Hooyos Somali Cuisine, 30 Guildford Street, Luton LU1 2NR (01582 269 478; @hooyosluton). Starters £4.25-£7; mains £7.50-£16; dessert £5.50; unlicensed
A menu isn’t always just a list of dishes. It can be a map of history and culture; a set of tidemarks left by the surging currents of trade or interventions by colonial powers or, more usually, both. A New Orleans restaurant menu, full of fancy references to andouille, étouffée and the deep-fried doughnut wonder that is the beignet, isn’t merely some outbreak of European exotica amid the usual American bistro repertoire. It tells us that between 1682, when explorer René-Robert Cavelier claimed the Mississippi basin in the name of Louis XIV, and the Louisiana land purchase of 1803, France was the dominant power. Later, France left a similar mark across Indochina where a baguette became Vietnam’s famed banh mi. Portuguese missionaries brought what became tempura to Japan and, in Goa, developed the vinegar-making that underpins certain dishes, including the true vindaloo.
For sake of doubt this is not a shout of: “Say what you like about mass subjugation, murder and forced conversion, it really added to the dining options.” It’s just a reminder that dishes embed themselves in the culture in sometimes surprising ways. Which brings us to Hooyos, a small, family-run Somali restaurant in a Luton backstreet, which has a menu of hummus, samosas, slow-roasted meats and spaghetti. Lots of spaghetti. All of which is a by-product of the Italians invading and occupying Somalia for decades.
I came across Hooyos, which means mother, on Instagram. I’m probably meant to be a little shamefaced about this. It’s the second place I’ve stumbled across there in recent weeks. I could have claimed it was a reader recommendation, but why do that? The Hooyos account is such a kooky and jolly affair, spinning with excitable videos boasting an odd, possibly AI-generated, American voiceover, that I’d rather you all go and revel in it. They remind me of those hyper-local cinema ads from the 1970s. As they say, Luton has its first Somali restaurant. It’s full of big family vibes, vivid textiles and groaning platters. Why watch American home cooks doing appalling things with macaroni, plastic cheese, Doritos and a death wish on Instagram when you could be watching this instead? There are lots of annoying things about Instagram, but it also offers businesses with little promotion budget an opportunity to make a case for themselves. They’ve done that. How could I not go?
Hooyos was opened about a year ago by the Abdi family, most of whom arrived here from Somalia in the mid-1990s. It’s led by Foz Abdi. She runs the kitchen, but also works the wide, wood-floored dining room, with its palm tree-papered wall and its neon sign reading “say Inshallah”. She has the air of a matriarch determined to make sure everyone is properly fed and watered. She wants to know everything is OK. She wants to know we’re having a nice time. She wants to know that the young lad who is serving us has done all right, because it’s his first day. “It’s her son,” Mo, the manager (and her nephew) adds helpfully, as an aside. Yes, we say, he’s doing fine. He should stay.
It turns out that the printed menu is more of a declaration of intent, rather than an exact offering. It’s early in the week and Foz hasn’t made the soups, or the vegetable samosas. But she has the beef samosas. They are robust, sharp-cornered affairs, made with a golden, bubbled pastry straight from the deep-fat fryer. Bite in and get hot puffs of spiced potato-bound meatiness. If dishes were ever twinned, like towns are, this one should be matched up with a Wigan pie. Drag one of these through the sharp and salty chilli sauce. We also have their highly textured suqaar hummus topped with braised beef, in a dark, lightly sour sauce. On the side are soft folds of flat bread with which to sweep it away. Both dishes speak of the Horn of Africa as a cultural crossroads: the Indian subcontinent to the east, lending certain spices; the rest of the Arab world to the north.
You could follow that with a wrap. You could have a burger. You could have a chicken caesar. Don’t judge them. They’ve got a living to make. Also, don’t have any of these. Have one of the sharing platters. They are a bit of everything that defines Hooyos and are clearly portioned by a kitchen that only regards far too much as enough. The platter for two at £32 could easily feed three. The platter for six at £60 could presumably feed Luton. It’s built on a hefty platform of carbs that have been pelted with roasted and ground spices. To one side is a huge, tangled pile of dry, masala-spiced spaghetti, bursting with ground cumin and coriander seed and stained a deep-rust colour. Next to that comes a generous heap of equally fragrant rice. It’s fringed by a salad that’s purple-dusted with sour sumac.
Resting on top of this is the lamb shoulder, slow-roasted and deeply sauced, and pulling away from the bone with the gentlest of encouragement. Next to that is a hunk of equally slow-cooked chicken, which is equally sweet-salty glazed. Then there is more of the salty-sour beef stew. It wasn’t disappointing to see it again. There’s a mess of onions and peppers cooked down until soft, plus a good scattering of freshly chopped green herbs. This is very much domestic cooking made public; a platter both of generosity and comfort.
There is only one dessert tonight and courtesy of the colonial power it is, of course, their own tiramisu; a pleasingly dense and sponge-heavy one. Though to be honest, by this point I was so charmed they could have served me a Viennetta straight out of the packet and I’d have swooned. (Mind you, I do love a Viennetta.)
Hooyos is the restaurant as cultural hub. They tell me there’s a small Somali community in Luton, but a much bigger one in nearby Milton Keynes. They come here for meetings in the function room and to get takeaways because, Mo says, they prefer that to eating in. I think they’re missing out. Hooyos is quiet this evening, but even amid the dining room’s hush you can get a sense of a place. This one is rather lovely.
News bites
The branch of El Gato Negro in Leeds has closed and is being converted by chef-patron Simon Shaw into the second branch of the company’s sports concept, Black Cat Club. There will be interactive shuffleboard and darts games, alongside nine TV screens showing live sports. Oh, and there will be food including pizzas, burgers, buttermilk fried chicken, salt and pepper ribs and ‘dirty’ fries. The first Black Cat Club is in Manchester (theblackcatclub.co.uk).
The much-loved Petersham Nurseries in Richmond, southwest London, has won a long legal battle to continue serving in the evenings. For 18 years the restaurant has been negotiating with the local council to be able formally to open in the evenings, instead of under a succession of temporary event licences. Finally, a campaign, backed by thousands of customers, has been successful. Under the new terms Petersham will be able run a pre-booked evening service three times a week, without amplified music (petershamnurseries.com).
It’s a sad farewell to Kemal Mustafa, who opened Ken’s Fish Bar in Herne Hill in 1984 and who died recently. Kemal was part of that generation of immigrants from northern Cyprus that went on to run a significant slab of the UK’s fish and chip business. We all have our favourite chippie and I’ve long said that Ken’s is mine. When the Netflix series Somebody Feed Phil asked me to nominate one to visit with Phil Rosenthal for the London episode, I chose Ken’s, because the food really is excellent. Subsequently, it became a point of pilgrimage for Rosenthal fans from all over the world, a fitting tribute to the work of Kemal, known to his customers as ‘father Ken’, and his son Hassan who now runs the takeaway. My thoughts are with them.
Jay Rayner’s cookbook, Nights Out at Home: Recipes and Stories from 25 Years as a Restaurant Critic, is available to preorder now at the guardianbookshop.com.
Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk or follow him on X @jayrayner1
