MORO

Bar restaurant
34/36 Exmouth Market
London, EC1 4QE
Tel: (020) 7833 8336


By Julian Sudre



The presence of a bare, if yet streamlined canteen-style eatery that pulses with a welcoming crowd at the heart of the pedestrian street in Exmouth Market remains a worthwhile experience to savour a blend of Spanish and Muslim Mediterranean cuisines.

Moro oozes with simplicity amongst a clutter of plain wooden tables and chairs on a polished wooden floor. On one side stretches the long zinc bar where tapas can be enjoyed with a glass of sherry and the open view to the kitchen that reveals wood-burning ovens and charcoal grills emphatically have the feel of a convivial tapas restaurant.

Upon our arrival, we managed to be ushered to the only vacant table and instantly we were served with sourdough bread and olive oil.
The unavoidable glass of Sangria was swiftly delivered to our table. The tapas: Babaganoush, Tortilla and Houmous were all presented in clay plates and the dish of prawn, wheat berry, grilled peppers and yoghurt salad was fresh and simple.
The prevalence of yoghurt in Moorish cuisines is a distinguished characteristic.

The baked Moroccan eggs also came in the way of a clay plate. I felt their only vegetarian dish lacked in enthusiasm and homespun creativity as was reflected with the wood roasted white pork. But the rosewater and cardamom ice cream was subtle and remarkably well balanced.

It is worthy of attention that considering the bustle and cacophony of the place, the staff were undeniably approachable, efficient and courteous.

For a restaurant that opened in 1997 and has kept exploring the Mediterranean culinary of Islamic and Southern European cultures, its spontaneity has been a benefactor amongst the wonted diners but at times, I have come away with the feeling that the dishes were a touch overpriced.

Four days in a restaurant kitchen

BY Julian Sudre



CHOP, whack, wham, and whoosh. Come on guys. Let’s pump it out. Service is on anytime now. Are we all set?
As soon as I climb into my chef’s whites, I was somebody else and had to execute my duties with sharp synchronisation.

My pulse was racing; the stoves were red-hot; the shouting claimed victory over civilised communication and cooking meat and onions were predominating the oppressing scents that turned rapidly into an affront to my senses.

The tension was sizzling with an electrifying simmer and suddenly the head chef – the conductor of an orchestra – erupted with a plume of orders that I was to expedite with military precision.

Salmons and salad were whisked together into dishes and cheesecakes ready to be stung with a mint leaf and off were they dispatched to the servers.
Three main course tarts needed to be garnished with watercress and seasoned accordingly. My hands were flying through the air, thrusting and cutting like martial arts movements so as to deliver the hopefully standardised dishes that the expectant customer would smack his lips over.

The logistics of a kitchen are very well coordinated but speed, first and foremost, is the nucleus of the power-monster that churns out plated-up meals; the chefs stir mechanically gallons of stocks and mash potatoes in brobdingnagian saucepans under the supervision of the head chef.

And the porter gets fobbed off with piles of gargantuan gallimaufry of pots and pans that need being scrubbed clean, but fast.

A kitchen is by all means, not the reflection of those dainty and toothsome dishes that seem to have been prepared with hearty love when you get them at your table. I have, as in point of fact, found in good measure, a degree of discordance in the production and the end product. And to a certain extent, the presentation of a dish stimulates more the imagination than enlivens the taste buds.

Kitchens have become locomotives that grind out half-hearted dishes under the pretence of the aesthetics of the final stroke of the head chef.

So perhaps, I have become like a trainspotter; I enjoyed the feel of the beastie locomotive for those four days but now I have seen her entrails.

I will think twice before the delusional subterfuge of its beauty captivates me into being an admirer of its delivery.

Let's get them emaciated and the clothes will do the rest

By Julian Sudre



ALWAYS critics have had a bone to pick; and this time it is those bone-like top models who strut their stuff on the catwalk.
This time the Madrid Fashion week show has flexed its muscle and banned rail-thin looks from media exposure for the first time

Interestingly enough, when Jamie Oliver promotes healthy food in schools so as to fend off obesity – The number of people who are overweight has tripled in the last 20 years – Culture Secretary Tessa Jowell has called for stick-thin models to be banned from the catwalk.

Obviously, the fault lies neither in the modelling agencies nor the government but simply in the masses. Not to put too fine a point on it, we are feeding pigs with dross and now the critics, aka the powers that be, believe it is high time to readjust the perception we have of a top-level fashion model.

In reality, people should be free to express themselves, be it in the way of fashion or at home, they have the flexibility to choose for themselves what is in their best interests. But when it comes to being thin so as to resemble a model, I, for one, wish good luck to a nation that is more inclined to have a fridge packed with junk food than fresh fruits and vegetables.

The tall, skinny figure has always been the standard-bearer of catwalk fashion but this year the zeitgeist is to promote an image of beauty and health. In a few broad strokes, we are having a nation torn between anorexia and obesity, now the government is stepping in to avoid a case of extremities.

How about striking a happy medium and selecting the adequate fit, that is, the quality of what is seen as sashaying on a narrow platform in view of the most reactionary pockets? The answer would be, in good measure, more relevant to the quintessence of a well balanced, down-to-earth, all-rounded exemplar of mannequins that exude a certain closeness and accessibility to the aficionados.

Fashion has pegged its whimsical taste at a contradictory level. The utensils used to champion tomorrow’s trends have turned, from celebrities into causes célèbres.
Perhaps we should make light work of those people who wear the clothes on the catwalk and prioritize more the obese community that needs focusing on.

