The man is almost too beautiful to be a chef. As we ended the meal, I told our waiter to give our compliments to him. “Oh you know Ollie?” he said. I said “No, but I read about him last night, five star game changer to paraphrase Fay, and we are tempted to agree.”. Shortly after, the chef came over to greet us. He seemed a little nervous meeting paying customers but he was clearly enthusiastic with his new restaurant. He had a blue pinstriped butcher’s apron around him, but wore a thin white loosely hanging tee underneath, giving us a glimpse of his his well-endowned (and furry) man-chest. No heavily threaded chef robes here. I noted his well manicured beard. “I heard somebody knows my first name, so I thought I’d come over to say hello.” he said. His name is Ollie Dabbous (phonetically Dabboo). Remember that. You’ll be hearing a lot more of him from now on. He is but one of the talents which represent the future of British cooking. Ollie started as a protege at Raymond Blanc’s Le Manoir before travelling around the world to stint in the kitchens of some of the most written about chefs in Europe. Like Andoni Luis Aduriz, Claude Bosi, Pierre Gagnaire, Heston B, Rene R, Wylie Dufresne, before moving to lead Agnar Sverisson’s under-appreciated Texture. (I hear what you’re saying
Who comes up with all this fiction just for a restaurant? This is the persuasive language Oliver’s people have generated for his latest project: “Ours is a union of ideas, traditions, and of people.” “Where wood-fired flatbreads meet great British flavours.” Lookintomyeyeslookintomyeyes. What’s with the wonky name – why not just call it Union or Union Jack. Is this meant to be ironic? I don’t get it. The ambiguity with the plural form (or misplaced punctuation) is the restaurant equivalent of the 2012 Olympics logo. In spite of the spin, this really is just a pizzeria. It’s billed as some kind of ground breaking bastardisation of the humble Italian pie, by the hand of Jamie’s very Bri’ish style and nicknamed as Flatbreads. As if one could reinvent something simply by calling it something else. I do like the ‘Gary Baldy’ biscuit, however. I’d like to think these concepts were the result of a complicated brain storming session by a think tank of consultants locked in a meeting room and eating nothing but pizza to precipitate ideas. Back in the real world, this union is a partnership between Jamie Oliver and Pizza Maestro Chris Bianco. This Central St Giles location being the pilot for a upcoming franchise, which (presumably) pending the success of this branch, will spread throughout London and the rest of the country in the next couple of years
Bryn Williams is the most underrated chef in this country. I recall his stupendous turn on the first season of Great British Menu, in which his representation of Wales on a plate of cockles, samphire and turbot, eventually won its way to HM’s 80th birthday bash. Something I’m sure she gobbled up with glee. Five years on, the same dish is now a famously permanent fixture from his ALC menu at Odette’s. I had it last year and I was completely flabbergasted by how good the conception of the dish really is. It remains one of the most memorable dishes Ive ever eaten, and that sentiment also extends to the rest of Bryn’s fantastic cooking. I continue to be amazed by the lack of internet champions for this terrific neighbourhood restaurant. Maybe that’s the problem, that Odette’s is so well nestled within its neighbourhood that it deserves to remain a secret and not be paraded around the internet like yet another ice chips and beetroot trend that becomes dangerously out of fashion the moment it comes into vogue. Conceptual nonsense has no place in Odette’s ; This restaurant mainly involves a hardworking and a fairly young chef – coming into his prime – who passionately slaves away in his kitchen (most days and nights, if not every) to craft one of the most delicious Anglo-Franco menus in London. His six
Banana skin. I was suggested to try the ‘Ocre Rouge’, a Pinot Noir from Dions (as opposed to Burgundy) and I had come to the conclusion that this was a quirky little devil of a wine. The finish and its tannin structure was akin to banana skin, a first and a rather interesting peculiarity. The same could be said of the terribly cramped environs of the new Soho opening which has captivated Twitter’s appetite. Not only are they the latest restaurant to operate a no reservation service, they have gone the extra mile to install a record player on premises, inviting returning patrons to share their vinyl collection with everybody in the room. Ducksoup is either a genuinely hip place to dine or at the very least a good pretender. It is in keeping with the presumption that Londoners are still very much in love with the idea of less is more when eating out. Think Brawn, Spuntino and Rochelle Canteen throw in a Kitchenaid, then splashed across Fernandez & Wells. Et voilà. The brains behind this genius are ex-Hix, chef Julian Biggs ( I think he is the beardy one) , Clare Lattin and Rory McCoy, collectively have managed to make the genre of uber-cool and understated, easily egalitarian yet decidedly British restaurant, feel refreshed once again. I really like the name, obviously it is not named after soup,
