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

Oaxaca may be best known to Londoners, if it’s known at all, as the inspiration behind the name of London mini-chain Wahaca. But this city in southwestern Mexico has a rich culinary tradition that’s barely touched upon in Wahaca’s menu. I got a taste of it in the city’s bustling market which has so many street food vendors that, at some of them, you could literally sit with your rear end facing perilously into traffic while scoffing down expertly caramelised pork tacos. As rewarding as Oaxaca’s market can be, I therefore ended up spending just as many nights eating at the more touristy Casa Oaxaca. This restaurant is located in the historic northern part of the city and has an atmospherically lit rooftop dining area which is good not only for observing the genteel bustle of the historic centre beneath you, but also for appreciating the frequently beautiful twilight over the Sierra Madre mountain range ringing the city.

The one rooftop vista photo that came out looking OK-ish. Le sigh.

The English-speaking staff can, to put it mildly, be a bit on the slow side. But what really irked me was a very small thing that shows a lack of attention to detail – and at this price (which is expensive for this part of Mexico), details matter. The al fresco rooftop tables are made from wooden slats – similar to what you might find on a garden or patio table. Annoyingly, the wooden slats are wide enough that if you drop a utensil, or just place it down clumsily, it will fall through to the slats onto the floor necessitating a replacement. It’s a small thing that you could blame on my own cack-handedness, but a large enough quantity of small things can make or break a restaurant experience.

First things first

Although the fried quesadilla came topped with a who’s who of classic Oaxacan ingredients, from corn fungus to string cheese, grasshoppers, pork rind and guacamole, it was a surprisingly tame and uninteresting affair. The fried grasshoppers and pork rind got lost in the mix which was dominated by the Oaxacan cheese with its distinctive mozzarella-esque stringiness and mild saltiness vaguely reminiscient of halloumi. I’ve fallen in love with Oaxacan cheese, but it hogged the limelight here. Grasshoppers are best experienced on their own and can be bought fried in spices, or just plain, at Oaxaca’s market.

The grasshopper lies heavy.

Cooking soup by placing red hot stones, warmed by fire, directly into the liquid is a local technique predating the vicious Spanish Conquest. Prepared tableside, the chunks of fresh shrimp, octopus and meaty white fish were made even better by reasonably hefty fistfuls of garlic, tomato and chilli. I found it best to give it an extra stir before eating though, distributing the mix more evenly.

Sorry for the iffy photos, folks.

Billowing steam and low light are not ideal conditions for a phone camera.

Casa Oaxaca’s suckling pig wasn’t tender or fatty enough and there wasn’t enough crackling either. The accompanying chayote was pleasingly firm though, while the green mole was similar to the one I encountered at Kaah Siis in Mexico City – teasing the tongue with all the flavour and sensation of chilli without bursting into the fiery spice that some people can’t handle. The chayote proved to be far better than the disappointing pork for spooning this lovely sauce into my mouth. The less said about the disappointing tortillas, the better.

Cursed not chosen.

This uneven first meal ended with a tame dessert of chocolate rolls. Smooth with a rounded sweetness, one roll was filled with a honey-like chocolate fondant while the other was stuffed with a tart fruit filling. Just give me more of the honey-like chocolate fondant.

A disappointing effort for the homeland of chocolate.

Going back for seconds

Tlayudas are a bit like quesadillas, but consist of a single whopper of a tortilla topped with ingredients, in the manner of a pizza, rather than having the ingredients sandwiched between two smaller tortillas or filling a tortilla folded in a half. Crisp and not too stodgy, the huge tortilla was topped with a heaving monster truck portion of ingredients including crisp and sharp vegetables, Oaxacan cheese and tender, smoky strips of rib eye beef cooked medium rare. It was a lovely, hearty dish but it was enough to feed an SUV full of fat Americans. Even my notoriously voluminous appetite had trouble accommodating this beast and everything else I had ordered.

Open wide!

Given the mammoth tlayuda, my veal stew main turned out to be lighter than my starter! Lightly earthy medallions of veal ranged in texture from smooth to coarse and were dressed in a moreish if only mildly nutty mole. The accompanying rice and tortillas left me unmoved.

Not what I imagined a stew would look like.

Veal meal.

Given some of the wonderful chocolate available in Mexico, Casa Oaxaca’s parade of shrug-inducing chocolate desserts was disappointing. When the most interesting part of a housetrained chocolate cake was the booze-soaked underlayer then something has gone seriously wrong.

Shrug inducing.

The Verdict

Putting aside the dreary desserts, there are some good dishes to be teased out of Casa Oaxaca’s menu but you’ll have to dodge some duds along the way. In the end you’re paying for its serene rooftop setting more than anything else. It’s a good-enough experience, but I don’t think it’s too much of an ask to want both a view and some cracking food in a single effortless experience without compromising on one or the other.

What to order: Stone soup; Tlayuda; Veal stew

What to skip: The chocolate desserts

Name: Casa Oaxaca

Address: Constitución 104-A, Centro, Oaxaca, Oaxaca State, México

Phone: 0052 951 516 8531

Web: http://www.casaoaxacaelrestaurante.com/php/eng/elRestaurante.php

Opening Hours: Monday-Saturday 13.00 – 23.00; Sunday 13.00-21.00. May close earlier if sold out.

Reservations: probably a good idea; essential for a rooftop table

Average cost for one person excluding soft drinks and tip: MXN900 (£35 approx.)

Rating: ★★★☆☆

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

Drinking while eating out can be a thoroughly disheartening experience if you don’t imbibe alcohol. Dare to wander away from the usual carbonated drinks and you’ll encounter, like I have, watered down Virgin Marys, insipid cordials and thinly-disguised juices from concentrate. That makes Tierra y Cielo’s decision to offer a non-alcoholic pairing option for its tasting menu all the more welcome. This restaurant is located in San Cristobal de las Casas, a charming colonial-era city ideally located for exploring the Chiapas highlands of Mexico and the numerous sights surrounding it.

Tierra y Cielo itself is based around an open air courtyard where the kitchen grows some its own herbs. If the weather isn’t too brisk (the city is up in the mountains surrounded by pine trees) then it’s a fine place to sit and eat. Even if the menu wasn’t available in English, the fluent and charming head waiter was more than capable of helping me out.

Tortilla chips were crisp, light and nutty. Accompaniments included a spread that was halfway between butter and cottage cheese which tasted far better than it sounds. Red chilli sauce was actually spicy, while a sweet chutney bore a curious resemblance to Branston pickle.

Not your auntie’s chips and dips.

Mildly nutty bean curd had the unexpected appearance of a Swiss roll and an equally surprising hint of cheesiness to it too. A tingly spice added another layer of flavour to what should’ve been a car crash, but turned out to be a rather scintillating amuse bouche. The accompanying soft drink of lemon and chia water was much more pedestrian, tasting just like lemonade.

Roll with it.

Bean and gone.

When life gives your lemons, you freeze them and throw them as hard as you can at the motherfucker making your life a misery.

The blue corn tamales bore a passing resemblance to the Dim Sum classic of lotus rice, with sticky rice hiding inside the corn husk. The plum tomato sauce added a distinctive sweet-sharpness, but the cheese left me unmoved. The tascalate drink allegedly consisted of chocolate, corn, sugar and cinnamon. Its orangey colour may have led to a placebo taste of carrot, but cinnamon was definitely the dominant element here.

I’ve managed to take a remarkably unappetising photo.

Definitely not an overpriced Diet Coke.

Bread soup was consomme-esque with a moreish honey-like flavour. Unctuous chunks of bread were joined by an assortment of fresh veg and, most notably, the punchy sweet sharpness of plantain puree. The egg brought little to the proceedings. A special mention has to go the corn flour tortillas which were wonderfully nutty and fluffy. In a land not short of high quality tortillas, these were the bee’s knees and puts the vast majority of their London counterparts to shame.

I forgot to take a photo of the bread soup, here’s a photo of one of the excellent tortillas instead.

A creamy, cheddary ball came filled with okay-ish mushrooms. It had an Italian-esque feel due to the cheese and a recurrence of the sharp and sweet plum tomato sauce. Far better was the accompanying drink, another tascalate. This one tasted like almond or rice milk, but with an Ovaltine-y edge.

Not mush room on this plate.

Husk-y.

Earthy trout-like freshwater fish was served with fresh veg on top and crisp, lightly salted vegetables on the side. Punchy plantain slices and fiery sharp chillies were surprisingly complimentary and helped bind flora and fauna together. The combined boldness made the melon seed horchata dusted with cinnamon all the more welcome. Milky, nutty and refreshing, it almost resembled soybean milk.

At least I’m pretty sure it was freshwater and trout-like.

Trout pout.

You can get traditional horchata in convenience stores in at least some parts of Mexico. What I wouldn’t give for readily available horchata in London.

Firm chunks of chicken and sweet plantain slices were bathed in a sweet banana-esque mole that was also peppered with occasional sharp and spicy hits. Its relative richness made the bracingly cold chocolate and coffee tascalate all the more welcome despite its tame taste.

Stop winking at me.

Holy mole.

Choco low.

The elaborately prepared Japanese siphon coffee had occasional hints of bitterness and acidity, but was overall a very mild, rounded and smooth coffee. It was pleasing enough, but I expected something more memorable given the seemingly intricate brewing process conducted tableside.

Siphon filter.

Although far from bad, not one of the trio of mini desserts managed to stand out which made for a rather quiet and subdued end to an otherwise accomplished dinner. A competently made mergine was paired with a bitter chocolate sauce, while fritter-like chunks of roasted banana were coated in a creamy and nutty dressing. The one mini dessert that came closest to trumping its peers was a light, milky and nutty truffle-esque chocolate ball cake served with candied papaya-like fruit on the side.

Mini Mexican meringue.

That looks a bit rude, eh vicar?

They must go through a lot of chocolate at this place.

The Verdict

Although undoubtedly gussied up for out-of-towners, Mexican and foreigner alike, Tierra y Cielo nonetheless provides a slickly executed insight into a genre of Mexican food that deserves much wider appreciation. If I’m ever in this part of the world again, you’ll have to keep me away with a stick. Probably several sticks and a large dog.

Name: Tierra y Cielo

Address: Benito Juárez 1, Centro Historico, Zona Centro, 29200 San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas, Mexico

Phone: 0052 967 678 0354

Web: http://www.tierraycielo.com.mx/

Opening Hours: Tuesday-Friday 13.30 – 23.00; Saturday 08.00-23.00 and Sunday 08.00-18.00. Closed Monday. 

Reservations: highly recommended on or around weekends.

Average cost for one person excluding tip: MXN880 (£34 approx. at the time of writing) 

Rating: ★★★★☆

Smoky moody Tottenham Court Road dive bar

Updated 12/02/2016 – added back room private dining details

Updated 16/02/2015 – updated opening times

This review was originally published on 5/11/2014 and has since been updated

Thai food in London has been stuck in something of a rut, with the usual pad thais and green curries predominating. That’s slowly start to change and one of the new wave of Thai restaurants in the capital is Smoking Goat. You wouldn’t think it at first. Smoking Goat’s premises haven’t moved on a whole lot from its origins as a dive bar – candle lit, cramped, crowded and with hard bar stool seating that gradually becomes uncomfortable. Then there are the restrictive opening hours and the short menu which isn’t very traditional and concentrates almost exclusively on barbecued dishes. But by taking small steps, Smoking Goat is making a substantial contribution into changing our perceptions of Thai food.

First things first

Smoking Goat’s buzzy atmosphere and dim lighting make it seem ideal as a venue for a date. The messy hands-on nature of the food either confirms or refutes this though, depending on how mucky you like your food-based foreplay. For starters, there’s the chicken wings – crispy with a sticky glaze that had a gently sweet and salty umaminess that was very addictive.

Strangely, there’s no goat on the menu. It’s the small lies that hurt the most.

Even messier was the crab. Although dismembered, you’ll still need a dab hand at extracting crab flesh from the curry sauce-coated carapace – and you will almost certainly end up with flecks of crab, meat juices and curry sauce dribbling off your chin as I did. It was all worth it though – the crab meat was taut and milky, while the musky, earthy, nutty spice of the sauce was ridiculously moreish.

Crack. Filthy, addictive, sell your children, smother-it-over-your-face, smuggle-it-inside-your-tits crack. In crab form.

Accompanying the crab, and indeed all the mains, is a clump of rice and a som tam salad of julienned green papaya, cherry tomatoes, French beans and nuts in a tart and sour fish sauce. Carbs and refreshing vegetables – exactly what’s needed in between mouthfuls of crab and globs of richly flavoured curry sauce.

Almost mistook the green papaya for cabbage.

Going back for seconds

Smoking Goat is no place for vegetarians. Apart from the som tam green papaya salad accompanying the mains, the only vegetable dish is an aubergine ‘salad’. The long strips of eggplant were fleshy with a strong initial hit of smokiness that subsided quickly, but was still noticeable. Most of the flavour came from the tart, tingly, lightly spicy fish sauce ladled over the aubergine and the mildly rich and runny egg. The aubergine salad was by no means bad and was actually quite good in its own right, but it’s definitely the poor cousin compared to the meaty mains such as the lamb ribs.

How is this a salad, exactly?

Ah, lamb ribs. I’d long been sceptical of their suitability for good eating, but Smoking Goat’s version changed my mind. The taut skin slid away to reveal an unctous layer of fat and earthy, mildly smoky meat complimented nicely by the tart, tingly and mildly spicy fish dipping sauce.

This is basically the lamb version of Jesus. It died for a good cause – you.

Leggy threesome

As Smoking Goat’s scallops seem to be perennially unavailable, I opted for the chicken wings a second time only to come away slightly disappointed. The differences in this second version were small, but had a noticeable cumulative effect. The skins weren’t nearly as crisp as they were before, while the thicker and sweeter sauce didn’t have the same depth and complexity of flavour as before. They’re still very good chicken wings, but the wobble in execution is a little worrying.

