Southwark

Most of Shrub's childhood was spent in East Dulwich - until his family decamped to Cheshire, and he discovered for the first time how much nicer everybody is outside London.

Lordship Lane, the neighbourhood's main thoroughfare, is now far more genteel and refined than the shabby street Shrub remembered from the early nineties. He pointed out sites of local interest (the library, the barbers, the Budgens that was once a Seven Eleven) while The Spesh asked increasingly absurd questions about Shrub's early life as a South London street scamp.

The Spesh, who was raised in Hampshire, was incredulous that anyone could spend their formative years in an area boasting so few green spaces in which to drink cider. Shrub explained how, aged fifteen, he was reduced to forging a British Gas ID card before slinking off to central London to drink K's in the Trocadero Centre with his mate. It was on such a trip that he had his ear pierced - a fact he now tries to keep hidden.

Palmerston

This was a nice pub, with plenty of beers to choose from, including the sturdy brown ales our heroes opted for. The Spesh was impressed by the solid mini-benches on the pavement next to this boozer: an innovation that deserves to spread more widely. Shrub remembered the venue as "dog rough" in the nineties but pointed out that the same could be said for every pub in East Dulwich that now serves real ale to media-types.

Curry Cabin

This restaurant has the great honour of being the first curry house that Shrub ever visited, aged perhaps eight or nine. The Spesh is very envious at Shrub's early introduction to the world of subcontinental dining: he ate his first Indian at Sheffield's legendary Balti King aged twenty.

The Curry Cabin has an impressive frontage; many white Ionic columns and a cheerful neon 'Open' sign. It was busy inside too, although, for some reason, everyone was very quiet. Spesh found himself talking in a strange theatrical whisper as he explained his plans for the opening ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics (the climax of which would involve morris dancers, break-dancing JCBs, four dove-white Harrier jumpjets, and David Bowie).

Both Shrub and The Spesh enjoyed their meals. Portions were very generous, which pleased The Spesh; the duck chunks in his dish were satisfying and tasty, while Shrub opted for a whole curried flatfish. He was a little worried when the waiter wandered off to the kitchens to check whether this was possible, implying they didn't make many; but, whether the fish was fresh or frozen, it was as tasty as it was unusual.

Next time: Sutton.

Richmond upon Thames

After their recent valiant trips to more marginal patches of the capital, Shrub and The Spesh finally received their reward. Did anywhere in Greater London offer a more delightful scene that evening than the Richmond riverside in the soft April sun? Shrub and The Spesh doubt it.

The White Cross

It was high tide and the river was brimming. Our heroes sat outside the White Cross, pints in hand, absorbing the scene; the high peach-dappled clouds, the caramel hues of the bridge, the stately processions of swans. The vista was complete when Shrub claimed to have seen the dad from the Krankies walk by. "It was definitely him!" he insisted to his sceptical colleague, pointing at a retreating figure: "You can tell by the hair".

Some years ago, The Spesh sat outside this same pub and watched an overweight man in a pink shirt park a Porsche on a slipway to the river. The sportcar's owner then sauntered into the boozer like he owned that too. The Spesh, along with five hundred other Bank Holiday drinkers, spent the next hour watching as the advancing tide climbed the slipway, creeping ever closer to the defenceless convertible; the water first submerged the front wheels, then its bonnet, before edging nearer and nearer the car's open windows. The Spesh gleefully recalled the scurrilous cheer that erupted from the crowd when the driver finally burst from the pub and barged through the throng to rescue his Teutonic soft-top from the Thames. It is a priceless memory that will probably comfort The Spesh on his deathbed.

Tangawizi

Shrub had been told that the best curry houses were on the Middlesex side of the river, and so, as the light faded, our game adventurers obediently strode across the flagstone of Richmond Bridge. They soon found a suitable restaurant: Tangawizi was modern and welcoming with attentive service and exacting standards. The poppudums, for example, came promptly and were suberb. Soon the main courses arrived; The Spesh tucked-in to a delightful chicken dish, while Shrub tackled his badami lamb with gusto: maybe the fine weather and beer had bouyed his mood, but Shrub cannot remember a curry as enjoyable over the whole length of the tour. His optimism extended to other matters: Shrub spent the meal predicting the imminent end to the economic recession.