This is what you see when you arrive at The Sportsman. Perhaps this is the secret to the good cooking since this is also the view from Stephen Harris’ kitchen. I’m sure you must have heard about this place by now, quite literally every blog and hack with the vaguest interest in food, in this country has written and raved about this michelin starred restaurant. It is one amongst a very rare collection of restaurants which commands near unanimous appeal, and as such, it is often regarded as the very best this country has to offer. The original gastropub began life when Stephen sat through a revelatory meal at Chez Nico way back in ’92, which then became his inspiration to bring the slickness of high cooking to a more accessible setting. In the subsequent years, Stephen set about unravelling the mysteries of macaroon winning ways by visiting the nation’s darling restauranteurs of the era including MPW and GR until one fine November day in 1999, he decided to buy an isolated pub nestled between the English coast on one side and rolling fields of grazing sheep on the other. He crafted a brand new kind of experience that sought to marry cutting edge decadence with a wedge of the English seaside. Boy, did he managed that and then some. Today, he holds a Michelin star, the restaurant is constantly
There was a time in the last decade, where the concept of redressing Modern Brit cuisine around the starkly model which Fergus Henderson created, championed and subsequently turned into a culinary dynasty, was unique to the Hendersons. And those who cooked with Henderson. Eventually, these frontrunners adopted what is widely accepted as the St John way. Back in late 2007 (back when foodbloggers were a rarity, and the iPhone was 2G only… remember those days?), a little known restaurant named after the street it took residence, opened to rather pleasing reviews by the nation’s doyens of critics. The simplistic, slick and focused cooking was more than redolent of the Hand of Henderson, and it was only natural to expect it; afterall Chef Pemberton was previously the head chef at Bread & Wine. In the four years or so since it opened, Hereford Road had grown to adopt the reputation of a dependable neighbourhood restaurant. It was always on my list, but which has eluded me for all of my blogging career, because well, I suppose I was probably preoccupied with discovering the original Henderson owned eateries (I say eateries, since my heart still yearns for Rochelle Canteen). Ironic, considering Hereford Road is actually in my neighbourhood. But this isn’t just another gastropub of course, this is as much a restaurant, as St John is a restaurant. An off-shoot, spawned from
£46 may sound like a steep price, but I assure you, it is one of the best investments you will make, when you are looking for something to fill that gaping void when you are feeling utterly ravenous. The proposition in question is the £46 buffet at the 4th floor restaurant inside the guts of Harrods. Yes, it’s that sprawling space past the pet section, with the autopiano running off epic Chinese ballads, and the occasional Whitney Houston belter. The all-you-can-eat includes unlimited return trips of roast rib of beef, leg of lamb or turkey, and occasionally fish (though I didn’t see any) , plus all the trimmings you can afford to pile on to your plate without the mountain of food collapsing before you get back to your table. Not to mention the myriad of salads, cold cured meats, cold seafood, cheese and fruit. This is what I managed on the first trip: Roast lamb, and roast beef and yorkshire puds, gravy and carrots … all on the same plate. Mmmm. But where we got our pennies worth were these superb king prawns… …. some of the juiciest giant shellfish ever to grace a free for all buffet. Seriously, these things could easily pass for £3 a pop at a Caprice outfit or a Hart brothers restaurant. The missus and I kept going back for more and more of
All together now : Medlar is the best new restaurant of 2011. I said it, and I’d love for you guys to agree with me because I love this place to bits. The cooking is eye-wateringly sensational, the pricing is mind boggling slender, service is shy yet charming and the ambiance is that of the perfect neighbourhood restaurant. I’ve not been this excited about a neighbourhood restaurant for a long time coming and I could only thing of one place to visit for my birthday, last weekend. This time, I took with me, a couple of serial restaurant goers in Mark and Carina, who are such, out of necessity because of work, and obviously because they enjoy the lifestyle, and my better and more skeptical half. 12 courses (that’s 3 x 4 palates) later and we were all largely in agreement : Medlar is brilliant. I am a firm believer that great dishes rely upon the individual aspects being cooked correctly. The basics have got to be right, since each element acts like a building block, so that when it’s all assembled, it has the best chance of becoming more than the sum of its parts. Everywhere we sniffed and licked, we were greeted with slick cooking. Take the most basic dish we were served for example, the triple cooked chips, and the in-house whipped béarnaise. Dipping the crusty chips
