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
Happy Chinese New Year folks, it is the year of the majestic fire breathing dragon. If you’re thinking about children, good luck with your dragon babies. My wishes to you are: 龙马精神, 阖家欢乐, 万事如意. To kick off the new lunar year, we travel to the hidden path within the mountains of Xizhi, Taipei. Where gravity defying monks tend to visiting tourists in between meditations and wu-gung practice. This is not merely a restaurant review. This is retelling of the legend know as …Shi Yang Culture Restaurant. (warning, an overly long prologue below. Scroll to middle-ish to skip to food) Whuppa. No seriously, we had to drive up a mountain to get here, here being Taipei. It was one of the more illuminating meals I’ve had, a kind of a mountain-top cuisine in zen-like surroundings. Take a look at the outside: Talk about restaurants with a view. Forget about those which oversee some of the worlds greatest city harbours, or the world’s greatest city parks, or even those which will overlook our beloved Ol’ Smoke. A birds eye view on human progress may be breathtaking but it is also a reminder of the way man has levelled and desecrated mother nature with our heretical obsession in forcing our electrical wizardry upon the world. In Shi Yang, it couldn’t be further away from the modernity of life as we know it. Here
Yay, I visited the world’s very first 3 Michelin starred Chinese restaurant. First things first, check out the much advertised view from the Four Seasons Hotel restaurant (let’s face it, this is the view that has won it the coveted third star) : Hong Kong has long been considered the gastronomic jewel of South East Asia. It is as much the home of the well-travelled Cantonese cuisine as it is from its birthplace in nearby Guangdong. For the latter half of the 20th century, Hong Kong flourished become a powerful economic beacon – and one of the last bastions of British colonial power – in Asia. Perhaps the greatest gift the Brits gave to the lands which surround the fragrant harbour was free trade. Eventually, Britain’s 99 year lease hold on HK expired in 1997, and as you know China couldn’t wait have custody of their beloved lost port returned to them. Today, Hong Kong still plays the major part of the ‘One Country, Two systems’ structure of governance, which in many respects is in place to preserve HK’s sustained prosperity. I was about 13 when I was last in Hong Kong (my Cantonese never progressing past that time) but my food memories of the city of islands are as fresh steamed fish. Blue-boned ‘swimming’ garoupa, piping hot egg tarts, chewy-bouncy prawn cheung fun and the ‘dissolve-on-first-bite’ char siu buns
… I write to you as I lie on the blackened brown beach in Brunei. It overlooks the oil rigs just off the coast that fuels the economy of this tiny Sultanate on the Northeast coast of Borneo Island, and behind me, my parents’ backyard. Happy new year LDN. I am technically still on my xmas vacation which is just spilling over into the new year. Did I mention the equatorial climate mean that it’s a sunny 30C every day? What better way to break the 2012 bubble than to recount a November 2011 visit at a true London institution and a destination restaurant. Yup after nearly four years of hot air, I finally made it to Chez Bruce in Wandsworth. In my often narrow and simplistic view of the shadowy powers which have molded our idea of the template for london posh dining, I see two power players whose influence reaches across an association of restaurants. Glorious chefs have passed through these kitchens at some point in their career, and in a way, these breeding grounds are the bedrock for the progression of high cooking. On one end of the stick, we have zen master Phil Howard with his double-macarooned lair – The Square. This is of course a story that is written to death about, since Brett Graham trained with Phil in the beginning days before they spun
This is the only time you’ll see the food menu, because these three items are quite literally all they serve. After Hawksmoor successfully ported the America’s favourite summer roll to the El Smoky last year, it was only a matter of time before the Russians would follow. Well it took them a while, but the good people from Goodman (who are imho still the capital’s best steakhouse(s)) bring you the first lobster bar in London. With burgers. And cocktails, designed by The Soul Shakers. If Goodman attracts the mid-week fat banker stereotype (actually, I think they entertain more Chinese tourists rocking bling Vertus than city workers) , then Burger & Lobster is where the fat banker would take his family for a weekend meal. If I was 10, I could totally see myself bibbing up every Sunday with my family at this restaurant. No really, I love this place, it’s basically premium fast food. So, you choose either a Beef burger, a lobster roll or a steamed/grilled whole Canadian lobster for £20. Every plate comes with chips, salad, clarified butter (with or without lemon) with the seafood and in-house pickles for the beef. Grilled Lobster, chips, salad, £20. When you visit, ask Dave Strauss (if he’s about) to show you the lobster tanks which they have specially put together in the basement to hold … tonnes of live, swimming critters