With Shrub’s enthusiastic predictions of green shoots still echoing in their ears, the pair tottered homewards. The Shackleton and Scott of the London curry challenge considered what their next adventure might be. Would they ever attempt the legendary pub crawl along the entire length of the A1 with which The Spesh is still obsessed? (See the entry for Barnet.) And would they arrive at the last pub in Edinburgh's Princes Street only to find they had been beaten by a Norwegian?

But there are a few iceflows yet to be conquered on this expedition: Southwark is next.

Redbridge

Don't worry readers; Shrub and The Spesh hadn't heard of Redbridge either. That this anonymous and semi-detached Borough is home to a quarter-of-a-million people, spread over twenty square-miles, is a fact that the pair found strangely unsettling. Our buccaneering adventurers began their tour of the parish with a late-afternoon stroll from Ilford railway station to Gants Hill, during which The Spesh entirely forgot to congratulate Shrub on his recent engagement.

The Valentine

The Spesh imagines that this gigantic boozer was once a fine country pub surrounded by rolling Essex cornfields. Whatever the truth of these musings, this impressive old hulk is now marooned in a desert of urban mediocrity next to the Gants Hill roundabout. The innards were cavernous and Shrub and The Spesh had no trouble finding a table. Getting a decent beer was a little trickier. There were only a handful of punters, all of whom were transfixed by a booming football match displayed on at least four giant screens. In a heart-warming scene, the duo received a cheerful "Thanks lads!" as they left, unlikely to ever return.

Caraway

This elegant and expansive Indian restaurant is a cut above the usual neighbourhood curry shop. The owners have clearly made an effort to create something unusual and, by and large, they have succeeded. Features that caught the eye included a pond full of petals by the entrance, as well as an open kitchen complete with flaming hobs. Even the menus were packed with interesting details, with plenty of historical asides about the provenance of the dishes.

Most importantly, the food was very enjoyable. The scran on offer included some imaginative options, and The Spesh took a bit of a gamble on a yogurty starter that, in truth, he did not really like, but his tandoori salmon main course offered a delicate mix of subtle flavours that complemented each other excellently. Shrub's Goan fish curry was tasty; he suspected it contained the remainder of the Spesh's salmon. His pancake starter was also very well received. It consisted of sweet potato and two sauces, one hot, one yoghurt-based. A cheery atmosphere accompanied the meal, and the staff were attentive. Worth looking out for, should you unaccountably find yourself in the Redbridge area.

Next month: Richmond upon Thames.

Newham

What did Shrub and The Spesh's first expedition of 2009 portend for the coming year? If Shrub's experience of this visit to the London Borough of Newham is any indication, the next twelve months will start with a pleasant surprise, before becoming side-tracked in dead-ends and finally stumbling into mediocrity and disquiet.

First, the surprise: while waiting to meet The Spesh outside Whitechapel tube, Shrub was pleased to see a familiar face emerge from the East London mist; it was The Spesh's brother, fresh from a tour of France and the Benelux nations as lead guitarist in an exciting new trash-funk rock band that has set all the Continent a-buzz. The Spesh had forgotten to mention he had invited his more-talented sibling along on this leg of the tour, and Shrub enjoyed catching up on his adventures.

Once The Spesh eventually turned up, it was agreed that they would alight at West Ham; this proved a mistake. Never before had the explorers been to a duller and more lifeless part of London; the odds of finding a pub, let alone a gem of a ruby retailer, among those bleak residential streets looked slim. They quickly gave up and hopped back on the District Line. After the barren wasteland around West Ham station, Upton Park tube proved more fruitful. Indeed, despite it being a Sunday evening, they were greeted by a thriving, bustling high street that was the very model of what a cosmopolitan metropolis should offer. Our newly heartened trio strolled past brightly-lit shops brimming with punters and selling all manner of sub-continental odds and sods, until they reached a boozer, and sloped inside.

