Diamond in the rough

My dining companions aren’t just mouths to help me eat more dishes in a single setting than I could manage alone. My most trusted dining companions compliment and challenge my tastes, while the free range ones act as my eyes and ears bringing me news of new and interesting restaurants to try out.

Roti King may not be new, but it is certainly interesting. Brought to my attention by The Jolly Giant, this long-standing Malaysian sits on a small side street near the post-war eye-sore that is Euston station. Some of the signs outside still advertise the previous tenants – Euston Chinese. There are, quite aptly, several bog-standard Cantonese-esque dishes on the menu which you’d only order if you’re severely lacking in imagination.

It’s worth emphasising that if you’re looking for elegant surroundings and graceful service then Roti King isn’t the place for you. The cramped, shabby basement dining room and outdoor toilet feel like relics from another era. The mute service is only proactive when it comes to fetching your bill unbidden – you’ll have to beckon them to clear away old dishes or to order desserts.

All of this is worth putting up with though. The Flame Haired Squelchie and I devoured the roti canai in very short order. Soft, thin and lightly elastic roti were perfect for spooning or mopping up the thin, lightly spicy and coconutty curry sauce served on the side.

Trying not to emote over the roti.

A similar style of curry sauce turned up as a soup in the kari laksa. This noodle soup was very different to the laksas I’ve had before, with the curry-esque soup taking the place of the sour tamarind-based broth that I’m more familiar with. Although mild at first, its cumulative spiciness was enough to make me break out into a small sweat. There was little of the promised chicken, but the chook present was meaty and buttery. Plus there was plenty of fishballs and squidgy, malty tofu. There were even a couple of respectable prawns thrown in. The rather stodgy chop suey-style wheat noodles weren’t a patch on the vermicelli I usually have in laksa, but even with this blight the laksa was still a warming, hearty and flavoursome dish.

Curry plus noodles will blow some people’s minds.

Previous reviewers have not been kind about the beef rendang. While the tender chunks of stewed meat are indeed only barely identifiable as beef, this doesn’t really matter given the aromatic, boldly nutty and earthy dry rub of (what the Squelchie believes to be) bay leaf, cinnamon and cardamom. The accompanying rice shouldn’t be overlooked – small grained, fluffy, lightly sticky and sweet, it’s a choice carby companion.

Hot dang.

It’s worth saving some room for dessert, all of which are sweet versions of roti. The roti kaya, sliced into child-friendly squares, was essentially a lightly crisp, sweet and buttery pancake, but it was a good pancake nonetheless.

Euston. No longer a complete shit hole.

But it was the roti planta that blew our socks off. Curled almost like a Danish, the dense yet still light and soft pastry was blessed with a musky sweetness and a light but unmistakable creaminess. It’s hard to believe that all of this apparently came from a filling of coconut jam. It may be simple, but it puts many more expensive and elaborate desserts to shame.

It’s good to be king.

The Verdict

Roti King isn’t a restaurant for all seasons. Its browbeaten service and general air of shabbiness means it’s not for special occasions, while the cramped tables means it’s not a good choice for any sort of large group. Still, its rock bottom prices and punchy food make it a real gem. To paraphrase The Flame Haired Squelchie, you could nothing but eat the roti here and still walk away happy. Throw in everything else and you have a recipe for mucky, happy, glorious fun.

What to order: Roti, roti and more roti; Beef rendang

What to skip: Any of the Cantonese fillers. You’re in a Malaysian restaurant for pete’s sake.

Name: Roti King

Address: Ian Hamilton House, Doric Way, London NW1 1LH

Phone: 07966 093467

Web: https://www.facebook.com/rotikinglondon

Opening Hours: Monday-Saturday noon – 15.00 and 17.00-22.00; closed Sunday. 

Reservations: not taken

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service: £15-20 approx. 

Rating: ★★★★☆

Kebabs are just the beginning, not the end

Black Axe Mangal advertises itself as an avant-garde kebab house drawing influences from around the world, not just from Turkey. But while the chargrilled meat dishes take centre stage on Black Axe’s ever-changing menu, the skill of the kitchen expresses itself in ways not confined to the meaty arts.

One can’t write about Black Axe Mangal without mentioning its unique décor and atmosphere. The giant Turkish-style bread oven is decorated with a mural of the band Kiss. Metal and classic rock makes up most of the soundtrack, but it’s played at a sensible volume that doesn’t drown out your own sanity. Meanwhile the floor, as you come through the door, has been adorned with paintings of fire-spurting cocks. It won’t suit everyone, but if you have a sense of whimsy then it’s all a whole lot of fun.

‘Fire-spurting cocks’. What a time to be alive.

First things first

The heart of many of Black Axe Mangal’s dishes is Turkish-style pide. The bread was uniformly soft and fluffy across all my visits with a touch of elasticity and a hint of charred smoke. It’s easily good enough to rival the best that Green Lanes, and even Turkey itself, have to offer.

The lamb offal pide topped this delightful bread with a heap of unidentifiable meat that wasn’t improved by the so-so spicy sauce and sour cream. Still, the tart and sharp sauerkraut was a saving grace.

Roffal.

While the lamb offal was a poor start, the BAM giro made up for it in spades. The pide here was topped with thin slices of lamb cooked rare. Although lacking the earthiness that I was expecting and not quite as superlative as the lamb sometimes available at The Newman Arms, these slices of baby sheep were still superb. Tender and a touch chewy with occasional hints of charred smoke, they went down especially well with the crisp chunks of roasted potato, sour cream and lettuce. It’s less a kebab and more a Sunday roast in compact form, although the chewiness of the lamb prevented me from eating it whole like a sandwich.

BAM, slam, thank you ma’am.

Going back for seconds

Although the Turkish-style bread used in the Welsh rarebit was just as good as ever, I was less convinced by the uninspiring melted cheese on top and by the overbearing sharpness of the onions.

Welsh-shish. I’m giving that gem away for free.

The Bakken Special allegedly uses mutton shoulder and shank but the meat, while tender, was barely identifiable as such. The dish was almost unbearably sweet too with lots of peppers, but the edge was blunted by the sharp onions and a dab of creamy yoghurt. Of all of Black Axe Mangal’s dishes that I tried, this was the one that felt the most amateurish and unbalanced.

Bakken to the kitchen.

Three is the magic number

If the Welsh rarebit was an underwhelming disappointment, then the roasted garlic flatbread was a pleasant and very welcome surprise. The same top-notch bread as before was topped with garlic strong enough to leave me with moderately stinky breath. A punchier garlic puree would’ve been even better, but it still went down a treat – especially with the sliced jalapeno peppers and punchy chopped herbs.

Not your pappy’s garlic bread.

If there’s one dish that could become my dish of the year that it would have to be the pig cheek, scallop and chilli. Slightly chewy cheek and crunchy pork rinds provided the meatiness, while dried and then rehydrated scallops provided an intensely strong salty hit which was emphasised by the prickly, searing heat of the chilli oil. It was a stunning combination that bowled me over – heat, salt, meat and seafood zing all in one.

Is it just me, or is it in the shape of a penis?

Pork end.

The oddly named Mission Chinese wing spice doner tastes far better than its name would have you think. The pide here was topped with tender, occasionally fatty strips of lamb. The clincher was the dusting of peppery, umami and tart Chinese five spice powder. Combining lamb doner meat with five spice is such boldly flavoursome genius, it makes me wonder why no one has done it before. The only caveat is that its heaviness cries out for something refreshing to cut through it all – the shreds of lettuce present certainly weren’t up to the job. A labneh might have done it. Still, this dish is sheer deranged delightful genius.

What is it with all the penises, anyway?

Go fourth and multiply

The Chinese influences continued in the century egg. Unexpectedly creamy and light, the egg was far from the slap-in-your-face saltiness that I’d usually expect from century egg. It was surprisingly delicate too which, along with its creaminess, went well with the lip-smackingly moreish cream and the crunchy dried anchovies which resembled Chinese seafood-flavoured crackers. But in a good way.

Egg as in ovary? Or am I reading too much into this? Damn penis murals.

The cabbage salad was essentially coleslaw but without the mayo. The firm slices of cabbage included glossy cellophane-like sheets which were refreshing enough.

Coleslaw without the mayo, because that would look like spunk? Sorry, didn’t mean to spoil your appetite. Or did I.

Black Axe Mangal topped its corn-on-the-cob with butter that had been laced with a hint of smoke and some delightfully salty yet light salmon roe. I only wish that there had been more of the butter to spread all over the cob.

Roe-bust flavours.

One of Black Axe Mangal’s few dishes that doesn’t involve some part of an animal is the falafel. Apparently made from broad beans rather than the usual chickpeas, the somewhat crunchy and nutty balls weren’t quite as consistently fluffy and soft as the best chickpea-based falafels. Even so, they were still very pleasing – especially when taken with the milky and surprisingly wispy goat’s cheese and the nutty, sweet squash puree.

The thin glossy slices of beetroot layered on top like Kraft cheese were attractive, if not very earthy. They instead had a fleeting cardamom-esque taste that was beguiling if ultimately too faint to be of much consequence.

Old bean.

The Verdict

Not everything at Black Axe Mangal is a winner, but when the kitchen gets it right the dishes soar to new heights. The small space means both the tables and the stools at the counter can be cramped. Plus the service across all of my visits was a bit wobbly and slow. But all of this can be forgiven. Black Axe Mangal easily outclasses the far more traditional and po-faced Babaji Pide and is unique in its eclectic and delicious sense of fun. It’s an example of what makes eating out in London so glorious – if that doesn’t count as a glowing recommendation, then I don’t know what does.

Name: Black Axe Mangal

Address: 156 Canonbury Road, London N1 2UP

Phone: none listed

Web: http://www.blackaxemangal.com

Opening Hours: Tuesday-Saturday 18.00-22.30. Closed Sunday and Monday.

Reservations: none taken

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service charge: £30 approx. 

Rating: ★★★★☆

Seafood show-offs in St James

Estiatorio Milos (henceforth referred to as Milos) is an international mini chain of Greek seafood restaurants with branches in Athens, Montreal and the US. Its arrival in the moneyed mini Mayfair extension that is St James has been highly anticipated by some, but it’s hard to see the appeal at first glance.

Milos breaks all the current London restaurant trends. Seasonal, local produce is overshadowed by seafood flown in from Greece and waters even farther afield. There’s no informal stripped back décor and service here either – a massive bank of seafood on ice is displayed in the middle of the restaurant and catches your eye as soon as you walk in.

It appears Milos has a dedicated employee for spraying the fish display with water and keeping the ice topped up. Surreal.

Time to make a withdrawal.

Mirror, mirror.

Although Milos isn’t ostentatiously decorated, you might still be put off if you have a proletarian chip on your shoulder – the crowd tends to be of the neckerchief and vajazzled heels crowd. Plus, the prices are high, even for seafood – the set menu alone costs £70.

There is much to like at Milos though and even Templeton Peck, who usually breaks out into hives when confronted with rich people, grew to enjoy his time there.

Milos set menu

Although there is a red meat option on Milos’ set menu, having lamb chops at a seafood restaurant is a bit like going to a curry house and ordering the omelette – a childish retreat to the comfortably familiar that’s ultimately pointless.

Things didn’t start well. The salmon tartar was light and refreshing with a vague hint of the promised chilli at the end, but ultimately quite bland with none of the buttery creaminess I’ve come to expect from raw salmon.

Get back into the sea.

The grilled octopus was much better. The tentacle segments had a firm bite and a tender interior, proving to be a good delivery mechanism for the creamy, nutty fava bean puree. Punchy sweet capers were a classy finishing touch.

No, I am your fava.

The punchy capers turned up again in the oddly presented Greek salad. The triangular shape of the feta slice was almost as unexpected as its light, muted taste. This stood in particular contrast with the sharp raw onions, sweet peppers, the occasional olive, reasonably umami chunks of tomato and smaller, sharper plum tomato halves. It’s perfectly decent, but for me the heart of a Greek salad is always the feta and the cheese here just left me cold.

If anyone complains about the lack of lettuce then there will be trouble.

One of the very few but most annoyingly pretentious things about Milos, and I use the trite ‘p’ word carefully, is the exclusive use of Greek terms for the various fish and other dead sea creatures on offer. It smells like a vain attempt to make the mundane sound more exciting.

‘Lavraki’, for example, sounds wonderfully sun-kissed and exotic, but it’s just sea bass as far as I could make out. It wasn’t available though, so I had to settle for ‘dorada’ which I’m pretty sure was a gilt-headed bream. In any case, the bream managed to be delicate and flaky yet dense and meaty at the same time. Lightly salted and gently grilled, it would’ve been perfect except for an unwanted repeated appearance of the capers. Their sweet punchiness stood out like sore thumbs here and detracted from the fish.

I have a bream.

Another needless gloss is the ‘yoghurt martini’ which is just Greek yoghurt with fruit served in a martini glass for no apparent reason. The light and mildly creamy yoghurt was, on my visit, topped with an uninspiring selection of cherries.

Up next: buttered bruschetta. Otherwise known as toast.

Milos a la carte

I left my first meal at Milos quite conflicted. While some of the food was very good, the high prices and the wobbly service counted against it. At least the latter had improved by the time of my second and final visit with Vicious Alabaster and Templeton Peck. The ever-changing cast of waiters who tended to hover annoyingly in the background on my first visit had morphed into a far more polished operation by the time of the second. In both instances, they were friendly and knowledgeable.

The Greek rock oysters were unlike any oysters I’ve had before. Resembling the base nub of a scallop, they were chewy and dense like a winkle or cockle. While Vicious Alabaster liked them, I’d rather have a fleshy native or rock oyster any day of the week.

About as enjoyable as a rock.

Vicious Alabaster and I also disagreed over the cured grey mullet roe. Smooth, lightly salty and served on bruschetta with a zesty dressing, the roe was just a tad too muted for my liking.

Victory has defeated you.

The Greek ceviche was garnished with creamy crumbs of cheese. The cheese may have been feta, but regardless it didn’t add much to the dish. The dense, meaty and chewy little slices of zingy sea bass wasn’t in need in of much embellishment anyway.

The ceviche bandwagon rumbles on.

Yellowfin tuna cooked blue was lightly seared and salty on the outside, delicately meaty and tender on the inside. It was a beautiful cut of fish ably prepared, although Templeton Peck and I were divided over the merits of the thick, creamy, punchy garlic sauce served on the side. He found it a needless distraction, while I appreciated the occasional daub as a flavoursome little herby hit.

Atun.

We were all fans of the Madagascan prawns. Big and buttery, the flesh was tender, zingy and zesty. Served with the shells off, but with the heads still attached so you can suck the salty goodness out of them like any right-thinking person.

Stripy.

Opinion was divided once again over the fried anchovies. While light, crispy, meaty and free of excess oil, I found myself longing for the punchy salty tang of the best cured Cantalabrian anchovies. I’m not sure whether that distinctive flavour would’ve survived deep-frying, but I’d love to find out. Regardless, my two dining companions wolfed down these little fishies quite happily.

Admirable, but mistaken.

You’d be forgiving for thinking that the photo below depicts a chicory salad, but it’s a heap of tender cuttlefish with a just-firm bite and a rather splendid zesty dressing. It’s therefore a shame that the squid ink risotto accompanying it was such a damp squib. The drab lack of flavour and the somewhat mushy small grained rice was utterly forgettable.

Shiny and chrome.

Squink.

I expected much from the baklava given that Greece is just as famed for it as Turkey, but the version here was intensely disappointing. The big sliced round looked like a cut of apple strudel and tasted just as autumnal. The soggy honey-drenched pastry and dense cinnamon, mince pie-like filling was just too stodgy for my liking.

The accompanying ice cream was a mixed bag. It could’ve done with more resting time given its uncomfortable frostiness, but the crisp bits of filo pastry dotting the ball of ice meant it had more charm than the baklava itself.

Mediocre!

A far better filo-based dessert was the lightly eggy custard sandwiched in between crisp layers of said pastry. Light and elegantly flavoursome, it was everything the baklava was not.

Custard that cuts the mustard.

Desserts took a turn for the worse once again with the walnut cake which was more like a wall of small, compacted walnut pieces with only occasional cameo appearances by actual cake. We only finished it out of politeness.

Nuts.

It’s a shame the Flame Haired Squelchie wasn’t around to sample the loukamades, one of her all-time favourite desserts. The deep-fried pastry balls here were a little too oily for my liking, but there was still plenty to like from the crisp exterior to the fluffy, lightly bready interior and the thin yet multi-layered dressing of honey which had hints of aniseed and orange.

Fry-day.

The Verdict

There’s some fine, well-cooked seafood on offer at Milos, assuming you can tease it out of the expansive menu. Even then, it’s not quite good enough to justify the high prices – you are instead paying for the slick, shiny surroundings and the phalanx of servers. These two things may be enough to sway the overly coiffured and tanned, but for everyone else the imbalance of artistry and value on the plate leaves Milos feeling like an incomplete experience.

What to order: Cuttlefish; Ceviche; Prawns; Octopus

What to skip: Greek rock oysters; Fried anchovies; Baklava; Walnut cake

Name: Estiatorio Milos

Address: 1 Regent Street, St James’s, London SW1Y 4NR

Phone: 020 7839 2080

Web: http://milos.ca/restaurants/london

Opening Hours: Monday–Saturday noon-15:00 and 18.00-23.00. Closed Sunday.

Reservations: probably a good idea

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service charge: £80 approx. 

Rating: ★★★☆☆

I call shotgun

There’s been a small boom in American-style barbecue restaurants in London since I first started covering the cuisine in-depth. New openings tend to be fairly traditional though, at least in principle, in both cuts of meat and technique. They also tend to stick to all the old hoary BBQ shack décor clichés – weathered wood and corrugated metal fittings that are more at home in a theme park than in a restaurant for grown-ups.