It’s so dark in here, you could dry hump someone in the corner unobserved.

Paying £15 for three small-ish duck legs is a little galling, especially as the same amount gets you a whole roast duck in Chinatown (plus the grisly bits in a bin liner round the back if you ask nicely). At least they’re damn tasty duck legs – moist, meaty, tender and smoky with a tinge of sweetness enhanced by the fruity citrusness of the dipping sauce.

Smoking pair of legs.

Smoking Goat private dining, take one

Since this review was first written back in November 2014, The Smoking Goat has added a private dining room that you can book (unlike the main dining area). Although it has a maximum capacity of around 25 people, you don’t need that many to snag a reservation – a group of six-to-eight-ish is enough if you’re willing to share the space with other similarly sized groups.

Ah smoke-filled room, we meet at last. Except the smoking ban means it’s not that smoky anymore.

Although the private dining room has the now cliched exposed brick walls and communal bench seating, it still feels intimate and cosy – due in large part to the dim lighting. Thankfully, you don’t need to squint at the menu as everyone has to agree to a set menu beforehand. Vegetarians need not apply – this is a Thai barbecue restaurant after all.

No incense here, but almost as atmospheric.

I managed to round up a motley crew that included Templeton Peck, Vicious Alabaster, Socialist Worker, Gym Bunny, Pikmin and Musky Rider. Everyone seemed to enjoy the raw mullet. The meaty morsel of fish was accompanied by ginger and starfruit which were crisp and refreshing. The leaf wrapping added an odd but pleasing nuttiness, while a cumulative spiciness ended the little fish snack with a punchy finish.

Long in the back.

A double batch of chicken wings were both a touch oilier than they had been during my very first visit. Even so, the fish sauce wings had a light umami-ness while the chilli wings had a musky, tingly and punchy heat. Musky Rider, who has a voracious appetite but a somewhat questionable diet, was especially taken with them.

Winging it.

Lightly earthy mushrooms arrived in a thin soy and chilli sauce that was moreish rather than spicy. The som tam green papaya salad saw julienned papaya with just the right amount of firmness dressed in a crisp, lightly sour dressing.

They were mushrooms somewhere underneath all of that greenery.

Tin Pan Alley.

Musky Rider and Socialist Worker almost got into a tug of war over the barbecued pig carcass. The fatty, tender hunk of pork belly was topped with a pleasingly multilayered bark that was crisp – occasionally crunchy – and ranged from sweet to woody. Pork this good is almost worth fighting over.

Hogs of war.

Hogging all the attention.

Pikmin and Musky Rider were both bowled over by the sheer size of the goat shoulder – any worries I had that there wouldn’t be enough food to go around were quickly dispelled. Neither Vicious Alabaster nor Gym Bunny needed to use their considerable henchman-like strength, as the tender meat pulled off the bone with ease. Although its earthiness was muted, its beguiling musky sweetness more than made up for it. Seams of fat and connective tissue added an extra, visceral level of texture and unctuous flavour. Utterly splendid.

Finally! Goat at the Smoking Goat!

The only disappointment of the evening, and a partial one that, was the dessert of kaffir lime granita served in coconut halves. The bracingly cold and lightly sour granita was especially refreshing after all that fatty meat, but excavating the surprisingly hard and somewhat brittle coconut flesh required the combined strength of both Vicious Alabaster and Gym Bunny. Even then, it wasn’t really worth the effort.

Hard as Alabaster.

Smoking Goat private dining, take two

My first private dining meal at The Smoking Goat was exemplary, but I rarely take anything as a given. I returned to the cosy back room for a second stab. Vicious Alabaster and Templeton Peck were once again in attendance, with Porn Master, Veal Smasher and Happy Buddha, among others, making up my crew this time around.

Although lacking in zing, the scallops were reasonably meaty and instead derived flavour from the tart, sharp and lightly sour dressing.

Scallop-ing…

Crispy, chewy deep fried bits of pork belly tasted a bit like refugees from an inferior Chinese take away, but were made palatable by a lightly sour and spiced dressing as well the refreshing chunks of watermelon and bitter leaves.

…is faster than trotting away.

The chicken wings are some of the most inconsistent dishes at The Smoking Goat. The fish sauce wings weren’t as crisp as the ones from my first group meal and were soggier this time around too. Despite this flaw, the deeply umami sauce was almost like a sour and savoury honey in its depth of flavour.

This week’s procrastination was brought to you, in part, by The Simpsons.

The chilli chicken wings had the same soggy consistency as the fish sauce wings, but with a lightly peppery and umami sauce that was only really spicy when I ingested some chilli slices. Even then it was a rather modest, cumulative effect.

Candle light.

Allegedly mackerel, the meaty, flaky fish tasted more like bream. No matter, it was delicately cooked just so. The subtly sweet and coconutty glaze on the skin didn’t penetrate very deep beneath the surface, but its taste lingered on my lips long after the fish had slid down my gullet.

Fish out of water.

The pointy end.

While we could have had pork shoulder, we instead went for the goat shoulder once again. The hunk of goat meat was not only smaller than before, but also had far less depth of flavour. It was more conventionally moreish instead, but it was still tenderly yielding – whether we favoured slurping out the bone marrow like Vicious Alabaster or tearing out the seams of unctuous connective tissue and fat close to the bone like Veal Smasher.

When you can go goat, go goat. Don’t settle for anything else.

Easily overlooked was the crisp and refreshing som tam salad. Julienned green papaya, green beans, tomatoes, peanuts and a tart fish sauce-based dressing made for an essential counterpoint to the meaty richness on offer.

The granita coconuts had been wisely dumped in favour of vanilla ice cream. It was surprisingly good – smooth and free of crunchy ice crystals with almost gelato-like levels of elasticity. Veal Smasher reckoned it had an almond marzipan-like flavour, whereas Porn Master thought it tasted more like the toasted wafers often found in ice cream parlours the world over. Regardless, it was a winner.

Rorschach test.

The Verdict

Smoking Goat limited number of covers and inconsistent execution are consistently frustrating flaws, but the big, bold flavours of its deceptively simple barbecued dishes make it a force to be reckoned with. It’s well worth snagging a table if you can.

What to order: Everything

Name: Smoking Goat

Address: 7 Denmark Street, London WC2H 8LZ

Phone: none listed

Web: http://www.smokinggoatsoho.com

Opening Hours: Monday-Saturday noon-15.00 and 17.00-midnight (last orders 30 minutes before closing). Sunday noon-21.00.

Reservations: only accepted for groups of six-to-eight or more, limited availability due to size of back room

Average cost for one person including soft drinks: £27-35 approx. 

Rating: ★★★★☆

Peckham Taiwanese small bites

We Londoners like to think that we’re very cosmopolitan, open to new things and experiences, but when it comes to food we tend to prefer our exoticism in small, easily relatable bites. Chinese food is a prime example. A wealth of eating opportunities abound from that continent-sized civilisation, but the two biggest Chinese culinary imports of recent years have been comparatively conservative. Sichuanese food fits in with our Indian-primed predilection for (relatively hot) spiciness, while Taiwanese gua bao could be seen as little more than a mildly exotic sandwich. ‘Asian burger’ or not, gua bao are delicious and many of you seem to agree with a surprisingly large number of gua bao eateries opening up across the city with one of the best in Soho.

Mr Bao is a compact little place in Peckham. There are no more than 30 covers in this somewhat cramped restaurant. It’s so small, I suspect it may once have been a run-of-the-mill anglicised Chinese takeaway – many of which are still Mr Bao’s neighbours. The size of the premises has a direct impact on the evening menu which, combined with the street food-derived snack-sized portions, is short enough to be sampled almost in its entirety across a pair of visits.

Mr Bao weekday dinner

The pork bao is a classic that Mr Bao has to get right if it’s to have any credibility at all. Thankfully, the pork used here was tender and satisfyingly meaty with an unctuously fatty rind dressed in a mildly tangy and tart sauce. All the bao used here were fluffy and soft, without being excessively chewy or billowingly voluminous, with a gentle sweetness. Small, but perfectly formed.

If you sit at the counter by the door, gird yourself for cold, windy gusts every damn time the door opens.

Firm, earthy and herbiliciously sweet shiitake were used in the mushroom bao. Its character was somewhat obscured and unbalanced by the crisp and tart pickled onions though, as well as by the umami kewpie-style mayo. There’s the beginning of a good bao here, but it needs rebalancing.

Management should invest in a handle so people can close the door behind them.

At least the mushroom bao wasn’t as misguided as the prawn bao, an occasional special. A single deep-fried prawn-filled won ton was insubstantial, oily and unsatisfying while the mildly tangy sauce clashed with the creamy sweetness of avocado. This bao isn’t ‘special’ in any way.

Avocado. Why is there avocado here?

Short, small and sliced Taiwanese sausage was lightly coarse and almost certainly made out of beef. Served in a thin and tangy sauce dotted with crisp spring onion pieces, it’s by no means bad but it’s not as viscerally pleasing as a good wind-dried Cantonese lap cheong sausage in my book.

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

Avocado Tofu was literally sliced avocado served on top of quiveringly delicate slices of tofu. The avocado, while creamy, wasn’t really necessary here – the milky tofu and bed of taut and firm seaweed sheaves were more than good enough on their own.

Again with the avocado.

Mr Bao’s only dessert of deep fried bao is somewhat similar to the dessert available at Soho’s Bao, but with a more populist twist. The light, crisp and oil-free rice flour doughnut (that’s effectively what it is) contrasted neatly with a soft, sweet and squidgy marshmallow, but the uninspiring chocolate sauce added little.

Hmmmm, doughnut.

Taiwanese root beer was less sweet than the more familiar American version and somewhat more aniseed-ish as it was derived from sarsaparilla rather than sassafras. It’s an acquired taste, one that I like.

Mr Bao weekend dinner

Taiwanese beef noodle soup is another of the island’s best dishes, but it gets far less attention over here compared to gua bao. While Mr Bao doesn’t serve this iconic dish, there is a mild echo in the noodle-less beef soup. Umami without being overwhelming or dependent on any obvious trace of MSG, the consomme-esque soup was dotted with tender turnip chunks and moreish slices of cabbage. Ironically, the tender strips of beef couldn’t hold a candle to these vegetables. If there’s one dish other than the pork bao that Mr Bao deserves credit and recognition for, it’s this heartwarming bowl of beefy goodness.

On second thoughts, it’s less like a consommé and more like a broth.

Mr Bao’s sweet potato chips was better than its counterpart at Soho’s Bao. A fluffy, crisp, light and airy thin batter gave way to reveal whole cut slices of gently, but distinctly buttery sweet tubers.

Chips are down.

Served chilled, bitter and taut spinach was served with a moreish sesame seed oil dressing.

Open sesame.

Mr Bao’s occasional side dish of kimchi is frankly better than the kimchee I’ve had in many Korean restaurants. Tart and sour with a tingly, spicy finish – it’s a winner.

I think I’ve gotten too old to die young.

Fried chicken was moist and meaty with a lightly crisp batter flecked with ginger and free of excess oil. Given some of the horrifically bad fried chicken you could subject yourself to in Peckham, this is nothing short of deliverance.

Don’t let me be misunderstood.

The same fried chicken is used in Bao Diddley, but an excess of very mild wasabi mayo and kimchi caused both the batter and the lower half of the excellent quality rice flour bun to become very soggy, very quickly. This messy eat needs a rethink.

I know someone who eats chicken and fish, but no other meats or seafood. Yeah, he’s inexplicably weird and missing out.

The meat in the slow-cooked lamb bao was almost like goat in its dense, tender earthiness. The daubing of mint was a pleasing if somewhat predictable accompaniment, while the tart sharpness of the pickled red onions helped cut through the relative richness of the lamb. A good bao overall.

It’s a diverse crowd at Mr Bao. Dating couples, parents with young kids and shrieking young women. No, I can’t hear anything more.

I have no idea why ‘smacked cucumber’ is so-named, but the cumulative tartness of these lightly brined slices was not only pleasing in its own right, but proved to be an apt accompaniment to the meatier dishes here.

Smack my cucumber.

Mr Bao’s kitchen clearly has some issues with consistency given the poor state of my second dessert bao. Although the marshmallow and chocolate sauce were unsurprisingly unchanged from the first time around, the deep-fried bao itself was unpleasantly oily and soggy.

Should’ve sent it back.

While the cold-brewed green tea was lightly sweet and refreshing with a floral aftertaste, it wasn’t as bracingly cold as the cold-brewed green tea I had in Taiwan. I also preferred the latter’s crystal clear aftertaste, but this was still a good brew nonetheless.

The candlelight made the green tea look cloudy yellow. Sorry about that.

The Verdict

Although the cooking at Mr Bao isn’t as well-balanced and consistently well-executed as it is at Bao, this is still one of the better places in London to get your Taiwanese bun fix. The pork bao and beef soup alone are worth making the trip to Peckham. With some refinement, this cosy eatery could be a flag-bearer for gua bao in London. But it’s not there yet.

What to order: Pork bao; Avocado tofu; Beef soup; Smacked cucumber; Sesame spinach; Kimchi; Sweet potato chips

What to skip: Prawn bao

Name: Mr Bao

Address: 293 Rye Lane, Peckham, London SE15 4UA

Phone: 0207 635 0325

Web: http://www.mrbao.co.uk/

Opening Hours: Tuesday – Sunday 11.30-15.00 and 18.00-23.00. Closed Monday. 