I discovered a fact about you lot (which seems intuitive but something you never really think about) when I first sat down for this meal at Roganic, and that is nobody eats lunch at 12 pm on Saturdays. In fact, you don’t show up till about 1.30. Talk about being unfashionably early. I booked myself in for the high noon sitting, but was actually a quarter of an hour early anyway. I skipped breakfast you see, because Roganic is one of those restaurant premised upon a idyllic gastronomic journey as opposed to a bog standard meat and two veg. So for half of the meal, I had the entire front of house to myself, it felt the complete opposite of being lonely (as I was dining solo), the staff gave their sole (and first) patron (of the day) their undivided attention. Anyway, you should care about the opening of Roganic, because Roganic’s chef patron is none other than Simon Rogan. Michelin star holder and co-owner of the unashamedly high concept L’Enclume in the Lake District. The restaurant named after Rogan and which is also a play on ‘organic’ is to my best guessimations, a reflection of Rogan’s philosophy to grow and cook (most of) his own produce, alluding to a certain level of unrivalled excellence in the ingredients. Rogan himself does not run this kitchen, that honour belongs to one
The things people do to track down a good meal, this one in particular involves my first encounter with the Lucky Chip burger. As you know, summers are pretty up and down every year, we remember the odd day when the thermometer crosses the psychological 100F mark, but we tend to forget that mostly, it’s just very wet. So there we were, Mark with his gentlemenly brolly, and me with my … FT Weekend Magazine… (ironically, this weekend’s was the Food issue including a feature on the slow death of the Bib, and a short Heston interview) and soaked Marni blazer (sniffers) , we were traipsing up and down London fields to find this rather elusive, and well hidden Netil Market, and mindful that the mild drizzle – like a balloon slowly filling with water – was about to burst into a proper rainstorm. After a little tinkering with google maps, we circled onto Westgate Street as the entry point to Netil Market. So we found it eventually, quite modest, in a rather small car park, but as it had been raining all afternoon, it wasn’t a surprise to find the vendors packing up their stock to shield from it. The sight of the Lucky Chip van was modestly uneventful, and given the street food craze, it’s quite a change coming across an empty food truck with good internet gossip
… yeah it really is, quite special. This must be my sixth visit, and everytime I’ve been back, I alternate between two of – what is quickly becoming – my favourite snacks: The ground beef & bone marrow slider and the gooey truffle egg toast. Most of the menu is fabulous, the panzenella (a kind of stale bread and tomato salad) , the mac & cheese, the cheddar grits and the PB&J pudding, are entirely edible. But I think I like it because it’s so accessible, you can drop in, have a swift bite and a short measure of meantime ale, enjoy the food and the speakeasy-esque ambiance, and the 50s harmonica laden background noise and be on your way again. I’ve come in here by myself a few times, and I’ve seen a few people do the same. Places such as these, where you can pop in for a snack are few and far between, and I cherish it for this very reason. Also it’s only but a stone’s throw from Gelupo.. who have started to bring back their Zabione gelato again, which I really appreciate! Basically, this is my Friday afternoon routine, ie, lunch at Spuntino, followed by dessert at Gelupo. Four months since it opened it’s dusty doors, I think its become a unique part of the London dining scene, and of course, a unique landmark in
When everyone including dear Ol’ Uncle B has visited this restaurant, that’s when you know the interwebs has taken to showering yet another crowd pleaser with its ever expanding vocabulary of praise words. “Wondrous”. “Decadent”. “Moorish”. “Decadent”. “Sinful”. “Ultimate comfort food”. Adjectives, which I too, am guilty of overusing. Cynicism aside, a restaurant that has collected as many reviews as it has since it’s April debut, must be doing something right. Somehow, I had managed to avoid the 50% discount circus, though the full asking price wasn’t too bad. To grease the wheels, we started with not one, but two plates (£1.50 each) of their excellent warm, crusty and soft sourdough (ironically, warm bread is abit of a rarity in London restaurants) served with some excellent artichoke puree, which i gather is, must be made in house. I ordered one of their fresh juices, the ‘invigorate’ of pineapple, apple, lime and strawberries. Sadly it was anything but invigorating… and note to self, never drink pineapple and strawberry juice from the same glass. Service was a little jumpy, but well intentioned, they had a tendency to take things away before we were done with them, like the wedge of pineapple, which I had initially wanted to savour when I finished my juice, for instance. Believe the hype, the decor is absolutely top class. Like the Tardis, it’s unimpressive on the outside,
