The old adage of quality over quantity hath never ringeth more trueth. If you're looking to get full for a penny in Oslo, then pop your backside down here and chew. However, if you're conscious about flavours then maybe skip it and up your budget a tad.

When your menu states to specify "Mild", "Medium" or "Spicy", and the answer is "Very spicy please", and what appears on the plate is a mountain of inane bland desecration of the Motherland, with 2 miniscule pieces of green chilli sprinkled on top, then yes, we're gonna have a problem. ​

Apart from Gaza Kjøkken, the other famous falafel places in Oslo have either churned out overly sweet, oddly textured, mealy or just plain old boring balls of middle eastern delight. A couple of randoms recommended Falafel & Juice and one fine afternoon while I was sitting deep in the shadows at Meyers Bar, hiding from passerbys with farris in hand and laptop at the ready, I figured it's now or never to walk the 50 meters and try it.

Sure, you can read blogs or newspaper reviews about new places to try, but one of my favourite methods of procuring tips is from someone who seems to know what they're on about. I was sitting beside an old Vietnamese man talking about the glory days of Hai Cafe in Oslo when he blurted out "Sea Sushi has the best Pho in town, Da Lat are pretenders". 

Recommending a place for people to eat is a diabolical pursuit. Apart from the obvious differences in palate and expectations, there comes the question of consistency. A million meals have been enjoyed at little-tucked-away corners the globe over, only to be returned to in joyous expectation a week later and have fallen flat. 

Everybody has that one restaurant that they have been meaning to try for a decade and keep putting it off. For me that was Szechuan Chengdu. I had it on good authority that the food here was superb, but the fact that I doubted the reality of decent Chinese food in Oslo, toppled by the facade reeking of old alcoholics gripping their last few pints, kept me hesistant for over 10 years.

What a fucking idiot I was.

Using a scale like 1-10 is problematic in exactly these circumstances. Whilst I would not score this a 7 by any means based on the overall quality and taste of the food, the soup that they gave us for free as a starter was delicious and therefore a 6 reflects a mediocre overall eating experience, and though the mains were rather standard, that soup was truly great.  Let's call it a 6.5/10.

Despite a few canteen style spots tucked around Grønland, Indian food to the average Norwegian is a slightly above average treat, cost wise. More often than not, your meal at an Indian restaurant is going to set you back upwards of 50 Euro if you want to share a couple dishes and have a drink or two. ​

​When it comes to eating out in Oslo, there are precious few restaurants that offer authentic glimpses into a particular cuisine. More often than not the restaurants "dumb down" the flavours so as not to offend the slowly evolving palate of former full-time potato gurglers. To go from a grind of pepper to eating a true vindaloo is a jump people have to attempt gradually. 

During my near decade long tenure in the city of gradual improvement, a severly lacking addition to the culinary scene was a decent brunch spot. Ultimately, the Nighthawk failed, and a smattering of other places sprung up and just as quickly sprung down. Taking their cues from the mothership behemoth "MAEMO", and qualifying as a bonafide sister restaurant, The Vandelay, located in the burgeoning foodie scene down at Barcode, opened to month-long table waits  and much fanfare. ​

Look, i'll admit when i'm wrong, but people who wear jeans and black hoodies generally get treated differently when they enter "upscale" restaurants. I can see the look of uncertainty wash over the maitre d' as soon as a dishevelled entrant creeps in battling the relics of yesterdays excess. Sure, they're probably more unpredictable than the suit&tie bunch, but don't underestimate that they might know a thing or two about a thing or two. ​

You find treasures in the oddest places. Having lived for 14 years in the capital, Oslo, and struggled to find anything above a decent Falafel (Gaza Kjøkken), it would never have occured to me that the holy grail was hiding in the city of heroin and herring. Strung beside a grocery store on Haraldsgata, this tiny Syrian eatery offers everything from lambs hearts, pizza, shawarma, falafel and manakish. ​