Reservations: most tables kept open for walk-ins, so if you really, really need a reservation then book well ahead

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

Rating: ★★★★☆

Alsace Islington brasserie on the green

Britain’s long relationship with France has been a fraught and tangled one, to say the least. Thankfully that hasn’t stopped a surge of new French restaurants opening in London over the past couple of years. Bellanger, from the people behind Brasserie Zedel and The Delaunay, focusses on cuisine from Alsace-Lorraine. This region of France has alternated between French and German control many times over its history, resulting in food that’s a unique combination of Gallic and Teutonic.

Given the sprawling restaurant empire of Bellanger’s parent company, it would’ve been so easy for Bellanger to be a timid shadow of its continental counterparts – a needless replica of the dreary Côte, a branch of which sits immediately next door. Thankfully, that’s not the case at all.

The premises have a surprisingly airy feel, despite the acres of attractive brass and wood panelling used in the decor. Although some serving staff were surprisingly mute, the front of house was, on the whole, highly efficient and polite. Then there’s the food.

First things first

Bread is often an afterthought at so many restaurants, but not at Bellanger. A crunchy crust with just the right amount of bite and a soft interior with a bit of chew, all neatly balanced out by a lightly salted butter the colour of a pale moon. A simple and constant highlight of all my meals at Bellanger.

The clientele ranges from mostly hushed and middle aged mid-week to decidedly younger and drunker closer to the weekend. But not obnoxiously drunk, thankfully.

The raw egg didn’t add much richness to Bellanger’s steak tartare, while the slight chewiness of the beef and the punch of the capers only really showed themselves close to the end. When they did though, this somewhat uneven steak tartare became very enjoyable indeed.

Purple prose.

Tarte flambées are classic Alsatian dishes and are available in a choice of savoury and sweet varieties at Bellanger. A very thin and lightly crisp bread base topped with smoky and fatty lardons and tart sauerkraut was a visceral and sensuously unhealthy delight.

Call them ‘French pizzas’ and I’ll slap you.

Lard on.

The Choucroute à l’Alsacienne may ‘just’ be a pile of pork products in a pot, but who gives a fig when it tastes this good. Dense, tender and lightly flaky ham hock. Smooth and light sausage. Fatty and heavy sausage. Lightly smoky pork belly that was so fatty and salty, it reminded me of Austrian speck. All with lashings of sauerkraut and thinly sliced potatoes. The only member of the band not pulling its weight was the tame frankfurter.

A meat-ing of minds.

The butter-roasted chunks of apple on my dessert tarte flambée had the colour of quince and almost tasted like quince with a mild tartness. It went well with the lashings of light soured cream and the unmistakable, but not overwhelmingly boozy presence of calvados. Bonza.

Apparently it’s possible to review an Alsatian restaurant without covering classic Alsacienne dishes such as tarte flambee. Mind boggling.

Such a thing would be utterly redonk.

Going back for seconds

I once remarked on Twitter than quiches were like ‘a shit cross between an omelette and a pizza’ – or words to that effect. That was before I had the quiche lorraine at Bellanger. A wispy yet somehow creamy cheese custard studded with fatty bits of salty pork and sweet caramelised onions, all served in a thin yet lightly buttery pastry casing. This top notch quiche has restored my faith in what I had previously considered to be half-arsed vegetarian cafeteria food.

Definitely not rubbish.

As expected the chicken in the coq au riesling, an Alsace white wine-based take on coq au vin, wasn’t much to write home about. The breast meat was a bit dry, but the leg, thigh and wing meat did at least slide easily off the bone. The chicken provided the meaty backdrop to the real star of the show – the sauce, studded with little onions and mushrooms. Thin yet sticky, meaty, creamy and lightly sweet with a tart finish. Light yet filling, this coq was far more satisfying and just plain better than the heavy and dull renditions of coq au vin that I’ve been subjected to in the past.

Coq pot.

Coq gobbler.

The base of my sweet tarte flambée was crisper and maltier this time around. Whether by accident or design, it suited the chocolate and banana topping well. I wasn’t a fan of the comparatively milky melted chocolate at first, but a more pronounced bitter sweetness came through later – especially when taken with the sweet tang of the banana slices and the milky squirts of cream. It wasn’t quite as well-balanced as the apple and calvados tarte flambée, but this heartier alternative to a crepe was still pleasing.

Flat out.

We’re just resurrection men.

Meaty threesome

I’ve largely gotten over my irrational fear of unshelled snails. It’s just as pathetic as it sounds – a grown adult previously unable to eat snails unless they were already plucked out of their shells. Sadly, if you have a similar psychological tick, then Bellanger isn’t the best place to overcome it as the effort-to-reward ratio isn’t really worth it.

The escargots a la persillade could’ve done with a little more resting time – the cockle-like flesh was only slightly less piping than the roasting hot shells themselves. Using the provided utensils is a must. Lightly chewy and somewhere in between a mushroom and a cockle in texture, the snails were desperately lacking in flavour though with the usual earthiness drowned out by the one-note herby bitterness of the dark green sauce.

Available by the dozen or half-dozen.

Not worth it.

The Baeckeoffe was on firmer ground. Tender hunks of mostly beef were joined by a few select bits of equally juicy pork and lamb in a thin, yet lip-smackingly moreish sauce. Thinly sliced potatoes and carrots provided a little starch and colour. Simple, but very soothing.

Top of the pots.

Back off, this is my Baeckeoffe.

‘Who needs meat?’ says one of my vegetarian friends. Except she clearly had a limited palate before making her life choice.

I wasn’t expecting much from the creme brûlée – it’s so easy to do it badly. I was therefore not only pleasantly surprised by the sheer size of the portion, but also by its execution. The crisp surface had a perfectly balanced sweetness and didn’t stick to my gums, while the light filling underneath was subtly, seductively creamy.

This review’s procrastination was brought to you, in part, by Doctor Who reaction videos on YouTube.

You’re not paranoid if everyone really is out to get you.

The comte, apparently aged 18 months, was creamier, sweeter and had a more subtle nuttiness than I’m used to. Although I still prefer even older comte with a more profound nuttiness and the salt-like crunch of crystallised amino acids, no matter how gauche that may be to traditionalists, this version was still enjoyable. This was especially the case when taken with the well-crafted bun on the side – chewy, dense, nutty and sweet. If nothing else, Bellanger clearly knows some top-notch boulangers.

The final countdown.

Go fourth and multiply

Bellanger’s pate was surprisingly dense and thus not really spreadable on bread. It was nonetheless very enjoyable – very meaty and mildly earthy with a cumulative if modest peppercorn effect. The prune-like fig jam was incredibly tart and sharp though, overwhelming the pate. It’s best enjoyed on its own instead.

Kofferwort.

Bellanger’s Strasbourg sausage was mildly chunky with a modest garlickiness boosted by a light daubing of wholegrain mustard. As pleasing as the Strasbourg was, it couldn’t compare to the boudin blanc. Very light and almost chicken-ish, but with an earthy almost offaly character that added a great depth of flavour. It’s similar to a bratwurst, but a true exemplar of its genre. Braised lentils were a fine accompaniment to the sausages – a rich tannic quality along with a firm bite and a soft follow through.

Mot-valise.

The pastry of the caramelised walnut tart was hearty and buttery, while the sticky walnut filling itself was very heavy with only occasional appearances of the distinctive taste of walnuts. The effect was similar to that of a Twix-meets-Snickers mash up – the whipped cream was a much needed counterpoint to this heaviness. While not entirely unpleasant, a more consistent walnut flavour needs to be present as a pay-off for this palate-deadening heaviness.

The world’s gotta see.

The Verdict

Given the relative prevalence of Alsace brasseries in our nearest continental neighbour, it’s somewhat astounding that it’s taken so long for one to arrive in London. Still, it’s here now and I hope it stays for good. Bellanger’s homely, comforting and traditional Alsacienne classics are extremely well-executed and aggressively priced. There are few other London restaurants that can so effortlessly make me happy after a bruising day at work. C’est bon.

What to order: The tartes flambees; the Choucroute à l’Alsacienne; Quiche; Coq au Riesling; Baeckeoffe; Pate; Sausages; Creme brulee

What to avoid: The snails.

Name: Bellanger

Address: 9 Islington Green, London N1 2XH

Phone: 020 7226 2555

Web: https://www.bellanger.co.uk/

Opening Hours: Monday – Friday 11.30-midnight. Saturday 11.00-midnight. Sunday 11.30-22.30.

Reservations: highly recommended on and around weekends.

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service charge: £30-35 approx. (if you push the boat out, the cost can rise to around £45-60)

Rating: ★★★★★

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

Kuuk almost certainly has two meanings. Firstly as a play on the word ‘cook’, which suggests a small, quirky and playful restaurant. The fully apostrophised name, ‘K’u’uk’, is almost certainly an allusion to the Mayan name for the prehispanic deity Quetzcoatl. Kuuk may have been a quixotic and bashful little hideaway once, but it certainly isn’t anymore. Originally located in a small and unobtrusive building near a strip mall in the northern part of Merida, the capital of Mexico’s Yucatan state, it now has far grander premises. Situated inside a converted mansion near the equally massive Fatherland Monument, it has the look, air and decor of an aristocratic pile crossed with a big portrait gallery.

The illusion isn’t ruined by the McDonald’s directly across the street, but by numerous factors once you get inside the semi-palatial chambers. Pale yellow lighting gives everything a jaundiced pallor, while both the air conditioning and the staff struggled to cope as more and more diners progressively filled up the restaurant. Once you factor in the cheesy piano muzak and the chatty, noisy atmosphere, Kuuk feels more like a museum canteen than the fine dining restaurant it purports to be.

Overcompensating a bit, aren’t we?

Not exactly an art of work.

If this isn’t next door, then you’re in the wrong place.

The tasting menu kicked off with a ‘seaweed fossil’ allegedly made from gingko, cactus, smelt, ‘pollen’ and presumably seaweed, but it tasted more like a cracker that had gone a bit off. A topping of bland seaweed cream was even less convincing.

Where do I insert the microfiche?

A green salad with ‘mentholated’ honeydew wasn’t nearly as exciting as its description would have you believe. Slightly minty melon balls, fruity puree and some crisp, thin slices of veg were refreshing, but otherwise unremarkable. It’s as if the ingredients were twisted to fit the visual joke of vegetables served on a leaf-like dish, rather than chosen because they made for good eating.

Time to turn over a new leaf.

Spinach ‘tea’ tasted like a partially-melted sore throat lozenge hitting the back of your mouth. It was thankfully easy enough to wash away this medicinal taste using the refreshing cool sorbet. It was oddly grainy though and only had a passing taste of lemon basil.

Mug.

Something edible and enjoyable finally arrived in the form of corn fritter cubes. A smooth bean sauce added more pleasing nuttiness, while some sweetness was added via sun dried tomatoes. Occasional hits of chilli spice were soothed by a creamy slice of avocado.

Cubism.

It’s hard to know what’s more ridiculous about the tostadas – there are so many choices. There’s the meh morsels of meat and cream and the bland tortilla chips they’re sandwiched in between. Your eyes have probably already been drawn to the photo below though – the tostadas were served on a marble arch. An actual arch made out of marble. By this point the restaurant had started filling up and service starting slowing down to a sluggish crawl. As my hunger gnawed at me, I ended licking the marble arch out of desperation. Despair and indignity are my bedfellows.

A crap tostada served on an actual curved hunk of marble. Just look at it. The mind boggles.

The least fun you can have with your clothes on.

I was finally able to stop tonguing the hunk of marble once the ravioli arrived. Supple pasta-like folds were filled with earthy and taut sea snails and mushrooms. The blank sauce was a poor accompaniment, but the crumbs of salty black pudding proved to be an apt if unusual garnish.

Somewhere in the Yucatan is a potter laughing all the way to the bank.

Wrinkly and soft.

I had thought that the marble arch would be the most risible thing that would grace my table the whole evening.

I was wrong.

Cold and limp prawn loaf, the sort you might find on a cheap prawn toast takeaway, wrapped in a curl of pork crackling is the sort of nonsense I’d expect from the kitchen of an ambitious stoner, not a professional restaurant. Not even the admittedly meaty gravy and fresh chives could redeem this embarrassment. If this is a joke, then the comedian needs a slap.

Prawn toast.

Tomato veil turned out to be a surprisingly unctuous cream with a spicy edge, all wrapped in an edible red wrapper. Although the latter didn’t really taste of tomato, I’ll take what I can get following the prawn toast debacle.

Drawing back the veil.

It takes a special sort of talent to overcook duck and make it too chewy as well. A slither of crispy skin and fat wasn’t enough to liven up a seriously drab piece of meat. The radishes and what should have been a rich and complex pumpkin sauce were instead flat and lifeless, overshadowed by a second brown and peppery sauce instead. It’s dishes like this that me want to curl up into a ball and cry myself to sleep.

Just a pretty face.

The venison was little better. Cooked well-done, it was tough and bland. Some consolation came from the hints of earthy moreishness in the thin venison stock. Soft barley and crisp, earthy vegetables contrasted with each other nicely.

Deer, oh deer.

An ice cool mango jelly cleansed my palate of the generally ineffective and frankly dreadful savoury courses. What followed next was most unexpected – avocado leaf ice cream that somehow mixed hints of aniseed with those of coriander. It was a refreshing counterpart to the adzuki-style beans and crumbs of cheese, both deliciously satisfying when taken with the rich brown sugar sauce. It’s as if this well-balanced and layered dessert full of depth had suddenly wandered in from a different restaurant altogether.

Spork! For no apparent reason.

Sorry folks, I forgot to take a photo of the avocado leaf ice cream.

Initially wreathed in liquid nitrogen, the pineapple foam was just as good as the avocado leaf ice cream but in a different way. The initial intense hit of pineapple faded quickly, with the herb-scented and flavoured crumbs taking its place with their crunchiness and bracing cold.