I waited until the opportune moment presented itself, before making the visit to Marcus Wareing’s The Gilbert Scott. Or should I say The Renaissance Hotel’s flagship restaurant, seeing as to how Mr Wareing has rather desperately been detaching his name to the restaurant, at least so it seems. But today, I am in the right frame of mind, because I happen to be travelling from the Gateway to Europe to attend a wedding. Actually, I tell a lie, the wedding’s in Yorkshire, and the Grand Central trains leave from King’s Cross next door to St Pancras station. But let’s not take away from the romance of the rail travel. Ah yes, Macbook Pro fully charged, the latest issue of Monocle in hand, passing grazing sheep as the train zips into the countryside. The sheer cinema of travelling to truly appreciate the homage to the heritage of British life and style, to which The Gilbert Scott aspires to. As you already know, the newly restored Renaissance hotel took years of painstaking work to bring it back to life, the restaurant is named after its original architect, Sir Gilbert Scott. Problem is, rather than evoke a sense of past, the decor actually feels aged and musky. Not quite newly minted vintage. The brass seem a little muffled and requiring a new lick of polish. In fact, the dining room felt rather like
Remarkable. The standard of cooking is dastardly high, the artistry kept well in check, the flavours were – in my opinion – calibrated to run riot on your palate, that it made for a breathtaking dining experience. Service took an equally disciplined yet playful approach as the cooking, and so too was the decor; lime green and quite so basic, but refreshing and pressure-free. The only question I kept asking myself throughout the meal was “What’s the catch?”. Why is it so damn affordable. As I understand it, this modern restaurant offers their three course ala carte menu at a princely sum of £25 during lunch, and the same menu for £38 during dinner. Not that I’m complaining of course, but after a string of new openings (NOPI and Pollen St Social and even St John Hotel) that seem to indicate the return of the swinging binge-times, Medlar’s prices come as a welcomed surprise. You and I should pay attention to Medlar partly because of the pedigree behind the team. In the hotseat is one Joe Mercer Nairne, previous sous-chef at Chez Bruce and before that, The Savoy Grill. Managing front of house affairs, is the very charming David O’Connor whose CV involved running the teams at The Ledbury, The Square and also Chez Bruce (all of which are Nigel Platts-Martin restaurants) , where he and Joe first forged their
Tom Kerridge is an ingloriously talented chef. We both know this guy can cook the pants off of anybody, competition or no competition. I first savoured his brilliant ways when he joined forces with Anthony Demetre at Arbutus for the one-off 10-10-10 event for last year’s London Restaurant Festival. Look I’m a Demetre fan right, and you know I love his michelin winning pigs head terrine, but when placed side by side with Tom’s dishes; we were absolutely blown to bits by the quality of Kerridge’s cooking. His mussels in warm stout was nothing short of edible divinity. Anthony aint no slouch in the kitchen, but we thought Tom’s dishes totally outclassed Anthony’s on that day. A visit to Marlow to Tom’s pub with an overachieving, and michelin starred kitchen was inevitable, obviously, but I had forgotten about it the Marlow trip until I saw the chief on GBM last week, creating his ultimate lobster burger, which in itself, caused quite a stir on twitter. And with the last bank holiday in May, I thought it the perfect opportunity to finally eat at Tom Kerridge HQ. Deep fried whitebait to start. Crispy, warm and juicy on the inside, mmm. The low ceilings, brick walls, solid wooden beams and sturdy wooden tables, grant the pub a genuinely old world, country feel. The room is naturally cavernous, and a little musky and
