Wha gwan readers, welcome to FREELOADER: a newsletter about getting stuff for free. We forgot to mention that in the last one. There’s been a slight delay this month, as both Kieran and Joe have had to ‘earn money’ to ‘pay bills’ and ‘keep the Triads at bay’. But you don’t want to hear about how many fingers we have left – you want to know what we’ve got in this edition! 

We have some kooky bits and bobs: Joe asks Osteria Vibrato caporegime Charlie Mellor why he bought his trousers from him; we introduce you to a very upsetting subreddit; plus, the lowdown on Labombe by Trivet, and sexy sister restaurants in general. 

First though, it’s been 10 years since the opening of Som Saa: one of the progenitors of what we like to call ‘Honky Thai’. Kieran heads to the restaurant to ask why whitey seems to fall so hard for the flavours of Phuket.

For the last decade, London has been dominated by a certain kind of Thai place. Ben Chapman’s Kiln and Smoking Goat; Som Saa and Kolae’s Andy Oliver, Mark Dobbie and Tom George; Luke Farrell’s Speedboat Bar and Plaza Khao Gaeng. All super-niche produce, all punishing spice, all spearheaded by regular guys who got really into Thailand. Cooking with the dedication that only a hyperfixated white boy could throw himself into: for short, Honky Thai. 

We don’t call it this to criticise; we’re the ones lapping up the five-alarm laabs and mackerel fried whole; cluttering the counter with empty Singha bottles and tiny green mango martini glasses. We are Honky Thai, we carry the flame. 

But it is mad, when you think about it. Each restaurateur started off as just a white guy who decided one day to speak a little Isaan. Som Saa opened ten years ago this month. In 2016, it was at the bleeding edge of Thai food in the capital, converting from a ‘cult pop-up’ to a ‘crowdfunded space’ in ‘Spitalfields’, in the way things did back then. When it opened, Jay Rayner called it “an action movie full of crash, bang and wallop” in the Observer – its rejection of green curries a sign enough of doing things differently. 

When we popped in last week, we had a smart selection of dishes, showing off its sourcing with makrut leaves, Thai basil, heart of palm and pennywort. It was good, though perhaps showing its age a little, success breeding a kind of safety in its attitude to seasoning. Regardless, it was heaving, far livelier on a Tuesday night than the dreaded Busaba nearby. This is how London likes its Thai food now. The honkies won.

What makes them so successful? The devil on their back, we suppose: respectful authenticity. Having all been forged as businesses in the white heat of 2010s callout culture, you can trust that every rhizome of white turmeric is cherished by the honky at the pass. Extraordinary lengths are reached in order to pre-empt these charges; no pea aubergine too small or rau ram leaf too sawtoothed. Funky, fruity, fishy flavours are thrown around the menu without timidity. If they self-censor reflexively, they may as well have insulted the monarch – which, as all Thai citizens know, is an incredibly serious crime. 

That’s not to say that these honkies work through sheer fear of cancellation – it’s 2026, and that doesn’t happen anymore. But they do maintain a recognisably outsider approach which, when paired with a puppyish enthusiasm for the subject, makes for a distinct kind of restaurant that now feel part of the capital’s furniture. With Som Saa reaching this decade milestone, and yet another Plaza Khao Gaeng opening up soon in Covent Garden, Honky Thai marches on. Not everyone can get into Singburi, or stump up for AngloThai. Without spicy white boys, who knows where we’d be? 

Mondo To Go: Your Boyfriend is Actually Quite Safe.

Check this out: I bought a pair of old trousers off this website Messina Hembry, which I started using because the other online vintage clothes shop I frequented kept sending me items that smelled like the stool of someone who only eats Boursin. Sadly, they weren’t quite right. A shame, because they were a nice green.  

Anyway, I stuck them on Vinted for roughly what I paid, £14, and the next day someone offered £12, and I thought, fuck it, just get rid. I accepted the offer and pootled down to Streatham Common Sainsbury’s, where they have a Royal Mail deposit box. I scanned the QR and it spat out a label addressed to Charlie Mellor, at Osteria Vibrato, 6 Greek Street, London, W1D 4DE. Charlie Mellor, the restaurateur behind Vibrato and the now-closed Laughing Heart, had bought my bloody trousers. What are the odds of that eh? 

Obviously I had to go and ask him why he bought my trousers. Was it the fine colour, the bargain price, the classic construction that you just don’t get anymore with the budget diffusion lines of high-end menswear brands? Well reader, it was all of this and more! 

FREELOADER: So, Charlie. You bought my trousers. Why did you do that? 