Shotgun, from the people behind Marylebone’s Lockhart, has taken a different tack. The interior, for starters, is decked out in polished wood and brass so it feels more like a cosy boozer than the result of a misguided restaurant consultant’s meeting. The menu is different too, taking in cuts of meat not usually seen in American barbecue smokers. It’s worth bearing in mind that the menu changes fairly frequently. The portions are also relatively small compared to some other barbecue restaurants, but the artistry on display is almost in a class of its own.

Distressingly, the bar is usually propped up by a disproportionately large number of avocado brunch loving Sloaneys.

First things first

There’s a subtle south-of-the-border influence on Shotgun’s menu that’s most obvious in the tamales, a classic Mexican dish. Although seemingly incongruous, this steamed cornmeal dish is somewhat similar to grits. The version here is apparently cooked and served in grease proof paper rather than corn husks though. Sadly, the lumps of cornmeal here were generic tasting mush with only a tame chilli sauce on the side for company.

Wrap star?

Sadly not.

The Combination Plate changes depending on what meats are available that day, allowing you to sample three in one sitting. On my visit, one of the highlights was the goat shoulder. Somewhat like Cantonese-style cha siu pork in appearance and texture, the dense and earthy slices of meat were a pleasure to behold and devour.

There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’, but there is in ‘meat combination plate’.

Shoulder to lean on.

The brisket wasn’t as barnstorming as the versions of this classic cut available at competitors such as Red’s True Barbecue, but it was still tender and unctuously fatty. It also had a subtle but nonetheless beguiling musky sweetness that’s quite unlike anything I’ve had before in a barbecue restaurant.

Today’s procrastination was brought to you by Have I Got News For You.

I wasn’t expecting much from the pork belly, so I was pleasantly surprised by the tender, almost delicate texture of the swine flesh. Even better was the thin but flavoursome layer of fat which had the same musky sweetness as the brisket. I suspect this may come from a dry rub and whatever wood Shotgun’s kitchen is using in its smoker, but don’t hold me to that.

Belly laughs.

The sides shouldn’t be overlooked. The sweet potato fondant shouldn’t work, but it does. The cubes of peach-coloured sweet potato were almost plantain-esque in their sweetness and had a delicately fluffy yet smooth texture similar to Cantonese taro cakes. The addictiveness quotient was multiplied by the topping of smoky, crunchy, sweet and nutty pecans. The contrasts in taste and texture somehow melded together beautifully.

Surprisingly divisive. For some.

The beans couldn’t steal the limelight from the sweet potato fondant, but were still pleasing in their own right – moderately firm beans in a tangy sauce dotted with meaty morsels of pork. And sesame seeds for no apparent reason.

Hill o’beans.

Spooned from a serving bowl the size of a small moon, the banana pudding looks like a mushy mess on the plate. As is often the case though, looks are deceiving. The tangy sweet banana cream would be more than good enough on its own, but is made even better by the biscuits which range from crisp and crunchy to soft and yielding. Bosom-clutching home comings are made of puddings like this.

Spoonful.

Going back for seconds

Devilled quail eggs sounds like a dish that should be served in a gentlemen’s club rather than a barbecue restaurant. These little eggs were disappointing though – gone in a second, the tame spiced sauce daubed on top and the bed of mildly crunchy pork scratchings did little to embed them into my memory.

Devil’s work.

Shotgun’s duck breast was served rare, but this left the meat too chewy and bland. There was a hint of smokiness, but the poultry was largely dependent on salt for flavour. The non-descript nature of the breast meat was all the more surprising given the neatly rendered layer of fat and supple skin.

Keeping abreast of all of London’s barbecue restaurants.

Pulled pork turns up on the menu under the guise of ‘Boston butt’. While pulled pork elsewhere has turned into a generic pile of mush shoved into a bun, here it has been elevated to new heights. Firm with a woody bark, an occasional lick of fat and a fruity heat reminiscent of habanero peppers, it’s quite unlike any pulled pork I’ve had before.

Park your butt.

Shotgun oddly serves its beef short rib (otherwise known as a Jacob’s Ladder) off the bone. Their version was therefore lacking in both the fat and the connective tissue that’s a big part of this cut’s appeal. Even so, Shotgun’s version was still enjoyable enough thanks to its dense, smoky, woody meatiness.

Boneless.

I’m not usually a fan of pork baby back ribs, preferring spare ribs instead. That wouldn’t be the case though if all baby back ribs were as good as Shotgun’s rendition. The woody bark gave way to reveal a thin strip of smooth and dense yet yielding flesh that peeled away from the bone as glossy lacquered layers blessed with a hint of smoke. It was more like a lightly smoked gammon joint and thus light years ahead of the bland meat dependent on insipid sauces that usually makes up a rack (or half rack) of baby back ribs.

Stop staring at my rack.

Although allegedly paired with bone marrow, I couldn’t detect much meaty or smoky influence in the thickly cut slices of beetroot. They were still earthy and moist though.

Beet it.

Although not anywhere as decadently gooey as a Paul A Young brownie, the brownie here was still reasonably enjoyable. Part sponge and part fudge, the brownie was dotted with the occasional crunchy, nutty pecan pieces.

Brownie points.

Three’s a crowd

The irredeemably squeamish will be instantly put off by the very mention of the pig’s ear pancakes, never mind their actual appearance and texture. All folds and cartilage, you could never mistake them for anything else. They’re not just skin and bone though – the large ear was surprisingly supple and unctuous, qualities emphasised by the sticky, smoky glaze. This is all lost when slices of ear are eaten wrapped in torn pieces of the accompanying pancake, so they’re best taken separately. Despite appearances, the pancake is really just a standard pancake and not a teff-based injerra bread to which it bears a passing resemblance.

No, I have no idea why the pig’s ear comes with a pancake.

This pancake makes a pig’s ear of the pig’s ear.

I had thought that sweet potato was a universally liked tuber, but a Twitter conversation revealed a surprisingly intense dislike for it in some quarters. If you do like sweet potato, or at least have an open mind, then it’s likely you’ll love Shotgun’s sweet potato fondant just as much as I did. It was just as good as it was before.

For tuber traditionalists, there’s always the potato puree which was essentially a very smooth and very unctous mash.

I was less enthused about the ox cheek served with pickled porcini mushrooms. While the latter were suitably tart, the meat itself wasn’t sufficiently different enough from the boneless beef short rib to hold my interest for long. While lean, dense and reasonably moist, it was lacking in depth of flavour – especially given the large portion, ostensibly designed for two but which even I and the equally ravenous Snaggletooth struggled to finish with much enthusiasm.

Turn the other cheek.

Chicken is the bland, safe, boring meat of choice for children, but it does tend to smoke well taking on bold flavours easily. The chicken leg quarter here was very smooth with taut, lightly moreish skin. The smokiness was at its strongest in the strip of meat closest to the bone where it almost resembled gammon, but the smokiness was far too subtle and sedate everywhere else. This made chowing through this chook a bit of a chore, but at least it wasn’t drippingly greasy like many barbecued chickens elsewhere.

Overheard: ‘It’s *literally* just smoked meat!’. #facepalm

Although coarse, chunky and meaty, the Toulouse sausage wasn’t quite as garlicky or as smoky as I would have liked. It was still pungent enough to leave a distinct odor on both my breath and Snaggletooth’s, so it was still a success.

If you don’t eat there, then you have everything Toulouse.

Shotgun’s banana pudding was just as good as it was before and was wolfed down in short order by Snaggletooth. My soft serve ice cream just couldn’t compare with its mild chocolate and sour cherry flavours.

Bananaman.

Mr Whippy.

The Verdict

Shotgun stands apart from the other American-style barbecue restaurants in London. It has more in common with Pitt Cue with its more subtle flavours and unusual cuts of meat, but that’s no bad thing. With Hot Box, Red’s, Miss P’s and Smokestak holding the fort for old school BBQ, there’s finally room for experimentation and whimsy. Having said that, the experiments that were most successful were generally the ones that had some link with tradition – the Boston butt, baby back ribs, brisket, pork belly and goat shoulder were far, far better than the duck and ox cheek, for example. If Shotgun represents (part of) the future of American barbecue in London, then it can’t arrive soon enough.

What to order: Boston butt; baby back ribs; brisket; pork belly; goat shoulder; sweet potato fondant; banana pudding

What to skip: Duck breast; tamale; devilled quail eggs

Name: Shotgun

Address: 26 Kingly Street, Soho, London W1B 5QD

Phone: 0203 137 7252

Web: http://shotgunbbq.com/

Opening Hours: seven days a week noon – 23.30. 

Reservations: highly recommended

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service: £40-50 approx. 

Rating: ★★★★☆

Masterminded by a MasterChef

Disclosure: upon asking for the bill, my fourth meal here was given free of charge by the management in light of my repeated custom. This was not asked for and was accepted out of politeness. 

There’s no shortage of casual Japanese restaurants in London, but Nanban is different. Although headed up by 2011 MasterChef winner Tim Anderson (no, I don’t watch the show), Nanban doesn’t just depend on name recognition of its celebrity chef. Originally slated to open in Shoreditch years ago, Nanban is now on Brixton’s Coldharbour Lane and has thus adopted some West Indian influences into its menu which makes for Japanese food that’s quite unlike anything you’re likely to have had before.

The upstairs is dominated by several booths inside converted wheeled carts. Not sure what that’s all about – old wheeled yatai perhaps?

First things first

The exemplar of this hybrid approach has to be the curry goat tsukemen. This is a traditional form of ramen, but with the soup served separately from the noodle and used as a dipping sauce. The thin, firm and wrinky noodles were top-notch and can hold their own against those from any ramen restaurant in the city.  What’s decidedly untraditional is the curry goat used for dipping – earthy, unctuous and dotted with dense morsels of ginger-flecked meat. It’s a stunning combination made even better by the unexpectedly fiery bamboo shoots and the ‘seafood sawdust’ grated over the noodles. The latter was part bonito flakes and part crustacean-based crack – an umami bomb that, at the risk of overloading the dish, I could happily have had more of.

Big dipper.

Roti? Where we’re going, we don’t need roti.

Far less successful were the ackee and saltfish korroke. They were essentially fishcakes with occasional hints of salty whitefish and fleshy ackee drowned out by starchy potato filler. At least the breadcrumb exterior wasn’t too greasy.

Fishcake.

Better, but still unbalanced, was the Electric Eel. The dense, smoky, meaty slivers of eel were utterly delightful and didn’t need the overwhelmingly crisp, sweet and sharp toppings of onions, peppers and a ginger-vinegar sauce. It’d be best to just scrape them off and eat them separately.

Out in the night.

Scrape the **** off the top.

Nanban’s kitchen doesn’t appear to have settled on a permanent dessert menu at the time of writing, experimenting with dishes such as ice cream mochi. The balls of ice at the centre of the mochi ice creams were too frigidly cold, but the punchy and distinct flavours of yuzu and coconut were enjoyable. The elastic rice flour skins were perhaps a little too giving and needed a little more resistance, but were still good enough.

When in doubt, wheel out the mochi ice cream.

Going back for seconds

Although not advertised as a tonkotsu ramen, the broth of the Kumamoto Ramen is described as similarly ‘rich pork’ in nature. Sadly, the cloudy broth was far too dependent on nutty sesame oil for flavour. It was far from a lost cause though – the thin, wrinkly, eggy, wheaty noodles were reasonably firm and a delight to slurp down with the punchy mustard greens and the rich and runny egg. Although the slices of pork weren’t quite as good those available at dedicated ramen restaurants such as Muga, they were still pleasingly fatty and unctous, while the roasted garlic sauce and garlic flakes added a kick of smokiness and a crunchy bite.

Your future is cloudy.

I’m a big fan of tripe from its coarse texture to the way it absorbs the flavours of whatever it’s cooked in. This makes Nanban’s Horumon Yaki all the more disappointing. Smooth and served with a tame mix of stir fried cabbage and bean spouts, it resembled a slightly gussied-up take-away stir-fry. The only point of interest was the mandarin-esque flavour to the slices of pickled radish on top.

This is tripe.

While firm, meaty and slightly vinegary, the mackerel was lacking the zingy punch I usually associate with that fish. It was livened up immensely though by the the moreish miso and sesame dressing as well as by the crisp daikon, vinegary carrots, fiery pickled ginger and sweet cucumbers.

Multi-coloured mackerel.

Meaty threesome

I’ve often said that I’m not bothered by fried chicken, but chicken karaage is a mild exception to that rule. Tonkotsu does the best chicken karaage I’ve had in London, or at least it does sometimes given its highly variable quality output in this matter. Nanban’s version was free from excess oil with a thin batter that was soft, pliant and dotted with vague hints of ginger. The chunks of meat underneath were moist and meaty. It doesn’t quite measure up to Tonkotsu’s best, but it’s not far off.

Don’t take orders from the little Colonel.

Spaghetti in chilli-cured cod roe sauce with Parmesan, pancetta and black pepper sounds suspiciously Italian. It’s not as incongruous as it sounds given the long-standing culinary exchange between Italy and Japan, plus there was the addition of an onsen egg and seaweed too. There were no surprises with the spaghetti, but the cod roe sauce was muted both in its spiciness and in its fishiness. The sauce wasn’t a complete dud, adding some moreishness to the dish which was boosted by the grated seaweed. The crispy pancetta was fine, if a little generic – perhaps jowl-based guanciale would’ve been a better choice.  The parmesan was surprisingly muted too – lightly creamy, but lacking in depth of character. While the egg was rich and runny, it couldn’t quite save this dish from mediocrity.

I almost mentioned the war, but I think I got away with it.

Gyoza are common fare in many Japanese restaurants – deep-fried gyoza much less so. Lightly crisp and unoily, the golden shells contained a mildly creamy filling fleetingly evocative of brown crab meat. My shoulders barely registered a shrug as I ate them.

Escaped canapes.

May the fourth be with you

A grapefruit and chilli salad sounds daft, but it really works. First sour and tart, then startlingly spicy.

The only other thing you’d need is a glass of milk or lassi.

To classify the Miyazaki ramen merely as a chicken and shoyu (i.e. soy sauce-based broth) noodle soup would do it a grave disservice. Firm, wrinkly noodles and a rich runny egg were joined by a moist, meaty, intensely satisfying chicken thigh. The whole lot was served in a lip-smackingly meaty, lightly salty broth. It’s more than the sum of its parts – it’s as if the kitchen has managed to mash up Jewish chicken soup, Cantonese soya chicken and a shoyu ramen into one glorious dish.

Not Ponyo ramen, but still damn good.

Five get lashings of ginger beer

Accompanying me on my last visit to Nanban were The Lensman and Foul-Mouthed Teacher. The latter greatly enjoyed the Miyazaki ramen, which was just as good before, and shared my low opinion of the deep-fried gyoza and the tame ackee korokke.

The Lensman and I shared the Japanese vegetable curry. Although the somewhat congealed sauce looked as if it’d been left in the oven a bit too long, it tasted pretty standard – a chip shop curry sauce of moderate thickness and sweetness. The odd addition of cheese and the random selection veg was neither here nor there, but at least the egg was as good as ever.

Imagine how many eggs they must get through at this place.

I specifically wanted The Lensman’s opinion on the chanpon, a Nagasaki noodle soup dish that he’s very fond of but is very rarely found in the UK. Nanban’s version started off right with milky, lightly wrinkly noodles. It soon dawdled into disappointment though with its pork-chicken-seafood broth turning out generically moreish. The ragbag selection of squid, prawns and cabbage were fine, if not especially memorable, leaving it to the egg to pick up the slack once again. To paraphrase The Lensman, it’s a decent stab in the direction of a quality chanpon – but it’s not there yet. Not even close.

Chanpon, champon.

Tuber traditionalists who insist that their root vegetables be savoury and nothing else will want to avoid the baked sweet potato. While not excessively sweet, the sprinkling of yuzu added a sharp citrusy hit which I liked. It will doubtless anger the potatotalitarians though.

Taters not for tots.

A smooth, very firm plum jelly formed the core of the only dessert available on our visit. Its faint flavour and odd texture weren’t crowd pleasers – you’ll have a better time of it if you’re used to traditional mochi fillings or Chinese jellies to which it was somewhat similar. The pickled plums hanging jauntily off the side weren’t that different from the fresh variety, while the wispy white peach cream was mildly flavoursome at best. Ho hum.

There’s some odd Japanese phrasing on the menu according to The Lensman. ‘Chūhai’, a sort of shochu shandy, is used to denote the soft drinks instead.

The Verdict

If everything on Nanban’s menu had been as rollicking as the curry goat tsukemen or the Miyazaki ramen, then it would romp home with at least a Four Star rating and an unconditional recommendation. As it is though, the menu is far too uneven with too many duds and unbalanced, so-so dishes which is disappointing given Nanban’s long gestation. This is a real shame as the idea of mashing up Japanese food with West Indian ingredients and more besides is a sound one (with plenty of antecedents in what we now consider ‘traditional’ Japanese food). Still, this shouldn’t stop you from scuttling down there right now and feasting on curry goat ramen. I have great hopes for Nanban’s potential.

What to order: Curry goat tsukemen; Miyazaki ramen; Grapefruit salad; Eel

What to skip: Tripe; Saltfish and ackee korokke; Deep-fried gyoza

Name: Nanban

Address: 426 Coldharbour Lane, Brixton, London SW9 8LF

Phone: 020 7346 0098

Web: http://www.nanban.co.uk

Opening Hours: weekdays noon-15.00 and 18.00-23.00; weekends noon-23.00.