At last, José Pizarro’s diptych is finally complete, and you know what, it’s mighty fine work. The restaurant took a while to finish – it’s at least a month late, and the private rooms are still awaiting the finishing details – but it finally opened, and my my, is it going to be a smashing success in 2012. It seems to be fashionable these days for Spanish restaurant owners to pair larger scale restaurants for the full experience with a more modest – or shall we say more fun – sherry bar for the easy tapas and alhambras. If you cast your mind back to the boozy summer of sherry and half cooked pork, you’ll remember that José really was just the prologue to something much bigger to come. And it is much, much bigger. If José was a cute baby taking his first steps into the dangerous world of hospitality, then Pizarro is all grown up 28 year old voluptuous Paz Vega all lips, puppy dog eyes and husky voice (Oh Paz Vega, wouldn’t that be a christmas to remember). Alright to be fair then, how about a 35 year old Antonio Banderas with his piercing stare, a Spanish guitar with brand new nylon strings and cat whiskers. For background noise, the front of house chose Nina Simone tracks from (I’d like to think it was) her 1958 album
AKA …where Kang spent most of his moolah this year. The time has come to reflect on what’s been yet another crazy year of restaurant collecting. Just when I thought the burgeoning number of openings in 2010 were overwhelming, 2011 came and smashed 2010 out of the park. There was literally something new to try every week. There’s more diversity than ever from this year’s round of openings and non-openings with ‘street food’ coming of age and the no booking policy becoming the norm. I think eating out is still expected to be a special occasion, but now it’s done more regularly, more spontaneously with less formality and with costs spread out across more meals. With that, I think it’s fair to say that 2011 is the year that ‘fine dining’ died and came back to life as a caricature of itself. This was epitomised with the baffling 2nd update to the Bib in the fall (or I should say, releasing 2012′s revision six months ahead of schedule). It has only done damage to the credibility of their vaunted macaroons. Looking at what’s coming in the pipeline, 2012 looks to only build on the momentum of 2011. At this rate, one wonders if there will be a point where we will hit critical mass. Maybe shitty restaurants will become extinct, someday, who knows. I think its safe to say that
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
My food writing invariably boils down to a caricature of self-indulgent cliched hyperbole or superflous self-doubting and pointless debate of what food should taste like. Given the circumstances, I sincerely believe this is the best thing between buns I’d yet come across. But first let us be properly acquainted. Reader meet Lucky Chip’s weekly burger special “The Bill Murray Life Aquatic Surf and Turf”. She is an aged beef patty with a (new) sesame bun, partnered with a fried soft-shell crab, guac, spring onion, spicy mayo, sweet chilli ginger sauce and processed cheese. She’s worth £9. Yes, I thought so too, how could purists ever love such a criminally tainted patty which has laid with a creature from the deep blue sea? After one bite, any lingering doubt was erased. I was completely convince: this wasn’t just a great burger, this was a sexual experience. As you know, Lucky Chip, like Meatwagon, utilise the steam-the-patty-and-fixing under a metal cloche technique, which allows all the flavour-concentrated steam to re-condense within the patty, leading to the satisfying and sloppy mouthful. However, I was most impressed with how the guac, the syrupy sweet chilli drizzle and soft shell crab complimented the already potent beefiness of the patty. The burger had this great textural quality that held together real well, a little like the way it feels when you sink your fingers into kneading
Damn it, he’s done it again. (He being the elusive blurryman with the fire red scarf, and thick brown rim specs, aka Mr Cool.) And here I thought that Da Polpo was the last cherry atop this tiny empire. They are back, this time around, Norman, Beatty and Oldroyd give us a glimpse of something a little Jewish. It’s deja vu because Mishkin’s is like that other off-shoot hobbyist lightbulb moment which Russell Norman had brought to life. Remember that ..the truffle egg toast, the ground beef sliders, the speak-easy-esque ambiance? You know how much I love Spuntino, I was so excited with this project, I decided to book a table on the first official day of service. 50% off for the previews. As usual, Russell is on scene for day one service (yeah… I’m pretty sure I was there for first day service at DaP and Spun as well) to greet us. So new, the paint is still drying, but this time around, things sure look much tidier. The decor possess the now classic Norman touches : there’s the rectangular bar, the Victorian ceilings, dangling lamps, the brick walls. It’s like an American diner but all grown up, bringing some Madmen slickness to the indie feel. Its Spuntino in a red blazer with beige docker trousers and polished brogues. Floors are decked out with black and white tiles, the
