Brighton Life, Food & Drink, Food & Drink, Joloff Cafe, Refugees

Joloff Cafe – A refuge from the madness

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Refugees often get a bad press here. You might have noticed. Like most people, we find it really dispiriting, but there are always good people doing good things. And if good things involve hummus… what’s not to like? 

We’re lucky here in this part of  the world – there are fantastic organisations such as The Launchpad Collective who are doing real things to help refugees with real tools such as work and language. And here at the West Hill Hall, the every Wednesday morning The Jollof Cafe takes over and… What’s the Jollof Cafe? 

“It’s a project of the Sussex and refugee migrant self support group. It’s run for and by migrants, refugees, asylum seekers. It’s free for those who can’t afford it and £5 or whatever they feel like for those who can which enables people who can’t afford to eat there to do so. Each week we’ve got different chefs and it’s a lovely atmosphere and great food.” 

I’m talking with Catherine Brown, and Catherine’s long been on the side of the good guys. “I used to work with Voices in Exile and now volunteer with Sussex refugee and migrant Self Support Group which Jollof is part of”. 

“We started in 2017. We used to be at The Cowley Club in London Road, and then after Lockdown we opened up at the West Hill Hall. It’s a little treasure, a bit hard to find, but a treasure.

“The food is always vegetarian, and often vegan. It’s a welcoming, safe space where the migrant community can invite the local community in rather than the other way around. They’re always recipients of charity. Here, it’s the other way around.

And who are the biggest communities? “We used to do a lot of work with the Syrian community, and I was surprised at how many Syrian people that were here. Yes, so still Syrians but a lot less coming than about six or seven years ago. We’ve got some brilliant members of the group who cook for us when they when they’ve got time off from their English lessons. There are Kurds from Iran  and Iraq. Where else? We got people from Sudan, Ethiopia, Eritrea…”

And what’s Jollof? “Jollof rice is a West African dish. When we first started, we had a lot of West Africans cooking for us and we had Jollof  all the time. It’s a peanutty spicy sauce and the rice is cooked in the sauce. It’s usually with meat, but because I’ve only had it at the Hall I’ve never had it with meat”. 

I’m guessing the food at your place is pretty good then. “It’s pretty damn good. Yeah, I get to eat very well. I think Syrian is probably my favorite.” 

Syrian food is… I know about Syrian food. I pride myself on my hummus making abilities and, maybe foolishly once said to a Syrian guy I knew that I made good hummus. So we had a “Hummus  Battle”. I told Catherine and as I told her, I heard her laugh.  

“You lost, I’m guessing”.

“Lost isn’t the word. It wasn’t that close”.

Sam Harrington-Lowe

Sam Harrington-Lowe – Dec 2023

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Regular readers of this fine organ may remember me grumbling about the arrival of autumn a couple of months ago. I’ve got past this now and have surrendered to the inevitable onslaught of rain and wind. So it was with some surprise that the other day I found myself (mildly) enthusiastic for Christmas.

As someone from a large family which has shrunk in recent years, due to more despatch than hatch, I’ve become increasingly ambivalent about the C word. I feel like I ought to like it, but actually Christmas can be fraught with expectation, overwhelm, and strife. I’ve never been a huge fan. I’m not keen on turkey, small talk, or the wearing of paper hats. And don’t get me started on the torture that is charades. 

Having said that, I have spent Christmas Day on my own before, having developed some kind of ghastly strep throat affair. In martyrous fashion I elected to stay home alone, like Kevin, imagining the freedom from ritual and heartiness and stuffed fowl to be a blessing. But it backfired. I didn’t think I’d mind, but I did, and spent half the day howling with loneliness. As Will Self once poncily wrote in the Independent, “deliberately being alone on Christmas Day was a bad move… it was tempting fate to toy with isolation, when life, with all its impulsive alacrity, may at any time capriciously thrust you out in the cold.”

In later years as an adult hosting my own Christmases, I’ve aimed for some kind of halfway house – a nice roast, no big dramatic thing, no hustling my daughter (who dislikes Christmas even more than I do) to be jolly. Possibly a tree. But this year I admit to feeling a frisson of excitement. Not much, but a tiny fizz. Could this be… Christmas spirit?