Reservations: highly recommended on or around weekends

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service charge: £35 approx. 

Rating: ★★★☆☆

To queue or not to queue

If you hear a deep, guttural howl of despair echoing across London, then fear not. It’s probably just me triaging my email inbox. If they gave out monetary prizes for inbox restaurant buzzword bingo, then I’d be swanning about the Maldives in a hover chariot made of moonrock. ‘Seasonal British produce’, ‘New York-style bar’, ‘gin’, ‘Michelin-inspired’, ‘pan-Asian’, ‘burgers’ and ‘chef trained by [insert name of celebrity chef here]’ are depressingly common and almost spitefully meaningless PR memes. Either it’s indicative of the low opinion that some restaurateurs and investors hold of London’s restaurant-going public or a sign that they have all the life experience and ambition of an inebriated gap year student from the Home Counties.

Thankfully, there are restaurants with more flare and ambition. Hoppers is a Sri Lankan restaurant right in the middle of Soho. Although common in some ‘far flung’ parts of London like Tooting, Sri Lankan restaurants are essentially unknown in the more central and easy to get to parts of the capital.

Hoppers is quite different from its more southerly counterparts. The wood-panelled interior is warm and inviting, as is the service. South London’s Sri Lankan restaurants tend to be far more ramshackle, both in decor and waiterly skill. However, Hoppers doesn’t take reservations and has, at most, 50 covers or so. Unless you get here early or late and have everyone in your party present, you’ll have to queue – sometimes with wait times long enough to dash down to Tooting for dinner and back again in time for dessert.

If you can time it right though, Hoppers is worth the wait. In the words of the Happy Buddha, my Sri Lankan dining companion, Hoppers is a ‘great, enjoyable experience’. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

First things first

If you order the Lamb Kothu Roti expecting the familiar fluffy disc of flat bread then you’ll initially be disappointed. It’s an eminently warming, flavoursome dish though with meaty morsels of earthy spiced lamb dotted with small feathery slices of roti and bits of scrambled egg. It could do with more lamb and roti rather than the excess of cheap cabbage and carrot filler, but it’s still a potent antidote to a cold winter’s night.

Gone to pieces.

The smaller dishes shouldn’t be ignored. Croquette-like mutton rolls were crispy on the outside and pleasingly earthy and meaty on the inside. The umami and lightly spiced tomato sauce on the side made it even better.

Roll with it.

Mutton chopped.

The hot butter devilled shrimps were small both in size and number, but the chunky, tingly, sweat-inducting hot sauce that they came bathed in was a very good consolation prize.

Butter my devil.

A good counterpoint to the heat of the devilled shrimps turned out to be the brinjal moju. This dish of pickled aubergines was surprisingly fruity and sharp – pleasing enough to make me overlook the subdued nature of the eggplant pieces themselves.

Objects in the mirror will appear far greasier than they actually are.

Desserts at many of Tooting’s Sri Lankan restaurants tend to be an afterthought, but not here. The roasted rice kulfi was not only cool and free from crunchy ice crystals, but surprisingly chewy too and literally topped with crisp rice kernels. Although the quivering jelly accompanying it was merely so-so, the firm and sweet rambutan pieces were top-notch as were the fragrant and musky sweet vermicelli noodles topped with sago. It’s a great, multi-layered, multi-faceted dessert.

Summer in winter.

Going back for seconds

If you’re a bit chicken, then your first instinct will be to avoid the chicken heart chukka. That would be a shame though – the kidney-like texture of the heart pieces was a pleasure to scoff down, even if they were interspersed with more pedestrian bits of thigh meat. They were made even better by the tingly sauce which packed a surprising amount of sweaty wallop.

Eat your heart out.

There aren’t any lassis available at Hoppers, but there is a curry leaf buttermilk drink which proved to be more than good enough for cooling down inflamed taste buds. Thin and lightly sour, it also had a little hint of spice to it.

The milk of human kindness.

The duck roti saw the flatbread filled with an anonymous minced meat, but this dish was still enjoyable thanks to the thin, mildly nutty and modestly spicy dipping sauce on the side.

Duck luck.

I’ve never been particularly taken with biryianis, but that was before I had Hoppers’ version of this classic dish. Although very tame in terms of spicy heat, the long-grained rice was moist and fragrant. The musky, succulent, gently stewed meat was occasionally joined to bits of connective tissue and accompanied by sultanas and bits of cashew. The entire layered mixture had the distinct but not overpowering taste of cardamom. A mild and buttery side curry dominated by a lone egg covered in a thin, chewy batter added more richness, while refreshing yoghurt and sharp pickled aubergine provided a palate cleansing respite.

Bury me in this buriani.

Dive in.

Curry as a side dish.

Milk Hopper, Kithul Treacle and Jaggery with Durian ice cream may sound like a string of words you’ve never heard before, but it’s actually a cracking dessert. A thin, slightly sour rice flour bowl filled with treacle and musky sweet jaggery would be a treat all on its own. Add in distinctly flavoured and smooth durian ice cream though and you have a classy, balanced dessert for the ages.

Bowl cut.

A sceptical Sri Lankan and issues of cultural appropriation

The Happy Buddha is not only my dining companion of Sri Lankan descent but also the only one with an appetite almost as ravenous as my own. All this made him eager to try Hoppers, even though he grumbled about the incongruity of a Sri Lankan restaurant financed and operated by the Sethis (the apparently north Indian family behind several other London restaurants including Bao) and the cultural appropriation this implies. My view is that as long as there’s no mislabelling or credit-taking and if the quality of the food is high and at least reasonably authentic, then bringing it to a wider audience is inherently a good thing – no matter who the money is.

The Happy Buddha started off rather grouchily, dismissing the mutton rolls out of hand – even though they were the same as they were before and, in my book, better than other versions of the same dish that he had introduced me to. He warmed to the hot buttered devilled prawns, although he noted that as a devilled dish the prawns should have been ‘dry’ rather than bathed in a sauce.

I could see glimmers of greater enjoyment light up The Happy Buddha’s cherubic features as he devoured the string hoppers, clods of rice flour noodles a little thicker than vermicelli. Topped with a fine-grained nutty sambal and a milky sambal that was unexpectedly coconutty to his palate, it soon disappeared in a blaze of spooning and chewing.

String theory.

Hoppers is named not only after the string hoppers, but the bowl-shaped pancake-ish savoury crisp made out of fermented rice batter. Also available are the more familiar crepe-like dosas. Both were crisp yet yieldingly pliable and perfect for scooping up the curries, with the hoppers having an added sour tang.

Hop to it.

A dose of dosa.

Although dotted with large chunks of tender pumpkin, the red pumpkin curry was the least favoured of our kari trio as its thin, lightly sweet sauce was really neither nor there. The guinea fowl pumpkin was better with tender meat on the bone bathed in a moderately sweet and starchy sauce. The standout however was the black pork curry which greatly impressed the Happy Buddha – dense, unctuous chunks of pork in a lightly peppery and salty dry rub.

Pumpkin, not for bumpkins.

Chicken would probably have done just as well here.

Sorry for some of the iffy photos, folks.

While the Happy Buddha wasn’t quite as enamoured with the lamb kothu roti as he was with the black pork curry, that didn’t stop him from hoarding large spoonfuls of the stuff. Thankfully, the balance between lamb and roti pieces on the one hand and the cheap vegetable filler on the other was tilted more in favour of the former this time around.

Kothu, Cthulhu’s friskier cousin.

Although other reviewers have waxed lyrical about the bone marrow varuval, I was far less enthused. Even after vigorous scooping, the amount and quality of bone marrow recoverable was meagre. Just give me a bucket load of the mildly spiced curry sauce and the soft, fluffy and thin roti accompaniment instead.

Bone of contention.

The egg hopper was literally a hopper with a runny fried egg plopped in the middle. Although breakfasty, topped with a dash of an unidentifiable spice and impossible to eat with any dignity, it was still enjoyable enough.

All day breakfast.

Love cake sounds like a euphemism, but it’s actually a very light cake that tastes as if it’s been steamed rather than baked. It was rather plain and inoffensive, especially when taken with the ‘yoghurt’ kulfi – an odd ‘flavour’ given that yoghurt is more of a texture than a taste.

Love cake, love life.

Happy Buddha was especially impressed with the milk hopper with treacle, jaggery and durian ice cream which was just as good as it was before. He also approved highly of the Watallapam – essentially a very light and somewhat squidgy bread and butter-esque pudding tinged with cardamom and topped with yielding nuts.

That’s not a very big dessert, but a very small spoon.

The Verdict

It would be temptingly easy to grade Hoppers on a curve – it is, after all, the only Sri Lankan restaurant in Soho (or indeed any centrally located part of London that I know of). There’s no need however. It’s not only more than good enough to stand on its own two feet, it’s good enough to rival its cheaper but tattier Tooting-based competition. Although not completely authentic (according to The Happy Buddha), it’s close enough that it doesn’t matter.

It also deserves praise for attempting to popularise an otherwise grossly under-appreciated cuisine, throwing down the gauntlet to the unambitious competition coasting by on menus of burgers, fried chicken and avocado on toast.  If you can grab a table without waiting an eternity, then it’s certainly worth doing so – there’s nowhere else quite like it in the capital.

What to order: Lamb kothu roti; Biryani; Hoppers, dosas and string hoppers; Pork curry; Brinjal moju; Almost all the desserts

What to skip: Bone marrow varuval

Name: Hoppers

Address: 49 Frith Street, Soho, London W1D 4SG

Phone: none listed

Web: http://www.hopperslondon.com/

Opening Hours: Monday-Saturday noon – 14.30 and 17.30-22.30; closed Sunday. 

Reservations: not taken

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service: £30-35 approx. 

Rating: ★★★★☆

This review of a Berlin restaurant is a break from The Picky Glutton’s usual London-based coverage

Berlin, like most major cities, has more than its fair share of tourist trap restaurants in and around its historical, heavily touristed centre. It also has some surprises up its sleeve, such as Nobelhart & Schmutzig. Located a literal stone’s throw away from Checkpoint Charlie, this restaurant looks more like a funeral home from its plain, almost mysterious frontage. It’s only open for dinner and only serves a multi-course tasting menu.

X-berg.

Well, I definitely wasn’t packing any heat that night.

Inside is a very cosy, moodily light atmosphere bolstered by a Bob Dylan heavy soundtrack on the night of my visit. There are a few tables for large groups, but most of the seating is around a large U-shaped bar looking directly into the kitchen. The sommelier may have more facial hair than a longboat full of Vikings, but he and the rest of the staff were friendly, generally efficient and naturally spoke English to such a high standard that my stutteral German was even more embarrassing than usual.

The ever-changing menu is based around whatever’s in season and apparently only uses ingredients traditional to the Berlin and Brandenburg areas. There’s no doubt about the kitchen’s modernist sensibilities though. My meal kicked off nicely with a smoky and tender bite-sized morsel of eel topped by peppery radish that oddly looked like bean sprouts.

No wriggling out of this one.

The tender turnip-like salsify root was apparently cooked in lamb fat, but it had more of lemony herb taste in my mouth as well as a slight boozy tang.

Naturally the music is on LPs and coffee comes from a Japanese syphon.

After that pair of scintillating amuse bouche, things started getting a little weird. Room-temperature carrot juice was allegedly spiked with camomile oil for bitterness, but instead left a slight oily residue and dulled sweetness in my mouth. Much more interesting, and sadly not fully visible in the photo below, was the cream reduction hiding beneath the surface in the middle of the carrot puddle. It dissolved on the tongue, producing a curd-like effect that was far more enjoyable than carrot squirts it came bathed in.

Surrealist carrot ‘soup’.

Firm and taut black kale leaves came anointed in a bitter green sauce apparently made from a melange of things, but tasted most noticeably of garlic. The bitterness of the sauce was emphasised by the sour and bitter rowan berries, so the clean after-taste of the light and wispy goat’s cheese came as a welcome relief. I’m generally a fan of bitter flavours, but this dish was just a little too much – even for me.

Better bitter bitte.

A far more balanced bitter dish saw raw fennel, with its bitterness and anise-esque taste, neatly counterbalanced by the intense sweetness and earthiness of partially liquified beetroot purée. Mildly nutty and oddly bitter pumpkin seed milk melded in seamlessly with the fennel and beetroot.

Oh, danke.

There was a disappointingly long lag between the smaller appetiser-esque dishes and the pair of meatier mains, but the staff’s small but choice selection of food-related books made up for it. Just as I starting to get antsy and wistful from reading the St John cookbook, a plate of chicken turned up and it was worth the wait. Dense and smooth meat with a crispy skin was made even better by the fine, peppery bitterness of the chive sauce. This classy combination was even better when taken with the leeks. Looking almost like herring maki rolls, the taut, firm, dense and slippery leaves had a smoky bitterness that melded together with the chicken and the chive sauce to astonishing effect.

Oh my.

Freshwater and brackish fish appear to be popular German staples, so it was no surprise to find sturgeon on the menu at Nobelhart & Schmutzig. The fish was earthy, but not overpoweringly so, and was tender and delicate too having been cooked just so. The lip-smacking consomme-esque chicken stock added a smoky, meaty undertone while taut and slippery mushrooms emphasised the earthiness of the fish.

Then again, this is more or less Kreuzberg so I shouldn’t be surprised.

The kitchen clearly loves bitterness with the taste permeating the sorrel sorbet to an unpleasant degree. Bracingly cold, bitter and sour, it almost clouded the palate rather than cleansing it. The puddle of dill blossom soup had a medicinal boozy tang that was heavingly unpleasant, while the light meringue was far too prone to sogginess when taken with everything else as recommended. Ghastly, just ghastly.

Did I mention how ghastly this sorbet was?

A somewhat better, but still problematic dessert was the sour cherry granita. Unpleasantly crunchy and icy, even for a granita, it did have a cumulative sour cherry flavour which was brought to an abrupt, but not unpleasant end by the almond cream-like taste of the honey yeast cream. Chewing the sorrel leaves on top, as recommended by the dessert chef, had all the charm of accidentally eating citrus pith. And with that, my meal at Nobelhart & Schmutzig came to an abrupt end.

A sour note.

The Verdict

If everything at Nobelhart & Schmutzig had been as expertly balanced and superlatively scrumptious as the fennel and beetroot, the chicken and the sturgeon then the tasting menu here would’ve been one of the best meals of my life. Unfortunately, this holy trinity was bookended by some inconsistent but promising starter dishes and a pair of very unsatisfying desserts. There is a lot of incredibly promising potential at Nobelhart & Schmutzig – with refinement, it could be one of the best places to eat in Berlin. But it’s not there yet.

Name: Nobelhart & Schmutzig

Address: Friedrichstraße 218, 10969 Berlin – Kreuzberg

Phone: +49 30 259 4061 – 0

Web: http://www.nobelhartundschmutzig.com

Opening Hours: Tuesday-Saturday 18.30-22.30.

Reservations: highly recommended

Average cost for one person: €80 (£60 approx.) 

Rating: ★★★☆☆

This review of a Berlin eatery is a break from The Picky Glutton’s usual London-based coverage

Having American barbecue for lunch in Berlin may seem like a cop-out, but a lot of the restaurants that I would have otherwise visited in the German capital were frustrating closed for lunch – an annoying trend. Plus, and this may seem heretical, there’s only so much currywurst you can eat – especially if, like me, you’re not especially taken with that imbiss classic.

Big Stuff may be a street food stand, but it’s located in a converted covered market hall so it has conveniences such as protection from the elements, a bar, counter seating, toilets and of course plenty of neighbouring stalls to explore. The menu varies from day to day, but you can always try out a heaving platter of all their available meats for the low price of €16 (which is cheap by London standards). Ironically, Big Stuff closes by 20.00 on most of its trading days so if you want a Berlin barbecue supper then you’ll have to get there early.

That’s a lot of meat for €16/£11.

The pulled pork wasn’t smoky enough, but it did have a gently sweet bark while the swine flesh itself had touches of woodiness and saltiness. The interior was a touch on the dry side, but not disastrously so and at least the outer layers were reasonably moist. A good piggy effort overall.

Shoulder to lean on.

The beef short rib had been hewn off the bone in brisket-style slices, so they were therefore missing the connective tissue that gives this cut much of its visceral joy. While very moist and tender, it didn’t quite have enough smoky character. It was far from a complete loss though, especially with the occasional seam of fatty indulgence.

Deboning short rib better not turn into a trend.

I don’t often see pork belly on barbecue menus. Big Stuff’s version had an odd but pleasing bark. Although a bit tough, it also had a wavy, uneven texture and a sweetness that wasn’t overpowering. Although the meat underneath the bark could’ve done with a similar amount and quality of character, the layer of fat had been expertly rendered. It held together well in hand, but it oozed and melted on my tongue seductively once inside my mouth. Rarely have I had such exceptionally well rendered pork belly.

Belly of the beast.

Of the three sauces squired onto my grease proof paper, my favourite by far had to be the unusual and very umami hoisin-like sauce. The pickles on the side were merely okay and were more like gently brined cucumbers. The sauerkraut was disappointingly tame, while the bitter leaves and tender baby potatoes were pleasing enough. The surprise side had to be the pickled celery – its light crunch and natural sharpness were neatly enhanced by the sharp brine-y quality imparted by its pickling.

No beans?

The Verdict

This feels like a somewhat incomplete verdict given that I didn’t have the chance to try Big Stuff’s take on pork ribs (spare or baby back). Despite this, the misguided deboning of the beef short rib and other imperfections, what I did try was remarkably accomplished. Big Stuff is promising stuff.