Here’s a list of good things I expect from a good bistro: 1.Good soup 2.Good steak 3.Good frites 4.Good tartare 5.Superhot waitress I recall a highlight reel of what the Glasgow arm of this luxury out-of-town hotelier is capable of, during an episode of Don’t tell the bride. They took the tour through the banquet room, the room for the exchange of vows, the grounds. the venue was so slick, the bride cried knowing her man would never plan their wedding there. Of course, I don’t watch that show. It just happened to be playing in the background as I was shaping my manly deltoids at the gym. Obviously. There are fifteen Hotel du Vins up and down the country from St Andrews to Brighton, none are in London, but presumably all of the hotel restaurants resemble some version of bistro du vin. As of writing, there are two Bistro du Vins in London; one is next to the shit-hot Duck Soup Soho, and the other currently occupies the site where one of the best London bistros died – Bjorn van de Horst’s Eastside Inn. You do remember Eastside Inn don’t you? That was nice French food. Bistro du Vin doesn’t punch at that level, but in many ways that’s a good thing, because really the formulae that’s being applied – competitively priced, traditional French bistro affair, enomatic-preserved wines by
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
Wet, hot, late in the night, an empty street and a full restaurant, ah… bonjour Paris. We arrived in Gare du Nord just after nine at night, taking the Eurostar from St Pancras. It took us a while to find our hotel in Madeleine ( The Le Vignon, a delightful getaway, which I highly commend) but as soon as we dropped our bags, we were back on the Metro again. Our destination was Goncourt, we were out to find the 9th best restaurant in the world. It’s quite impossible to book a table over the phone, so I didn’t bother trying. I opted to turn up with a hope of getting a table for the 2nd sitting after 10pm, and in my opinion, the more appropriate way to eat supper in Paris. We were in luck, a Thursday night, there were only 3 tables ahead of us in the queue, and those from the earlier sitting were just starting to leave. So it appears that getting a table at one of the hottest restaurants in Paris wasn’t so difficult after all. As I stood in line, I got started with two glasses of whatever was available that night – a white and a red Languedoc – while the missus scoped out Le Dauphin next door, surveying its respective queue. We were hedging our bets in deciding which two of Paris&#
I told you Barrica was good. Not all of us agreed two years ago, but we probably do now. After all, they’ve impressed enough of us to have a crack at a second child: Soho newest sensation called Copita, for sherry glass. I’m sure I recognised a couple of ex-Barrica staff who now work at Copita. Looking back, it may have been because Barrica was yet another conventional tapas bar in face of the stiff competition. The Brindisas for example, the mighty Dehesa group, the supremely hot Barrafina, and that’s just along the spine of Shaftesbury Avenue. 2009 feels like such a long time ago. In the future (2011) , populist plate sharing still prevails, but we have matured past reserving tables or eat sitting down, we’ve put Sherry on the tube map, and small plates are no longer limited to Iberian classics. How does the rest of the world think of the way we Londoners like to eat out, I wonder. We seem to enjoy the shift toward establishments that merge drinking and nibbling, we don’t mind queuing up, or even notice that new restaurants are cramming the same covers onto shrinking floorspace. Just when you thought the proverbial towel of shared plates has been well and truly wrung of juicy ideas, comes a new tapas bar with enough upgrades to set itself apart from the competition. But first,
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 were an incredible number of suits who sat through Friday lunch service with me, to which I presume most (if not all) of these folks occupy cubicles in the offices nearby. If this was the share of the market which Jamie Oliver and Adam Perry Lang were hoping to capture, then by the looks of things, they’ve succeeded. But boy are the reviews terrible. As this restaurant approaches its one year anniversary, I wonder if the two chefs have sat together to reflect on the feedback. With Saint Oliver’s name plastered across the project, it was always going to attract attention, but it just seems so uncharacteristic of Oliver, it’s in total opposite to his everyman image. Barbecoa has such a premium level feel to it, that it would probably unsettle Jamie himself, if ever he was caught dining here. Now wouldn’t that be a sight for Jamierites out there. I rocked up in jeans and trainers, and I felt a little underdressed. The tricked out designer furniture store look wrapped in red velvet, rivets, shiny brass and double high ceilings is ace, the views overlooking St Paul’s is nice, but it is also intimidating. Since I arrived sans booking, I was shown a high table by the bar, solo diner, even though I spotted a few unoccupied tables in the dining room. After the bartender sat me down