The Duke of Edinburgh

The frontage of this pub gave every indication that it would be the worst sort of high-street beer hall; the insides confirmed this. That said, Shrub was served by one of the friendliest and most helpful bartenders of their travels. Our young adventurers soon settled down with a round of Guinness and a long argument about last year's Formula One season.

The Mango Leaf

This recently-refitted restaurant is located above a bar on the main street. The stairs led to a large and, it must be said, incredibly cold room, dominated by a giant flat-screen TV tuned to an Asian hip-hop channel; The Spesh spent most of the meal being distracted by the improbably-gorgeous raven-haired stunners that danced around the television, to the point of breaking off sentences midway and never completing them. It was pathetic to witness.

The usual poppadum starters arrived. Instead of the normal dips, these appeared to be accompanied by a little bowl of Heinz ketchup, much to the gang's surprise. The waiter, a cheerful student from Goa, was engaging and friendly, and slowly the room warmed up, seemingly from the four-dozen halogen light fittings that studded the ceiling, but Spesh nonetheless kept his coat on.

Soon, the main courses arrived. The Spesh and his brother were very happy with their dishes (a generous lamb biriani and tastily thick king prawn "do piazza") but Shrub was less than satisfied with his prawn dansak; he found it cloyingly sweet, to the point of declaring it the worst curry of the tour. A shame.

It was the last Sunday of the Christmas holidays; as a consequence, Shrub, who is a sensitive creature, could not rid himself of a slightly menacing sense of foreboding that had began in the pit of his stomach and now coloured his whole outlook. The curry had not helped. It was in this spirit that the intrepid group raised their collars against the elements and headed back westward. Lets hope he cheers up next time!

Merton

Nestled on the southern stretches of the Northern Line, straddling the main southbound road from Tooting, Colliers Wood is a reassuringly unpretentious patch, with very handy access to a giant retail park. It also boasts an enormous abandoned tower block, recently voted the ugliest building in London. This shell of a building dominates the Merton skyline, floating above the rooftops and chimney stacks, and casting a brooding shadow over the rows of semis below. Your heroes speculated at some length why someone saw fit to place millions of square feet of office space in such an unprepossessing locale. Whatever vanguard of British industry once leased the site is now long gone. Pondering such matters, our duo strode forth to explore Merton to its very limits - they wandered as far as the Wandsworth border sign, before turning back.

Colliers Tup

A comforting pint at the Colliers Tup was called for after such an excursion. The pair we pleased to find it to be a rugby pub of the highest standard; comfortable battered leather sofas, wooden floors and decent ale were all conducive to Shrub and The Spesh's usual high-brow chit-chat. Recommended.

Spice of the Raj

This dinky restaurant had tried to make good use of its space. One table, squashed in the recess by the window, looked particularly uncomfortable. Naturally your heroes were offered it on entry - Shrub swiftly demanded the best table in the house, which was the one next to it.

At the risk of declaring yet another neighbourhood curry house an unexpected success, Shrub and the Spesh were very pleasantly surprised. The Spesh even declared his prawn tandoori to be one of the best dishes so far. These foolhardy adventurers also ordered a phall (a spicy dish of legendary potency) that Spesh spotted at the bottom of the menu. The kindly proprietor was careful to warn the pair of the danger, but they ploughed forward with a heady arrogance that is sadly becoming increasingly typical. Never one to turn down a challenge, Shrub tasted a tiny amount on the end of his fork. It was some while before he was able to speak again. Truly the most powerful curry yet tasted - more like torture than food. The Spesh was equally taken aback by its sheer force. The manager just laughed with a "told you so" air that was entirely justified. Satisfied they had done their duty at the very extremes of subcontinental cuisine, the duo repaired to a nearby pub, where Shrub was berated by a lunatic old woman for stealing her chair.

Lewisham

So far on their tour, Shrub and The Spesh have always sought to break fresh soil in their effort to unearth the ultimate London curry. They lazily disregarded such traditions on their trip to Lewisham, by staying within 100 yards of The Spesh's flat. Shrub was intrigued by Forest Hill, straddling as it does a big traffic junction a quite steep part of the South Circular. He also enjoyed a little police car-chase that the pair were fortunate enough to witness outside the station.