Ice and shadow.

Intensely sweet ice cream with a nutty edge was sandwiched in between a pair of peppery and nutty sweet meringues. Crisp then soft. Sweet. Lovely.

Merida mess.

A very odd meal of two very distinct and different halves ended with some well-crafted petit fours. Highlights included a buttery sweet empanada and a distinctly flavoured coconut cookie. Pecans embedded in a crisp sugary wafer and served on a bed of crushed peanuts looked like a repeat of the seaweed fossil joke from the very beginning of my meal, but was more memorable for all the right reasons with its effective sweet nuttiness.

Foursome.

Weird but effective.

The Verdict

Someone needs to liberate the talented pastry and dessert chef from Kuuk, instead of leaving them to be overshadowed by an amateurish front of house and a kitchen that’s prepared to send out savoury dishes that are visually overwrought and substantively bankrupt. How Kuuk managed to elevate itself into such grand premises and retain any sort of following is a mystery for the ages.

Name: K’u’uk

Address: Avenida Romulo Rozo #488 por calle 27 y 27A, Col. Itzimná, Mérida, Yucatan, Mexico

Phone: 0052 999 9443377

Web: http://www.kuukrestaurant.com/

Opening Hours: Tuesday-Saturday 13.00-23.00 and Sunday 13.00-17.00

Reservations: essential

Total cost for one person excluding soft drinks and tip: MXN1000 (£40 approx.)

Rating: ★★☆☆☆

Steakhouse and pub all-in-one

The original Hill and Szrok is a butchers in Broadway Market that branched out into catering. Re-purposing its central marble slab into a communal table, the butcher turned into a self-described ‘cookshop’ at night. ‘Cookshops’ are apparently the Regency-era precursors to restaurants in modern Britain and it’s hard to forget this deliberate anachronism when eating at Hill and Szrok’s new gastropub near Old Street station.

With a proper pub in the front and a dining room in the back, complete with a recreation of the original marble slab in the middle of the latter, the gastropub part of Hill and Szrok looks like a proper restaurant. But it takes more than printed menus and a few tables for two to make a restaurant. Service is a critical part of the experience and it’s here that Hill and Szrok’s relative inexperience at hospitality is most evident. Stoney-faced staff, lengthy delays in getting menus, ordering and settling the bill as well as forgotten drinks and side dishes were recurring problems across all of my many visits. These service problems are of course fixable – indeed, progress, albeit slow, was made in both efficiency and friendliness across my multiple visits.

The walls of the dining room are decorated with meat-themed paintings and, errr, portraits of the founders.

There’s little complaint to be had when it comes to the food though. Alleged on-site butchering keeps typical bills at around the £30 mark without booze (unless you order steak), while the cooking was simple but accomplished.

Cow-pulation.

Lamb at Hill and Szrok

While the butterflied lamb didn’t have the extraordinary texture and depth of flavour as the lamb sometimes available at The Newman Arms, the baby sheep here was still cooked with adept proficiency. A charred and crisp exterior with an evenly cooked, lightly salted and pink interior. While the typical earthy funk was somewhat muted, the punchy mint and dill sauce made up for it to an extent.

Float like a butterfly, tasty as a lamb.

Lightly offaly chicken hearts had a firm texture akin to pork kidneys and were served on crunchy toast. The two were best eaten separately though – the crunch of toast often obscured the taste and texture of the hearts. Plus, eating the hearts first gives the toast time to absorb the salty meat juices. The promised ‘devilled’ sauce was tame to the point of non-existence, but this was still an enjoyable dish.

The devil in the dark.

Crunchy cabbage was livened up by the powerful saltiness of an anchovy reduction and then was pepped up even further by a modest chilli spice. Spot-on anchovies are a sure-fire way to warm my cold, cold heart.

Punching above its weight.

Meaty and lightly sweet chipolatas were served with a lightly spiced ketchup on the side. Cumberland sausages are my British banger of choice, but that would be greedy and these little porkers were a decent enough side in their own right.

I know someone who doesn’t eat any sausages whatsoever because he doesn’t trust what goes into them. His immense loss, my substantial gain.

The deep-fried rice pudding balls were effectively a sweet version of Italian arancini, showing that Hill and Szrok’s kitchen isn’t adverse to some measured experimentation here and there. The crisp, oil-free exterior gave way to reveal a piping hot and somewhat fluffy rice layer. At the very centre of it all was a small dollop of jam that was complimented by the chunky and treacly prune puree. Apart from the need for a little more resting time, this was a decent enough dessert even if it wasn’t dramatically better than a more conventional rice pudding.

The menu changes daily, with some familiar faces sticking around.

Jam packed.

Pork at Hill and Szrok

It’s hard to eat pork chops at Hill and Szrok without thinking of the lovely, excellent value pile of pork chops available at Blacklock. While Hill and Szrok can’t match its Soho competition for low cost, it’s on a par at execution – charred and lightly crunchy fat rimming an evenly cooked and lightly moist hunk of white meat. Plus, you can order it with a fried egg on top so you can get the richness of a runny yolk. Just ignore the carraway relish – it has a habit of overwhelming everything else.

Fry, up.

Go, get to the chop-pa!

Big scoops of pork liver pate resembled ice cream dollops, but were definitely savoury. Although creamy, they were only modestly earthy with a slight offaly edge. The real winner here was the tart and fruity pickled cabbage served on the side.

Pub pork pate placed on a plate pic.

Bitter leaves accompanied by refreshing blood orange slices, which struck a good balance between tartness and sweetness, would be a fine palate cleansing accompaniment to any of the meat dishes on offer here.

The semi-communal central marble table is about as convivial as the Tube.

Poultry at Hill & Szrok

Duck breast is an occasional special at Hill and Szrok. This rendition was cooked rare and thus was lightly chewy, but there wasn’t enough fat. This was disappointing as fat is the main reservoir of flavour when it comes to duck, especially if the rest of it is cooked rare which tends to de-emphasise the bird’s usual earthy funk. The tart and lightly fruity rhubarb sauce might sound like an odd accompaniment for duck, but it’s not too far removed from duck a l’orange. It cut through the relative richness of the duck breast and was addictively slurpable in its own right too.

Saucy breast. #sorry #notsorry

Keeping abreast of the latest developments.

Although castel franco is apparently closed related to raddichio, these big bitter leaves looked more cabbage-esque. It turned up in a variant of the side salad from my first visit. Its sharpness combined with the tart juices of the blood orange slices was pleasing both in its own right and as an accompaniment to meat.

Blood orange on the leaves.

I expected little from the confit leeks, so I was pleasantly surprised by their slippery tautness and light butteriness which melded well with the the distinctive astringent tang of the Stilton crumbs. Wafer thin toasted crispbreads added a bit of roughage without getting in the way.

I’m confit-dent you’ll like this place.

The topping of the vanilla cheesecake was more like yoghurt than vanilla – creamy and slightly sour. It was none the worse for it though and perfectly enjoyable.

Yes, I sometimes like cheesy puns.

The cheap cuts at Hill & Szrok

Hill and Szrok’s kitchen can do fine things with cheaper cuts of meat that others would overlook. Lightly chewy bits of pork liver resplendent with an offally funk were topped with a moreish garnish that made them even better, while dollops of refreshing creme fraiche helped clear the palate.

Liver and let die.

The beef stew may look like a molten lump of slag, but the tender chunks of beef and thin moreish sauce were beautifully simple and satisfying. I’m rarely one to ask for less meat, but I’d happily trade a little beef for more of the fluffy yet hearty suet dumplings. One dumpling is just not enough.

This has to be one of the most unattractive photos I have ever posted.

Flaky florets of cauliflower had just the right texture – neither too hard and crunchy, nor too soft and mushy. Sadly, the anchovy-based dressing wasn’t as potently umami or as piquantly spiced as before which was a real disappointment.

Fish flower.

The deep-fried rice pudding balls were structurally very similar to the way they were before, but with some small yet key differences. At the centre of each fluffy rice ball was a small piece of tender rhubarb, but it was hard to appreciate given the crunchy shell and steaming hot rice pudding layer. The old school pairing of lightly sweet jam and eggy, creamy custard on the side was far more successful.

Baller.

Pink in the middle.

Fish at Hill and Szrok

There’s little for vegetarians at Hill and Szrok, but pescatarians can eat very well as long as they’re not too fussy. There’s usually at least one fish dish on the ever-changing menu, with a whole grilled bream impressing me one weekday evening. Charred, smoky skin with a fruity tone concealed light, flaky yet satisfyingly meaty flesh that had been cooked just so. The technical excellence of the kitchen here is often nothing short of outstanding.

Did someone forget to buy the big plates? Come on guys, honestly.

Just cooked.

Coarse and chunky pork rillettes were more like pulled pork than the smoother rillettes that I’m used to, with thick, firm strands of pig easily discernible. Firm, creamy and meaty, they were far more enjoyable than the mediocre rillettes and pulled porks served elsewhere, especially when followed with the briney, dill and paprika-flecked cucumber slices.

Rillettes, the best a man can get.

Coarse and lightly spicy minced beef in a slightly chewy casing made for a fine merguez. Although hardly spicy enough to register even a tickle, minty palate-cleansing creme fraiche was still very welcome.

This review was brought to you, in part, by Audioslave.

Steak at Hill and Szrok

The exact cuts of steak available at Hill and Szrok vary day-to-day, but you should order the cote de boeuf if it’s ever available. Cooked rare – as the waiting staff never ask for your preference –  the charred and lightly salted crust provided cover for pink, tender flesh with a gentle tang that tingled my taste buds with a moist, meaty kiss. Since this was a 1kg sharing steak, the nitpicking Euro Hedgie reckoned the steak should’ve been cross-cut rather than strip-cut to ensure that everyone gets an even distribution of beef instead of someone being lumped with all the fat. He’s over thinking it though – grown adults should be more than capable of equitably sharing the meaty goods – and he had little idea of how to accomplish this without cutting along the grain except for semi-facetiously suggesting the use of a laser.

My lips start to shake.

No regrets, no remorse.

We also shared the shepherd’s pie which turned out to be surprisingly big, even in in the smallest available portion size. A single layer of fluffy mash topped a generous helping of moist and tender lamb shank chunks as well as a scattering of taut cabbage pieces. Due to their sheer size, the moist, meaty trunks weren’t evenly distributed as a result which would be problematic in an even bigger portion shared amongst more people. The Euro Hedgie reckoned the lamb broth could’ve been reduced further to emphasise its meatiness even more, rather than leaning too heavily on herbs for flavour. Even so, this was still one of the best shepherd’s pies I’ve come across and easily good enough to change my previously dismissive view of this classic dish.

Aye for pie.

I wibble on about the big generous hunks of lamb shank in this pie and then resolutely fail to take a picture of one. Sheesh.

The easily dismembered cauliflower came dressed in a small spurting of Worcestershire sauce, but the stand out element here was the taut jerky-like strips of candied bacon.

Cheating with bacon.

The kitchen clearly knew that it had consistency problems with the anchovy dressing for vegetables, as the bitter castel franco leaves here were accompanied by sharp and lightly brined cucumber slices. This was just as well as a secondary garnish of pickled fennel was very tame indeed.

For a meat-focussed gastropub, they do a good line in vegetables.

The Verdict

Hill and Szrok’s cooking isn’t quite special enough to make it worth trekking across town for, but it’s still so accomplished, elegantly straightforward and aggressively priced that you’d be mad not to eat at this pub if you find yourself in this part of town. The real problem is the wobbly front of house which lets the entire side down. The service may well evolve past these problems, but I try to take restaurants as they are rather than how I wish they would be. So, for now, the rough-edged service means that, despite the solid Four Star cooking, the Hill and Szrok pub is a distinctly Three-Star experience.

What to order: Steak; Fish; Cheap cuts; Pies; Cheesecake

What to skip: Possibly the deep-fried rice pudding

Name: Hill and Szrok Pub

Address:8 East Road, London N1 6AD

Phone: 0207 324 7799

Web: http://www.hillandszrok.co.uk/ (basic pub details oddly only available in a pop-up when you first visit the website, at the time of writing at least)

Opening Hours: Lunch, Tuesday – Friday noon-15.00. Dinner, Monday-Saturday 18.30-22.30. Closed Sunday. 

Reservations: most tables kept open for walk-ins, so if you really, really need a reservation then book well ahead

Average cost for one person including soft drinks but excluding tip: £30 approx. (£45-50 approx., at least, if you order most cuts of steak)

Rating: ★★★☆☆

Italian food from Wild Honey and Arbutus

The Barbican Centre may be a supreme example of Brutalist architecture and a fine place to take in a film or exhibition, but it’s been a barren wasteland for food with branches of Benugo, Cote and other such dens of last resort as your only in-house dining choices up until now. That’s all changed with the arrival of Osteria, an Italian restaurant sequestered away on the second floor in place of what used to be the Gin Joint. Normally, a restaurant from the people behind such superb eateries as Wild Honey and Arbutus would make me giddy with anticipation, but the additional involvement of Searcys – the people behind many overpriced tourist trap catering operations – filled me with fear.

City in the sky.

Let’s hope that big and heavy wine rack doesn’t fall over.

It’s kinda like a booth.

If nothing else, Osteria is cosily appointed with Tube-style upholstery patterns on the seats while the low-ceilings and dim spot lighting help provide a romantic mood. Plus, there’s the view of St Giles Cripplegate and the lake terrace which looks dreamily mysterious at night. The service from the converse-wearing staff can be slow and error-prone though unless the besuited maitre d’ is present to oversee things. Even then, there’s still significant room for improvement. When an elderly pair of diners, one of whom is literally holding on to a zimmer frame for dear life, ask for help in getting to street level to reach their taxi, a response of ‘we’re just the catering, not facilities’ may be prosaically correct but isn’t at all within the spirit of British hospitality.