Name: Big Stuff

Address: Markthalle Neun, Eisenbahnstrasse 42/43, 10997 Berlin-Kreuzberg

Phone: 0049 (0) 1636290413

Web: http://www.bigstuff.de/

Opening Hours: Tuesday-Wednesday and Friday-Saturday noon – 20.00; Thursday noon-22.00; occasionally trades on Sunday. May close earlier if sold out.

Reservations: N/A

Total cost for one person excluding soft drinks: €16 approx. 

Rating: ★★★☆☆

Another reason to stop being so pissy about Shoreditch

London’s restaurant scene doesn’t stand still with an unstoppable cycle of new restaurants replacing old ones. Sometimes it’s for the worse, as when Charlotte Street’s Rasa Samudra, a very civilised Indian seafood restaurant, was replaced with a branch of Côte. A bloody, sodding, unforgivable Côte. Sometimes though, the gods of progress smile upon us. Chico Bandito in Shoredicth was a Tex-Mex restaurant with all the appeal of skin rash. It’s been thankfully replaced by Oklava, a Turkish-Cypriot restaurant.

The Turkish/Turkish-Cypriot menu has been given a contemporary twist, but that shouldn’t dissuade you from eating at Oklava. Indeed, it’s a very good reason to eat here as it’s quite unlike any other Turkish restaurant or kebab salon you or I will ever have come across. If nothing else, the minimalist decor and welcoming, efficient staff make it a far cry from the chintz and brusqueness of many other Turkish restaurants.

First things first

Sucuk, or beef sausage, is a common staple in Turkish restaurants. Here it’s called pastirma, lightly charred and sliced into segments. Dense and coarse, it’s not that different from sucuk elsewhere. Plus I couldn’t help but be disappointed that it wasn’t Kayseri-style pastirma instead (a different and utterly joyous thing at its best). Still, you could do far worse as snacks go.

An oklava, in case you’re wondering, is apparently a Turkish rolling pin.

I was surprised to find a pide topped with octopus at Oklava. The soft but nonetheless evocatively salty and zingy octopus segments were best enjoyed on their own away from the rest of the pide as the other toppings tended to smother the octopus. The punchy capers and milky ricotta blended together beautifully on top of the pillowy soft dough and were perfectly good sans-octopus. Although I forgot to snap a photo, the accompanying side salad of leaves, pickles, red onions, hot peppers and more shouldn’t be ignored. Tart and refreshing, it’s a reminder of just how good salads can be.

All the pides come on these huge, impractical and unwieldy oven boards. An accident just waiting to happen.

I could’ve sworn Chico Bandito had more covers than Oklava now does.

Another intensely pleasurable, if somewhat disjointed seafood dish was the monkfish. The monkfish itself was firm and zingy fresh, but the accompaniments didn’t really suit it. The combination of an XO-style sauce, grapefruit and coriander were surprisingly complimentary with each other as the mild spice segued neatly into the sharp citrus, but it just didn’t compliment the monkfish.

Why isn’t there a nunfish?

There’s no doubting the crispy pomegrante-glazed lamb though. The unctuously fatty and earthy lamb meat was topped with wonderfully crisp skin. The seductive texture of the meat was neatly complimented by the light treacle-like sweetness of the pomegranate sauce. Although it wasn’t excessively rich, a hefty plop of thick and refreshing yoghurt was on hand anyway. If there’s one lamb dish that could ever topple kebabs from their place at the top of my affections, then it’s either this or the lamb ribs sometimes available at The Smoking Goat.

It doesn’t look like much, but my word.

After all those relatively heavy meaty mains, a refreshing dessert was definitely in order. The parfait was superb, but not in the way I expected. The custardy-creamy base was fluffy and airy with a light sweetness. Perched on top was a gently, expertly poached pear half and dolma-shaped fried doughnuts, but light and oil-free. All of this would have been delightful as is, but this dessert was taken to new heights by the pear-flavoured granita. Not only did it have the distinctive taste of pear, it had a remarkable texture which somehow segued from light iciness to bread-like chewiness. At the risk of overselling this dessert, I was left humbled and astonished.

You can take your molten chocolate whatevers and shove it.

Going back for seconds

Even if you’re a determined die-hard salad dodger, you’ll want to try the barley salad at Oklava. Although I couldn’t detect any of the promised sour cherry, the fluffy soft barley morsels did have an occasional honey-like sweetness which went well with the modestly creamy sheep’s cheese. The parched, wrinkly and fragile kale leaves won’t be to everyone’s taste though.

Nathan Barley wouldn’t eat here. And that’s a good thing.

A special mention has to go to the bread at Oklava. Or, more precisely, the spread that comes with your bread – medjool date butter. Its rich buttery syrupy sweetness is so good, it’s probably illegal in some jurisdictions.

Drool over medjool.

Pide and lamahcun are often described as ‘Turkish pizzas’ which is a crude analogy at best, but that description seems oddly apt in the case of Oklava’s beef short rib pide. The combination of umami tomato sauce and creamy yoghurt was oddly pizza-like – at least until the tingly, mildly spicy heat kicked in. It was a delicious combination, especially with the slices of tender, unctous and meaty short rib mixed in. The big disappointment here was the dough which was stodiger and crunchier than it was in the octopus pide. The other let down was the accompanying side salad. While consisting of the same components as the salad that accompanied the octopus pide, it was so heavily refrigerated that it was painfully cold to eat.

Babaji Pide eat your heart out.

The seftali could be classified as either a kebab or a sausage – either way, it’s worth killing for. The finely ground beef stuffed into a fatty caul covering had an airy, tenderly offal quality that was also satisfyingly meaty. The thin and soft lavash flatbread was perfect for conveying the seftali into my rapacious gob as they blended into the background, staying out of the meat’s way. The tart red onion salad topped with sumac was a refreshing accompaniment.

Caul me maybe.

The perfectly crisp crackling on top of the rice pudding creme brulee would make any Frenchmen proud, but the surprisingly shallow layer of rice pudding underneath was disappointing. The candied pineapple and lime pieces were surprisingly muted, as were the pistachio crumbs and rum jelly cubes. This dessert wasn’t too bad overall, but rice pudding is typically a comfort food and this version doesn’t have that warming dive in and gorge quality.

This puddin’ just didn’t rev me up.

Three is the magic number

Snaggletooth doesn’t usually need much persuading to assist me in trying out a restaurant, especially when there’s charred meat involved. He’s more than capable of appreciating a good salad or vegetable dish though and enjoyed the oddly-named ‘marinated and candied’ aubergine purée. Fleshy, umami and lightly tart pieces of eggplant were joined by a smooth baba ghanoush-style puree that had the vegetable’s distinctive taste but not the smokiness usually found in a good baba ghanoush. It was pleasing enough when taken with the accompaniments here though, from the bitter leaves to the crunchy almonds and dabs of lightly creamy yoghurt.

Today’s procrastination was brought to you by Lou Reed.

Although not a disguised egg and potato hash as I had first suspected, the baked lamb fat potatoes nonetheless felt very much like a breakfast dish – albeit a somewhat elaborate one. The dauphinoise-like layers of thinly sliced potato had a mildly meaty undertone, but slices of halloumi on top and the fried duck egg were both surprisingly tame. While the yolk was at least very runny, that couldn’t stop this dish from feeling very lacklustre.

There are dauphinoise-style potatoes under all of that, I swear.

Despite having lived within spitting distance of Green Lanes for years, Snaggletooth somehow never had a lahmacun. While the version here had a pitch perfect base, all crisp, charred and light, the toppings were wanting. The diced lamb lacked meatiness, the diced tomatoes weren’t umami enough and there wasn’t nearly enough parsley. Given all this, it was best used as a wrap around for the included side salad which, thankfully, wasn’t the overly refrigerated mess from my second visit but the crisp, tart and refreshing mix from my first.

Don’t call it a Turkish pizza.

Although the small heap of prawns were firm, fresh and reasonably zingy, the garlic and chilli sauce only had a very mild, cumulative heat at best and were thus a liability to these crustaceans rather than a boon.

Somewhere in the Mediterranean or southeast Asia is a far better version of this dish.

Things picked up on more obviously familiar Turkish territory. The smooth exterior of the lamb koftes gave way to reveal a coarse, finely minced, airy yet pleasingly meaty texture. The sliced kofte pieces were wrapped in the same high quality lavash that accompanied the seftali and stayed out of the meat’s way. The kofte was made even better by the creamy yoghurt and the lightly fruity and spicy sour cherry dressing.

Wrap star.

As good as the kofte was, it was promptly overshadowed by the lamb cutlets. Although not especially earthy, this was soon forgotten in light of the cutlets’ moist meatiness, the occasional fatty seam of connective tissue and the surprisingly fruity undertone.

Oh my.

Judge me by my size, do you?

A lot of chocolate desserts tend to be safe, boring, bland and lazily made, so I was pleasantly surprised by Oklava’s chocolate and cardamom delice. The smooth and dark flourless chocolate cake slice had a surprising smokiness that was neatly complimented by the syrupy prunes on the side. The wispy and distinctly flavoured bergamot cream and crisp cardamom wafer added neatly crafted contrasts in both taste and texture. Superb.

Chocolate worthy of the name.

Snaggletooth fared less well in his dessert choice – the reasonably moist pistachio sponge tasted only so-so. Far better were the rosemary-flecked filo wafers and the astonishingly smoky, sweet and sharp pieces of quivering quince. Given the presence of both pistachio and filo, this felt like an ultimately unsuccessful remix of a baklava. Just give me more of the quince.

Quince is prince.

The Verdict

I’d love to be able to say that Oklava is such a runaway, iconoclastic success that it overturns all our expectations and conceptions of what Turkish/Turkish-Cypriot cuisine is and can be. Unfortunately, that can’t be said while the best things on the menu are still very clearly the lamb and other meat dishes that hew closest to tradition. Even so, that’s a good problem to have – the meaty mains were expertly crafted. Plus there are glimpses of potential genre-shattering brilliance from the pides and the crispy pomegrante lamb to the parfait and the delice. All of this makes the occasional disappointing duffers easier to bear. Oklava isn’t yet the consistently well-executed barnstormer everyone else thinks it is – but it’s not far off. Go now, before it becomes even harder to get a table.

What to order: Monkfish; Pomegrante-glazed crispy lamb; Seftali; Kofte; Lamb cutlets; Delice; Parfait

What to skip: Rice pudding brûlée; Pistachio sponge

Name: Oklava

Address: 74 Luke Street, London EC2A 4PY

Phone: 020 7729 3032

Web: http://www.oklava.co.uk/

Opening Hours: Tuesday-Friday noon-15.00 and 17.30-23.00; Saturday 10.00-16.00 and 17.30-23.00; Sunday 11.00-16.00. Closed Monday. 

Reservations: essential for dinner; probably a good idea for lunch.

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service: £40-45 approx. 

Rating: ★★★★☆

Oxford Street has never had it so good

Although by no means the most incongruously positioned restaurant I’ve ever come across, Piquet is nonetheless oddly located. Wedged in-between a faceless office block and a hair salon, it sits opposite a building site and part of Oxford Street’s branch of PC World. Inside, though, is a seductively classy decor that’s a subtle blend of Art Deco, Art Nouveau, Gothic revival and other art terms I’m not really qualified to use.

The charmingly Gallic staff were friendly and efficient across all my visits and I was quite taken with their country squire-esque uniforms resplendent with autumnal colours, twill weaves and checked patterns. The menu is a mash-up of French and British, but the kitchen has avoided most of the hoary old brasserie classics from both sides of the Channel and instead serves up a litany of dishes that transcend their plain descriptions on paper.

First things first

‘Beef tea’ brings to mind Bovril, a concoction you either love or hate. Here it’s more of a clear, moreish consommé-style cockle warmer complimented neatly with unctuous meaty morsels of oxtail and nutty mushrooms.

Bowl-of-tea is much better than cup-a-soup.

It’s arguable that it doesn’t make a huge amount of difference what meat you use in rillettes, at least until you’ve had Piquet’s duck rillette. Meatily creamy with a smooth and dense mouthfeel, it’s both very pleasing and subtly different from the pork rillettes I’ve had. A special mention has to go to the small, sharp and slightly sweet silverskin onions and the tart cornichons on the side – no hunk of paté or rillette would be the same without them.

No quack doctors here.

I’m a big fan of sweetbreads and the portion here was surprisingly large. The voluminous pillowy hunk was very smooth and fatty – it was almost too rich. Its unctuousness was enhanced by the creamy, exceptionally smooth mash and buttery lettuce. The mushrooms provided excellent contrast with their richly complex flavours of slight sourness and nuttiness with liver-like hints. It’s spot-on winter food.

Glandular fever.

The smooth sorbet wasn’t inedibly icy, but was still very cool and had the distinctive sweet sour sharpness of apple which was matched by the complimentary blackberries. The yielding and not-too-sweet shortbread on the side was a tad out of place, but it was useful for scooping up rogue dollops of cream.

True to the fruit.

Going back for seconds

I’ve historically been against pies, but successive restaurants have been demonstrating how the baked puffy things should be done. First, the rabbit-filled pasty-esque beast at Paradise Garage and now the snail pithivier at Piquet. Although the chewy, gently earthy snails were surprisingly subdued and the moderately thick, creamy green filling unidentifiable, both were still enjoyable – especially when taken with the sharp and rich sauce on the plate. The fluffy soft and layered pastry was impressive and shouldn’t be overlooked either.

Roundhouse.

No, I can’t make the inside of the pie look any clearer or sharper. Sorry.

Piquet’s cod cheek casserole has a vaguely Spanish/North African feel to it, with the lightly unctuous and tender fish medallions melding well with the sticky meatiness of the chorizo-infused sauce and the firm, almost chickpea-esque white haricot beans. I couldn’t detect the alleged presence of baby squid, but the chopped herbs added extra fragrance and richness to this neo-cassoulet.

Cheeky Nando’s? Please.

Of all the desserts I tried at Piquet, the vanilla ice cream was the least satisfying. Although smooth and not too icy, its flavour was predictably muted. This did allow the distinctive sharpness of the blackberry compote to take centre stage though, while the buttery crunch of the tuile wafer bowl wasn’t the liability I thought it would be.

A proper bowl would still have been preferable for eating ice cream, but the wafer bowl was surprisingly good. And look! Three scoops!

Meaty threesome

I was expecting the pressed suckling pig to turn out like a brawn or head cheese, but the beautifully balanced and powerfully rich strip of pork was even better than that. Its joyfully meaty, salty and fatty qualities were enhanced by the rich and crumbly black pudding and thick, mildly sweet prunes on the side. Counteracting all this richness was a sharp and smooth cauliflower purée. This could well be one of my dishes of the year, if it wasn’t almost upstaged by the venison main below.

Hot off the presses.

Piquet’s sliced loin of venison was beautifully simple. Cooked rare, it had a musky sweetness and subtle nuttiness that I wasn’t expecting from such pink meat. The buttery soft chestnuts and sharp quince purée were both very well-executed, but ultimately overshadowed by the chunky and coarse part-dumpling, part-meatball faggot which elevated the venison to even giddier heights.

Tickled pink.

After such sublime meatiness, the dessert of chocolate and passion fruit custard was a disappointing crash back down to Earth. The mildly bittersweet chocolate mousse and moderately sweet and sharp passionfruit counterpart weren’t bad, but they just couldn’t hold my interest – not even when the layers were broken down and mixed together a little. The slightly peppery and honey-esque tuile on the side was just plain odd.

It was Uncle Custard in the drawing room with the letter opener.

Crunch time.

Fourth right

Don’t be disappointed when you order the crab ravioli and only get a single one. The large, lone raviolo is more of a dumpling and a mighty fine dumpling it was too. The skin faded into the background, allowing the crab filling to take centre stage. Devoid of crustacean texture, it was more like a fish ball but it still had the evocative salty tang of crab. It was made even more delicious by the umami slap of the diced tomato pieces and the thin, yet lightly moreish sauce. The only real disappointment here was the muted samphire, although its light crunch did at least provide some contrast in texture.

Singular achievement.

Although the ‘pot roast seabass’ sadly wasn’t served in an actual pot, it was nonetheless exceptionally pleasing thanks to the meaty, zingy fresh bass. The fish, which puts to shame other, far more mundane bass dishes from elsewhere, would’ve been more than sufficient on its own. It was nonetheless joined by taut, pleasingly sour mushrooms, creamy cauliflower and a moderately thick sauce that was surprisingly sticky and meaty, adding an extra, lip-smacking level of flavour to this already accomplished dish.

Piquet has a diverse clientele – beery twentysomethings, media luvvies, senior folk treating themselves and theatregoers.

After that pair of zingers, the almond tart was a big comedown. Despite the topping of large, flaked almond pieces, the tart didn’t taste much of almonds at all. It tasted more raisin-ish due to the fruity filling sandwiched inside. It wasn’t especially rich or satisfying, even with a dollop of whipped cream on the side, but was satisfactory enough.

I would say this dessert was disappointing, but almond desserts are hard to get right.

The Piquet bar menu

If you can’t get a table in the main basement dining room, or just want a quick bite and drink then there’s always the upstairs bar. With the possible exception of the mildly uncomfortable table and chairs, it’s hardly a consolation prize. The cosier, more moodily lit space feels more romantic and the bar menu has some unique dishes of its own, alongside a few favourites from downstairs.

The distinctive taste of the meaty mackerel went surprisingly well with the lightly earthy beetroot. Tinged with horseradish, the beetroot proved surprisingly effective at cutting through the relatively oily richness of the fish.

The bar is, naturally, much darker and more moodily lit than the dining room. Hence the iffier photos.

Thin slices of fennel sausage proved to be much like saucisson sec, but with the sensibly moderated taste of fennel cutting through the porky fattiness. A small helping of sharply dressed salad made me feel less guilty about devouring this much cured meat in one sitting.