Perhaps the news that IKEA has bought Churchill Square has cheered me up. Nothing like a bit of IKEA shopping and a bucket of meatballs and jam to cheer the spirits. Although lord knows when it’ll be open. Perhaps it’s the sight of a 70cl bottle of Baileys on sale in Tesco for £6 that’s done it. “Six quid!” I squawked loudly in the shop to no-one in particular. Whatever it is, I’m feeling it. And so I have decided to Get On Board with Christmas this year, instead of trying to pretend it’s not happening.

My Christmas resolutions, if you like, will be positive and upbeat. I will join in with things. I will say yes to nights out with friends. I will get pressies early and lovingly, instead of late on Christmas Eve when I’m half cut from a liquid lunch and crying in the crowds of other bewildered, desperate shoppers.

I will send Christmas cards – in time, not ones that arrive in January. And I will wear a Christmas jumper. I will not hate Slade. I will put up some decorations.

But more than anything, I will make time to spend with the people I love the most. Because if the other C word has taught us anything it’s that life is short, and people are precious. Make the most of both.

Have a wonderful Christmas everyone. See you on the other side.

l Sam is founder and Editor-in-Chief of Silver Magazine – for the mature maverick

http://www.silvermagazine.co.uk

Brighton Life, Conservation

Jim Gowans Conservation Matters Dec 2023

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Air Conditioning Unit: harming the appearance of Guildford Road 

The owners of number 18 did not seek permission when they installed the air conditioning unit on the front of this corner property. They were held to account by the Council’s Planning Enforcement Team but then made a “retrospective planning application” in an effort to retain it. 

This application was inevitably refused with officers saying the unit is contrary to the character of the building and harmful to the appearance of the conservation area.

The neighbouring properties have attractive shop fronts, especially that of “Adrian Robins Interiors” two doors down and this ugly metal box is undoubtedly an eyesore and besides surely unnecessary. It’s therefore surprising that the owners of number 18 have lodged an appeal against the Council’s decision.

Battle of Trafalgar Pub: preserving the appearance of Guildford Road

Whilst residents have expressed some concern about the increase in lighting levels, the application to display a newly designed pub sign (see picture) and install lanterns and uplighters to the front elevation has been approved by officers. The current fashion of painting pubs in dark colours is being followed, in this case a “Mallard” (dark) green which is a radical change from the existing white. The current sign simply carries the name of the pub and the date 1805 but the proposed sign again depicts a scene from the famous sea battle although not the same as the one which disappeared in about 2015. The proposed traditional signwriting is to be welcomed. This is to be in a colour described as “Indian White”. The paint manufacturer describes this as “an extremely flexible, pale, warm white that captures the purity and optimism of a bright spring morning”. After 15 pints on a Saturday night punters might well want to capture that purity and optimism!

Brighton Life, Nicholas Lezard

Nicholas Lezard – View From The Hill Dec 2023

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The Prince Albert, you know, the one by the station, a downhill stumble from the peak of West Hill, is one of the greatest pubs in a town with a greater abundance and favourable ratio to bad pubs than in any town I have ever seen, and I’ve seen a few. Both towns and pubs. I really know what I’m talking about. And such is the way of the world, or the way of this country, pubs are being closed down and this is terrible.

The Prince Albert – and I am open to the suggestion that the lewd piercing referred to by this name originated if not in this very pub but at least in this very town, for reasons I do not need to elaborate – is one of those places where the traditional and the counterculture meet as one. 

My first proper evening there was when I finally, some years ago, moved to Brighton for good with the last items of my scant luggage. There wasn’t much: it was mostly my grandfather’s overcoat, which I was wearing, and a plastic bag containing, mostly, a teapot. I was tired, and it was late, and my new lodgings were up a steep hill – you know the one I mean – but the Albert was a brief step downhill and I could hear the noise of a band thudding through the walls and the mist, the kind of band I used to stay up late to tape off John Peel in the 70s. A truly horrendous noise, designed to both offend and charm – there were tunes behind it – with what I could tell even at a distance was a very angry female singer. This, I have to say, is one of my favourite genres.

