On a small Brutalist housing estate off the Walworth Road, Tafe Beleynah works alchemy with lentils that any number of molecular gastronomists or meat-free burger companies would sell their soul to learn the secret of. Although this is not a vegan restaurant, it’s easy to have a completely meat- and dairy-free meal, where Beleynah’s Ethiopean and Eritrean dishes can be soaked up by teff-based injera, made in-house. The no-brainer to get is the house special vegan selection, which gives a generous amount of all of Beleynah’s vegan stews, including the misir wat — lentils spiced with berbere — which has the uncanny meaty depth of a slow-cooked ragu. The defin misir wat, a much milder lentil stew, has a rich, acidic butteriness that approximates a cottage cheese, while actual cottage cheese crops up in an outstanding kitfo that only just cooks the small cubes of beef until they are bouncy and rich. Despite all this, the best dish may actually be the dulet, the most obviously meaty thing on the menu, that combines kidneys and tripe finely chopped into springy, savoury anonymity that could convince even the most ardent offal sceptic.

On a low-rise stretch of Southampton Way, the only giveaways that might explain a window emitting a neon-blue glow are two illuminated white bollards painted with a stripe of green on top and blue on the bottom — to a flag nerd, the unmistakable colours of Sierra Leone. Patience is rewarded at Cool and Cozzy; it might take half an hour but how many takeaways in London are putting out an entire 2kg fish? Tilapia are fried whole in their silver and pearl armour, skin alternately shatteringly crisp or pulled off in strips like aquatic jerky to uncover meaty flesh. It’s possible to get Salone staples, like cassava leaf, potato leaf and krain-krain, but ─ as the owner admits ─ it’s the seafood that people are really here for: those fish, piles of crab and whole lobsters split down the middle and grilled. Dishes can be ordered with attieke, the Ivorian staple made from peeled and grated cassava mixed with a fermented version of itself that acts as a starter. Often compared to couscous, it comes as fluffier pale yellow flakes, slightly chewy with a fermented tang that can be cut through with raw onion or a pepper sauce so potent that the smell alone induces shivers.

The truth is, the best Chinese takeaways are the ones nearest to home, the ones which nightcap a potentially disastrous evening and ensure the night ends in the most pleasurable way possible. So in this spirit, the best Chinese takeaway in London is actually Happy Valley on Southampton Way at about 11:30 p.m. when the drunks are congregating outside and the older bald chef has finished his cigarette break and is back at the wok seasoned with a generation’s worth of chow meins, ready to prepare an order of crispy noodles and black bean sauce.

There have been roughly three versions of Wuli Wuli. The first was as a small Camberwell secret, with an additional menu saying ‘Sichuan dishes’ in Mandarin, selling the type of fire and brimstone, blood and guts dishes that got South London hearts racing, back in late 2010. The second version was a reaction to Silk Road’s success: it reduced the Sichuanese output and added biang biang noodles, the food became less spicy and more rustic. This lasted roughly up until the pandemic when it changed again. Now it’s is more or less back to exclusively Sichuanese food but the menu is massively reduced, the food is quieter and more homely, with simple but effective quick-fry dishes like lamb and cumin; satisfyingly chewy chaoshou dumplings in red oil; and northern-style braises, like an excellent rendition of di san xian’s aubergine, green pepper and potatoes crawling with star anise. Get the cold saliva chicken to take away and it will provide a good three lunches for the week, either on rice or, best of all, in a sandwich.

In the beginning, there was Falafel. And Mahmoud Alkhatib saw that it was good, so he added a second option, and amended the name with ‘and Shawarma’. Since it opened close to what seems like the beginning of time (2007), Alkhatib’s takeaway wrap shop has become Cambewell’s heart, run with the precision of a military operation, and even inspiring direct copycats. Superficially there seem to be two choices: falafel, or shawarma. Both are £3.50. On the one hand, it is incredible value to get a wrap made with care for such a low price. On the other, how could a wrap taste anything other than heavenly if it’s £3.50 for it? Here’s the thing: the falafel and shawarma are decoys. The best two things on the menu aren’t even on the board. First, the samosas, brittle equilateral triangles, filled with pungently spiced mince and sweet onions and smothered in garlic and chilli sauce at four for £1.50. Secondly, the potatoes, sticky and rich, texture like soft fudge, and radiating chilli, cumin and what appears to be a whole lemon’s worth of juice. Any wrap benefits from asking to throw a few on; if anyone can convince Alkhatib to put the samosas in a wrap, then maybe he’ll have to change the name again.

