Ma la Sichuan
BAD FOOD IS BAD FOOD, no matter where in the world it originates. That said, I’ve had more than my fair share of inferior Chinese during my years in London. That might be bad luck, or it might be poor judgement on my part. Perhaps I should prevail upon a more knowledgeable friend to take me in hand and show me the error of my ways.
Until that day, I’m content to cleave to Ma La Sichuan. Located on a backstreet in Westminster, it’s a cut significantly above the average. The space alone impresses. The opposite of kitsch, it filters the sharp mid-century aesthetic familiar to Mad Men’s Don Draper through the lens of the early Noughties. If the ambience is crisp and no-nonsense, much the same can be said of the service. Brisk but not unfriendly, the waiting staff can take an order, serve it and clear it in 45 minutes flat. Ma La Sichuan is not a place one goes to linger. Then again, the food packs such a punch that one positively craves a draught of night air to cool one’s scorched lips and tongue. Traditional Sichuan dishes are some of the hottest on the planet. The wonder is that the flavours, while fierce, are so deep, rich and cracklingly complex. The boiled beef in sizzling chilli oil is typical of what you can expect. Described, not without cause, as ‘numbing’, there’s a fiery thrill in every bite.
See also: The Raj Of Kensington, A Wong