Piquet is officially located at the southern extremities of Fitzrovia, seconds away from Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road.

If you need more greens, then the chicory salad would be a good choice. Lightly bitter leaves were joined by soft, but distinctively nutty walnut pieces and segments of musky sweet pear. I usually prefer my blue cheese bold and pungent, but the subdued blue used here was more appropriate as it blended in better with the other components to form a very satisfying salad.

The blue cheese used might have been a Fourme d’Ambert or Bleu d’Auvergne, but I’m not certain.

The exterior of the pork galette resembled a fish cake, but the filling was most definitely strands of moist porkiness. Accompanying this pork cake, for the lack of a better term, was a salad and a mayo-like sauce oddly flavoured with capers and chives that nonetheless complimented both meat and veg.

The bar is often very quiet. I wouldn’t be surprised if it gets converted into an extension of the main dining room if bar business doesn’t pick up.

As light desserts go, you can’t get much lighter than a few fruity cubes of citrusy sugary sweetness. The soft, dusted truffled chocolates were fine, but the real contrast to the pate de fruit cubes was the banana-like flavour of the dark, bittersweet cocoa nibs.

Lincoln logs.

The Piquet tasting menu

It’d be easy to assume that the kitchen would simply slap together some of the smaller dishes from the bar menu along with a bigger main from downstairs to form the tasting menu. Obviously, that wasn’t the case with the kitchen instead drawing together some of its biggest hits for its self-described ‘chef’s market menu’. Perhaps inevitably, not everything was quite as good as it was before – the duck rillettes were a little looser and wetter in consistency compared to the first time around. Although somewhat coarser in texture, it had also lost the mysteriously creamy unctuousness that had so beguilled me the first time around.

Amusingly, the rillettes were presented in a container with a canard-shaped porcelain lid – sadly out of shot.

Thankfully, the crab raviolo was just as good as it was before. The only difference in this iteration was the modestly saltier samphire, although it was still a tad too soft for my liking.

Samphire and brimstone.

It wasn’t all just repeats of dishes I had the good sense to order before, of course. The beetroot salad was a revelation. The differently coloured slices of beetroot had a gentle earthiness balanced out by a fruity sweetness that was unexpected, but nonetheless delightful. It might have all just been a placebo effect caused by the bright colours, but the tart dressing, bitter leaves, crunchy macademias and tangy pomegranate were all top class, without a doubt.

Not the the autumnal colours I was expecting.

I usually avoid salmon that’s not sushi or sashimi as it tends to be cooked to within an inch of its short life, rendering it stodgy, heavy and dull. That definitely wasn’t the case here – the gently flaky yet still meaty flesh was gently buttery and surprisingly light. The skin was crisp and evocatively salty, while the wrinkly kale, creamy cauliflower puree and thin moreish sauce kept things varied.

Today’s procrastination was brought to you by Star Wars.

It was back to familiar territory with the venison loin. Although the deer meat didn’t have quite the same depth of character as before, it was still of a higher order than most venison dishes. The faggot on the side was still sublime though – I could quite happily eat a whole bowl of the earthy, crumbly, meaty ball-shaped heart wreckers.

Royal crescent.

The bramley apple sorbet was still tremendously evocative of the original fruit with its cool, sharp sweetness slapping me awake from my encroaching post-meat slumber.

Apples don’t have to be boring.

I’m a firm believer in the overall supremacy of the French cheese pantheon, but there were homegrown delights to be had on Piquet’s mixed selection of British and French cheeses. First, the duffers. The unidentifiable French blue had a heavily muted chalky astringency that left me cold. The nameless French washed rind semi-soft cow’s milk cheese did a bad impression of a good brie, with the inoffensively creamy yellowish cheese outshone by a notably astringent rind.

Far better was the surprisingly milk and mild British goat’s cheese which had the kind of pleasingly astringent rind that I’d normally expect to find on a blue. The creamy, smelly, runny and slightly sour Stinking Bishop vied with the nutty and sweet aged Comte for top place, with the latter only losing out as it didn’t have the salty crunch of crystallised amino acids that, for me, is a mark of a truly exceptional Comte.

And to think that I almost decided not to eat at Piquet at all in the first place.

The Verdict

In a better world, every high street across the land would have their own Piquet. The classy decor and straightforward dishes resplendent with punchy flavours make Piquet one of my favourite restaurants in a city where’s no shortage of places to eat. Cote, and other substandard Gallic wannabes, can only hope, wish and dream to be as good as Piquet. The only things that give me pause for concern is the only occasional wobble in consistent execution and anxieties about how the currently autumnal and wintery menu will adapt to the warmer seasons. Still, that shouldn’t stop you from eating at Piquet. Of its comparable nearby competition, only the superlative Newman Arms is in the same league. Now go.

What to order: Sweetbreads; Apple sorbet; Pressed suckling pig; Venison loin; Crab raviolo; Pork galette

What to skip: A few of the cheeses and desserts.

Name: Piquet

Address: 92-94 Newman Street, London W1T 3EZ

Phone: 0203 826 4500

Web: http://piquet-restaurant.co.uk/

Opening Hours: Monday-Saturday noon – 15.00 and 17.30-23.00. Bar, Monday-Saturday 11.00-23.00. 

Reservations: highly recommended on or around weekends.

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service: £40 approx. (£60 approx. for the tasting menu) 

Rating: ★★★★☆

Skewered in east London

If you believe some of the more breathless reviews of Jirdori, then this Dalston restaurant is the first to serve yakitori in the capital. This, of course, is definitely not true. These grilled Japanese skewers can be found on the do-it-all menus of catch-all Japanese restaurants across the city, although there it’s often done poorly or, at best, in a mediocre fashion. Dedicated yakitori restaurants are a much rarer breed. A nameless and now closed downstairs dive restaurant on Goodge Street served up some of the best I’ve had in London, while the now defunct Woodstock just off Oxford Street had potential before going off the rails.

Jidori is located inside a former bridal wear store, but you wouldn’t know it from the stripped back, minimalist décor. Service was, for the most part, friendly and efficient although a little more polish would go a long way. If you’re going to close early on a slow evening, for example, then broadcasting that information via social media is not only the polite thing to do but a bloody necessity. Not everyone who loves yakitori lives and/or works in Dalston and few things piss me off more than an (almost) wasted journey.

First things first

There are plenty of non-yakitori dishes on Jidori’s small menu to keep you occupied while your skewers are freshly grilled to order. The fried chicken was free from excess oil and grease, but the soft, characterless batter and meagre meat underneath were unimpressive.

Fried chicken. Well, it fits with the grimy Dalston streets I suppose.

I’ve never been hugely fussed about udon (I’m more of a ramen and soba fan), but the thick wheat flour noodles here were splendidly soft and giving, finishing off with just the right amount of chewiness. The thin yet moreish broth and quivering, rich, just-cooked egg were worthy accompaniments.

Nudo.

The chicken broth with tofu doesn’t sound especially interesting on paper, especially if you have an irrational dislike of tofu. It’s definitely worth having though – the clear broth had a mint-like flavour courtesy of the shiso leaf but finishes with a clean aftertaste. The quivering, delicate tofu kept my palate clear for the meatiness to come.

Chicken soup.

You can, on occasion, face a long wait for the skewers when the grill is backed up with orders. Once they land on your table though, you can feel the heat and sizzle of the grill emanating from the meat. Not all yakitori are created equal however. The tender meat and taut skin of the chicken wings was enhanced with a light moreishness and a squirt of lemon juice. In comparison, the ultimately forgettably generic chicken thigh chunks lacked the quivering tenderness they should’ve had.

Wing it.

Stroke my thighs.

Far more impressive than either of those two chicken yakitori, were the hearts and bacon. The fatty bacon cubes and kidney-like texture and offaly flavour of the heart segments blended together very well for a double meaty punch.

Put your heart into it.

Somewhat ironically for a yakitori joint, the highlight of my first meal at Jidori wasn’t a skewer of meat but the dessert. The smooth ice cream had a mild but distinctive flavour of ginger which went beautifully with the tangy viscosity of the miso caramel and the nuttiness of the black sesame seeds splayed on top. The distinct sweetness of the sweet potato crisps added some variation in texture and were very pleasing in their own right. An exceptionally good dessert.

Surprise food snog.

Going back for seconds

The katsu curry scotch egg was sadly not a scotch egg with katsu curry on the inside, but a scotch egg with katsu curry sauce on the side for dipping. The reasonably crisp breaded shell gave way to reveal a surprisingly meagre layer of so-so meat. Although the yolk was suitably runny, it wasn’t especially rich making the authentically sweet, modestly spiced sauce a much need respite from the crushing boredom of it all.

Is it even possible to make a scotch egg with katsu curry on the inside?

There are couple of vegetarian yakitori options available. Fleshy and very mildly smoky chunks of aubergine had a cumulatively creamy umami hit, courtesy of miso butter, that lingered on the tongue for a surprisingly lengthy amount of time. Not that I’m complaining about that, not at all.

Just as good were the firm and lightly buttery segments of oyster mushroom, with crisp and refreshing bits of chopped spring onion adding some variation in texture.

Everything tastes better with butter.

The world is your oyster mushroom.

Breast meat may make up the majority of edible chicken flesh, but it’s also the dullest part of what is already the inoffensive protein source of choice for children and invalids. The breast meat was firm, somewhat moist and would’ve been snooze-inducing if it wasn’t for the tangy, mildly citrusy garnish that I couldn’t place.

I’m a leg rather than a breast person. Pfnarr.

Minced chicken and egg yolk sounds like an abattoir mishap, but these meaty chicken mini-koftes were one of the best yakitori at Jidori. The little poultry pillows were complimented perfectly by a runny yolk served in a delicately sweet sauce of mirin and soy.

Mini chicken kebabs. Fittingly Dalston.

Yaki onigiri turned out to be clumpy, somewhat stodgy fried rice balls. The real star here wasn’t the rice, but the umami slithers of seaweed.

You could play dodgeball with these hard little bastards.

Jidori must have a bulk discount on eggs. The onsen egg was rich yet light and cooked just so. The sprinkling of togarashi spice mix added only a very mildly nutty and peppery undertone. The sweet sharpness of the tare sauce was much more intriguing, delightful and memorable, neatly washing the egg down.

What got bought in bulk first – the eggs or the chickens?

The singular dessert of ginger ice cream, miso caramel, sweet potato crisps and black sesame seeds was just as startlingly brilliant as it was before.

You’re coming home with me.

The Verdict

In a better, more flexible version of London’s dining scene, you could start off your evening at Jidori with some minced chicken and egg yolk, some hearts and bacon and the ginger ice cream before moving on elsewhere tapas-style. That really would be the best way to sample Jidori’s best dishes, as there isn’t quite enough good stuff here to make up a proper meal (unless it’s a very light one) filling your stomach and justify the relatively high cost of £30-40 a head for doing so. Still, hopefully Jidori is just the start of London’s yakitori scene being reborn.

What to order: Hearts and bacon; Minced chicken and yolk; Aubergine and miso butter; Udon; Chicken broth; Onsen egg; Ginger ice cream

What to skip: Chicken breast; Katsu curry scotch egg; Fried chicken

Name: Jidori

Address: 89 Kingsland High Street, Dalston, London E8 2PB

Phone: 0207 686 5634

Web: http://www.jidori.co.uk/

Opening Hours: Monday-Thursday 18.00-23.00 and Friday-Saturday 18.00-midnight. Closed Sunday.

Reservations: not taken

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service charge: £30-40 approx. 

Rating: ★★★☆☆

What a year it’s been

Ah 2015, I barely knew you. It’s been one hell of a year for dining out in London with a bevy of new and interesting restaurants opening in the capital. I usually end the old year and usher in the new with a look back at the restaurants that you, the readers, have been most interested in. This has been based on statistics showing which reviews you’ve read the most and which restaurant website links you’ve ended up clicking on (which I take as a sign of interest and a probable eventual visit).

Except this year, those statistics have been a bit boring and predictable. Ramen, barbecue and bao are more popular than ever. There’s nothing wrong with any of that of course, but it’s telling you something you, in all likelihood, know already. That’s also why I don’t bother with simply listing my favourite restaurants of the past year – my reviews are already tagged and categorised so you can find that out for yourself easily enough from my homepage.

All that preamble explains why I’ve decided instead to look back at the best dishes of the past year. These aren’t just my personal favourites, the dishes I could eat forever on a desert island or as part of my last meal on death row. These are the dishes that are so exceptional, I think they represent the very best that London has to offer and which you can try yourself.

That last criteria explains why this retrospective is so short – the city-wide move towards seasonal ingredients means that some truly wonderful dishes just aren’t available at the time of writing. They get an honourable mention instead – the kitchens that produced them still deserve your custom and time. Quality trumps quantity in my book anyway.

It’s worth bearing in mind that ingredients can vary and kitchens can have bad days, so your experience of these dishes may not exactly match my own – especially if I’ve managed to unfortunately overinflate your expectations. Additionally, if I’ve missed out on your favourite then remember it’s not an attack on your character, your mother or your religion. My opinion differs from yours and that’s fine, so let’s all try and be civil when Commenting, emailing or tweeting.

Right, let’s get on with it.

Honourable mentions

Chicken and the sturgeon at Nobelhart & Schmutzig

This honourable mention is a cheat as Nobelhart & Schmutzig is a Berlin fine dining restaurant (or fine casual, if you must). But if you still haven’t visited booming Berlin, then this restaurant’s methodical approach to seasonal, local ingredients is a good reason to do so. Although the beginning and end of the tasting menu I tried was flawed, a duo of meaty dishes at the heart of it proved to be exceptional. Chicken with leeks followed by sturgeon with mushrooms in consomme might not sound exceptional on paper, but these two dishes show the fireworks that can result when you pair well-sourced meat with high quality, exceedingly complimentary accompaniments.

Oh my.

Then again, this is more or less Kreuzberg so I shouldn’t be surprised.

Lamb and the turbot with baby fennel at The Newman Arms

Chris Pople of Cheese and Biscuits chose The Newman Arms as his restaurant of the year, and justifiably so. The upstairs kitchen of this relaunched gastropub shows just what can be done with seasonal ingredients sourced from one of Britain’s most bountiful regions. Exquisite lamb redefined my very understanding of this meat, while superlative turbot paired with fresh baby fennel threw down the gauntlet to every other lazy interpretation of this wonderful fish.

Slamb lamb, thank you ma’am.

Turbo turbot.

Venison loin at Piquet

Piquet will turn up later in this retrospective which should give you an idea of just how highly I regard this French restaurant. The venison loin is still available, but it varied enough across two different meals that I couldn’t quite bring myself to include it amongst the very best. Even when it’s not quite right though, it’s still very good indeed – beautiful deer meat, a fun and filling faggot and expertly cooked quince and chestnuts make this dish the perfect choice for a cold autumn or winter’s evening.

Royal crescent.

Rabbit pie at Paradise Garage

This is an odd one, as the rabbit pie at the wonderful Paradise Garage is actually part of a dish, the rabbit picnic for two, rather than a self-contained dish in of itself. The middling rabbit saddle and other components are the reasons the picnic is relegated to honourable mention status, but the pie. Oh the pie. It was so unnaturally good that it’s worth ordering the picnic anyway just to have it. It’s a pie that disspelled my long held distrust of pies. Pie, pie, pie.

Ah carrots, we meet at last.

The best

Ginger ice cream at Jidori

It is indeed ironic that the one truly superlative dish at this Dalston yakitori restaurant isn’t a skewer of meat, but a dessert. But what a dessert. Ginger ice cream, miso caramel, sweet potato crisps and black sesame seeds were masterfully combined into an eclectic, eccentric and truly excellent end-of-meal treat.

Surprise food snog.

Crispy pomegranate glazed lamb and the pear parfait at Oklava

Although the crispy pomegranate glazed lamb at Oklava isn’t the most picturesque of dishes, it’s amply rewarding if you can get past such superficialities. A sublime neo-Turkish concoction of textures and flavours makes this one of the best lamb dishes I’ve ever enjoyed. It’s the chef’s signature dish for a reason. A similar sensibility for blending touch and taste elevated the pear parfait to new heights, making this dessert one of the few I’d choose over a plate of expertly baked baklava. And I love baklava in a passionately unhealthy way.

It doesn’t look like much, but my word.

You can take your molten chocolate whatevers and shove it.

Curry goat tsukemen at Nanban

Although my experiences at Nanban were middling overall, this wouldn’t have been the case if every dish had been as superb as the curry goat tsukemen. Well-garnished, top-notch ramen noodles with an unconventional curry goat dipping sauce was not only delightful in its own right, but shows that fusion food doesn’t have to be daft and that excellence isn’t just the preserve of modernist techniques and expensive ingredients.

Roti? Where we’re going, we don’t need roti.

Big dipper.

Veal sweetbreads and the pressed suckling pig at Piquet

You may be tired of my eternal fondness for Piquet, but this restaurant really is worth your time. The almost excessively rich veal sweetbreads reinforced my love of offal, while the pressed suckling pig is a masterclass in the porcine arts. Vive la France!

Glandular fever.

Hot off the presses.

Pig cheek, scallop and chilli at Black Axe Mangal

It would be a mistake to buy into this restaurant’s PR that it’s a kebab restaurant, as that could blind you into ignoring some of the smaller, yet more profoundly delicious non-kebab dishes on its small menu. The starter of pig cheek, scallop and chilli is prone to variation depending on ingredient availability and kitchen whim, but it’s so provocatively delicious in all its forms that I’m moved to do dirty, dirty things to the bearded genius in the kitchen responsible for it.

Pork end.