After all, we are here to comment and copy their garments; not to strive to identify with a foundling that landed a job in catwalk fashion.

The clothes are what make someone brims with personality and uniqueness not the bare skeleton that shivers under the weight of the media. It is not the law that should ban skinny models off the catwalk but parents who ought to re-educate their children about the dangers of eating disorders.

why fashion is the mirror of our own self

By Julian Sudre


It comes with sui generis flair that the creative, oft-maverick coterie of designers want to canvass, with the most distinguished effects it has on our impressible mind, the trend that will become the fashion du jour.
But then, if fashion becomes trendy, why is it so?

The fine line between street fashion and catwalk fashion is relatively a matter of putting your foot down and expressing with lurid metaphors the acuteness of your style – or the extravagance. Who can anyway afford to spend ridiculous amounts of money on a Versace fur coat weighing in at over £4000 and walk to the office on Monday morning with the glamour of a Hollywood actress?
Although, impressing remains a flattering experience to the ego, being uber chic could be overkill and confined to the catwalk.
The distinction is important; it enables the fashionista to project his sights on a backdrop of Shangri-La minus the strict sartorial utopia that the haute-couture fashion designer has generated. The fashionista will get as close to it by an assemblage of pick and mix that he or she will have garnered off giant fashion retails.

But why, the bland naked human body – which could be an art in itself – needs the comfort of the latest trends launched off the catwalk and pared down once in the high street? Is the fact of being swathed in show-stopping, good-looking rags that makes people more at ease with the ethics of society? Could it boost the socializing aspect or promote their image? It sure does – at least, at first glance.


What I find interesting is the way fashion is advertised and the fusion of the masses that throw themselves into the shops to get the look they have seen in the media and deliberately want to copy. Never mind the inappropriateness of their fitness.
The result can be at the best of times, devastating; not only financially, but more damaging to their own image that they were trying to cast.

Sporting a specific style cannot be forced onto a person; feeling comfortable with it is one thing that adds panache but the real clincher is the element of confidence that blends with the apparel.
Clothes should make one with the dresser. They are only there to complement their personality, that is, to project their self on to a physical appearance.

Trend is the copying of salient ideas. However unsavoury it is, if it catches on, you can be on to a jackpot. But fashion also comes from music and film. People urge to associate themselves with someone or a group.
This association will pertain to the real self as featured by the way they parade their attire.

Nevertheless, as the adage goes: “ You can’t judge a book by its cover.” But the very expression of selecting our clothes goes a long way in terms of how perverse our feminine side is.

This is why fashion is part of the fragmentation of narcissism that we have in ourselves; we enjoy the satisfaction we get by the sweet comforts of being "in", that is, we people, need a form of acceptance that gets embroidered in our mores.

When the mind transcends the impossible

By Julian Sudre

I would have to take a leaf out of her book for her indefatigable determination but most importantly her intellectual stamina and unwavering belief that the light, one day will be seen at the end of the tunnel.
Natascha Kampusch was held in captivity for eight years in a cellar below the garage no bigger than the size of a bed.
She had her teenage years snatched and buried in the gloom of confinement; her dreams of reassuring her parents that she was alive were shattered. The harrowing thoughts of her mother fading away with grief that she was dead ravaged her mind with tempestuous pain. And there stood her captor Wolfgang Priklopil, a paranoid psychopath who had prepared with a methodical modus operandi the kidnapping that will become the most talked about in modern history.

Yet psychologists have voiced their surprise over her fortitude and level-headed frame of mind. Also, she is known for having developed the Stockholm syndrome -- the coping mechanism whereby abductees exhibit loyalty to their kidnapper -- Natascha remains wedged between grief about Priklopil’s death and relief about getting her freedom back.
On a strictly personal level, I believe Natascha has made it through for the simple reason that she persistently believes in herself: “ I promised my future self that I would never abandon the thought of escape.”
In those circumstances, having faith and maintaining a high level of curiosity in terms of why, of all the million people, it had happened to her had enabled her to have an edge over her captor. She was resolute to find the answers and this is what has brought her leverage to fuel her insatiable desire to flee.
Of course I would not go as far as to say that her eight years confined to solitude was a form of meditation but to some extent it has brought her the clarity perhaps about the meaning of life she did not have before she was abducted at the age of ten.

Could it have her given assertiveness and self-confidence that life was more a mental freedom than a physical one? Once she would have grasped the essence of freedom as it is experienced in meditation, no sooner than she would have generated her own physical escape. By all means, she has accomplished a soul-destroying passage of life.
The analysis of her reactions are indeed more complex that that; she’ll have learned over the years to feed off her own dreams and fantasy so as to maintain a certain level of hope. Later on, she realised that her captor needed her more than she needed him and this will become a weapon that she will manipulate with dexterity.

During her first interview I was struck by the poker-faced, stoical mean of a person that possessed the intelligence of a self-composed adult who knew how to remain calm under any circumstances. Her mind is agile, tactical and tacful. She had mastered for all intent and purposes a control over the relationship with her abductor but also with her emotional side. But I would be inclined to say ther logistical approach to men could be affected and any amourous relationships are very probably unconceivable for some time.

Today, Natascha leaps from her dungeon existence to the blinding spotlight of the media. Her life seems to be going from one extreme to another. After learning to acclimatise herself to a near-decade of isolation she will have to learn the aggression and superficialness of the real world.

Lest she interprets the lime light as a sort of satisfying benefactor that provides contentment and reassurance, I hope her team of psychologists do know how to wean her off the attention that she has needed so that she will get hardened up during the wintry period of her self future and appreciate the very liberty of being simply herself.