South London is full of restaurant rivalries, copycats and acrimonious splits: from the Creams vs Kaspas “who did it first?” debate, to the abundance of fake Morley’s, which often resembles a Morley’s psyop to enhance its own reputation. Knowing this, it’s tempting to wonder ‘who is Francesco?’ and ‘why did he fall out with Theo?’ Except Francesco’s, the only real rival to Theo’s Camberwell pizza crown, is really an offshoot of Falafel and Shawarma, an extension of its domination of the road in handheld cheap eats. It’s no mistake that the best things here are not the pizzas but the lunchtime wraps ─ £3.50, that magic number again ─ which are essentially small pizzas folded around themselves, light, airy and steaming hot, molten tomato and cheese combining to burn the roofs of mouths. A pepperoni with extra chilli sauce is straightforwardly delicious, and arguably the best pizza-related item on the street.

A good fish and chip shop has to understand what fish and chips is about. There is no point trying to gussy it up. No one wants ikejime battered haddock, and even fewer people want to pay anything more than £10 to fill themselves up on a Friday. Fladda in Camberwell gets this, but isn’t shy to make improvements and alterations, which is where it just edges Camberwell’s other good chippy (Deep Sea on Vestry Road). Anonymous ‘chip shop’ sausages and pert, scarlet saveloys sit alongside battered sausages from The Butchery; homemade steak and ale pies alongside Pukka; whole fish fillets alongside a £5 fish bites and chips deal celebrating fish off-cuts that Josh Niland could be proud of. There is bread and butter. There is gravy. There is battered halloumi. There is even a pretty decent, if decadently, doubly oily, mackerel sandwich to get through the new Brexit-induced glut. Everything is expertly fried, with golden brown crunchy chips ... And... Are those scraps in the back? On hearing the words “anchovy mayo,” it’s even possible to forgive the mint in the mushy peas.

There are three ways to enjoy Van Hing. First is in it’s menu of British-Chinese favourites done with care: good versions of Singapore noodles; salt and pepper tofu; crispy noodles with duck and pork. The second is to go for the small Vietnamese menu, particularly the exceptional bánh cuốn with wrappers so fine it’s possible to read a book through them, either eaten on their own and dipped in fish sauce, or stuffed with finely minced pork and wood ear mushrooms. The third is to come on a Friday, when those in the know are here for lòng lợn. This demotic Vietnamese sharing food is not for those faint-hearted about offal. It’s Operation on a plate: sliced hearts, liver, intestine stuffed with bitter herbs, with absolutely nothing done to obscure their initial function as organs, retaining crunch and chew where appropriate. Then there’s the mam tom for dipping: A dank, grey pool of fermented shrimp with an intensity only usually found in decaying things, whipped up into an angry froth and gulped between snatches of fresh herbs.

FM Mangal is almost certainly the best London ocakbaşi south of the Thames, which, for Turkish restaurants, is like winning the Europa League. Where it equals and surpasses its Green Lanes and Edmonton cousins is in its wraps, which are put together with care and precision. First, the bread is given ample time to get to know the meat; they are introduced on the grill so it is infused with both fat from the meat, and the smoke as that same fat drips and ignites on the coals. Then the bread is brushed with brick-red biber paste in broad brushstrokes like a Matisse, and the wrap is constructed: salad, pickles, chilli, garlic sauce, and a kebab of choice. All are great, but the adana, so dense it could spring a bed, is the one.

Theo’s, for hedonists.

The closer you get to Denmark Hill, the more handheld and portable the food becomes. This is because much of the eating options in the area are servicing workers from either Kings College Hospital, or the bus garage around the corner. Sanchez, a Colombian bakery which opened during lockdown, is well placed to capture this time-poor demographic: buñuelos, little stress balls of fried dough and cheese, empanadas filled with potato and strands of beef, and best of all, salteñas, the soft bois of Latin American handheld pies. One does not attempt to eat a salteña lightly, it must be held as delicately as a newborn’s head, nibbling into the soft, baked casing, before pressing gently to bring forth a riotous mix of chicken, green and black olives, slices of soft boiled egg, and delicious, scalding broth.