Sadly, fugly tomatoes like those aren’t a common sight in the UK.

‘We’ve got more covers than we can actually fill. What shall we put in this space instead?’
‘How about a decorative produce table?’
‘Genius, Jenkins!’

Okay, so it’s not completely decorative.

First things first

Osteria is one of most unimaginative names possible for an Italian restaurant and, in this case, possibly misleading and inappropriate as it’s traditionally been the term for inexpensive inns and pub-like eateries. This gussying up of the rustic is most evident in a pair of dishes starting with the porchetta. At its best this roast pork dish can be a viscerally joyful pork experience, but here it’s been refined to the point where it bears only a slight resemblance to its namesake. Very thin, almost carpaccio-slices of pork didn’t come with any crackling. They were moderately fatty, porky and herby but the effect was a little too tame which undermines the need for the palate cleansing abilities of the mildly tart, sweet apple slices and the bitter leaves. It’s decent on its own terms, but it’s not the porchetta I’m looking for.

One day I’ll find superlative porchetta in London. Today is not that day.

The second example of needless gloss is the tripe. Although tender and yielding, the tripe was lacking in offally funk while the sticky sauce was only moderately meaty and umami. Plus, the portion size was miserly given that it was supposed to be a main and that tripe is cheap.

Tripe.

The pasta dishes can be ordered as mains or as a smaller Primo portion slotting in between the starters and mains. Unfortunately, the tagliatelle was just the wrong side of al dente although it wasn’t too mushy at least. The sauce was at least umami and gently spiced, but the promised nduja was in short supply and the minced veal is easily forgotten.

I don’t want to get too hung up on the ‘Osteria’ name. What’s more important is when dishes misfire, such as this uneven plateful here.

Tender and mildly bitter stems of puntarelle were pleasing, but the promised anchovies were missing in action.

Punting for compliments.

Given the, at best, highly variable nature of the savoury courses, I was taken aback by the accomplished sophistication of the honey and olive oil gelato. Light, milky and elastic, the texture and consistency of the gelato is easily good enough to rival the best that Rome has to offer. The grassy fruitiness of the gelato combined neatly with the aniseedy sticky crunch of the honeycomb to form a beguiling herby sweetness of uncommon depth. This dessert would stick out like a sore thumb at many traditional osteria, but who cares when it’s this good.

This reminds of the signature honeycomb desserts at Wild Honey.

Going back for seconds

Milky burrata with a soft curd-like interior was served at room temperature. I still prefer my burrata with a cool liquid interior, but this burrata was still eminently scoffable – especially when taken with the distinctively nutty hazelnuts and firm carrots. Sadly, the artichokes left me unmoved.

This review’s procrastination was brought to you, in part, by Mr Robot.

Tender ravioli came filled with lightly bitter and chewy veg which meshed well with the shavings of woody parmesan scattered up top.

Pillow fight.

Given the very wobbly nature of my first meal at Osteria, I was surprised at how well the savoury courses were going this time around. This reached its nadir in the monkfish. Expertly cooked with a lightly buttery and chewy crust that gave way to a firm bounciness that ended with a tender centre and follow through. This incredibly well-textured fish contrasted neatly with the firm white beans and bitter, wrinkly spinach.

Bean and gone.

Inevitably, a side dish of sliced tomatoes just couldn’t compare to such aquatic goodness. Slightly umami and sharp segments were dressed in a somewhat sharp and woody balsamic vinegar.

Seeing red.

Although lacking in the promised blood orange flavour, the semifreddo was dense, slightly chewy and refreshingly cool. This chewiness was emphasised by crisp and chewy bits of meringue, while distinctly sugary sweet clementines added another layer of flavour.

There are four lights.

The semifreddo was a bit on the small side, prompting an order of cheese. Semi-soft cow’s milk cheese Robiola was milky, dense, sharp and lightly tart. I’m no fan of Gorgonzola (it just can’t compete with Roquefort or Stilton for my blue cheese affections), but the taleggio was dependably good with its dense elasticity and fruitiness. A dense yet airy goat’s milk cheese was surprisingly mild with little of the earthy funk that I usually associate with goaty cheeses.

Hail, Cheese-r.

Three is the magic number

It’s an odd restaurant where the sea bream carpaccio is almost thicker than the porchetta, but this did at least mean this carpaccio was meaty as well as refreshing. The clementines only added a passing sweetness, but this was no real loss as it allowed the bitter fennel and the chillies, with their lingering spicy heat, to take centre stage. Good stuff.

Taking the purple.

Creamy, grainy polenta with a nutty undertone was well matched by taut mushrooms that ranged from umami to earthy. The meaty jus added another layer of flavour as did the samphire-like crisp greens that added their own earthiness. Superb.

Not mushroom for improvement – it’s damn near perfect as it is.

If the rabbit leg special is available, then jump on it before it hops away. Firm and moist rabbit leg segments were stuffed with chunky and coarse sausage segments. This neat meaty pairing was made even better by the sticky chorizo-infused tomato sauced fregola. Like the gelato and honeycomb dessert, this rabbit dish is another echo of the excellent rabbit/hare dishes often available at Wild Honey and a corker in its own right.

Leg it.

Fresh and lightly salted purple sprouting broccoli was a little too soft, but still a fine accompaniment to the stuffed rabbit leg.

Sprout pout.

Although billed as a pear and almond tart, this dessert tasted more lemony with little almond effect evident. Plus, while there was a discernible crust, it was so thin that this dessert bore more of a resemblance to a cake. Far more memorable was the accompanying ice cream which was not only smooth and light, but also actually tasted of almonds. It meshed well with the nutty bittersweet chocolate cream and chocolate pieces. Divorce the ice cream and chocolate from the so-so tart and you could have a far better dessert as a result.

Pear-chance to dream.

Pear shaped.

Go fourth and multiply

Osteria’s grilled octopus was firm with a gentle but nonetheless evocatively sea salt quality to it. The sweetness of the bell pepper sauce was balanced out by the punch of parsley and capers as well as by the chewy fried potato pieces. A lip smacking start.

Osteria octopus.

Sucker punch.

Although apparently similar to gnocchi, the slightly chewy and supple skins of the gnudi reminded me more of mochi. The milky ricotta filling had surprising floral notes and an almond-like follow. Meanwhile, sweet super-thin slices of pear were counterbalanced by lightly bitter chicory leaves. Everything melded together beautifully with surprising layered depths of flavour.

How do you even pronounce ‘gnudi’?

Although cooked medium, the mackerel was nonetheless delicate and full of that fish’s distinctive and bold flavour. The fennel was a little muted, but the blobs and bits of lemon ranged from sweet to sharp to acidic and tangy. This gave this already accomplished fish dish a distinctively light and summery feel.

Return of the mack-erel.

A side of spiced fregola wasn’t as accomplished as the fregola that accompanied the rabbit leg special from my previous meal. The soft morsels, while still pleasing enough in their own right, were dressed in a generic tomato sauce that was hardly spiced at all.

Spiced my arse.

The vanilla panna cotta was much more than the sum of its parts. The milky, silky yet also slightly lumpy tofu-esque panna cotta actually tasted of vanilla. The tart and quiveringly squidgy rhubarb and nutty cocoa nibs meshed with the panna cotta to delicious effect, presenting a sophisticated layered confection that was more like a delicately textured yet robustly flavoured zabaglione than a panna cotta.

Couple at the next table accepting a free meal. I wonder who they write for? And will they declare the freebie?

The Verdict

Despite a very rocky start, I came to immensely enjoy my meals at Osteria. It’s not the simple, rustic eatery that its name implies, but that shouldn’t stop you from enjoying the generally deft, well-crafted dishes.

Osteria’s tucked-away location inside the bowels of the Barbican Centre make worry about this restaurant’s long-term financial prospects though. Passing trade is effectively non-existent and the surprisingly large dining room was rarely even half-full, apart from days when a popular exhibition or showing was on.

Much more worrisome from a diner’s point of view is the somewhat cavalier service which is unbefitting of such a skilled kitchen. This is, of course, fixable but these front of house problems are worth bearing in mind when eating at Osteria (and you should). Osteria – another Four Star kitchen dragged down by Three Star service.

What to order: Almost everything, especially the fish, polenta and desserts…

What to skip: … except for the tripe and possibly the tagliatelle

Name: Osteria

Address: Second Floor Barbican Centre, Silk Street entrance, London EC2Y 8DS

Phone: 020 7588 3008

Web: http://osterialondon.co.uk/

Opening Hours: weekdays noon-23.00; weekends 17.00-23.00. 

Reservations: not usually necessary

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

Rating: ★★★☆☆

Barbecue British-style

The move from street food maverick to established restaurant can be a rocky one. Even if you somehow tame the logistical and financial maelstrom of setting up a London restaurant, there’s still the task of evolving your menu to keep up with the competition. That’s something The Joint, one of the winners of my original barbecue group test, failed to do when establishing its Marylebone restaurant – and that branch has now since closed. Thankfully, this is a hurdle that Pitt Cue has managed to avoid in its move from street food van to cramped Soho upstart and now to a far bigger premises in the City near Liverpool Street station.

The new City Pitt Cue won’t win any awards for decor originality – the bare brick walls, exposed overhead ducts and pig-related paraphernalia lining some of the walls are all just a bit too cliched. It’s several times larger than its original Soho incarnation though. This not only means more comfortable and spacious seating, but Pitt Cue now takes reservations. It’s not part of an online reservations system such as OpenTable or Bookatable though. That means some tedious back and forth via email or phone, but it’s not too much hassle as long as you have a flexible schedule.

If you don’t have a reservation and none of the tables are available, you can try snagging a seat at the bar.

Pitt Cue Soho was always far better at its off-piste specials than it ever was at the classic American barbecue staples of pulled pork and ribs. This is reflected in the new, ever-changing menu which, along with an extensive specials board that changes daily, skips the cheap cuts typical of American barbecue in favour of more British cuts that are also sometimes more esoteric and more expensive too. That might seem like a cop-out, but it’s unlikely you’ll hold that opinion for long once faced with Pitt Cue’s range of smoked, cured and brined meats.

The weird cuts at Pitt Cue, Devonshire Square

Lamb tongue had a texture that fell somewhere in between that of liver and kidney. Tender, smooth and lightly offaly, the tongue was made even better by a fruity glaze, a lightly spicy sauce and some crisp spring onions. Spot on.

Kissing with tongues.

‘Blood cake’ might sound unnervingly off-putting, but it’s really just an honest description for black pudding. Light and tightly packed grains were accompanied by a sweet and refreshingly tart apple sauce. It won’t set the world alight, but it’s a good black pudding nonetheless.

Blood on the scales.

Pitt Cue always has sausage on the menu. It might look like an odd McDonald’s-style sausage meat patty when it first arrives at your table, but that doesn’t matter. The smooth and thick meaty concoction here was made of both pork and eel. It was so well put together that I couldn’t tell where the smoky porkiness ended and the smoky fishiness began – the two were neatly complimentary. A mildly flavoured carraway celeriac coleslaw on top helped cut through the smoky joyfulness.

Smoky joyfulness.

Cured and smoked jowl was one of my favourite dishes at the old Soho Pitt Cue and it’s even better here. Gently crisp skin may be too subtle for some, but I found it instantly addictive. The layer of fat underneath may not have been fully rendered, but it was still soft and served as a reservoir of smoky flavour for the dense, salty and gammon-esque meat underneath that. The smoky, salty meatiness was enhanced by the neat contrast and progression in texture between all three layers. Exquisite.

Jowl-ing at the moon.

This review’s procrastination was brought to you, in part, by pointless arguments with trolls on Facebook.

Light and fluffy mash, with a meaty undertone courtesy of bone marrow, had a lightly herby and earthy mushroom reduction mixed into it. Pitt Cue’s mash may well have ruined all other mashed potatoes for me.

Mash. Monster mash.

The lardy cake wasn’t what I expected at all. The crisp layers of pastry stuffed with prunes reminded me more of Soreen than anything else – an unfortunate childhood staple I can do without. This primitivist throwback wasn’t helped by the presence of rind-filled marmalade. I did at least enjoy the accompanying vanilla ice cream – smooth, airy and with the distinctive and consistently bold taste of actual vanilla.

I’ve misplaced one of my planets.

Seafood at Pitt Cue, Liverpool Street

Seafood isn’t traditionally thought of as a barbecue foodstuff, but Pitt Cue shows that it can work wonderfully. The smoked roe grill bread isn’t a great place to start though, with the pate-like smearing of roe lacking both smokiness and creaminess. Far better was the chewy and soft bread which fell somewhere in between a naan and a potato farl in terms of texture.

Roe back.

Oyster paired with kimchi was another mistake. The briney oyster was drowned out by the tart and sour kimchi. It’s such an obvious non-starter that I’m surprised that the kitchen ever thought this would be a good idea. At least I only ordered one.

Really?

Far, far better was the smoked eel broth. Tart and gently sweet broth was dotted with bits of smoky eel meat that resembled lardons. The smoky fattiness was very pork-like, so much so that I wouldn’t be surprised if the kitchen cheated a little with swine flesh. It was lip-smacking stuff on its own, but even better when taken with the bread on the side. Nutty and dense rye-like bread was topped with an unctuous, crispy, meaty spread that tasted even more sensational when dunked into the soup.

If you see a City buffoon at the next table cutting their steak along the grain, leave them be. They’re not ones to take advice gracefully.

Upper crust.

Octopus tentacles were a tad too soft, but it was otherwise expertly tenderised with a lightly charred and crisp crust covering the soft flesh. A herby and creamy mayo was well-chosen but ultimately unnecessary – the tentacles’ gentle briney inflection was not only evocative of the sea, but brought back childhood memories of scoffing whelks and cockles in my dad’s Volvo on a Saturday morning.

