FOODWASTEMAN

If Bludso's opened in London it would be worshipped like a jade idol. People would snake around blocks for miles, motivated by actual American BBQ made by actual Americans. Plus everyone at Bludso's dresses like they're in A$AP Mob, which would have foodies the city over struggling to Instagram the place as they frantically mash their iPhones in panicked excitement. IT'S BBQ AND IT'S IN WHERE #KENDRICK LAMAR IS FROM.

But Bludso's isn't under the Hungerford Bridge or in Hoxton Square. It's at the corner of Long Beach Boulevard and Alondra, next door to the Compton Nation of Islam Center. London isn't even close. The locals discuss barbecue in Los Angeles, insisting Bludso's has the best ribs, brisket, pulled-pork and beans. Get the beans. You don't need to hear it from me though. If there's a better endorsement than this I've yet to see it:

I can't decide what's better: Bludso's or the internet.

Price: 10/10. For $27, get the Texas Sampler. The box didn't fit through the window. Every meat is at the party and no cut is compromised. It fed me for the next four days, and I lost sensation in my left arm for the last two!

When a more charming and affable person is unavailable I sometimes work my cousin's bakery stall at a farmer's market in Herne Hill. Not only does this give me the pleasure of working alongside thirty-something mothers flogging crocheted tea-cosies, but it occasionally allows me to celeb-spot Jay Rayner, the Observer food critic whom I greatly admire. In a recent article, Rayner expertly measured the temperature of the British food scene in 2012. An artery clogging platter of Americana, for which we queued for hours to shovel pulled-pork, ribs, burgers and their brethren into our hungry faces.

If I had seen Rayner and not known who he was I would have assumed his culinary year had been dominated by a diet of rocks and the bones of Christian men, all consumed under a closely guarded footbridge. The man is a large, weathered individual with a look of such malevolent displeasure it's as if Samantha Brick has just told him he has HPV. The consummate food writer. The taste of my year was similarly one of slow-smoked meat and coke floats, but there were other highlights too. Some of which I will briefly relay to you here:

Tasty Jerk

My first post, and if the Facebook 'Likes' are anything to go by (seven), arguably my best. Although it may be hard to believe, I've only returned to TJ once this year. It was a far less uncomfortable experience, until we set off to return to Thornton Heath station that is. A young man had been crossing the high street when he was clipped by a speeding car with such force that it separated him from both his shoes, leaving him a twisted heap of bent limbs and shrieking agony on the pavement.

Now the layman would be wise to attend to the man in a limited capacity, ensuring his faculties remained and that he was comfortable. However, I was with my elder brother, a qualified doctor and orthopaedic surgeon, whom I expected to part the gathering crowds and rush to the man's aid. This did not happen, as he insisted that the man's screams and futile attempts to hoist his crippled body off the ground ensured his preservation.

Clearly the duty of care and Hippocratic oath are meaningless when the volume of jerk chicken and pork in your stomach could cause you to void your bowels if required to assume a kneeling position to assist the dying.

Stealing a Tuna and Cucumber sandwich from Pret-a-Manger

In my defence, the fridge was extremely close to the exit.

It's been said that Nando's is the only fast-food chain with table service and alcohol. Upon recently ordering a 2 piece meal at my local Chicken Cottage, I not only forgot to bring my chicken to the table with me, but also to collect my change, pay at all, or finish the red wine I had decanted into an empty lemon Fanta can.

I know I haven't written a review in a while. So here are three short ones of quick construct and poor humour. They'll remind you why you stopped reading in the first place.

Joupa Roti, Clapham

Do you have friends in Clapham? Maybe you met them on your gap year? Or perhaps you work in PR? Do they dislike the Lebanese and consider the film Rabbit-Proof Fence to be 'a bit one-sided'? If your only previous means of relief from their amazeballs gatherings was popping out for a cig and chuckling at Cock Pond then you're in luck. Joupa Roti near Clapham North tube is serving up some bowel-busting combinations of curried meats, mashed pumpkins and 'hello boss' salutations. Have a delicious combo here before meeting your antipodean acquaintances, and as soon as mutterings of a race-riot are greeted with admiration, you can pretend to shit yourself and go home. But you might actually shit yourself, but then you can just go home anyway.

Actually knowing any Australians who live in Clapham: 0/10

Being Stoned: 8/10

Some Ethiopian food stand off Brick Lane

I'm sick of multiculturalism polluting our cuisine. I'm not going to buy a dosa off some twat from Stoke Newington called Owen just because he found himself in Mumbai. There's proper British Indians just down the road run buy real proper British Indians. Sort it out Brick Lane. I bought this Ethiopian stuff from a bird who definitely looked at least half-African. And she was only selling it for £2 because she had "run out of change." It literally made no sense.