As the third long weekend dawned on me – the same week Kate & Wills tied the knot – I decided to get away from the reality of it, and by the time they were officially Man and Wife, I was watching it back on TV in the BnB. Ahh, Whistable, smell the sea and sand.. and I did pray for last minute cancellations at The Sportsman. Alas, that did not happen. I called a week before my trip, and begged for a table over the phone, but she didn’t shift her stance budge. “Royal Wedding mate, we’re all booked up for the next six weekends.” The first thing I did when I placed my bags in the B&B (The Pearl Fisher, run by Jan & Gary and Baby (the cat) , which was a lovely stay) was make to another phone call to The Sportsman. I pleaded again “Look babes, I took the train all the way from London, just so I could say hello to you in person, I’ll swim across the English Channel for you, please give me a narrow space on anyone’s table, tonight.” Twice she denies me. “I’m afraid it’s a no sir. I’ve already a waiting list, the length of my arm, sir. I’m so sorry.” The feeling of utter doom came over. But then my staycation had only just begun, and I of
5000. How do you even track that? Did they fill up three, four, ten books of names, numbers and dates? It is an insurmountable number, consider someone hanging by the phone to take 5000 calls in a continuous 24 hours period, which works out as 3.5 calls per minute, which translates to a pretty exhaustive day’s work. Yes that’s how many of you and I crashed the lines the day Pollen Street Social started taking reservations, and the last time it happened was… probably when Heston started picking lucky diners for his Dinner outfit at Knightsbridge. Such is anticipation of Jason Atherton’s debut solo venture. Oh it’s a golden era of restaurant openings alright, we thought 2010 was a crazy year for brilliant new players, 2011 has thus far been bigger, better and ever so highly produced. Mr Atherton’s new joint aims to bring his previously groundbreaking concepts at Maze to an unfussable, shrine of a dining room that (conceptually) wants to bring the sexy to social dining. Jason has a cult-like following, he was afterall, considered by many (me) to be Ramsay’s greatest protege. Adding fuel to the fire, PSS opened just in time to host a dinner for the visiting superchefs who were in town to find out how they ranked in the World’s 50 best ceremony (how Iggys managed to not only maintain but improve their position
At last. After months and years of hearsay and delay, Fergus Henderson and Trevor Gulliver’s newest project in the city is finally ready for you and I to throw our cash at it. The hotel occupies enviably concise address of Number One Leicester Square, where it was once Manzi’s seafood restaurant (which incidentally also had a hotel above it) that was, and I quote, as I lift this directly from St John Hotel’s website – Like most London folk Fergus and Trevor have memories of Manzi’s through the years and if it was to have a new life it seemed right that St. John should be the ones to do it. Through the years the building had developed its own extensions, corners and idiosyncracies, the truth was that it needed to be completely rebuilt and this is what has been done. As you know, I love all the Henderson restaurants. From the bare-bones original that started it all 17 years ago in a former smokehouse, St John in Smithfield, to the just bones Bread & Wine in Liverpool Street, and of course, Margot Henderson’s delightful (and I hope soon to be rescued) Canteen based inside the creative hub in Rochelle School at Arnold Circus. Pioneers in making offal sexy to plate up, and pioneers in the zen of the minimalistic approach to dining. And now the minimalistic approach to folded
Gordon Ramsay restaurants are entering the autumn of their lifecycles. Cycle being the keyword here, with many of his proteges, who used to run his restaurants during their heady years, moving on to bigger and better things. Originally a spin-off from the next-door small plate wonder that was Jason
Camden doesn’t lack restaurants in number, it’s just most aren’t worth the detour. But things are changing. On the surface, one wouldn’t think this bar-café located at a gig venue – serving the purpose of tanking up visitors before any given performance – should suffer the unfortunate scrutiny of a blogger’s dour thoughts. However, after reading the Guy’s glowing review, which had cast the Roundhouse’s little known cafe as the most excellent over-performing underdog, I booked a table for a weekend lunch on Open Table. Off I trotted, on the route 31 toward Camden town. As I entered the semi elliptical room, that followed the contours of the Roundhouse, I couldn’t shake the feeling as if I had walked into a university café, a waiting room ambiance, a departure lounge. At first, I was puzzled with how short the menu seemed. Baked eggs, spicy tomato with yoghurt. Pancakes with blueberry, American style with maple syrup. Grilled banana and chocolate bread. Fried egg, sweet spiced chickpeas, labneh, pangrattato and coriander. Not that it didn’t sound good, but I was actually after the creative, extended small plates menu. Which was not available for lunch over weekends. Can’t say I wasn’t a little bummed. I had my eye on such beautifully described dishes such as the Jerusalem artichokes, walnut and gorgonzola agresto, slow-roasted tomatoes. Lamb, prune and walnut koftas, pearl barley tabbouleh and
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