upwards like cupped hands. Soybean-bound sauce, accented with shrimp and given heat with curry leaves, ran deep with warmth. With mussels gulped, I soon spooned the pooled remains. And then panicked: here is the creeping kind of spice, I thought, as a wildfire began to lick across my tastebuds.
But beautiful otak-otak — a fish cake, with a prawn bouncing in its middle — offered cooling hoses of coconut cream (I swerved the spiteful chilli insouciantly reclining across its top). Later, a trio of sardines came stacked together, tails up and all under a shagpile of rempah paste, and brought a flush of pleasure, as did chicken spatchcocked and curried, cheerfully spilling its soothing juices. There is not much to say here: I liked it. Adored it.
I panicked: here is the creeping kind of spice, I thought, as a wildfire began to lick across my tastebuds
Pandan crêpes came and went — Twiggy making it clear the order was non-negotiable, should I wish to see her again. After, Lee, ever-moving during service, fell still for a moment, a conductor exhaling at the close of a symphony. The pub is right; she has achieved a triumph. I sighed walking back to the Overground. But I guess I’d better get used to it; I have a new stomping ground. So long, Soho.