The Dartmouth Arms

This is the closest that The Spesh has to a local. Once upon a time, it was the kind of South London boozer where the brewery had to hire a new landlord every six months because the previous incumbent had run off with the takings. It has now been tarted up no end, and looks almost unnervingly sophisticated, complete with faux scruffy interior, battered comfy chairs and stripped wooden floor. Shrub was impressed. The barman too was a fellow in whom you could have confidence. Very few make an effort to remember punters' orders: others could learn a lot.

Wanting to squeeze the last few minutes out of a rather lacklustre summer, the pair braved the beer garden. The Spesh assured Shrub that his shirtsleeves were more than adequate to insulate him against the crisp September evening, but the pair began to feel a little chilly (and not a little foolish) and soon retreated indoors.

Anika Tandoori

Over the road from The Spesh's luxury bedsit, Anika only recently regained its drinks license from the council. Quite how a tandoori outlet loses its booze permit is something our intrepid duo mulled over at length. It was a Tuesday, and the staff clearly did not expect any sit-in customers: in fact, all the tables were pressed up against the walls. The take-away trade seemed quite flat too: four stocky drivers stood kicking their heels at the back of the shop gossiping loudly.

That the people of Forest Hill should snub this outfit is a shame. Admittedly it is all a bit shambolic and odd. (The menu described one dish as "popular in the Midland"; no word on whether they like it at NatWest). But, despite this, the food was very well prepared and rather good. The Spesh's shishlik sizzled enticingly on a cast-iron plate and was dryly delicious. Shrub was equally impressed by his dish which, with respect to tradition, he forgets the name of. Our heroes speculated that perhaps the credit crunch had hit the commuter belt and that the venue would be busier on the weekend. Based on the food alone, it deserves to be.

The intrepid duo finished the evening off by buying choc-ices in Sainsbury's. They ate them in The Spesh's front room, looking over the road to see if Anika had gained new custom. It hadn't. The waiter stood glumly at the window, staring at the drizzle.

Next time: Merton

Lambeth

An overcast August sky greeted Shrub and The Spesh on their arrival in the uncharted expanses of Kennington. Their ambling circuit of the Oval cricket ground generated quite a thirst, but it was surprisingly difficult to locate a pub. Just when they were about to give up hope, a shimmering oasis of drinking venues appeared on the horizon, much to the pair's relief.

The Dog House

This raffishly shabby pub was full of potted plants and an endearingly lurid carpet. The Spesh thought better of his initial impulse to request a pint of strong scrumpy: there would be plenty of time for that at the pair's forthcoming trip to the Green Man festival in Powys. Instead, Shrub felt the humidity called for shandies all round. The barman made something of a mockery of an order for two lager tops, spilling foaming fluid everywhere, but seemed admirally unbothered. While he trapsed off to find a mop, Shrub and the Spesh chose to brave the benches lining the pavement outside, given it was summer, despite the risk it might soon start to spit.

Gandhi's

Shrub and The Spesh were enticed into this friendly curry restaurant on the Kennington Road by a photograph of a baffled-looking Geoff Hoon in the window. Hoon's effortless and deft understanding of the subtle intricacies of otherwise opaque Asian cultures was demonstrated most forcefully by his time as defence secretary during the invasion of Iraq: as such, his endorsement of this establishment's cuisine was recommendation indeed. So through the door Shrub and The Spesh dutifully filed. They were not disappointed. Our heroes chose to share the house special platter: at £30 for three courses for two people this was good value, and very tasty. The mixed grill starter would have served for an entire meal in other establishments, and it was only by manfully drawing on otherwise hidden reserves of stamina and strength that the pair made such good headway with the subsequent courses, coffee and After Eights.

The atmosphere was leisurely and amiable, and the establishment was very busy, considering it was a Tuesday. Service was attentive and your heroes wiled away a pleasant couple of hours discussing, they claim, the finer points of ancient Greek democracy and the stark foreign policy dilemmas faced by Chamberlain in the 1930s. Mindful of their obligation not to post so many positive reviews, Shrub looked in vain for something to complain about. He reluctantly had to declare that the pair were well looked after: following the omen of Hoon’s perky visage was a wise move.