Morley's Family Treat Y'all

And finally this, a delightful correspondence from a culinary contemporary, and like-minded soul.

Family treat necessitating drunken late night picture message: 10/10 

Morley's Ribs: -100/10

I've listed a selection of my favourite foods to buy on Rye Lane. So if you enjoy having a strong resistance to the Ebola virus, along with a preference for your food to come in a sack, then read on.

Lamb Neck

Never do I want to hear that Peckham butchers with signs that say 'phone unlocking', have been replaced by butchers with signs that say 'butchers'. I went into a shop in gentrified East Dulwich once and not only did they refuse to unlock my mobile - claiming the pratice to be illegal - they told me that they didn't even know how, as they were butchers. They'd obviously never been to Rye Lane. Lamb Neck is a personal favourite. You can get 6 for £3, and a jail-broke iPhone for £5 more.

Arab-American Solidarity Rice

Wouldn't it be cool if messrs Bush and Bush jr hung out at Camp David with Saddam and Ayatollah Khomeini to shoot hoops, drink Keystone Lite, and make fun of Netanyahu? The logo for their pick-up basketball team would probably be similar to this badass pack of rice. It really makes you think about the true cost of war.

Something Arabic with an intimidating logo

The old addage 'you are what you eat' once suggested that a person's constitution reflected the nutritional content - or lack thereof - of the foods they consumed. The Advertising industry has decided to completely fuck this up, managing to convince speccy kids that they'll turn into a 6 story cartoon spokes-giant if they eat sweetcorn. It's not even a vegetable, it's a grain. Having said that, I would be more than happy to increase my intake of Sweet Supari if I were to transform into the stern Ayatollah of indeterminate Arabic food products pictured above. I bet Rick Ross owes him one hundred favours.

And the rest

A shit load of whatever Frooti is

Big-ass tubs of yoghurt.

Thanks to a preference for flannel shirts, a shit beard, and a large cut on my chin, I currently look like a fat version of Bon Iver whose just been head-butted by Danny Devito. I figured Viet-van was the perfect opportunity to sample authentic street food befitting my rugged appearance. I crossed into East Dulwich, swerved around the enormous buggies, hopped over chihuahuas wearing coats, and averted my gaze from the oddly addractive pregnant mannequins. I was among my street-loving brethren, who happened to be 6 year olds in Barbour jackets.

Look at this photo. It's shit. It tells you nothing.

I recently made the mistake of attempting to troll the East Dulwich Forum. As it turns out, this is a sin right up there with picking Daffodils on Goose Green or missing an Ocado delivery. Their retribution was harsher and more cynical than the average letters page in the Guardian Weekend magazine. They elicited humorous variations on my name, exposed my friend's shitty taste in music, and even produced an exotic culinary death threat.

If any good came of it, it was that other people besides immediate family or friends have now read my blog! Here's a sample critique of my writing from Annette and David over at the EDF:

To be fair, it's some of the more accurate writing that you'll read on this blog. Especially the bit about Danny Dyer. Haha the best was when he tried to disguise himself as a bouncer except he just ended up looking like Keith Chegwin! Class.

Ganapati was recently featured in the Evening Standard Magazine's '50 reasons to visit South London', readily beating out Knife Crime and Clapham Junction to one of the coveted positions. Ganapati thoroughly deserves this recognition.

I went for the Beetroot Curry. I had really shitted up my lip earlier in the day and had to have my face and mouth all stitched up. The Beetroot was tender enough that I could press it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue to soften it, then wash it down with some Cobra, never needing to really chew. The level of seasoning stood up well to the lingering taste of blood in my mouth, and the spiciness kept me distracted from the post-concussive feeling that was making me want to sick everywhere.

Judging by my fellow diners, the food also satisfied the keener senses of those who weren't recovering from facial sedation, so don't let me give you the impression that the full use of your jaw will limit your enjoyment.

I'm not really sure where this place was, I had drunk too much Tuborg. London is currently in love with some Vietnamese sandwich place. I decided to join the party, and it was one of the best crowds I've encountered.