CHARLIE MELLOR: What were they like? Because I receive so many things.

It was a pair of Ralph Lauren Chaps trousers in a sort of olive green - wait, you don't remember buying them?

The vast majority of the time these days, when they're delivered here, they're either uniform items or things the staff can open. A couple of shirts, a collection of dead stock Italian ties, everyone has a pair of loafers, some pleated trousers, pleated skirts, whatever it might be. But it's about finding things that are on-brand, yet also fit people's individual vibe, without breaking the bank.

So it's effectively creating a uniform, but one they can choose from a selection of things that more or less conforms to a standard?

Exactly.

Is this a common approach for a restaurant?

Not at all, no. Not everyone is willing to invest their time that way. But I do see how, in an ad hoc way, grabbing minutes here and there to sprinkle a little magic into it works well. And it's true not just of the uniforms, but of things like the candlesticks and just little details throughout. It all starts with world-class basics. Sometimes a four-quid pair of slacks looks as good as a fifty-quid pair, and it doesn't matter - it's about giving the team what they need right now.

Is there anyone in hospitality you'd say is particularly well dressed?

I do think Daniel Willis and Johnny Smith (of Smith & Willis; LUCA, Osip) are both very well dressed. They developed a relationship early on with Tim Little at Grenson's when they were at the Clove Club. You'll very often see them in bespoke tailoring and Grenson shoes, which is pretty nice.

Daniel is a big guy as well.

Daniel is a very big guy, very tall, with big shoulders on him. He wears his tailoring well.

What are you wearing today?

This is a made-to-measure suit from a tailor in Whitechapel. The head cutter was at Timothy Everest for a long time. They do a lot of costume work, and they made all the men's tailoring for The Crown. I wanted something cut from Italian cloth, a bit of fun for the opening of this place, but incredibly durable. So it needed to be a four-six ply, something I could crumple in my hand and it would spring back. I wanted this to feel like a working suit, not a formal one; patch pockets, a space for my wine knife.

Blimey. What do you think about my outfit, and would it fit in with the restaurant's vibe?

I like it. What you're doing is pretty bold, a suiting coat and suiting trousers that are tonally interesting, and I like the softness of them. The toe cap on your shoes - very nice. As a uniform standard it wouldn't work because I need my waiters to look like waiters, but you look like someone who could be sitting out the front of the restaurant, absolutely.

Probably for the best. Thanks Charlie!

Salon Madre: They do tacos and show the Liverpool match, for when you need one or both. 

I know we give off a very joyful vibe here at FREELOADER, but it’s good to take a second to remember that not all food is about provenance, produce and pike en papillote. Sometimes, food can be insanely, heartbreakingly depressing. The egg and cress sandwich at your mother’s wake; the Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food tub consumed when your boyfriend leaves you for a Hatsune Miku body pillow. Misery loves company, and is often edible – and there’s nowhere better to find bowls of black-dog chow than our new favourite subreddit, ‘r/kitchencels’.

R/kitchencels is a place where those at the bleeding edge of the male loneliness epidemic post one-line diary entries about their terrible lives, alongside revolting photos of whatever bleak bachelor meal they’ve concocted that evening. It is as sad as it sounds. But, as with all glimpses into the void, it is also inherently quite funny. 

Naturally, these guys are incels, so a lot of the chat is about ‘foids’ and getting murderously angry at other men for the crime of being tall. But those comments, coupled with a description and image of an alarmingly foul dish served seemingly out of self-punishment, never fails to make us smile. 

There is something decidedly American about this form of content, and others that feel spiritually downstream from it. There’s a lot of people eating in cars, wearing Under Armour, a lot of blurry DoorDash orders. There is an incorrigible sickliness to the land of plenty. To understand the true power of the Great Satan, watch the Food Network. Stick on The Pioneer Woman right now, and you’ll see a mommyblogger making pull-apart queso sliders with lime jelly and mayonnaise, in a house on the land from Killers of the Flower Moon.  

Dive deeper into Yank foodslop, and a terrifying, elephantine grossness further reveals itself. Gone are the days of Bon Appetit’s aching, urbane tastefulness, radically grey-haired bakers and racially segregated pay structures. American food, as viewed through the phone screen, is now mothers-of-seven liquifying trays of chicken with a stick blender, people eating entire Indian meals in the driver’s seat of their car, shirtless guys in Louisiana making metric tons of gumbo for 48 views on YouTube.

Us Brits are no saints, granted: we are the land that gave the world Big John, Binley Mega Chippy, and of course, the Rate My Takeaway Christmas single. But there is a knowingly gentle pride in the silliness of our most grotesque meals, and the behemoths who eat them for our entertainment. Like everything else in their country, Yank foodslop seems to be one more desperate attempt at social mobility through content creation – the American Dream of this decade.

