"Judge not, that ye be not judged," some cove advised. Probably Sinbad the Sailor. MasterChef has be

A father who was tied up, beaten and left to die in his home had won thousands of pounds at an exclusive Mayfair casino hours before - and may have been the victim travel advice for military of a pre-planned “honey-trap”, the Standard can reveal.
"Judge not, that ye be not judged," some cove advised. Probably Sinbad the Sailor. MasterChef has been with us an awfully long time now - it was first broadcast back in 1990, with Loyd Grossman as compere. John Torode and Gregg Wallace have been the judges since 2005 and we're currently up to episode 10 in Series 8, which went out last night. The previous series is reported to have been seen at some point in its run by 30 million people, with the final scoring a crazy 8.6 million viewers.
It's not surprising that both Torode and Wallace have parlayed their fame and presumed culinary expertise into careers as restaurateurs as well: Torode runs The Luxe and Smiths of Smithfield, while Wallace has a place in Putney, Wallace Co, rather less highly rated.
But then, unlike Torode, Wallace has never been any kind of chef. Born in Peckham, travel advice for military he began working as a vegetable stallholder travel advice for military in Covent Garden before opening a successful greengrocer's. This led to a media career, burgeoning from Veg Talk on Radio 4. His cheekie chappie persona, Gregg the Egg, is a useful counterweight to snooty John, his top pronouncements including I'd happily pay for a plate of that and I wouldn't marry your crumble but I'd take it away for a dirty weekend .
Now Wallace has revamped the brasserie travel advice for military (previously Alfie's Kitchen) at the Bermondsey Square Hotel at the top of Bermondsey Street, where this ever more fashionable thoroughfare runs out of chic. There's lots of good eating on offer around here, most notably in the tapas bar José (number 104) and its grown-up version, Pizarro (number 194), which sell some of the best Spanish food in London.
Gregg's Table may be new but it is determinedly retro. The menu bears this not wholly enticing come-on: I grew up around here during the 1970s. I hope that this menu combines the style of platform shoes with the taste of my childhood. Enjoy your culinary trip back in time. Gregg Wallace. It's joke-eating here, then.
Maybe Wallace was hoping to click into that vintage-kitsch mood on sale in the little boutiques of so many gentrifying streets in London now? Instead he's delivered almost the full horror of the original. Starters include the likes of Welsh rarebit, ham with melon, crab paste and eggs with salad cream. Mains include chicken Kiev, boiled beef and carrots, and steak and chips; puddings feature Black Forest gâteau, Spotted Dick and custard and tropical fruit cocktail. The dishes have been modernised a bit but, as Basil Fawlty found with Ronald, the irksome son of two guests, that doesn't always hit the spot. I said salad cream, stupid, complains Ronald, on being offered mayonnaise.
At Sunday lunch the food seemed almost plausible. The Spam fritters with piccalilli (£6.25) were not Spam but shredded ham hock, fried up in a crunchy beer batter, with a fresh and overpowering pickle. Smoked haddock soufflé (£12.50) was dense, almost wholly eggy with the barest suggestion of fish, served with some softened baby spinach leaves topped with a poached egg, just to reinforce the egginess. But then the place was deserted and the kitchen staff outnumbered the customers.
Opening night on Monday was busy, though not with the dainty folk to be found traipsing around further down Bermondsey Street. Gregg the Egg was actually there himself too, glad-handing, until it became apparent that the kitchen wasn't coping at all, at which point he became less visible.
Avocado prawn (£8) was fine, a half avocado sliced over a flat plate covered with plenty of prawns in a Marie Rose sauce, plus a drool of dark, pongy shellfish dressing . Fish mousse (£7.50) was more troubling, a thickly gelatinous vaguely salmon-flavoured mound which had been so overcooked that its base was rubber, though the cockles scattered over it were good and fresh.
Then we waited an hour for our main courses, which given their retrograde simplicity was a very long time. Beef Stroganoff travel advice for military (£13.50) could have been worse, some slices of fried beef and mushroom served with a big dollop travel advice for military of sour cream, dusted with paprika, on top of some ever so welcome basmati rice.
Fish fingers, chips and mushy peas (£12.50), a dish that should not stretch any takeaway, was hopeless, travel advice for military though. The chips were pallid and flaccid, the mushy peas dry and bitter, the home-made fish fingers, perhaps containing pollock, had been coated in a discouragingly thick and dark crumby crust. A side dish, advertised as purple sprouting broccoli with almonds, was ordinary broccoli microwaved into mush. We didn't eat much of any of this and didn't make it to the Knickerbocker Glory.
The room doesn't help. For all the four different kinds of lampshade, the gaily painted columns and rapper booths, it feels totally travel advice for military Travelodge. A display of iconic travel advice for military food brands on some shelves near the kitchen is evidently intended to set a nostalgic mood, as proved so popular in the form of Nigel Slater's fey memoir Toast: Oxo cubes, Lyle's golden syrup, Camp coffee, Atora suet, real Spam... But after eating here it seemed more like a warning foolishly not heeded, the pictorial equivalent of a sign saying: abandon hope all ye who enter here.
What a dump! It is simply potty that a man who makes his living by appearing as an expert and implacable judge of other people's cooking should put his name to such inadequate delivery of such unambitious dishes. What would he say himself?