I can get on board with this.

Although this was supposed to be my seafood-focussed meal at Pitt Cue, I couldn’t help but have at least one pork dish. A very smooth and porky sausage had a fabulously moreish garlicky hit. The only disappointment here was the undetectable presence of the promised cep mushrooms.

An ex-cep-tional sausage.

Surprisingly tame fennel was still enjoyable thanks to a mix of sweet and lightly sour apple slices and a garnish of nutty almond pieces.

Sideshow.

A reasonably nutty and coarse hazelnut crumble was dotted with mildly sweet and tart cubes of pear. All of this went well enough with the moderately bitter-sweet and fluffy chocolate mousse, but I still struggled to muster more than a shrug for this competent if ultimately forgettable dessert.

Moose.

Beef at Pitt Cue, The City

Pitt Cue City no longer has ribs as a regular dish on its menu, but they do sometimes turn up as specials. ‘Caramel’ beef ribs, almost certainly back ribs rather than short rib, had a sweet and umami sticky glaze that was vaguely Chinese in character. The bark had an unusual light crispiness, while the meat underneath was moist and dense if a little scanty. It’s not as satisfyingly multi layered in texture or as viscerally flavoured as the very best beef short ribs, but this slab of back rib was still far better than the so-so pork ribs so often served elsewhere in this city.

Sideshow Mel.

Less satisfying was a hunk of beef neck. While very tender, it was also very heavy, leaden and flavourless. The light smearing of stilton and a slightly more generous daubing of gently sweet butternut squash puree couldn’t hide the labourious, joyless nature of eating this dish.

Rubbernecking.

I couldn’t help but dip into the porky delights of Pitt Cue’s menu. A smooth, dense and smoky trotter sausage had an unctuous undertone and was topped with sauerkraut-esque pickled veg.

On the trot.

Conspiracy theory.

Rabbit and bacon broth wasn’t the visceral punch I was expecting at all, but was instead far more subtle and layered. A lightly sour and herby soup dotted with chewy veg and sweet, crunchy macademias. Crunchy and nutty toast topped with an unctuously meaty spread made for fine dunking material.

I had ‘French’ cheese and onion soup in a US barbecue restaurant once. For some reason. It wasn’t great.

What a spread.

Baked celeriac may be a bit too like parsnips for some, but I enjoyed its tender creamy sharpness.

Hell of a night.

‘Milk’ ice cream was surprisingly but enjoyably malty and yeasty, as well as airy and light, while the accompanying chunks of rhubarb were gently squidgy, tart and interspersed with a crumble that added some crunch without getting in the way. While not as masterful as the somewhat similar rhubarb and panna cotta dessert available at the nearby Osteria, it was still a well-crafted, deliciously layered confection.

Shush, you inebriated, bellicose blowhards! I’m trying to eat.

Pork and lamb at the new Pitt Cue

Snaggletooth has an unhealthy love for pork, so it was no surprise that he joined me for my pork-focussed meal at the new Pitt Cue. Wafer thin slices of ham, made from Pitt Cue’s favoured mangalitsa breed, were wonderfully fatty and moist with a gentle woody sweetness that precluded the need for the included walnuts.

Ham!

Slam, ham, thank you ma’am.

Although apparently made from Dexter beef, this cow sausage tasted very similar to the pork trotter sausage from my previous meal – so much so, that I wondered if there had been a mix up in the kitchen. There was no mistaking the slick, fatty, salty goodness of the dripping bread though. It was made even more deliciously unhealthy by the butter on the side which was tart as well as creamy.

Beef patty. Allegedly.

Drip feed.

In lesser barbecue kitchens, a hunk of mangalitsa shoulder blade would’ve been wasted as a subpar pulled pork. Here, it was served as whole cut in of itself and it was a beautiful sight to behold. Taut skin with an unctuously moist layer of rendered fat underneath. The chunky strands of meat, similar in texture to hock, had a gentle smokiness that wasn’t too overwhelming but was offset anyway by oddly circular slices of fennel on the side. The firm bite and yielding follow through left both Snaggletooth and I wanting for nothing.

I’m not one to be impressed by aesthetics alone, but my god. Just look at it.

Pig out.

Given the exquisiteness of the mangalitsa blade, we thought nothing could top it. That was until we dived into the smoked lamb neck. A salty, woody bark (almost too salty for Snaggletooth) was stripped away to reveal dense meat that was profoundly earthy, yet balanced a subtle sweetness with smokiness too. Small radishes prepared kimchi-style were served on the side, cutting through the richness. The combination of visceral sensuality and sophisticated nuance in the bark and meat is more than enough to make this lamb a candidate for dish of the year. And it’s only March.

Barking up the right tree.

Utterly delightful.

Darling, your vertebrae are showing.

A side of mash was just as good as it was before. Snaggletooth’s dessert of crumble, chocolate mousse and pear was similarly unchanged – fine, but ultimately unmoving.

They’re gonna eat me alive if I crumble.

When rarebit appears on a menu under the dessert section, I would expect something clever, post-modern or deconstructive. In this case though, it’s literally a rarebit. Chunky, somewhat chewy toast topped with what appeared to be caramelised onions and a melted medley of cheeses, which I had thought to be the sweet, chocolate-esque brunost, but was actually a less exotic selection of British cheeses. It’s a decent rarebit – thick, chewy and gooey – but it felt very out of place as a dessert after so much meaty richness.

Rarebit on the side.

Bit weird.

Steak and fish at the bigger Pitt Cue

Rump cap may not be the most glamorous cut of steak, but it’s (relatively) inexpensive and can be a real joy to behold. The thinly sliced rare/medium rare medallions here were slightly chewy, but still mostly tender, with a gentle woody flavour and a strip of fat acting as reservoirs of smokiness. Ace.

Tip one’s cap.

Fish doesn’t really lend itself to low-and-slow barbecue cooking, so the dover sole here just received a lick of flame on the grill instead. The light and gently smoky white meat was cooked just so with a gentle bouncy texture. Simple and straightforward.

Dark side.

Light side.

Taut, slippery and lightly bitter hispi cabbage was given a moreish edge by a tinge of garlic.

Green party.

I expected the milk ice cream with rhubarb to be much the same as it was before, but it was a notably different dessert this time around. The rhubarb was drowned out by the very crunchy and nutty crumble, while some equally crunchy ice crystals marred the milkiness of the less nuanced ice cream. A disappointing lapse in consistency, but at least this misstep was an outlier rather than one in a series of many.

Different and not in a good way.

The Verdict

While it’s tempting to compare the new Pitt Cue against other more traditional American-style barbecue restaurants, Pitt Cue’s departure from the standard Southern staples means that such a comparison isn’t quite apt. It can match its colonial-style competitors when it comes to smoky visceral boldness as its lamb neck shows, but the understated subtlety and layered complexity of its many smaller dishes shows that Pitt Cue has forged a unique identity all its own. Its pork dishes are a true exemplar of what can be done with swine flesh, easily bettering the misguided approach of the now defunct Blackfoot, while the rest of its cured, brined, smoked and grilled menu outclass almost everything on offer at the somewhat similarly themed Rok.

The only things that spoil Pitt Cue is the somewhat fussy reservations system, the fact that it doesn’t open on weekends and the boorish City boy clientèle, a sad inevitability of its location. When faced with waddling Square Mile drunks bellowing from across the dining room or halfwits at the next table joking about marital rape, it takes an iron resolve not to douse them in freezing cold water and send them limping back home to a telling-off from their mothers.

Objectionable diners aren’t, of course, Pitt Cue’s fault and they shouldn’t stop you from enjoying this singular, uniquely enjoyable barbecue and meat restaurant. The new Pitt Cue really is in a class of its own.

What to order: Anything pork; the broths; the sausages; steak; lamb when available

What to avoid: Oysters; perhaps the desserts

Name: Pitt Cue

Address: 1 The Avenue, Devonshire Square, London EC2M 4YP

Phone: 020 7324 7770

Web: http://www.pittcue.co.uk/

Opening Hours: Monday – Friday noon-15.00 and 18.00-22.30. Closed weekends.

Reservations: highly recommended early in the week; essential the closer it gets to the weekend.

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service charge: £50-60 approx.

Rating: ★★★★★

Cheap Chinese regional mega bites reviewed in rhyming couplets and haiku

I’ve written before how about the under-representation of China’s numerous regional cuisines in London’s restaurants. If you needed a singular, illustrative example of the effects of that disappointing trend then it would be noodles. Veal Smasher and Happy Buddha have had to put up with my rants about the generally poor state of Chinese noodles in Britain many times, with much of the country knowing little else beyond the awful dried, straight-to-wok ‘chow mein’ style wheat noodles. Some of London’s Chinese restaurants fare better than most, with a wider but still limited selection of rice, egg/lye and wheat flour noodles with plant starch noodles harder to find.

Xi’an Impression is one of the very few restaurants in the capital specialising in food from the north western city of Xi’an and the wider Shaanxi province, including some truly splendid noodles you’d struggle to find elsewhere. Situated literally opposite the Arsenal Emirates stadium, it’s a brightly lit BYOB (bring your own booze joint), but also cramped. Xi’an Impression has been reviewed authoritatively elsewhere, both in other blogs and in the national papers, so I’ve decided to embark on a whimsical experiment.

Much like my review of Tayyabs in haiku, I’m reviewing Xi’an Impression in a very rough mix of rhyming couplets and haiku. My GCSE literature teacher would be appalled, but life is too short to take everything with profound seriousness and this unconventional review indulges my (very bad) inner sixth-form poet. Plus it will annoy pedants, comment trolls, poetry haters and other halfwits lacking in imagination – always a plus. Let’s begin:

Chunky chilled cucumber; Refreshing rinds
But garlic sauce with little force

Smacked cucumber.

Ear-shaped fungus, supple and taut
Chilli coriander sour sauce, slurping it all – almost caught

Black fungus.

Beef-filled bun, lots of fun
Spicy mince, flat griddled neutral baps
Moist and fine, like your mother’s flaps

Described on the menu as a beef ‘burger’.

Which I guess is the closest English term. It’s not a gua bao, by the way.

Pork bun, looks the same
But moreish garlic sauce isn’t tame
Veal Smasher thought it was a bao
Despite his mistake, it still made him say wow

I guess ‘sandwich’ would seem a bit odd on a dinner time menu.

Fried dumpling skins open at both ends
Meaty pork and umami seaweed – Happy Buddha say amen!

Fried pork and seaweed dumplings.

Pork and veg dumplings, ordered on a whim
Skins, so supple and thin
Meh filling is a sin
Vinegar is there for dipping in

Steamed pork and vegetable dumplings.

Biang biang noodles so thick and wide
Taut and spicy, down they slide
Also bok choy
Templeton Peck says ‘oh boy!’

Biang biang noodles with bok choy.

More thick noodles, just as fine
Chunks of chicken, bone and skin
Gamey funk, what a way to dine
Moreish sauce, for the win

With added potato for some reason.

Lovely broth, beefy stock
Doughy and fluffy cubes of bread
Like gnocchi, do not mock
Add chilli and garlic for a lovely spread

Behold, bread in beef broth. Also known as paomo.

Yikouxiang, half hour wait
Slippy disc noodles, simple as a saint
Sauce, mildly spicy and tart
It won’t make you faint, unless you’re an old fart

Yikouxiang.

Anglicised salt and pepper squid
Vicious Alabaster ordered, behind my back
Chewy and bland, not worth your quids
Made me wretch, ugh like gack!

Ugh.

The Verdict

Xi’an Impression isn’t the glossiest or the most comfortable restaurant and while it is cheap, this is largely due to the inexpensive ingredients and cheap cuts of meat used. Still, the kitchen can clearly do a lot with a little, knocking out some sublimely crafted dishes full of flavour and character. The noodles and bread broth, in particular, are worthy of high praise and clearly products of skilled practice. It’s superlative Chinese food you’ve probably not encountered elsewhere in London. Bring good friends and even better drink and have a rollicking good time.

What to order: Yikouxiang; Black fungus; Open-ended dumplings; Beef and pork ‘burgers’; Biang biang noodles; Bread in beef broth

What to skip: Anything from the anglicised classics ‘Other’ section of the menu

Name: Xi’an Impression

Address: 117 Benwell Road, London N7 7BW

Phone: 0203 441 0191

Web: http://xianimpression.co.uk/

Opening Hours: seven days a week 11:30 – 22.00. 

Reservations: highly recommended (there are only around 20 covers or so)

Average cost for one person excluding soft drinks and tip: £20 approx. 

Rating: ★★★★☆

Year round group dining that doesn’t cost the earth

Organising a meal for a group of people can be a huge logistical pain. Finding somewhere large enough, takes bookings, is affordable, caters for vegetarians and has a kitchen that can actually cook is an epic undertaking not to be taken on lightly. Ironically, one of the better budget group dining restaurants is one that, officially, doesn’t taking bookings at all – the Fitzrovia branch of Homeslice.

While officially first come, first seated, you can book the large centre table for 10 if you have enough people. Like the original Covent Garden branch, Homeslice serves up 20in pizzas for £20 – perfect fodder for a ravenous gaggle of rowdy, skint ne’er-do-wells such as myself, Ball Breaker and a selection of our work chums. Although you can perch on a stool at the counter and order by slice at £4 a pop, Homeslice is more fun as a communal experience from the messy hands-on nature of the food to the paper plates. The service could be more attentive though – only after several minutes of our own inept futzing about with the blunt pizza cutter, did the waiters offer to slice our pizzas for us (we were literally the only occupied table at the time).

Naturally, I didn’t actually take a photo of the big group table in the middle of the dining room. Idiot.

