Made with love (and M.S.G.)

In one of those days in London that seems to go a little bit East, we started off West, at a Japanese calligraphy workshop in Knightsbridge, run by the parents of a friend of ours, before heading to Theatreland, to take lunch in Chinatown.

We spent the morning daubing poor examples of kanji on rice paper, getting marginally better, before attempting the real deal on a paper fan. Both The European and I wrote “health and longevity” on ours. I got the “health” kanji perfect, with sweeping streaks of italicised black ink, but fudged “longevity”. Luckily, The European’s attempt was the reverse. The result? A perfect, wall mounted fan for our lounge. After Japanese snacks that made us nostalgic of our trips there, we said our farewells to the group and went off in search for lunch.

After the May heatwave, the weather that day was shocking. It was pissing down. Nevertheless, we soldered on to Chinatown. There was a steps challenge on at work, so I insisted on walking there.

Along the way, we debated about where to eat. We had a revelation. With the weather as bad as it was, Chinatown might be bereft of queues. We could eat ANYWHERE.

We settled on the viral restaurant of the moment, Kawan by Uncle Roger, which had only opened a few weeks prior and, if you go by the reels, was a nightmare to get into. Weirdly, upon reaching Chinatown, many of the popular places still had a queue (albeit they were shorter, wetter, and looked more miserable than ever), but Kawan did not. A little concerned, we tentatively wandered in. At least the restaurant was busy.

The restaurant is named for the alter ego of Malaysian comedian Nigel Ng, a slightly stereotypical Chinese uncle who berates people on social media for their poor cooking of staple Asian dishes. He famously rinsed Gordon Ramsay over his attempt at a fried rice. The interior is like being implanted into on of Uncle Roger’s Instagram stories; lurid, gauche, the walls covered with anime, Formica furnishings, and bright logo-esque lightboxes featuring quotes like “made with love (and MSG)“. Downstairs was full so we were taken up to a larger dining room on the first floor. From the moment we sat down, the pace of service felt frenzied and chaotic, but at the same time, our servers were warm and we never once felt rushed.

Bottles of Kawan Beer carried the lunch. It offered crisp, cold, lagery respite to the onslaught of feel-good drunk food that came our way. Yes, we over ordered, again, but how were we to know that the portions were to be surprisingly generous. The cuisine is officially described as Malaysian, but feels distinctly pan-Asian with a leaning towards Chinese. As you peruse the menu, you will find dishes with witty names and many tongue-in-cheek nods to Uncle Roger’s exuberantly critical nature. Of course, there’s fried rice. The “Fried Rice from the Village” leads with chilli and seafood. The “Chinatown Fried Rice” – the one we ordered – was spicy, eggy, and mixed with a sweet Lap Cheong sausage. The verdict? One of the best fried rice dishes we ever had, as well as being large enough to share, and then some.

Kawan’s signature dish, the “Chinese Wellington”, “…inspired by Uncle Gordon” is essentially an amped up chicken pasty, perfectly seasoned, flavoured with Teochew butter, olive mushrooms, and served alongside a very good slaw. I loved it; The European found it tasty enough but gimmicky, and gave it a “meh” and a stinging 7 out of 10. Alongside, she ordered the “Silky Hot Mess”, a huggable bowl of mapo tofu. It was ethereally soft and buttery, mixed with onsen egg, kimchi and a vegan hot crunch on top. Personally, it would never be a dish I could truly enjoy, but this was clearly comfort food at its finest, and The European slurped it down, purring all the way.

We could have stopped and we should have stopped. The European suggested I order something else as she was destroying the fried rice and I suspect she was worried about sharing. I agreed. I had heard the bao bun was to die for, and indeed, many had passed me on the way to other tables.

Called the “Aji-no-bun”, this was a hot-dog sized, hot-dog themed fluffy bao bun, filled with a crispy slab of barbecue pork, served low-key U.S.-style, in a plastic basket lined with paper, on a bed of spiced fries. It was filthy, it was heavenly. I mean, I could have only eaten this and been completely satisfied with lunch. The European could have existed on the fired rice. Ergo, we had two meals.

We felt the force of Uncle Roger for the rest of the day. At home, feeling heavied and doughy, I took the longest nap outside of Dubai, where the brunches would finish me off. The M.S.G. made us worryingly thirsty. We needed no dinner. The Saturday was over before it started. But were we happy? Yes. Were our “health and longevity” fans thinking to themselves “what’s the fucking point”? Probably.

Four mains and couple of beers came to £one hundred.