I have never been to Denmark, with the way things are going with the rise and rise of Rene Redzepi, it looks like it will be a long while before I contemplate the Copenhagen trip. It doesn’t mean I’m not curious (obviously I am), you can already picture a Chinese guy perched over the dinner table, reluctant to eat anything till he has papped the dishes to death. All this sudden appreciation for Nordic food in the media is extraordinary. It’s still very new to us, for starters, Nordic cuisine is universally lumped together as an umbrella cuisine covering everything that includes Swedish, Icelandic, Danish, Norwegian. Honestly, I do not know the differences between the respective cuisines. It just seems a little weird that all the fervent attention on Nordic cuisine hasn’t translated to a more comprehensive coverage, it’s like lumping Chinese in with Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, Thai and calling it Oriental. Then again definitions might be moot when observing the high end stuff because they hardly anything like the traditional cuisines they have sprung from. And it always looks good. Take for instance Maemo in Oslo – this stuff looks awesome, but nothing like what I ate when I spent some months in Haugesund, a coastal outpost of yatchs and rich kids awash with Norwegian oil money. What I ate was markedly unexotic. Crayfish, giant lobsters, sunflower seeds with
Pizzaro. One of a select group of individuals who masterminded the transformation of the Spanish perishable importer into a synonym for the British definition of a Tapas restaurant. He is a huge reason why we are so comfortable with the idea of sharing small plates of food, and thanks to the sheer dependability of the Brindisa restaurants he helped create over the last few years, his efforts has shaped this category of London restaurants. Yes, it is about the right time for José Pizzaro to his name on the signage and he has decided to do so by splitting it into two discreet projects. The latter is slated for a late October debut, a more civil sit-down affair that will formally bear his last name, Pizzaro. Until the real party arrives however, we have to make do with a sneak preview of his cooking with this teeny tapas bar situated in the heart of Bermondsey street, casually known as ‘José’. The space is seriously tiny, it’s like a food truck, except you eat with the chef inside the claustrophobic environs. It’s got bags of ambiance, and it is hugely popular at the moment. The lack of floor space (and chairs) is perhaps accidentally on purpose, it fills up by 6pm (on Friday nights, and every other balmy night, I imagine) and perhaps also accidentally on purpose, the casual exclusivity of
The smell of mushrooms, sizzling hot noodles and steamy soup. The knocking klikity klak of randomised synchronisation of high heels and colliding porcelain to the tune of a muzak of an epic eighties love ballad by Jacky Cheung, but above all of that a near enough constant stream of murmuring chatter in the background. Invariably this includes big round tables of women, babies, the next generation eyeing the next generation of the neighbouring big round table with the processions led by the belly laughter of silvering Chinese men. That unmistakable harmonious bustle is the very signature of a Chinese restaurant and as far as my experiences have taken me, it is an ambiance that is near enough the same the world over. My Taiwanese other half grew up referring to this particular type of Chinese cuisine as ‘yum cha’ , where you do drink tea, but really, the slang has more in common with Sunday lunch than afternoon tea. For me however, yum cha is dim sum (where she will say refers to pudding when I say tianping… on the same subject, when I say run – jo – she thinks I’m saying walk – pau) , and it is more of a tradition than a meal, a treat for soothing the heart and the only time of the week for the family and the closest friends to sit together
Happy Chinese New Year folks, it is the year of the majestic fire breathing dragon. If you’re...
Yay, I visited the world’s very first 3 Michelin starred Chinese restaurant. First things...
… I write to you as I lie on the blackened brown beach in Brunei. It overlooks the oil rigs...
This is the only time you’ll see the food menu, because these three items are quite literally...
AKA …where Kang spent most of his moolah this year. The time has come to reflect on...
Who comes up with all this fiction just for a restaurant? This is the persuasive language...
My food writing invariably boils down to a caricature of self-indulgent cliched hyperbole or...
Damn it, he’s done it again. (He being the elusive blurryman with the fire red scarf, and...