The goat meat used on the goat shoulder pizza was unsurprisingly no match for the barbecued goat meat sometimes available at The Smoking Goat. It was still tender and earthy enough to be pleasing though, making up for its lacklustre partners of cabbage and sumac yoghurt. Like all the other pizzas we tried, this pizza had a rather limp, somewhat stodgy base that was a touch too chewy – almost certainly consequences of its larger than usual size.

Vote goat.

Shouldering the burden.

Despite this systemic flaw, the Calabrian chilli peppers pizza was quite enjoyable. Although not remotely spicy, its mild sweetness was still pleasing and meshed well with the moderately creamy, somewhat earthy cheese and a subtle herby undertone.

Red state.

The 20in pizzas can be ordered half-and-half with one set of toppings on one side and a completely different set on the other. We opted for the Calabrian chillies on one side and anchovies on the other. The anchovies had a suitably salty punch, but this clashed with the sweetness of the mismatched caramelised onions. The Kalamata olives got lost amidst all of this.

Two Face.

Punching above their weight.

Mildly meaty and gently spicy salami made up for barely perceptible parmesan and somewhat limp rocket.

Flying saucer.

There’s no ‘i’ in team, but there is in ‘meat pie’.

The Verdict

Much like its Covent Garden originator, Fitzrovia’s Homeslice is all about raucous communal fun with the pizzas proving merely adequate rather than hitting any new (or indeed any) gastronomic heights. The quality of the toppings may be inconsistent and the humongous base is fundamentally flawed, but it’s still more enjoyable and palatable than many chain pizzas. You could do far worse.

Name: Homeslice

Address: 52 Wells Street, Fitzrovia, London W1T 3PR

Phone: 0203 151 9273

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

Opening Hours: Monday–Saturday noon-23:00 and Sunday noon-22.00.

Reservations: officially not taken, but bookings for large groups can be made

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service charge: £25 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.

Unutterable swear words suppressed

The quality of American-style barbecue in London has made leaps and bounds in the past several years, but continual progress is by no means guaranteed. There’s no clearer example of the potential for setting back an entire genre through massive incompetence than Low, Slow and Juke. Owned by pubco Marston’s, this underground bar and restaurant is effectively a rebranded and retooled version of The Abbey pub which used to occupy the same site.

This restaurant may be located a short walk from Parliament Square, but the decor appears to have been recycled from a low-grade Americana theme park. It’s not entirely cringe worthy with some attractive tables dotted about, but the purely decorative faux windows above the bar are baffling in their silliness.

Oddly, the mezzanine level and its tables were closed on two of the nights I visited this restaurant.

Some damn fool actually put a CRT TV playing the Blade Runner trailer inside one of the fake windows. Because that’s a good use of time and money.

If only they had put as much effort into the food.

If there’s one good thing about Low, Slow and Juke then it’s the staff who were almost all friendly and helpful. The barbecue itself, on the other hand, was utterly deflating and depressing in its dire awfulness.

Burnt ends and Brisket at Low, Slow and Juke

It’s a bad sign when the best dish of my first meal at this supposed barbecue restaurant was the ‘smoked bacon fat popcorn’. Especially when said dish turned out to be nothing more than plain popcorn with some salty bits of chopped, fried bacon thrown in.

Salting the earth.

Burnt ends are very hard to do well and it’s thus no surprise that very few London barbecue restaurants serve them. The version at Low, Slow and Juke was deplorable – tough, dry and bland. The beef chunks were so leathery tough that I had trouble cutting them into digestible pieces using the standard table knife provided. They were so bland and devoid of moistness that the tomato sauce slathered on top was a lifeline, not an optional condiment. I would feel bad about serving such garbage to a dog, never mind an actual person.

Shoe leather.

The brisket was just as tough and bone dry as the burnt ends. It was also so tasteless that it was completely dependent on the same tomato sauce for any kind of flavour. If you attempted to serve this brisket in Texas, then you would be promptly laughed out of the state. The accompanying pickles were no better. Only very marginally vinegary, they barely deserve the name ‘pickle’.

Tough as nails. And painted just as red.

Fried pickles were just as bland as the ones served with the brisket. The battered exterior was frustratingly inconsistent, ranging from oily and soft to crisp and golden.

There seem to be a lot of low-level mandarins and provincial quango staffers in this place.

The lemon meringue pie had all the appetising appeal of lemon-scented washing up liquid – the foam-like meringue was almost inedible in its sourness. The pastry of the open topped pie not only tasted of cheap margarine and excessive amounts of sugar, but was so hard that I literally had to dig and grind my spoon into it to break it apart. A clear waste of time, effort and calories, I had to console myself instead with the odd accompaniment of meh brownie pieces and a bland vanilla ice cream that was so uncomfortably cold that I had to wait for it to melt before it became even vaguely edible.

Bilge.

Baby back ribs and beef ribs at Low, Slow & Juke

My first meal at Low, Slow and Juke was so unbelievably bad that I seriously considered not returning. But my curiosity and desire to give the staff the benefit of the doubt got the better of me – perhaps the serving of contemptible dreck was a catastrophic one-off. Sadly, it wasn’t.

The baby back ribs were so hard that after hacking away at the meaty gap between the bones, I still had to apply a fair amount of force to wrench the bones apart. The effort wasn’t worth it – the rigid pork was characterless with no hint of any kind of flavour. The lashings of very mildly spiced sauce suggests that someone in the kitchen knows they’re serving up a culinary embarrassment and are trying in vain to cover it up.

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Low and slow? Joke.

The beef ribs look big, but the amount of bone far outweighed the actual meat present. Almost certainly back ribs rather than short rib, the bark was blackened and tough. Although not quite as hard or leathery as the vile baby back ribs or the foul burnt ends and brisket, the beef here was still nowhere near as tender as it should’ve been if it had actually been smoked properly.

It also tasted of nothing. I’ve had ‘roast’ beef sandwiches from petrol stations with more flavour. There were no seams of fat and what little collagen present was either hard or chewy. It’s as if someone picked the cheapest but biggest slab of beef ribs available, applied a badly prepared rub and then smoked it for the shortest amount of time possible. If you’re superficial enough to be impressed by appearances and size rather than actually quality, then this is the badly cooked waste of animal life for you.

Industrial accident.

Low, slow and puke.

It’s a strange ‘red cabbage slaw’ that is entirely green with no red in it whatsoever. Lettuce and green cabbage in a sickly sweet mayo that was, remarkably, even more disgustingly disgraceful than the meat.

Disgusting, not degustation.

Pork ribs and pulled pork at Low Slow and Juke

A morbid sense of completionism brought me back to Low, Slow and Juke. Pulled pork was the one thing at the almost-as-awful Grillstock that was close to enjoyable, but I had no such luck here. The pulled pork was bizarrely served in a cheap hot dog bun and buried underneath an avalanche of lettuce, cabbage, sliced jalapenos and a sickly ejaculate probably intended to be a chipotle mayo.

‘Brioche bun’ my arse.

Scraping off the needless embellishments revealed bits of pork that were reasonably moist and firm, but they were bitty shreds, flecks and morsels rather than sinewy strands and chunks. Unsurprisingly, there was a complete absence of taste. No sweetness, saltiness, smokiness, fattiness. Nothing. Nothing but a grey void of hapless imitation and culinary debasement.

Wasting my young years.

St Louis pork ribs are, as far as I can tell, nothing more than spare ribs trimmed for a neater presentation. You wouldn’t know that from the antithetical version here though – a huge slab of bone and flesh with the belly still attached. The bark was taut but, wait for it, bland. There was a thick layer of rendered fat, but this had been taken too far and had turned into a slick and sickly mess.

Although tender, the meat slid off the bone almost too easily – as if the ribs had been smoked for too long whereas every other dish tasted as if they hadn’t been smoked for long enough. Unsurprisingly, the rib meat itself was a blank slate for the lightly spiced tomato sauce. Such mundane nothingness is almost impressive given the excessive amount of fat swimming about.

Garbage.

So unremittingly awful, I couldn’t finish it all. And I don’t usually like wasting food. But this was already a waste.

Green cabbage slaw was even less impressive than the alleged red variety – bog-standard cabbage in a limp Caesar-style dressing. I usually despise fries as a second-best alternative to proper chips, but they were very welcome here given the atrocious quality of the barbecued meat. Plus, the kitchen didn’t foul up the sweet and lightly buttered corn-on-the-cob.

The Verdict

Low, Slow and Juke is the most hideously awful barbecue restaurant I’ve had the misfortune to eat at. It smacks of opportunistic corporate bandwagon jumping with almost no understanding of what actually makes good or even passable barbecue.

I say ‘almost’ because I took the chance of peeking behind the door of the ‘smokehouse’ near the bar. Inside was an actual smoker (I had initially suspected that no actual smoking was taking place) that had recently been used – a Fast Eddy’s Cookshack FEC120 apparently fueled by Green Mountain Premium Texas Blend wood pellets judging from the opened sack. This should be enough to at least make passable barbecue, but the risible results suggest short order cooks dragooned into a discipline with next to no training.

Surprisingly, there was an actual smoker inside.

Low, Slow and Juke may be cheap and centrally located, but the barbecue is inexcusably bad. Don’t eat here. Just don’t, not when there is now a selection of barbecue restaurants in London that are actually good. Eat at Red’s. Or Shotgun. Or Pitt Cue. Or Hotbox. Or the Covent Garden Big Easy. Or one of the high quality street food barbecue stands. If we’re lucky, this dismal, grubby stain of a restaurant will disappear like a bad dream.

What to order: Nothing.

What to avoid: Everything.

Name: Low, Slow and Juke

Address: 1 Abbey Orchard Street, London SW1P 2LU

Phone: 020 7222 5084

Web: http://lowslowandjuke.com/

Opening Hours: Monday-Friday 11.00-23.00.

Reservations: highly recommended the closer you get to the weekend (this hole is actually popular)

Average cost for one person including soft drinks: £20-25 approx.

Rating: ★☆☆☆☆

The successor to Newman Street Tavern

I rarely get upset when a restaurant closes, no matter how good it was. At the risk of sounding trite, nothing in this life lasts forever. Even so, I was mortified to hear that Newman Street Tavern, an elegant restaurant serving reliably well-crafted French-ish dishes, was closing to be replaced by a vaguely Australian-themed restaurant from the same owners. My scepticism wasn’t assuaged by the maître d’s incredulous explanation that the change was made to appeal to ‘feminine’ diners wanting lighter dishes – needlessly gendered approaches to anything are patronising to say the least.

Dickie Fitz is, if nothing else, an attractive place. The vaguely country club decor of Newman Street Tavern has been jettisoned in favour of a light and airy interior vaguely art deco in style. The front door leads directly into the dining room, but a thick curtain keeps the draft out. Beware of the last-ditch no-reservations bar seating though – it can be uncomfortable if you’re a short arse.

‘Dickie Fitz’ sounds like a euphemism, doesn’t it?

First things first

The beef tartare was an odd dish with minimal texture and only a mild hint of capers. Mini egg yolks, possibly quail in origin, were rich and runny but this couldn’t totally compensate for the non-presence of the chilled and formless raw beef or for the odd and needless presence of lotus root and radishes. A poor start.

Buried beef.

Firm and meaty barramundi had a bouncy bite to it as well as a salmon-like funk. The fish was served with taut cabbage and yieldingly soft daikon, but the puddle of dashi was far too tame though with barely any umami.

Barry munday.

I’ve never encountered kale hearts before, but I’m instantly a fan of Dickie Fitz’s version – firm and bitter with a buttery quality.

Why have I not had these before?

Soft and squidgy Lamingtons, on the other hand, were a disappointing letdown given their vaunted Antipodean fame. A vague chocolate flavour was outweighed by the heavy dusting of dessicated coconut. It’s similar to a Tunnock’s Snowball, but with squidgy sponge in the place of marshmallow and, outside of Australia at least, without the old school charm.

Square pegs.

A far better dessert was the yielding panna cotta in the shape of a roll. The gentle but still distinctly herby and tart taste of kaffir lime was neatly complimented by the tart and sweet apple sorbet. The sorbet managed to be refreshingly cool without being bone chillingly icy.

Limeys. Limeys everywhere.

Going back for seconds

Meaty slices of sea bass carpaccio were thicker than usual, but the bigger problem was their chilled straight-out-of-the-fridge temperature which negated whatever character they might once have had. This dish wasn’t lacking in flavour though from the squirting of blood orange juice to the mouth pursingly sour and bitter mini bush limes. Although such strident sourness won’t suit everyone, I loved it. It was second only to the crunchy and umami tempura crumbs. If only the fish carpaccio itself hadn’t been chilled to death.

Crumbs.

Cauliflower gyoza were much more like tortellini, both in shape and texture. The oddly airy, but bland ricotta-like filling and thin slices of underwhelming cauliflower let the garnish of nutty pine nuts and gently sweet raisins take centre stage. Given how sharp and creamy the best cauliflower dishes can be, these haphazard tortellini were a real disappointment.

Gyoza my arse.

Green beans were a tad too soft, but dressed in a mildly piquant sambal-style sauce dotted with crisp and nutty almond shavings. A firmer bite would have been better, but this was still a good side.

Deuteranopia.

Although light, the lemon tart had too little pastry and a one-dimensional tartness that left me wanting.

This tart was too tart – and I like tart tarts.

The flat white was a tad watery and lacking in character, but it did have a thin silky head and packed a caffeinated wallop that kept me going through the afternoon and into the evening.

Do they have coffee in Westeros?

Meaty threesome

The tuna tataki managed to retain the meaty tang of that fish despite being a little too chilled. Assorted vegetables added a sweet herby tang, while the avocado puree was surprisingly complimentary to both the tuna and the mirin-infused broth. As an umami fish dish, this tuna tataki starter was imperfect but still more punchy than the barramundi main.