So I went in the pub and went upstairs to listen to the band and even though I was wearing an ancient overcoat and carrying a teapot and was, by some decades, the oldest person in the room, I was utterly charmed. The band were called something that I cannot repeat even here; let’s just say a four-letter word was involved. They were clearly not aiming for chart success. But I stayed for the whole set and even chatted with the lead singer (her traumatised backing band, mostly men, had disappeared) for a while afterwards, and of course she turned out to be as sweet and modest and considerate as her on-stage persona had been confrontational and furious. This is so often the way.

And yet downstairs it’s all fireplaces and wallpaper from the 1920s as far as I can tell and, well you get the idea. The problem is that the pub has been under threat from developers. The latest recent plans have rejected by councillors but we need to make sure new plans don’t rear their ugly heads again. The best way to do that is to pop down there for a pint some time, just to let you know you love them. You don’t have to see Bleeding Ohyouknow upstairs but if they are playing, give them a listen. 

Brighton Life, Editorial, Healing Paws, Rescue Dogs

Editorial – Dec 2023 / Jan 2024

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It’s dark and cold and I’ve been wondering if it was ever going to stop raining. I’ve never been sure about winter – whose idea was that? I mean really. It’s not as good an idea as summer. Or spring. Or anything else that’s ever been ever. But even in winter exciting things happen.

As I write, there’s a woman I’ve never met called Sarah driving a van across the vast landscape of Europe, across countries and rivers, across seas and boundaries. In the van are lots of cages, each containing a puppy dog leaving the remarkable Sue Deeth and her Healing Paws rescue centre in Zante, Greece and heading to a new world, a new life. Their furever home, as the dog rescue fraternity has it. They’re sedated and hopefully oblivious, probably scared, probably nervous, almost certainly cold. How can they know what’s in store? 

They might not know what’s in store, but for two of those pups, The Whistler knows. In one small cage there’s a black and white smiley thing called Freckle who is apparently a Labrador/Collie cross (that’s what she said anyway and I’m pretty sure she must have heard somewhere people like labradors and collies), and in another there’s a shy little Spaniel called Domino and by the time Your Friendly Neighbourhood Whistler glides effortlessly through your letter box, Freckle and Domino will be part of our family.

According to the Healing Paws website, Domino was found in an abandoned olive grove, and Freckle… who knows? Already I don’t believe her. But another similar tale no doubt. 

If you’re a dog person and you go walking in St Nick’s Rest Garden with the rest of the Pooch Pals, you’ll  probably already know them. They’ll be ones trying to keep up with Pickle, their 13-year-old new dad/mentor as he races around, woofing and smiling and woofing (the St Nick’s guys know). 

Three dogs. I know. In a small flat in West Hill. I know. With a regular car. Really, I know. Right now I feel like spending every waking minute sitting on the sofa, because I’m not sure I’ll ever see it again. Stretching out in bed. That’s probably another distant memory. Staying in that bed longer than the sun stays down? Not a chance. They’ll team up, take turns, sort it out, and as the chorus of “Dad, I need a wee” breaks out… You’re going to get up, aren’t you?” But as much as they need us, we need them. What’s life without a bit of unconditional canine love? But three dogs. That’s us, outnumbered. 

Quite what Pickle will make of his new family, who knows? His life has changed  a fair bit since we got him last September. He’d just been aband… Oh, let’s not talk about that. A bit of TLC, a raw egg every morning, some of our homeopath Foxey’s magic and he makes Steve Austin look like one of the flowerpot men. He’ll be fine. If Mum and Dad say it’s fine, it’ll be fine. Anyway, he’s only recently found a new calling. Mum and Dad are both journalists, and so… Turn a couple of pages and you’ll find out. There’ll be no stopping him now. He’ll be insufferable.  

Everything you ever wanted to know about life in Brighton (OK, and Hove)