Capital Kebab House, Deptford

Since setting up this cyberspace blog, one has received many emails. Several largely anonymous ones have come from someone signing themselves as "Furious Filly of Rural Hampshire" and if you remove all the swearing and threats only run to about two sentences. I have also received one or two more interesting pointers, vis-a-vis top eateries. One in particular caught my eye for it's splendid and frequent use of colourful Anglo-Saxon colloquialisms. It said "Oi Giles you big fucking poof. You is all well and good going round them poncy west end gaffes, when r you gonna come down Deptford and try some real food you fucking tosser. Signed Nobber and Bermondsey Dave." Luckily they had left a mobile number on the initial message and so, tempted by this wonderfully earthy spirit of theirs I took the plunge and called them. What they lacked in charm and sophistication, they more than made up for in swearing and laughter. I was warmly invited to come down for a "DONNA" and a "rumble" should I so wish. This sounded like possibly an Italian evening and so I called up the Filly who was once again bawling her eyes out as her Mother had had yet another stroke in Little Dozey-on-the-Wold (surely having more than one is just attention seeking), and offered her the chance to join me in what appeared to be an evening in a trattoria.

The Filly arrived with a somewhat wild look in her eyes, and seemed thrilled at the prospect of the evening ahead. She said that dining with me after looking after her frail mother put her whole life "in a new perspective". She simply adores me, and who can blame her. We jumped in her Mercedes and trolled on down to South London where Deptford was supposed to be. Now I had imagined some Putney-esque riverside development after what Nobber had told me on the phone, but this was much more gritty and urban. To get the full flavour of our experience I urged The Filly to put on "Straight Outta Compton" by NWA on the CD, but she only had Katie Melua, and it really didn't suit the ambience. We stopped at the correct address, according to The Filly's sat nav, and there it was. The Capital Kebab House. So not a trattoria at all - more like a pocket sized Greek Taverna. As I stepped from the car, there was Nobber.

"Fuck me!" He yelled. "That posh twats only gone and turned up!" He slapped me on the back with all the ferocity of Gordon Sweary tenderising a steak and offered to let me wear his Burberry Hoodie, I declined. Bermondsey Dave was a very big chap as well and seemed to take a shine to The Filly and insisted on putting a protective arm around her. He led me into the eatery - it has a sort of quaint English working class seaside feel to it, with formica everywhere and a fruit machine in the corner. A man that Nobber insisted on calling Stavros, even though he later told me his name was Ahmed, showed me his menu which was for once not handwrittedn in finest copperplate and sealed in a leather binding, but in pictures placed on a light box above our heads. Everything looked the same, so I turned to Nobber for a little help. He highly recommended the "Extra Large Doner, all in and chilli sauce" - I thanked him for his astute help. Bermondsey Dave and Filly were busy chatting by the fruit machine and so Nobber and I ate alone at the counter - standing up would you believe! My meal was gargantuan - no nouvelle cuisine here my valued reader. More meat than you can shake a stick at, fresh salad and a chilli sauce that Nobber described as "nuclear" and with pickled jalapeno's that he called "kinansom", though I am at a loss to know what that actually means. After four mouthfulls I had lost the feeling in my palate and was sweating profusely, but Nobber told me this was normal. He recommended putting the fire out with some imported Danish pilsner lager called "Spesh" - it arrived in golden chilled cans. So hot and thirsty was I by now, that I immediately downed six of them and felt most refreshed.

I woke up in my bathroom in Kensington. I had been to the toilet at least eight times during the night, but appear to have been only mildly accurate twice. I looked in the mirror to see that I had a pickled jalapeno stuck to my forehead alongside the words "POSH TWAT" written in permanent water proof ink. I stumbled into my bedroom to find Filly sitting up in bed with a big smile on her face.

"Feeling better, darling?" She asked, giggling quietly. I slowly peeled the pepper from my forehead which for some reason caused her to explode into uncontrollable manic laughter. After five minutes she eventually subsided.

"That was some hot stuff last night..." I mumbled. Her smile returned even brighter.

"You can say that again..." She sighed. I was at a loss to put together the final parts of the evening. How on Earth had we got home?

"I feel pretty rough..." I lay down next to her on the bed.

"And it was pretty rough last night..." She sighed. Just then her mobile rang and she snatched it up, probably her Mother or sister wanting to know why she wasn't back at the maternal bedside. She trotted out of the room to the landing and I could hear her giggling and going on about Bermondsey a lot. She was obviously filling in her family with her escapades last night. What a girl.

So have you got a local trattoria, taverna or other ethnic fusion food outlet you'd like me to experience? Then drop me a line at gileslondongetsstuffed@yahoo.co.uk and maybe we can have lunch together! Filly has requested a few more eateries in the Bermondsey area - she'd obviously got the taste of some rough stuff now! Tally-ho!