To the person at the other table who asked, no this is not gammon.

A slab of pork belly was suitably meaty, but its lack of character wasn’t helped by the hard and unrendered streak of fat. With the belly flopping, it was left to the tart fennel kimchi, lightly spiced with ginger, to restore some honour to this dish. The meaty broth took on the flavours of the kimchi quickly, ensuring this dish wasn’t a complete loss.

This isn’t gammon either.

The fries were definitely thin, sickly and unsatisfying fries rather than proper thick, whole cut and chunky chips. The added chickeny saltiness faded quickly, leaving little to remember.

Rubbing chicken salt into my wounds.

Smooth and sweet burnt marshmallow was almost like ice cream in its softness. The chocolate fondant matched the marshmallow in smoothness and gooeyness, but it tasted of little. Powerfully nutty and salty peanut bound these two blobs of softness together. It was almost too bold, but the underwhelming flavour profile of the fondant and marshmallow meant thats its presence, in the end, was a welcome one and made this dessert a moderate success rather than a middling failure.

Why can’t I have a dessert in the shape of a free-standing Stay Puft Marshmallow Man?

Dickie Fitz’s flat whites may not be the best of its kind, but this brew was consistent in staying much the same as it was before.

It’s an odd world where localities most commonly associated with coffee aren’t notable coffee growers – Italy, Vienna and Australia for example.

Taking the fourth

The lobster short soup may be oddly named, but it was also far better than I expected following the disappointing cauliflower gyoza. The highly umami soup was thin with a soy sauce-like colour to it, but had an intense bisque-like taste to it. This was just as well as the chunky lobster meat filling of the gyoza-like dumplings tasted more of ginger than lobster itself. Aromatic herbs scattered on top added another layer of flavour. The balance between soup and dumpling was tilted too much in favour of the former, but this dish did ultimately deliver its promised seaside flavour.

Less a soup, almost a sauce.

Lamb chops were moist and gently earthy with a lightly crisp crust. The minty sauce on the side wasn’t really necessary, as it could overwhelm the natural meaty funk of the chops. It can’t hope to match the meaty delights of the lamb sometimes available at The Newman Arms or Pitt Cue, but it’s nonetheless a respectable rendition.

Spring forwards.

The kitchen clearly likes playing around with umami as a bowlful of cabbage was carpet bombed with parmesan, delivering a knock out punch of umami. If the lamb chops were a subtle and understated costume drama, then this side was a summer blockbuster.

That’s an odd saucepan.

Dickie Fitz’s dessert and pastry chef clearly knows how to make a good sorbet. The coconut variety was smooth, unmistakably flavoured and delivered a clean after taste which made it a good accompaniment for the banana bread sticky toffee pudding. Although not the bold combination of fruity, tangy viscosity and hearty stodge that I was expecting, it was still gently sweet and tinged with ginger.

Ginger finger.

The flat white remained unchanged.

Turning over a new leaf.

The Verdict

Dickie Fitz is far from bad, due in large part to its attractive decor and generally friendly, efficient service. But it’s an unworthy successor to Newman Street Tavern with a ridiculous gendered conceit and an uneven menu that’s only intermittently satisfying and never really good enough to match, never mind exceed, The Providores and Tapa Room – the benchmark for this genre. It’s not Australian, but if you’re hungry in Fitzrovia then you’re much better off at the French-esque Piquet.

What to order: Lobster short soup; Lamb chops; Parmesan and cabbage; Kale hearts; Kaffir lime panna cotta

What to skip: Cauliflower gyoza; Pork belly; Chicken salt fries; Beef tartare

Name: Dickie Fitz

Address: 48 Newman Street, Fitzrovia, London W1T 1QQ

Phone: 0203 667 1445

Web: http://dickiefitz.co.uk/

Opening Hours: weekdays 07.30-10.30, noon-15.00 and 17.30-22.30; Saturday 08.00-11.00, noon-16.00 and 18.00-22.30; Sunday noon-18.00. 

Reservations: highly recommended the closer you get to the weekend

Average cost for one person including soft drinks and service charge: £45-50 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: ★★☆☆☆

Hirst and Hix light up Waterloo

The food at most art gallery and museum in-house restaurants tends to be mediocre bordering on abysmal. Club sandwiches that you wouldn’t want to be seen dead with and Caesar salads almost as old as Rome itself are usually the order of the day. Pharmacy 2 shows that doesn’t have to be the case. This joint venture between enfant terrible artist Damien Hirst and serial restaurateur Mark Hix is the in-house restaurant at Hirst’s Newport Street Gallery and stays open for dinner after the gallery has closed.

It’s oddly located in a mostly residential area, but it’s a short walk from Waterloo, Lambeth North and Vauxhall stations. If you know how to use Google Maps on your phone, then you’ll be fine. Like the original Pharmacy, long since closed, Pharmacy 2 is decorated like an actual chemists with pill bottles, medicine packets, bandages and other pharmaceutical paraphernalia and insignia lining the walls and bar. It’s a strikingly playful interior, especially when you spy trains on the elevated track across the street through the stained glass window – the flickering lights indicative of the bustling metropolis beyond.

Pharmacy 2, not Pharmacy2U.

Stained glass.

Are those ball-and-stick molecular models accurate?

I mewed into the void. And the void mewed back.

I guess the advantage of being located on the first floor away from street level is that no one will mistake it for an actual chemists.

Pharmacy 2’s menu (which has changed around once a month so far) isn’t as adventurous, sticking mostly to comfort food classics – I suppose the conceit of Pharmacy 2 is that the food here cures you or some such subliminal marketing puff. It all seems faintly ridiculous at first glance, but I came to like the place in spite of myself. This was no doubt helped along by the charmingly friendly staff.

First things first

Cuttlefish croquettes had a moderately crisp crumb coating free of excess oil, but the inky black filling was little different from mushrooms. At least the dipping mayo on the side was umami and mildly peppery.

The Physical Impossibilities of Death in the Mind of Someone Living

Although the menu consists mostly of dishes that shouldn’t faze all but the most UKIPpy of grandfathers, there are a couple of more challenging dishes. The Hunan spiced pork arrives as a chewy, meaty pattie dotted with crisp peppery herbs. It’s served submerged in a broth dominated by ginger and sharp, peppery celery. The strong and uncompromising flavours won’t be to everyone’s taste, but I appreciated its distinctiveness.

Beautiful Inside My Head Forever

Pharmacy 2’s lamb pie is a pot pie, but the quantity of pastry, specifically the comparative lack of it, shouldn’t dissuade you from ordering it. The buttery crust had a light beery oomph with a bit of bone, sadly bereft of bone marrow, sticking out of the centre. The lamb chunks bobbing about in broth underneath the pastry crust were merely okay, outclassed by firm offally kidneys and reasonably rich sweetbreads. Although the latter could’ve been more sumptuous, this was still a very pleasing pie – especially when taken with a side of light, fluffy, mildly mustardish mash.

Away from the Flock

Coincidentally, the Jolly Giant and I discussed the semantics and classifications of pie before I had this meal. Are pot pies and pies that use a potato topping instead of pastry, like cottage pies, really pies at all?

A side of buttered kale hearts were pleasingly bitter and moreish.

Four Weeks One Winter

Poached rhubarb was tender, but surprisingly bland. It was left to the excellent saffron ice cream to save this dessert – smooth, elastic and unmistakably flavoured.

Kingdom of the crystal skull.

Going back for seconds

The crispy prawn kale could so easily have been a retread of the buttered kale hearts from my first meal, but it was different. Crisply delicate leaves were garnished with a dusting of crushed prawn shells for a subtle hit of salt and umami. It’s like the imitation crispy seaweed you get in Chinese takeaways, but better.

Mother and Child, Divided

Steak tartare was tender, but didn’t have enough chew. The lackadaisical capers and only moderately rich egg yolk were also disappointing, making for an underwhelming meaty starter.

Raw deal.

Although the poultry chunks in the duck curry had only a mild earthiness that faded quickly, this was still a satisfying if by-the-numbers curry thanks to the cumulative tingliness of the madras-style sauce (also available in a mild variant) as well as the firmness of the meat and the medium grained rice. The apple pakora served on the side was only modestly sweet and a tad too oily, yet retained a measure of pleasing crispness.

Beautiful Love Survival

Virgin Mother

The dessert portions are all small, allowing you to pick and mix. Bread and butter pudding was top notch with a delicate squidginess and a light buttery custardishness. The honeycomb and chocolate mousse was less successful. The soft and light mousse only had a mild bittersweetness and just a vague hint of crunchiness from the minuscule amount of crushed honeycomb garnish.

Yes, I used two made-up -ness adjectives to describe this pudding. I don’t much care.

If you’re going to do a honeycomb dessert, either exceed the standard set by Wild Honey or stay at home.

Meaty threesome

As a non-pisshead I’ve had a lot of rubbish Virgin Mary mocktails, but Pharmacy 2’s Bloody Shame isn’t one of them. This tingly concoction actually tasted of tomato, chilli and Worcestershire sauce. That might sound like a backhanded compliment, but it’s no mean feat for a booze-free Bloody Mary.

Nothing to be ashamed of.

I’ve had plenty of pig and cow chitterlings (or intestines if you’re not into cutesy names), but never cod chitterlings until now. The fish innards were more akin to pig chitterlings than Japanese squid innards, my only other point of comparison. Soft, mildly salty and fried just so, they were subdued and subtle, even when taken with the accompanying chorizo, rather than punchy and forthright.

The chitterling classes.

Grilled chorizo as a solo act tasted much as I expected – meaty with a little piquant oiliness that was enhanced by the Romaesco sauce.

A Thousand Years.

Chorizo turned up again as an accompaniment to big chuffing scallops. The molluscs had a firm bite and a delicate inner texture. Most of the evocative sea salt flavour came not from the white flesh, but from the orange coral roe instead. The sea kale left me unmoved, while the chorizo tended to overpower the scallops and were best taken separately. Although not perfect, this dish was still enjoyable.

Scallop anatomy is fascinatingly intricate. To a layman at least.

Disappointingly, the chips weren’t chips at all but fries. At least the thin potato stalks were consistently crisp and golden with a mild fruity sweetness.

I Want to Spend the Rest of my Life Everywhere, with Everyone

The light sponge of the upside down pineapple cake had a cumulatively strong taste of the fruit from both the preserved pineapple pieces studding the cake and a flavoured syrup. It had a retro charm that was almost matched by the timeless quality of the creme brûlée, but here the kitchen fell down a little. The crust was crisp and didn’t stick to my gums, while the custard was creamy and eggy, but lacking in vanilla flavour despite the copious amount of vanilla seeds present. It’s still more than good enough to be worth ordering and savouring though.

Amonium Biborate

Arachidic Acid

Go fourth and multiply

One of the more unusual dishes on Pharmacy 2’s menu is the brik, a dosa-esque pastry shell filled with a rich and runny duck egg yolk. Although this Tunisian dish’s reputation among Magrebophiles is somewhat overinflated, it’s still pleasing and the version here compares very well to the briks I had in Tunisia itself a few years ago prior to the revolution. From the yolk and the crisp, light and buttery pastry to the chunky harissa, which was actually piquant, it was a light yet satisfying starter.

The Inescapable Truth

Fisherman’s Spelt was very paella-like, but with fluffy, bisque-infused spelt taking the place of rice. The carefully budgeted for selection of seafood varied in quality. The two curled scrolls of squid were firm, while the trio of mussels ranged from briney to funky. The singular scallop was firm and meaty if a touch muted, while the two bits of monkfish were oddly and disappointingly detexturised into borderline mush. The supply chain bean counters have muddled what could’ve been a superlative dish.

Like a paella, but without the Pavlovian memory of your parents being conned into buying a time share on the Costa del Sol. A timeshare sweetened by a free portable radio. An AM portable radio. The beasts.

At least the lettuce and herb salad was crisp and light with a fruity, peppery and vinegary dressing.

Verity

Absinthe jelly is not a dessert for those of you with a dainty composition. Despite its delicate, quivering texture, it was stridently astringent and boozy – almost like cough medicine. It’s very much an acquired taste – I’m glad I had it, but I wouldn’t order it again.

As a non-drinker, I’ve never had absinthe before. If this is what it’s supposed to taste like, then I’m not sure I see the appeal

Raspberry and white chocolate cheesecake was moderately creamy and had the sharp sweetness typical of raspberry, but the minimal biscuit base and underwhelming white chocolate made me glad that this wasn’t my one and only dessert here.

Painting by numbers

The Verdict

Pharmacy 2’s crowd-pleasing comfort food menu and Hix’s involvement suggest a prototype for a franchise template to improve the quality of gallery/museum catering. Hirst’s involvement seems to preclude anything so mundane and prosaic though, suggesting ‘worthier’ aspirations of becoming a singular dining destination in its own right.

While local Southwarkers and tourists in the many nearby hotels should definitely make their way to Pharmacy 2, there’s little reason for Londoners from farther afield to do so – unless you happen to be in this part of town or just want to admire the decor. Despite the consummate charm of both the staff and the interior’s appearance, the menu just isn’t exemplary enough to deserve your regular devotion and cash.
What to order: Hunan spiced pork; Lamb pie; Mash; Buttered kale hearts; Brik; Bread and butter pudding

What to skip: Steak tartare; Honeycomb chocolate mousse

Name: Pharmacy 2

Address: First Floor, Newport Street Gallery, Newport Street, Vauxhall, London SE11 6AJ

Phone: 020 3141 9333

Web: http://www.pharmacyrestaurant.com/

Opening Hours: Tuesday-Saturday 10.00-midnight; Sunday 10.00-18.00. Closed Monday. 

Reservations: essential

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

Rating: ★★★☆☆