I think it makes sense this week, paradoxical as it may sound, to start at the end. Late on at Joia in Battersea — quite a while after we had ascended to the sprawled grandeur of its 15th-floor space and squinted in the murk at a parade of Portuguese and Spanish dishes — a pão de lo dessert was brought to the table. Essentially an eggy, soft-baked sponge cake, it was served, in traditional pastelaria style, in a tall, crumpled toque of greaseproof paper.
There were appreciative oohs and aahs as it arrived. But then, as the three of us dug in, towards a sort of bubbled, yellow wetness edged in chewy meringue crust, things became a little more mixed. “I don’t really know if I like whatever it is we’re eating here,” said one friend, with brow heavily furrowed. “But I seem to keep going back to make sure.”