Venison tartare at Paradise Garage

I’ve yet to find a really good beef steak tartare in London, but perhaps I don’t need to given the wonderful venison tartare at Paradise Garage. A small dish of immense flavour, mixing raw and preserved ingredients to exceptional effect. Venison and egg. May the two never be parted ever again.

Oh my.

Olive oil pão de ló at Taberna do Mercado

Every easily-impressed chump with an Instagram account has been bowled over by the pork fat-based abade de priscos dessert at this Portuguese haven in the City. While it is a good dessert, it doesn’t hold a candle to the really postres superstar here – the olive oil and egg yolk sponge cake. It’s a sumptuous treat for two that’s more than the sum of its parts, better than its curiously pedestrian description on paper. In the words of my original review, ‘If I drowned face down in this stuff, it would be an undignified but nonetheless orgasmically satisfying way to shuffle off this mortal coil.’ I couldn’t have put it better myself.

–  The Picky Glutton

Apparently designed for two, I could’ve easily eaten the whole thing myself – even if this much protein, sugar and fat would’ve killed me.

Fitzrovia French falls forwards

While there’s hardly a shortage of expensive fine dining restaurants in London, there has still nonetheless been a general shift away from pricey, starched table cloth restaurants towards less costly, more informal eateries. In most cases, big name chefs and restaurant groups have been content to merely launch spin-offs, such as Dabbous and its corrugated iron cousin Barnyard. Some chefs, however, are willing to go all in. Jun Tanaka used to cook at the glossy and expensive Pearl in Holborn, but is now heading up the more approachable The Ninth in Fitzrovia just two doors down from Barnyard.

The Ninth is, of course, hardly ramshackle. Although the exposed brick walls are cliched, its warm, inviting, moodily lit interior has became a favourite for dating couples. The friendly service can slow down and become less efficient when grappling with particularly busy evenings, although hopefully this will improve.

Not quite Cloud Nine, but it’ll do.

The menu is ostensibly French/French Mediterranean, but it’s geographically nomadic and experimental enough to be classified as Eclectic if you’re insistent on pigeonholing.

First things first

An example of this geographically indistinct approach can be seen in the rabbit confit lasagna. The thin, delicately creamy layers of bechamel was far better than the generically gooey stuff you get in lesser lasagnas. The tomato puree served in a puddle at the bottom was pleasingly umami, but the mince filling in between the sheets of bechamel was more problematic. Although pleasing enough, the finely ground mince could’ve been chicken or any other meat. Rabbit, confit or not, is all about the texture which makes this dish feel like an unfulfilled promise at best.

Down the rabbit hole…

The thin slices of cured pork belly had a woodiness that was emphasised by the woody pecorino shavings and slightly tart dressing.

Belly rubs.

Roast plaice with chicken wings isn’t a a typo, but an actual dish. The flaky fish was pleasingly buttery, but needlessly joined by weak capers, sharp shallots and a passing hint of fennel. Even less complimentary was the chicken wing meat served off the bone. Although the chicken meat was fine on its own terms, it was very out of place when taken with the plaice. It’s as if its incongruous placement here is some sort of unnecessary in-joke that I’m not privy too.

Not quite taking flight.

Steaming hot potatoes cocotte needed a little more resting time, but they were nonetheless fluffy on the inside and reasonably crisp on the outside. It was especially pleasing when taken with punchy bulbs of confit garlic.

Cuddled potatoes.

Mildly astringent blue d’auvergne and moderately fruity taleggio were both fine members of the cheese plate, but were overshadowed by the grassiness and pure after taste of the semi-soft Beaufort Chalet d’Alpage. Even more superlative was the firm Sainte-Maure de Touraine goat’s cheese which started off with a mild earthiness and ended with a milky curd-like finish.

You’re crackers if you need crackers.

Soft touch.

Going back for seconds

If there’s one dish that symbolises the ascendancy of casual over formal dining, then it’s the humble scotch egg. Previously consigned to pubs and supermarket shelves, it’s an increasingly common sight on restaurant tables with chefs trying to stamp their personality on these unassuming spheres. The version at The Ninth had an uneven coating – it was too soft and oily in some places, too hard and crunchy in others. I wasn’t expecting much from the meagre layer of duck meat, so I was surprised by its earthy muskiness. It meshed well with the runny yolk. Although only mildly rich, the yolk was bolstered by a hint of salt. Overall, it’s not a bad Scotch egg but it’s in need of a lot more finesse.

Act casual. Not that casual.

Restaurants really need to stop making dreadful ceviche. The kitchen here insisted on dicing razor clams into small, mushy pieces and bathing them in lemon juice. This embarrassment was a major misstep given that texture is what really makes razor clams so enjoyable. It’s a damning sign when the crisp, chopped vegetables were both more interesting and more edible.

No. Just no.

The king prawn macaroni, on the other hand, was surprisingly good. Firm, zingy and gently browned prawns were served on a bed of small and soft pasta shells bathed in a thin sauce. It nonetheless had the punchy taste of chives and was subtly spiced with ginger. The depth of flavour and contrasting textures made this dish a pleasure to behold.

Macaroni. Not the Macarena.

Although billed as a spiced cod, the fillet of fish was more gently moreish and occasionally mustard-like. The accompaniment of plump and meaty mussels were zingy fresh, but weren’t especially complimentary. The cauliflower florets didn’t add much, but this fish dish was still pleasing enough, if not especially memorable.

The Ninth what?

The pain perdu needed more resting time. The pain perdu was scorchingly hot, while the accompanying vanilla ice cream was bracingly cold. Once settled, the former was very fluffy while the latter was smooth and creamy, but also bland. The crunchy honeycomb added some sweet viscousness once mellowed and melted in your mouth, but these three disparate elements never really came together.

Missing the magic.

Pain.

Meaty threesome

My experiences thus far at The Ninth had, on the whole, been generally underwhelming. This wouldn’t have been the case if everything had been as memorable as the tortellini. Supple skins filled with dense and meaty strands of veal were made even better by the rich, meaty, lip-smackingly umami consommé. Outstanding.

Veal of approval.

Pickled mussels were firm, but only mildly tart. They were served in a thin, sticky sauce that had a very mild taste of paprika and topped with moderately meaty morsels of chorizo. Although not bad, the tame mussels might as well have been fresh rather than pickled.

Pickled but not tickled.

Small slices of duck breast had been gently smoked and were tender, meaty and occasionally fatty. The braised chicory layered on top had an odd but pleasing syrupy sweetness, while the walnuts were lightly crunchy. The root veg puree was sweet and tart. Each individual component was great, but it never come together as coherent, complimentary whole.

Meat and two veg.

Although a side dish of artichoke and truffle fricassee didn’t have the aroma I’d expect from a truffled dish, it did have a sticky, earthy richness that enhanced the tender artichoke segments and silver skin onions. Disappointingly though, the onions tended to outnumber the artichokes – an unexpected and unwelcome cost-cutting measure.

Artichokes. Missing in action.

While light and fluffy, the large heap of plain madeleines felt more like a supersized petit fours than a proper dessert.

Petit tens.

Go Fourth and multiply

Milky and elastic buffalo mozzarella is always a pleasure to behold – even more so when it’s joined by gently sweet and earthy beetroot as well as soft, distinctly flavoured walnuts.

The resurgence of beetroot.

The sashimi-esque slices of mackerel had been given a lick of fire which emphasised the distinctive flavour of this oily fish. Sprigs of dill and mildly tart bits of cucumber helped cut through the oily richness of the fish. The capers were surprisingly muted, but this was probably for the best – they could’ve overwhelmed the mackerel otherwise.

Flame on.

The slices of pork belly were just as woody as the first time around, but were now slightly thicker and more fatty too. This unctuousness contrasted neatly with the tartness of the apple dressing, while nutty pecorino complimented the pork’s woodiness. Spot on.

Belly rubs, take two.

The salted beef cheeks were highly reminiscent of the meat in a Brick Lane salt beef bagel, but wetter. The tender and unctuous slabs of cheek were even better when taken with charred cabbage and slurps of lip-smackingly moreish consommé.

Slap my cheeks.

‘Beetroot tarte tatin’ sounds like a jumbled mistake, but this savoury tart was a surprising success. The somewhat chewy but nonetheless buttery pastry was filled with gently sweet and earthy slices of beetroot. The crumbs of feta got lost in the mix, but the pine nuts added a pleasingly distinctive nutty finish.

Savoury tarte tatin.

The caramelised lemon tart was unsurprisingly reminiscent of key lime pie. The searingly tart lemon filling was matched by the almost equally sharp lemon and thyme fromage frais. This lip-pursing combination won’t suit everyone, but I loved the citrusy tang.

Sour-faced tart.

The Verdict

While there were very few unremittingly awful dishes at The Ninth, my experiences were still not overwhelming positive. The kitchen’s often subtle and understated style, punctuated occasionally by bold bursts of flavour and texture, might work in a multi-course tasting menu. But they feel dull and unsatisfying in an a la carte menu where consistently bold and punchy dishes work better. There’s plenty of potential at The Ninth with some good dishes to be teased out of the menu, but this feels like hard work when compared to another nearby French restaurant – the consistently and satisfyingly brilliant Piquet. When faced with such sterling competition, it’s really no contest at all.

What to order: Pork belly slices; King prawn macaroni; Tortellini; Mozzarella and beetroot; Flamed mackerel; Salted beef cheeks; Beetroot tarte tatin; Lemon tart

What to skip: Razor clam ceviche

Name: The Ninth

Address: 22 Charlotte Street, Fitzrovia, London W1T 2NB

Phone: 020 3019 0880

Web: http://theninthlondon.com/

Opening Hours: Monday–Saturday noon-14:30 and 17.30-22.30. Closed Sunday and Bank Holidays.

Reservations: highly recommended

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service charge: £50 approx. 

Rating: ★★★☆☆

Glossy, pretty and oh so vacant

Tourist guide books often note that London no longer has a high-rise rotating tower restaurant like Berlin’s TV Tower or Toronto’s CN Tower. While thankfully true, this doesn’t mean London is short of skyscraper restaurants – far from it. There are plenty of places where you’re paying more for the view then you are for the food. Sushisamba lies just one floor below Duck and Waffle in the City’s Heron Tower, but couldn’t be more different. As if the panoramic views of the capital weren’t enough, the main dining room has a vaulted ceiling quite unlike any other, while an incandescent tree lights up the drinking balcony.

I can see my arch-enemy’s house from here.

Orange tree.

Insert appropriately witty Tokyo Sky Tree gag here. Oh wait, I can’t think of one.

Sushisamba’s charms then start to slowly seep away, like dirty bath water down the drain. The multi-level bar, where you can eat at the counter, feels like a claustrophobic ocean liner despite the high ceilings. The braying clientele of city boys, wannabe city boys and Sloane rangers off the reservation, all in varying states of drunken dry-humping, not only explains the deafening noise but is also probably the cause of the haunted glassy-eyed look of hollowed-out resignation in the staff. Most of the ones I spoke to responded to my queries with monosyllabic grunts or with thinly-veiled brusqueness.

Up in the rafters.

Lightning tower.

Dining as part of a large group, I nonetheless tried to keep an open mind amidst all this socioeconomic carnage. But being subjected to the Shoji set menu tested my patience, even when bearing in mind Sushisamba’s stated objective of blending Japanese, Peruvian and Brazilian cuisine. Things started off with sensibly salted edamame and roasted corn nuts which tasted like a cross between popcorn and peanuts.

Today’s procrastination was brought to you, in part, by the Star Wars boxset (the good one, obviously).

Nut job.

There was some creamy, tender beef in the wagyu taquitos, but it was hard to make them out. Not only because of their small bittiness, but also because the wagyu was buried underneath an avalanche of avocado mush and spiced mayo. As if that wasn’t enough of a distraction, the crispy taco shells obscured the beef even further. Pointless.

‘Casual elegance’ my arse.

It was a similar story with the tuna where the fish had been smothered into anonymity the kimchi-like sauce, a pointless foam and a whole heap of other ingredients including wasabi peas, pomegranate and corn nuts. If less is more, then all this overwrought complexity counts for nothing.

Why? Why would you do this? *sighs*

Deep-fried salt cod balls were much better. An oil-free exterior hid a dense, meaty and lightly salted but distinctively fishy interior.

Not actually cod testicles, so don’t worry.

I’ve never seen the appeal of teriyaki and the version here didn’t change my opinion of it. Mildly moist and tender slices of poultry (allegedly poussin) had a generically sugary sweet glaze that will appeal only if you have the sensibilities and discretion of a child with a Wagamama’s loyalty card.

There was a moderately creamy and zesty mayo on the side for some reason.

Although the lime and ponzu glaze was entirely inconsequential, large fillets of hamachi were still pleasing thanks to the fresh, meaty flesh.

Fish out of water.

Thankfully, this isn’t one of those joints with annoyingly pushy toilet attendants. You can do your business in peace.

Tender, fatty and charred rib eye steak was, for some reason, accompanied by rather tame slices of chorizo that was only modestly fatty and spiced. Scattered alongside were tender but otherwise unremarkable slices of wagyu beef.

Wagyu. Always overcompensating with the wagyu. It’s the restaurant equivalent of a red Ferrari with a bimbo in the passenger seat.

Served alongside the platter of meat was some sticky and sweet coconut rice as well as some oddly firm, chewy and extra large corn kernels which were far more enjoyable than many of the other dishes served thus far.

Some of my photo captions are intentionally corn-y.

The surprisingly limp salmon nigiri and boiled, butterfly prawn nigiri weren’t bothering with. This made the citrusy undertone to the tender white flesh of the yellowtail nigiri (almost certainly of the same hamachi breed as the grilled fillet of fish above) all the more welcome.

No, I didn’t eat all of it. This is group dining, remember.

Wrong.

Ruined.

Knight in glistening armour.

The Ezo futomaki rolls allegedly combined soy-marinated salmon, asparagus, sesame, chives, tempura crunch, soy paper and wasabi mayonnaise. So many ingredients to so little effect. Moderately less forgettable were the similar Tokyo Sky Tree tuna-based futomaki rolls. The mild crunchiness imparted by tempura flakes and crumbs maintained a minimum level of appeal.

A mere trifle.

Atkins-esque.

In comparison to the panoply of savoury dishes, there was just one dessert. The modestly flavoured passion fruit cake was nonetheless pleasurable thanks to its light fluffiness which contrasted neatly with the sharpness of the raspberry sorbet and the distinct coconut flavour of the tuile. The only downers on this plate was the muted white chocolate and green tea ganaches.

‘Plating fees for outside cakes are £7 per person.’ Obnoxious idiocy.

The Verdict

Nothing I say will dent the popularity of Sushisamba. If you’re heavily minded to scale a skyscraper just for the view despite the thinly-disguised gimmick food, then chances are you’re a lost cause as it is. I was always prepared for the appeal and value of Sushisamba to be limited to the view and decor, but I was still taken aback by just how scattershot the £70 Shoji menu was. There are some good dishes in there, but at this price you can do so much better in London. You’d better really, really want to see the bright lights of London from up above to put up with such cynical money-grabbing mediocrity.

Name: Sushisamba

Address: 110 Bishopsgate (aka Heron Tower or Salesforce Tower) London, EC2N 4AY

Phone: 0203 640 7330

Web: https://sushisamba.com/location/london

Opening Hours: Sunday-Monday 11.30-01.30 and Tuesday-Saturday 11.30-02.00

Reservations: essential

Total cost for one person including soft drinks: £85 approx.

Rating: ★★☆☆☆

This review of a Mexico City restaurant is a break from The Picky Glutton’s usual London-based coverage

Biko is a glossy and sleek fine dining restaurant decked out in refined and soothing shades of beige and brown. It really could be anywhere in the world, but what it lacks in aesthetic distinctiveness it more than makes up for in service and food. The staff, whether Spanish or English speaking, were unfailingly polite and efficient. The modernist and ever-changing tasting menu purportedly combines Basque and Mexican influences. What is certain is that the kitchen definitely knows what it’s doing.

Shadows of light.

The amuse bouche of a yielding but anonymous vegetable slice in a forgettable sauce was a poor start, but things immediately picked up afterwards with the gazpacho. Mildly reminiscent of a ceviche, buttery slices of fish gradually took on a fruity quality as I made my way through the zesty soup served at room temperature.

I forgot to take a photo of the amuse bouche. No big loss really.

An earthy yet light and smooth mushroom patty in scallop sauce conveyed a mild but nonetheless evocative seaside quality. The gentle salty tang of the scallop sauce was particularly interesting, bringing to mind traditional Chinese congee.

If you’re going to insist on using a mushroom as the heart of a vegetarian burger, then make it as good as this bastard here.

I was left unmoved by the baby artichokes, but the artichoke cream they came in was a different story. Its mild flavour was enhanced and complimented by peanuts, small yet crisp seeds and crisp, lightly zesty nastirtium leaves to lip-smacking effect.

Today’s procrastination was brought to you, in part, by DMX and Hadouken.

A chunk of sea bream came coated in a thin layer of squid ‘skin’ that failed to leave much of an impression. Far better was the powerfully umami squid sauce which complimented and enhanced the natural zing of the fish immensely.

Skin job.

A dense hunk of venison cooked rare had a lightly nutty and fruity character that was made stronger with a curious sauce that segued from roasted chestnuts to roasted apple. The garnish of pomegranate added little, but it didn’t spoil a superb meaty main.

An odd meat-ing.

There’s nothing wrong with old-fashioned strawberries topped with cream, but Biko’s deconstructed and rebuilt version had unique, sensuous charms all its own. A light cream had the evocative scent of fresh strawberries. Underneath it were torn chunks of lightly chewy bread blessed with the taste of almonds, while a dash of what I’m pretty sure were goji berries added a bold and sharp dollop of extra sweetness. Truly excellent.