As mass culture becomes a parade of public-access TV, self-uploaded by anyone with a life and a camera phone, spaces like r/kitchencels exemplify just how atomised life has become in Nowheresville, USA. Depressed fighting-age men writing missives from their failing lives, alongside a mixture of barely reheated canned meals, protein-maxxed gym kibble and nostalgic treats for children. Don’t forget that the next time some Yank tries to call you an animal for having beans on toast. 

Poolhouse: The Deloitte Christmas party is going to go off here.

In the world of humans, having a hot sister can present some issues; teenage friends coming round ostensibly to play The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion on the Xbox 360, but are actually there to experience the psychosexual Proustian shiver of your sister’s freshly washed hair. In the world of restaurants, though, it’s all gravy. 

At the recent Michelin Guide ceremony, there was a selection of sisters getting their dues: Nieves Barragán’s Legado, sister to Sabor, got a star, as did Corenucopia, sibling of Clare Smyth’s three-star favourite, Core. The sister we’re taking to the prom today, however, is Labombe by Trivet, a lithe and pretty yet busty sort, like an irascible love interest in a Jilly Cooper novel.  

Labombe (we’re going to eschew the ‘by Trivet’ bit from here on out, as they also should) is at COMO Metropolitan London, an airy boutique hotel. The room is quite ‘90s; warm light, abstract contemporary art, muted but colourful banquettes. This is not an insult - these types of restaurants should feel like a Sony A&R is about to seduce a shaggy britpop act over bottles of Bollinger.

Like Trivet, Labombe is à la carte, with plates of ever-scaling size to be eaten in sequential order. Our waiter Ben – fresh off the production line at the Nice Irish Lad factory – effectively nominated everything we’d go on to order: snacks, starters and sharables, and the option of a pairing we immediately moved for.

Things began steady with slices of sourdough and a roundel of butter, dusted in fennel-flecked rouge espelette – floral and fruity from the get-go, redoubled with a saucy pour of Charles Heidsieck rosé champagne. Next, the restaurant’s languorous signature snack: the hot tongue bun, a brioche filled with corned tongue meat, anchovy mayo, dill pickles and blackcurrant mostarda. To really attack it, you need to inelegantly fumble the filling into place before each bite, but the faff is more than worth it for one of the great sandwiches of the moment. Less impressive was a lamb sweetbread and purple garlic skewer, which cried out for a pinch or a brush of something run across it – a glaze or a powder or both. 

A pair of vegetarian starters followed. In one bowl, sausage-finger stalks of grilled green asparagus, on garlic pomme puree with fennel and wakame. Then, morels piped with smoked goat's curd, with lovage, blackcurrant and wisps of pickled lemon. Winter into spring. Two of the best courses we’ve had anywhere in a long time.

The starters were paired with sake, which we’d like to see more of. It’s good for us because we like sake, and it’s good for restaurants because you could put anything in front of us and we’d lap it up like the pathetic Japanophiles we are. You could tell us it was handmade by a 97-year-old blind woman in Yamagata prefecture and we’d be like ‘yep, they’ve done it again!’.

This is going to sound like damning with faint praise but we assure you it’s not: what followed was the best pub lunch we’ve ever had. The mains - an ibérico pork chop, monkfish with white beans and a chicken sauce, and a side of spiced fries - had the bright coolness of the kind of high-end gastroboozer you’d expect to see Dua Lipa in. Or, perhaps more appropriately, her equally comely sister Rina Lipa.

The desserts were grown up, a Campari-soaked crème caramel and a crème fraiche ice cream, accompanied by the Pisshead’s Closer, a vesper martini. They were subtle and gentle but not without force, much like your friend’s sister when she tells you she thinks you’re nice, but she only dates guys who buy their own pants.

For those that care about this sort of thing, Labombe is pretty much the perfect One Star restaurant. It’s not trying to dick you around with bullshit, it’s not making you feel uncomfortable with ‘concepts’. It’s clever and coherent, and masterfully executed. If it’s a sister, it’s Cinderella, not one of the gorgons who make her do all the sweeping up.

*

Wow, that one got a bit weird didn’t it? Lot of sister stuff in there. Should probably talk to someone about that.

As ever, we’d love it if you spread the word about FREELOADER. We don’t have a meme page we can farm clicks on, we’re doing this the old-fashioned way, so tell your mates about what we’re doing. Send more free stuff, invites and the names of sexual therapists to [email protected].

See you next month, boys and girls.