If I’d known that this restaurant was called Timmy before I went into it I probably wouldn’t have, um, gone into it. Timmy is a name of dread for children of the 80s. Those of you who don’t know why will just have to look it up for yourselves.
If you dare.
Timmy Green made an admirable job of escaping the shadow of Timmy M and the reason I didn’t clock its name was that we rushed headlong in there to escape whichever storm it was that week and plonked ourselves at the bar for lunch.
The menu is appealing for someone who dines regularly with vegans – plenty of greens for my mate but also enough going on on the immoral side of things for me. He had shashouka (bless you) and it looked very good. My chicken parmigiana was a monster, slathered with good sauce and plenty of crust. It was so big I couldn’t eat all the chips it rode in with. Even a Teessider would have bowed the knee at such a delicious beast, whose DNA would show that it shared an ancestor with the fearsome Parmo.
House white was good and not expensive. As well as the food I’d pick out the service as being a cut above the average, the people we spoke to were friendly and seemed genuinely happy to work there. The only downside was the lack of room for my aged knees which kept clonking up against the counter. I guess next time it’d be wise to book.
Blue Badge guide to London and academic specialising in early twentieth century history. Blogging on history, academia, and food and culture in the capital (and occasionally elsewhere).