It’s not often I get to take these face-down shots.

Bowl food.

The second and final dessert was an unusual and multilayered one – an exemplar of the kitchen’s ability to combined multiple ingredients to delightful effect. A fragile wafer came doused in chocolate, almond milk, coffee and amaranth. Although the chocolate was buried in the odd coffee flavour you only ever get in desserts and not actual coffee, this flaw mattered little in the end. The sweet milkiness of the other components and the crispness of the wafer and amaranth made this dessert resemble a muesli – a surprisingly filling and multifaceted muesli.

Definitely not Alpen.

Mix it up.

The Verdict

Although not flawless, Biko’s startlingly brilliant cooking and slick service make this restaurant a must if you’re in Mexico City.

Name: Biko

Address: Presidente Masaryk 407, Colonia Reforma Polanco, Delegación Miguel Hidalgo, CP 11550, Ciudad de México

Phone: 0052 55 5282 2064

Web: http://www.biko.com.mx/ (Spanish only)

Opening Hours: Monday-Saturday 13.30 – 16.30 and 20.00-22.30. Closed Sundays. 

Reservations: essential

Average cost for one person excluding soft drinks and tip: MXN 1000 (£40 approx.) 

Rating: ★★★★☆

Tiny City Indian shows us the money

The City is the last place I’d expect to find a small and characterful restaurant tucked away on a small lane, but that’s exactly what I found in Gunpowder. This narrow Indian restaurant just has space for around two dozen covers – be prepared to hear every detail of your neighbour’s conversations, whether you want to or not.

The cramped conditions are worth putting up with with though. Before we even get to the small and quirky Indian dishes, there’s the chatty, friendly and informative service which actually seems to care whether you’re having a good time or not. It sounds like a small thing, but London’s hospitality industry can be surprisingly inhospitable at times.

First things first

A venison and vermicelli doughnut sounds like a prank or the subject of a grotesque eating competition, but it’s really just a fancy spherical meat pie in the scotch egg tradition. The incredibly thin and crispy shell wasn’t at all oily and was clearly made up of little vermicelli noodle strands. It was so lovely, the venison mince inside inevitably couldn’t live up to the opening act. Although reasonably dense, it was a tad dry and characterless and thus dependent on the fruity dipping sauce for flavour.

It’s not really a doughnut.

Venison and vermicelli verisimilitude.

The pulled duck also failed to live up to its meaty billing. Although not mushy, the meat was still too soft to leave much of an impression. It was still enjoyable enough though thanks to the gently fruity sauce and the bread it all came wrapped in – a slightly sour, thin and spongy flatbread akin to Ethiopian/Eritrean injera.

I eat a lot of sandwiches.

Why does every meat have to be pulled these days? Stop jumping on bandwagons.

The saag paneer might be very familiar, but its smooth and satisfying execution was a step above your average curry house. Firm and milky cubes of paneer with a hint of squidge served amid a sea of creamy fresh spinach. Homely and warming but certainly not lazy cooking.

You can have rice if you want. But that would leave less room for more paneer.

The apple and fig crumble was allegedly baked in a tandoor oven, but it was a rather tame affair with mildly tart apple, and mostly apple with little fig in evidence, topped with a loose-grained muesli-esque topping. Far, far better was the banana curry leaf ice cream – the sharp sweet tang of the fruit combined with a distinctive and aromatic spiced edge. Sod the crumble, just give me more of this ice cream.

If you can’t use curry leaf at least as good as it was used here, then you’ve lost already.

Going back for seconds

I love some good wordplay and some bad, cheesy wordplay too. The rasam ke bomb stays on just the right side of good. Shaped like a stereotypical spherical cartoon bomb, this light dosa-esque crisp with filled with light and fluffy lentils. It really has to be taken with the accompany consomme though. The gently spiced mustardishness of the broth greatly enhanced the crisp filling, bring out a mild mintiness and other herby hints. It’s a delightful combination and an unexpected one too given the inconsistent nature of my first meal at Gunpowder.

Bob-omb.

Globular goodness.

Nearby stalwart Tayyabs is famed for its lamb chops (and rightly so, even if their reputation is inevitably overrated). While literally lacking in the sizzle and smoke razzle dazzle of Tayyab’s lamb chops, Gunpowder’s chops are arguably just as good if not better. The gently crisp and yielding crust admittedly gives way to reveal some merely competent meat, but it’s the wet rub that’s the star here – mustardy and peppery with a gently sweet aroma. A real class act.

Rub my chops.

Soft shell crab is usually more about the convenience of not having to grapple with deshelling than the taste or the texture, but Gunpowder’s deep-fried version shows that this doesn’t have to be the case. Thin legs encased in a crisp, light and surprisingly flavoursome batter – almost certainly lentil flour – were surprisingly milky and even creamy. The pair of spicy and zesty sauces on the plate weren’t really necessary given the exemplary nature of the crab legs, but the gently tart and earthy pickled beetroot served on the side was a nice palate cleanser.

Been feeling a bit crabby recently.

The rum pudding was more of a lightly boozed-up bread and butter pudding. The pudding itself was mighty fine – light, pillowy soft, voluminous and served in a thin yet eggy custard. The one surprising disappointment was the accompanying ice cream – lightly spiced, it was nonetheless ultimately quite bland and a bit too icy and crunchy too.

Firepower.

Three is the magic number

Gunpowder’s pork belly dish is apparently derived from Indian-Chinese cuisine (that’s actually a thing, look it up) with strips of fatty rind-like pork belly coated in a sweet and sour sauce. The thin and tangy brown condiment was actually a balance of sweet and sour rather than just a carpet bombing of either lip pursing sweetness or sourness. The stodgy crunch came from the fried strips of belly rather than some misguided deep-fried batter, but you’re still more likely to enjoy this dish if you’re already a fan of anglicised takeaway sweet and sour pork. Which I’m not. Still, I couldn’t argue with the crisp, tart and refreshingly fruity garnish.

Your mileage may vary.

Far better was the fish cooked in banana leaf. Delicate yet coarse, the satisfyingly earthy catfish-esque patty was covered in a coarse and thick wet rub full of lemongrass-ish flavour.

Unwrapping a late Christmas present.

The lamb shank is probably what you’d feed to your doddery in-law who’s never had Indian food before and thinks two dishes for a tenner at the local pub are the height of eating out. Tender meat with an earthy funk was served on the bone with some gelatinous connective tissue still attached. The modestly fruity sauce lightly flecked with spices was a little too subtle for its own good, but meat this good served with some fluffy mash on the side is more than good enough on its own.

Meat stick.

A layered chocolate cake with a molten top layer and a soft and spongy lower layer was by no means bad, but it was ultimately overshadowed by the custard with its hints of ginger, cinnamon and cloves. Spiced custard – it’s the way of the future.

Spice is the variety of life.

The Verdict

Gunpowder is physically caught in the middle between the City and Whitechapel. The far glossier, more spacious and more expensive eateries of the former, such as the Cinnamon Kitchen, offer a more comfortable and spacious experience. Meanwhile, the very cheap and cheerful grill houses of the old East End, like Tayyabs, have more familiar and more accessible dishes.

Yet Gunpowder manages to carve out its own identity and holds its own. While its somewhat hit-and-miss menu needs refinement and the management probably wishes it had bigger premises even more than I did, when the quirky and imaginative dishes hit the spot, they do so wonderfully. You should go.

What to order: Lamb chops; Saag paneer; Banana curry leaf ice cream; Rasam ke bomb; Soft shell crab; Rum pudding

What to skip: Pulled duck

Name: Gunpowder

Address: 11 White’s Row, Spitalfields, London E1 7NF

Phone: 020 7426 0542 or 0796 199 1249

Web: http://www.gunpowderlondon.com

Opening Hours: Monday-Saturday noon – 15.00 and 18.00-23.00; closed Sunday. 

Reservations: essential for dinner

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service: £35-40 approx. 

Rating: ★★★★☆

This review of a Mexico City restaurant is a break from The Picky Glutton’s usual London-based coverage

Mexico City (or the DF in local slang) is hardly the most beautiful metropolis I’ve ever visited, but it does have its charms and quirks. Polanco, DF’s moneyed equivalent to Mayfair or Chelsea, has streets amusingly named after (mostly foreign) writers and intellectuals. It’s on Calle Schiller where you’ll find Kaah Siis, a fine dining restaurant that opens relatively early for dinner (by DF standards) at 19.00. Its attractive decor is broken up by small coat stands placed next to each table – a neat touch (especially welcome if you’ve ever had your coat lining torn by ham-fisted wobbly-heeled receptionist staff at another high-priced Mexican restaurant).

Empty horizons.

Hatstands.

Although none of the staff spoke much English, that didn’t stop them from providing smooth and efficient service. Plus, if you opt for the tasting menu instead of a la carte then there’s little need for phrase book fumbling. It’s unlikely you’ll need to ask for bread, as the table’s bread basket was constantly refilled with the warm and fluffy brioche – a particular favourite. Served on the side was butter topped with Oaxacan spices, but the mildly peppery and nutty flavours they imparted onto the butter was fleeting. The bread was far better than the amuse bouche – a collection of sickly sweet onions in an oddly tart mushroom sauce.

Yes, you do get leavened bread in Mexico and not just tortillas.

Sick.

The odd tostada set the template for much of what followed. The crunchy fried tortilla was nutty, but also far too stodgy. Salty, ginger-flecked prawn loaf clashed with a sauce that was both fruity and umami. As if the saltiness of the prawns wasn’t enough, leaves and petals dusted with salty white cheese crumbs pursed my lips even further. Weird and amateurish.

From the top.

Top heavy.

The smooth, almost gelatinous trout proved to be a welcome respite from the tostada. Bitter leaves, a citrusy cream and thin crisps complimented the gentle earthiness of the fish well. The cool, chunky and zesty mash on the side proved to be a fine accompaniment.

The kitchen really likes plating stuff near the edge of a needlessly large dish.

Trout pout.

Although the octopus had a crispy burnt crust, it was served at room temperature. More problematic were the interiors of the octopus segments which were far too soft – almost to the point of mushiness. Tender lotus root could’ve helped save this dish, but it was smothered under bits of egg, chopped peppers and a whole dumpster truck of other ingredients. This messy melange produced little effect beyond a transient and hard to place peppery spice.

Black crescent.

A leg to stand on.

The kitchen clearly has an affinity with fish, as the bream was, like the trout, an oasis of calm and collected refinement amongst all the other far messier and more complicated dishes. Meaty and dense, it was made even better by the addictively flavoursome green chilli sauce. Enhanced further by a slice of burnt lemon, the sauce ranged from umami to zesty to the escalating precursor of spicy heat, but which never plateaued into actual tingly burning. Although this lack of a fiery finish might disappoint some, it was entirely appropriate so as not to overwhelm the bream.

Sun bream.

A dense and coarse poultry meatball wrapped in bok choy was pleasing, but seemed very out of place amid a sea of refreshing leaves and tomatoes in an oddly nutty, occasionally spicy sauce dotted with chewy, spicy grains. Although needing a little more finesse and cohesion, this was still a satisfying dish.

It was meant to look like this. Apparently.

A large hunk of meaty and reasonably moist pork with smoky hints came glazed in a glistening sheath of tomato sauce that was excessively sweet, an effect not lessened when taken with the pretty but ineffectual scattering of vegetables.

Mexico has a fine barbecue tradition of its own. Not that you’d know it from this.

Sweet nothings.

The toffee ice cream was neither cool and refreshing enough nor particular evocative of toffee, although it did have occasional chewy hints of the brown sugar confection it took its name from. In any case, lashings of summer berries, cocoa nibs and sour cream often overwhelmed what little character the ice cream had, but only adding an odd crispness here and there. There was far too much going on in this dessert.

Turning up my toffee nose.

Not quite bearing fruit.

Sadly, matters didn’t improve with the second and final dessert. A nutty chocolate cream accompanied by tapioca, assorted berries and an alky white sauce was certainly sweet, nutty, bittersweet and boozy – but to the point of unpleasant excess and sensory overload. It was a disappointing way to end a meal of numerous ups and downs, especially as the uninspired petit fours offered no redemption.

Sorry folks, no photo of the second dessert.

Petit no more.

The Verdict

There’s some potential at the kitchen of Kaah Siis with the fine fish dishes standing apart from the other clumsy, cluttered and less refined concoctions. Sadly though, it’s the latter which dominated the tasting menu here which made for a baffling and unsatisfying experience. When the most remarkable thing about a restaurant is the coat stands, then something really has gone wrong.

Name: Kaah Siis

Address: Schiller 331, Polanco V Sección, C.P. 11560, Distrito Federal, Mexico

Phone: 0052 55 5250 0274 or 0052 55 5250 2274

Web: http://www.kaahsiis.mx/

Opening Hours: Monday-Saturday 13.30-18.00 and 19.00-23.30. Closed Sunday.

Reservations: highly recommended

Average cost for one person excluding soft drinks and tips: MXN900 (£36 approx.) 

Rating: ★★★☆☆

Do-it-yourself food at silver spoon prices

Chinese food in London has long been dominated by Cantonese cooking, but that appeared to be changing in the mid noughties with Sichuanese eateries opening up across the city. That move towards better representation of China’s myriad regional cuisines soon stalled, but it appears to have restarted with new Taiwanese restaurants setting up shop. The latest non-roast, non-dumpling Chinese restaurant to open is Shuang Shuang, a restaurant solely devoted to hot pot.

Hot pot isn’t well-known amongst the general public, which is a shame as it’s a fun and convivial way of eating out. A bubbling pot of broth, kept warm by a hotplate, is shared by everyone at the table. You order a smorgasbord of food, from fish and meatballs to vegetables and noodles, and then cook everything yourself by dipping it into the broth.

Shuang Shuang tries to make hotpot more approachable to newcomers by fiddling with this format. Smaller pots, warmed by induction hotplates built into the tables, makes it more feasible for couples and lone eagle diners to have hotpot. The plates of food, meanwhile, are plucked off a Japanese kaiten-style conveyor belt which makes over- and under-ordering, bug bears of more traditional table service hotpot restaurants, all but impossible. It’s a clever system, but it has problems of its own as we’ll soon see.

Cogs in the machine.

Shuang Shuang bills itself as London’s first dedicated hotpot restaurant which is semantically dodgy at best. There are other hotpot restaurants in London of varying quality and with other non-hotpot dishes on their menus, usually as an afterthought to please the sweet-and-sour-pork crowd.

The broths

A choice of five broths is available at Shuang Shuang. Although other reviewers have apparently somehow managed to convince the staff to serve two broths in a single pot separated by a divider, I had no such luck. The Lamb Tonic was moreish with hints of meaty and mildly spiced oils. The Fish Pond was far less successful, resembling a one-note fish sauce but oddly sweet too.

Mary had a little lamb. Then someone slaughtered it for kebabs and broth.

The heat of the inset induction plate is controlled using a simple set of buttons – bring your broth to boil when cooking food, but remember to reduce the heat when not actively cooking so as not to boil it all away.

The rest of the broths were thankfully better than the Fish Pond. Although the Mala wasn’t especially spicy despite its fiery billing, it did have a sour and herby bitterness which made up for it. You can apparently order a spicier version and this isn’t hidden away off-menu as is often annoyingly the case at other Chinatown restaurant, hot pot or otherwise. The Free Bird tasted like a heavily reduced and clarified chicken consommé, but with a herby sweetness due to the presence of goji berries. Some will be put off by the mere presence of soya milk as the base of the vegan Temple Brew, but its creamy and lightly sweet moreishness was appealing whether you’re a meat-dodger or not. Of course, the distinctive each character of the broth gets muddied by whatever foods you cook in it, but that’s all part of the fun. Supping spoonfuls of broth in between cooking is a good way to pass the small intervals of time spent cooking. You get one free refill of broth if you run out, or are just cack handed with the heating controls, which should be more than enough.

Implements are provided for shoving food into the broth cauldron and for extracting them, avoiding the faux pas of chopstick dipping.

No, not a Freebird burrito.

Temple Brew, not Temple Run.

The ingredients

A wide array of different foodstuffs are available for cooking in your chosen broth. Despite the differing characteristics of each broth, none of the ingredients I tried clashed with any of them. Each plate plucked from the conveyor belt is stickered with a recommended cooking time. Although 4-5 minutes is probably about right for the seafood dishes, 3-4 minutes seems like overkill for the thin slices of beef and pork. They’re probably that lengthy for health and safety reasons, but if you’re confident enough then eye-balling when items are cooked will serve you just as well resulting in dishes that aren’t overcooked.

The real problem is cost control. Each plate of food on the conveyor belt is colour coded, signifying its price. Black – £1, Black and White – £1.80, Green – £2, Yellow – £2.30, Red – £2.90 and finally Blue – £4.30. The £10 specials effectively form a sixth tier. That’s about three or four tiers too many as far as I’m concerned, as it makes sticking to a budget difficult – if you can keep track of those coloured pricing tiers when picking ingredients, while cooking and enjoying others at the same time and holding conversations with your dining companions, then you’re a better person than I am.

This pricing complexity is somewhat ironic given that some of the best items are also the cheapest. Meatballs, whether hearty beef, salty fish or surprisingly smooth and light pork, are among my favourites. Onion-shaped fish balls, some with pork in the centre, were a salty delight and took on the flavour of the broths well. These onion domes were the only ones that needed more cooking time than recommended. Tender and wrinkly pork offal (probably stomach or intestines), as well thin and tender slices of liver resplendent with an offally funk, were arguably more enjoyable than the reasonably zingy but ultimately forgettable peeled prawns and shucked scallops. Although unappetising in appearance before cooking, umami prawn loaf or the alternate pork and prawn loaf were also winners.