A casual eater walking into Victreatz might be tempted by a lunchtime jollof and chicken deal, emboldened by a ladle of hot stew on the side, but this would be to miss the best things that chef Victoria Cole makes, which are neither the chicken, nor the suya, but the pulses, starches and vegetables that define the soporific nature of Yorùbá cuisine. Ewa oloyin, honey beans, are cooked until they have soaked up enough stew that their cell walls threaten to dissolve, either eaten on their own luxuriating in their own sweetness as ewa riro, or mashed with a moat of hot pepper into ewa agoyin. Many stews and soups are done party style, with Cole wielding a lighter hand with the palm oil. Egusi, that ingenious seed, thirstily soaks up soup and coalesces into curds that are often compared to scrambled eggs or ricotta but should only ever be compared to egusi. All else that is required is a ball of pounded yam; some patience; and a roll of kitchen paper for wet fingers.

The soul of Jamaican cuisine is not necessarily found in its more famous dishes ─ not in the stinging smoke of jerk chicken, nor in a container of curried goat, nor even in the dish commonly held up to be a national symbol, ackee and saltfish. If the soul is in any one thing, it’s in its soups: red pea cooked to a melting consistency, gelatinous with salted pig tail and cow’s foot, or a mutton soup chock full of spinners and hard food that will power the eater through the day, providing satiety rather than uncomfortable fullness. If a regular chicken broth is liquid penicillin then a chicken soup from Coldharbour Lane’s The Bread of Life is the Astrazeneca jab in a carton. The soups and porridges change daily: the sweet peanut porridge on a Friday has the smooth, creamy texture of grits, soothed with the balm of nutmeg, a taste of childhood no matter the background. And while the sign on the door says man cannot live on bread alone, it’s possible to live solely on the fried dumplings, instantly identifiable on sight by their Escher braid, and in the mouth by their sugar snap coating that yields to the lightest, fluffiest dough. Perfection in four bites: one of the single best things available to eat in South London.

Viet Cafe is a more interesting location that appearances might initially give. Run by Sonia and her friend Donna, one of Viet Cafe’s first employees who has just stayed for the last 10 years, it has mostly been pigeonholed as a bánh mì and sandwich joint, quickly filling up the workers and visitors of Kings College Hospital. In reality, the cafe specialises in that much broader category: things on rice. Grilled beef or pork are well marinated and tender, coming with the kiss of char from the grill, and might form a rice bowl with a fried egg and some chilli, or a tangle of steamed bun noodles with bouncy meatballs, salad and fish sauce. Better yet, is the bò kho, a Vietnamese beef stew redolent of good home cooking: tender brisket offering no resistance to a plastic spoon, with thick batons of carrot glistening with fat and greedily sucking up all the slow-cooked flavour from the meat, proving the cross-cultural truth that the best part of long meat cooking is the starchy vegetables. On Friday night, Sonia prepares phở for Saturday morning until it sells out. It is an outstanding version: blushing rare beef that gently loses its shame in the soup, darker pieces of well done meat, and homemade meatballs, all in a sweet, southern style broth. The North vs South debate doesn’t really matter: good phở is good phở.

When talking about restaurants and their importance to communities, it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that people don’t just want the same food over and over again. Cities are not just a place for faithful recreations, they are also where unexpected symbiotic relationships may occur. Like the Kosher Chinese restaurants of Golders Green, Tasty House, an inconspicuous takeaway on Denmark Hill, is a testament to the ability of Chinese cuisine to mould itself round the tastes of a local community — list it alongside 805, Enish, First Choice and The Happening Bagel Bakery as a pillar of Black London eats. Its reputation is built off the back of burnished fried rice dishes, whose fugitive notes of wok hei shares DNA with party jollof, while all orders can be customised to levels of spiciness and ─ crucially for those on their deen ─ porkiness. The menu has one truly outstanding dish difficult to get elsewhere in London: the salt and pepper chips, tanned in the fryer then stir fried with onions and chilli.

To open a takeaway called ‘Different Taste’ next door to Tasty House is either an act of trolling at a real estate level or an elaborate conspiracy theory, where two seemingly competing takeaways are served by the same kitchen. While consistently less busy, the food at Different Taste is generally as good if not better than its neighbour, and has one extra arrow in its quiver: its curry laksa, a violent shade of terra rossa with tofu puffs, hard boiled egg, soft noodles (bee hoon or laksa noodles) and either with seafood or a roast pork and prawn mix. It’s not the best curry laksa in London, but this is Camberwell: it’s good enough to satisfy any cravings.