It was on the road between Highbury and Islington and Angel, and as I walked in two serious Pho-Bros behind the counter were laughing their asses off at what I thought was the Vietnamese version of Take Me Out. I started laughing too, not really knowing what was going on, it was great. I often watch Take Me Out, and in doing so I've intermittently got up to make a sandwich. I was instantly at one with them, accepted into their brotherhood, a long lost western purveyor of hilarity and sandwiches. I bet they were drunk too. What a pair of bros.

The sandwich didn't look like the glistening, overstuffed subs I've seen in other food reviews, and I think the bread was formerly the partially cooked baguettes you buy from Asda. Delicate, crisp, humble and delicious. My brethren tried to stop me as I slathered Sriracha over my sandwich, claiming he had already put a lot on.

"I need more".

A good reputation can lead me anywhere within walking distance. The Gowlett's promise of delicious pizza and south-london boozing seemed apt for Good Friday so we wandered over. We ordered our beer and went outside, where we were greeted with a resounding 'who the fuck are you?'

Verbal abuse seems rare in East Dulwich, unless you enjoy disrupting kids football training or cutting in line outside the organic fromagerie, but even then dissaproval is limited to a caustic stare from a young mother reminding you that children are present.

This drunk broad asking the question was searching for a scene larger than her impressive shit-tanned carriage would already offer. Do we hit her? Everyone would probably think we were mugs if we didn't leave her covered in claret. She had a picture of herself as a youngster screen-printed on her t shirt. We refrained. Her name was Olga, once a sweet child, the ugly report of her name the only indication of the woman she would become. We ordered our pizza and waited.

It was some of the best pizza I've had in England. A thin, crisp crust, and it wasn't buried in congealed cheese so I knew I wasn't drunk. It was finished with the definitive sign of class, a garnish of fresh rocket.

Although my back was facing Olga, she was a woman whose sheer mass seemed to disturb refractions of light in such a way as to keep her within my peripheral vision. I switched sides to at least keep an eye on her. One sight of a pock-marked butt crack rendered that a mistake.

'Want me to wipe the rocket off your face, love?'

Flanking the southern end of the expanse of notorious estates that stretch down from the Old Kent Road, Peckham High St. will always struggle to rid itself of the criminal reputation that inhabits its northern border. A quick glance at the reputable gang-pedia site londonsstreetgangs.com's crime map will only confirm this, not to mention throwing up some sick SE15 ends-repping grime-designs such as this:

Apart from the multi-million pound public library, state-of-the-art leisure centre, numerous independent businesses, fixie shops, Persopolis's Persian Emporium, excellent bus connections, and the glistening angles of tempered steel and shimmering glass that house the world's most beautiful Burger King, desolation and fear haunt the street.

Yet like a flare soaring above a battlefield, Obulende Suya Express emerges from the darkness, pigeon shit all up on the sign, with a decor that looks like it was salvaged from the house of a dead granny you legitimately forgot existed. Forget the desolation that awaits you when you step outside! Enjoy the Jollof rice and mis-pronounce 'Suya', for this is an age of hope, hope that can be purchased for £5.50.

Proximity to Eden-Project Burger King: Excellent. The reassuring safe haven in case we got too scared.

While waiting in line for Pitt Cue to open, a young lady in front of me was conducting a conference call on her iPhone. She spoke in a confident manner, elongating and rounding off her vowels in a plummy style befitting a suitably priced private school education. As her company's 'creative projects executive', it is her role to apply the communication skills she learned captaining 1st XI Hockey at school to ensure all projects run swimmingly 'going forward'.

Now let's account for the American Pitmaster. A man of prosaic skill and honest values, the only conference he attends involves his truck, WD40, and a shit-load of Oxycontin. In fields and yards across the land he peeled the bark from the brisket, pulled the pork from the shoulder, and doused his ribs in secret sauces as sacred as family blood. He's a man who cooks his meat like he cooks his Meth. Low and slow.

I wonder how the pitmaster would feel about Pitt Cue, sitting next to the creative projects executive. He watches her drink PBR ironically, leaving most of her pork and not even touching the bread. He notices how she delicately licks the sauce off the curve of her fingers, refusing to wipe them on her Zara blouse. The food she leaves behind is delicate provocation for our hero. He's hit women for less than this, and if it wasn't for Sue-Ellen talking shit to the jury he'd do it again.

Food: The Pulled pork was smoky and delicious, and everything tastes good with PBR. I love it so much I once branded myself in the name of saving $2 on it. Then I crashed my Subaru into a cactus.

Value: Reasonable. I've had cheaper barbecue, but it usually involved lying in a child's paddling pool drinking Miller Lite and eating Del Taco.

Wookie's verdict: 'It was not undelicious'