If you’re quibbling over which cuts of beef go into beef balls, then you’re missing the point.

Leave time to settle the bill – the staff tally your empty plates to calculate the check.

Stars and tripes.

Yeah, most of my ingredients photos are in their uncooked state. But if you have trouble with the sight of raw liver, then you’ve got bigger problems.

Triskelion.

Shuang Shuang appears to be a magnet for tourists who don’t get either queuing or restaurants with a no reservations policy.

I guess you could call it a paste or pate rather than a loaf.

Pork and prawn – good bedfellows.

I didn’t encounter any outright terrible dishes, but there were quite a few mediocre ones. Pig’s blood tofu was smooth, but only modestly umami. Neither the grainy texture nor the overall spam-like nature of the pork luncheon loaf endeared itself to me, while the various cuts of beef were so thinly sliced, and thus devoid of texture and fat, as to be indistinguishable.

The one exception to this rule was the special of ‘Japanese marbled beef’ which was wonderfully fatty and exceptionally good at soaking up the flavours of whatever broth it was dunked in to. Its £10 price will leave you spluttering with disbelief though. Oddly, spending that much on such a small portion of meat is easier to justify than it is spending it on the clams, another special. While fresh and fleshy, they retained little of their fragrance when cooked and yet did a poor job of soaking up the flavours of whatever broth they were cooked in.

Blood of the dragon.

Vietnamese pork roll might have worked better.

Boiling bovines, Batman!

Marbling marvel.

Clammed up.

It’s feeling a little clammy in here.

Unctuous pork belly and dense, earthy slices of lamb were more cost effective alternatives to the marbled beef. The meh udon and vermicelli as well as the cheap, flavourless egg noodles should be avoided in favour of the thick and hearty yam noodles or the thick and supple rice noodles. Fried dough sticks unsurprisingly became quite soggy when immersed in broth for any period of time, but they were still pleasing thanks to their general maltiness. Bready bits of fried tofu were forgettable, while the mushroom selection could’ve done with more enoki and shiitake instead of the nameless filler. Dense and hearty yet supple yuba tofu knots went down a treat. Meaty bits of bream-like white fish were somewhat anonymous, while the slices of yam and lotus root needed a lot of cooking time to avoid being crunchily inedible.

Roll up, roll up.

On the lamb.

Noodle caboodle.

Rice stick.

Don’t tie yourself up into knots.

Speak softly and carry a big dough stick.

Damn it, I’ve already used my one ‘there’s not mushroom on this plate’ joke in another review.

If they’re too tough then you haven’t cooked them for long enough.

Don’t fish around in the broth cauldron with your chopsticks. Were you raised in a barn?

Lotus position.

Although a vaguely satay-esque house dipping sauce is provided, I found opting for the ‘make your own’ selection of sauces comprising of nutty, tart and spicy sauces along with garlic, coriander, chilli and spring onion garnishes a far more enjoyable experience.

The ‘snacks’ and desserts

Cooking the various ingredients at Shuang Shuang barely takes any time at all, whether you follow the recommended times or not. If you’re impatient then there are some starter-sized snacks to keep you amused in the interim. The distinct aroma and taste of jasmine tea complimented the salty richness of the preserved eggs’ yolks well. Spicy pig’s ears were fleshy and moderately spicy, instead of being just mildly exotic pork scratchings. The pea tofu, apparently made from peas instead of the usual soya beans, was surprisingly light and airy with a gummy texture that’s much more appealing than it sounds. The sauce imparted a gentle herby sweetness and a touch of tartness too. The only disappointment was the scallop and prawn fritters which were too oily and chewy, although they did have an oddly evocative and fleshy sea salty centre.

Cooking hot pot is little harder than boiling an egg. Not that I’m saying those eggs up above were boiled.

Friends, Romans, countrymen – lend me your ears.

Kangaroo Face was almost called Sweet Pea, but I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea.

There’s the start of a good dish here.

Although two desserts are listed on the menu, the only one that was ever available across my multiple visits was the soya milk ice cream with crystallised ginger. Although a little too crunchy and icy, the ice cream did have the distinctive flavour of sweetened soy milk which contrasted nicely with the modest spicy hit of the crunchy ginger. Or at least it did, when the ginger wasn’t replaced by oddly more generic and less satisfying fried dough bits on subsequent visits.

Soy milk…

…or soya milk?

The Verdict

I never failed to have a good time at Shuang Shuang across my multiple visits. The hotpots were always hearty and fun, but I can’t quite bring myself to recommend it unconditionally. The aforementioned tiered pricing is a problem as it really does make it difficult to stick to a budget – it’s almost as if the kaiten conveyor belt system was designed to encourage upspending. If you walk in with any sort of appetite, then you’ll be looking at £45 per head if not £60. That’s fine dining prices for food which, in large part, you cook yourself. I never criticise a London restaurant over pricing lightly given the overheads that the capital imposes on businesses, but that just doesn’t seem right.

The kaiten system is well-suited for dating couples and lone wolves, but the row seating that the conveyor belt dictates effectively rules out the group dining which hotpots are usually well-suited for. Unless you’re in a group of three, or arrive early enough at this no-reservations restaurant to be seated on either side of the conveyor, eating at Shuang Shuang in a large-ish group quickly becomes an asocial experience.  Although there are allegedly booths on the upper floor, the slightly scatty staff, another problem in of itself, never offered them as a seating option, no matter how many dining companions I turned up with.

Still, if you can live with these problems and issues then you’ll have a good time at Shuang Shuang. If nothing else, it’s bringing Chinese hotpot to a wider audience. The initial all-Chinese expat clientèle quickly became more mixed over my visits with plenty of hotpot novices fumbling around. That can only be a good thing.

Broths to order: Lamb Tonic; Mala; Temple Brew; Freebird

Ingredients to order: Meatballs; Offal; Prawn or pork and prawn loaf; Pork belly; Yam noodles; Yuba tofu knots

Name: Shuang Shuang

Address: 64 Shaftesbury Avenue, London W1D 6LU

Phone: 020 7734 5416

Web: http://www.shuangshuang.co.uk/

Opening Hours: seven days a week noon-23.00.

Reservations: not taken

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service charge: £45-60 approx. (highly variable) 

Rating: ★★★☆☆

This review of a Mexico City restaurant is a break from The Picky Glutton’s usual London-based coverage

Wandering around Mexico City’s Roma neighbourhood is a pleasant way to while away a couple of hours. Previous residents had a curious European fixation with some of the streets humorously named after continental cities. Many of the late 19th century European-esque mansions and houses are not only picturesque in their own right, but have been turned into various hipster-run businesses. Come dinner time, my first instinct was to head for one of the scattered street vendors or taco bars. Instead, I ended up at Nudo Negro. Although its name sounds rude to English ears, it actually translates as ‘black knot’. In any case, the weird continent-straddling menu at this celebrity chef-backed restaurant made for a baffling and frankly miserable experience.

That’s no fault of the staff who were friendly and helpful despite their non-existent English and my predictably piss-poor Spanish. The sweltering indoor temperature led me to park my considerable backside outdoors at one of the al fresco tables on the pavement, but a mix of traffic noise, street buskers and the restaurant’s own Queen soundtrack made this aurally challenging (and I usually love Queen).

The menu doesn’t appear to have any sort of focus, trawling in dishes and influences from all over. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, in theory, but when excessively soft pork crackling was made even less palatable by a smearing of weak wasabi and tame sriracha sauce, then warning sirens should start blaring.

Only the good die young.

More successful was the fleshy and mildly smoky aubergine mashed at my table. The eggplant was neatly complimented by thin yet creamy and nutty tahini, as well as an odd but tasty cross between za’atar and vinegar.

Pre-mash.

S-mashing.

A salad of barbecue duck and cactus marked the debut of the overwrought and the unwanted. Small strips of duck in a mildly sweet and smoky sauce weren’t particularly good, but they weren’t terrible either. A refreshing and sweet tomato and cactus salad helped cut through the relative richness of the duck. But then there was hummus! And a fried egg! And bread rolls that were fluffy and soft like gnocchi! It was as if the waiter had stopped by an ‘international’ buffet and scooped random crap onto a plate. It was nothing if not memorable, but it was memorable for all the wrong reasons.

International incident.

The oysters marked a momentary and relative return to some sense of sanity. Thin yet fleshy and somewhat briney oysters were served in a mildly spicy sauce, but the kitchen couldn’t help itself and threw in some crunchy and chewy croutons of meat dressed in a limp wasabi sauce. Not completely devoid of merit, but there seemed to be little rhyme or reason to the kitchen’s random scattering of ingredients.

Tying themselves up into knots.

Should’ve gone for tacos.

Everything up until this point was positively artful and delightful compared to the omnishambles of a dessert. I love coffee, but the reduction of coffee here was a parody of that beautiful drink – far too bitter and astringent. It certainly didn’t make the very soft and gummy, yet weirdly large grained cous cous cake any more palatable. Caramel jello combined even more gumminess with cheap sugary sweetness. The only edible thing on this plate, relatively speaking, was a still deeply flawed ice cream. A boozy banana-like blast was joined by coarse unidentifiable crumbs and one too many crunchy ice crystals. Grotesque and vile.

Crime scene.

Gum control.

Icy reception.

The Verdict

The only thing saving Nudo Negro from a One Star rating is the quality of its service. You’d really have to drag me kicking and screaming back to this mutant aberration of a restaurant.

Name: Nudo Negro

Address: Zacatecas 139, Roma, México D.F.

Phone: 0052 5564 52 81 

Web: http://www.nudonegro.com/ (Spanish only)

Opening Hours: Tuesday-Friday 13.00-midnight; Saturday 09.00-midnight and Sunday 09.00-18.00

Reservations: yeah, if you want

Total cost for one person including soft drinks but excluding tip: MXN762 (£29 approx.)

Rating: ★★☆☆☆

Moo, cluck and oink

Disclosure: A 10% discount was applied to the bill for my fourth meal, unsolicited. This was accepted only out of politeness.

I originally had no intention of reviewing Le Bab. The first thing that put me off was the location – Soho’s Kingly Court (home of the risible Whyte and Brown) is effectively a mini shopping centre and, outside of South East Asia, malls tend to be the last places you’d want to eat out at. The second thing was the social media descriptions of the food served at Le Bab – ‘posh’ or ‘gourmet’ kebabs. ‘Posh’ is a loaded word full of classist connotations that has no place in the world of food where dishes should be enjoyed by everyone, regardless of their socioeconomic origin. ‘Gourmet’ is so overused that it belongs in the semantic bin next to other similarly worn-out, now meaningless words such as ‘wellness’ and ‘pretentious’. Once I had a cup of tea and calmed down though, I found plenty to enjoy at Le Bab.

Le Bab is an attractive looking restaurant, almost to a fault. Although Iznik-style tiles decorate part of the interior, most of it is stripped back to the point of nakedness. Not only can you see the rafters, but the floorboards bend and bounce so much that I could feel staff approaching my table even before I could see them.

They probably didn’t tile the entire place because of all the grouting that would’ve involved.

First things first

Falafel has been given an unnecessary carnivorous makeover at Le Bab. The taste and texture of the beef shin flecks was hard to distinguish, let alone enjoy, amidst the interior of the deep-fried balls which oddly tasted of broad beans. The excessively hard and crunchy shell was hard work on the jaw, too. A poor start.

Who would have the balls to put meat in falafel?

Beef balls.

The decision to use pork instead of lamb in the shawarma was a curious one. Although the flecks of pig did have a somewhat moreish rub, it wasn’t especially distinctive while the pork was lacking in fattiness. It was left to the crisp radishes, refreshing blobs of yoghurt and the stiff, malty lavash-like wrap to save this kebab from being a complete missed opportunity.

Definitely not halal.

Or kosher for that matter.

The ‘fondue fries’ felt like a poutine that had flunked out of finishing school. The floppy chips were also leathery, but at least they had been made out of whole slices of potato. The melted cheese on the side was allegedly made from Stilton, but the boozy addition of stout was the dominant element here. It made for a one-note condiment on a half-baked portion of chips.

Potato sticks with beer cheese.

Le Bab’s crème brulee had a crisp and sugary crackling, but the wispily ineffectual custard underneath left me unmoved.

Go out for gelato instead.

Going back for seconds

Lesser reviewers would have cut their losses after such a woefully uneven first meal, but that’s not always fair or thorough which is why I usually make repeated visits to restaurants before coming to a final verdict. I was still initially sceptical about the savoury lokma, but this meat-ified pastry turned out to be surprisingly good. The soft, glazed spherical shell gave way to reveal a creamy and distinctly flavoured chicken liver pate that also had a pleasingly spicy edge to it.

Now this is more like it.

Judge me by my looks do you?

Dense and gamey venison koftes had a woody undertone that was neatly complimented by the plum-like sweetness of the accompanying jam. The creamy mayo and so-so vegetables weren’t really necessary, but this was still a good kebab made all the more enjoyable by a repeat appearance of the lavash-style flatbread.

Deer in the headlights.

Deer, oh deer.

Bitter and crunchy endive leaves were joined by sweet and equally crunchy pomegranate as well as crisp red onions and shallots. All of this made for an effective salad, although some softer elements would’ve been welcome.

Red crunch.

Trio mio

Oddly labelled on the menu as a risotto, the maftoul is more like a large grained cous cous. It had a surprising mung bean-style quality to it, ranging from lightly bitter and tart to earthy and somewhat creamy. It’s not bad, but it’s definitely an acquired taste that becomes both more palatable and interesting when taken with the herby sprigs and measly morsels of milky, salty feta.

Sorry, can’t talk. I’ve got a mouthful of maftoul.

My antipathy towards chicken, the meat of choice for children and invalids, has been stated in other reviews, but the familiar chook can be done well. Although not class-leading, the chicken shish here was meaty and lightly smoky as well as moist – a rare trifecta for a chicken kebab. The modestly crispy skin wasn’t quite the crackling-like topping I was hoping for, but the modestly tart pickles and gently nutty and sweet squash puree enhanced the smoky, meaty qualities of the chicken well. Surprisingly, none of the kebab wraps at Le Bab suffered from excessive spillage when guiding them into my waiting maw.

Shish, time to create more booking aliases.

Fuck Nando’s.

The endive and pomegranate salad was just as good as it was before.

Don’t forget to leaf a tip.

Go fourth and multiply

‘Do you want to help me eat a pig’s head?’

‘Has the answer to that question ever been no?’

And thus, with uncharacteristic wit and grace, Snaggletooth joined me for my final meal at Le Bab. If there’s one dish at Le Bab which will inspire all sorts of headlines, Instagram posts and Cameron-esque puns, it’s the pig’s head. Or, at the very least, it will inspire rubbernecking curiosity and outright revulsion as the pig’s head is brought to your table for your inspection, approval and photography before being taken away for the meat to be deboned.

*insert libellous David Cameron joke here*

Don’t order the pig’s head if you’re in a rush – the cranium takes about half an hour to braise in stock and then a good 15-20 minutes to slice and dice. The large pile of bitty deboned meat was unsurprisingly unctuous, rich and fatty given the dominant presence of fat and collagen. Despite having cold feet after staring into our meat’s snout and teeth prior to deboning, Snaggletooth agreed that it was uncommonly delicious – especially when spooned into one of the lavash wraps served on the side and enjoyed with the julienned carrots, onions and turnips. The reduced stock is served as a dipping or spooning sauce and had a surprising tartness which, along with the sharp onions, helped cut through the substantial richness of the head fat.

Just call me Dave.

What do they do with the teeth?

There’s another level of enjoyment to be had with the crackling. The deep red, lacquer-like pig skin ranged from crunchy and somewhat oily to perfectly and evenly crisp with a meaty undertone. Although I have deep respect for vegetarians, deeply sensual cuts of meat like perfectly cooked bits of crackling and expertly rendered hunks of fatty pork are two of the many reasons why I could never join them.

Of course Dave didn’t do it. He’s actually a space lizard and that’s not what space lizards do.

While vegetarians may not have much to choose from Le Bab’s menu, the one vegetarian kebab available was thankfully a winner. Firm and milky chunks of paneer tinged with (what I’m fairly certain was) turmeric and cumin. The mildly earthy beetroot puree and crispy onions complimented the cheese well, while the same quality lavash wrap made a welcome repeat appearance. A paneer kebab isn’t the most original idea in the world, but sod it. When it works, it works.

Head cheese.

This kebab made Snaggletooth revise his ideas about paneer and what it can be.

The savoury lokma filled with chicken liver pate was just as good as it was before. Although Snaggletooth wished for more pate filling in the centre of each doughnut, he could quite happily eat a whole truck load of the things.

Meat doughnut.

The Verdict

Kebabs are already such a storied, well-formed, well-developed and much-loved form of food that any attempts at innovation need to be done with care to avoid creating a needlessly modernised bastardisation of a cherished classic. Despite a disastrous start, Le Bab has largely managed to avoid this pitfall and created some surprisingly elegant and tastefully contemporised kebabs that justify their modest premium over traditional Turkish fare. Plus they do a cracking pig’s head too.

What to order: Pig’s head; Paneer kebab; Venison kofte kebab; Chicken liver pate lokma

What to skip: Creme brûlée; Pork shawarma

Name: Le Bab

Address: Top Floor, Kingly Court, Carnaby Street, Soho, London W1B 5PW

Phone: none listed

Web: http://www.eatlebab.com

Opening Hours: Monday-Saturday noon – 15.00 and 18.00-23.00; closed Sunday. 

Reservations: essential for dinner

Average cost for one person including soft drinks but excluding tip: £30-35 approx. 

Rating: ★★★★☆