Ripe London

Close to the Bone

But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walked 1000 miles
To fall down at your door

–"I’m Gonna Be" by The Proclaimers

I’m bartering with the attendant at Kingston rail station who has just slapped me with a £20 penalty “fare” for not having bought a ticket.  He keeps telling me not to worry and hands me pointless instructions on how to appeal, which really annoys me as it's clearly a deflecting technique.  Of course, I'm really just annoyed at myself for having been so absentminded.

I try the logical approach.  Can’t I just buy my ticket now, please?  I never come into Kingston, honest!  Plus, it didn’t even occur to me that I couldn’t get here on my Oyster.  I get all the way to Heathrow and other parts of Surrey with it.  Why not Kingston?  Why can’t London Underground and National Rail just get along?!

You have no sympathy for me; I understand.  Neither does the attendant.  And then I do it.  My eyes well up, and all comes gushing forth.

“But, but, it’s my BIRTHDAY!" I sob, "Doesn’t that count for anything?”

The guy’s not having it and keeps feeding me his “don’t worry.”  And by now I'm fully aware that any rage I may be feeling against the system this man represents is really just a projection of how I'm feeling about myself: I messed up, not him.    

It really was my birthday.  I wouldn’t have made that up; I’m a terrible liar.  And I’m lucky that it is, because I’m being treated to dinner at the new Jamie’s Italian.  It’s opening night and the staff are over-the-top friendly.  There’s something very American about the place, and I suspect Jamie has spent as much time in South Carolina as in Southern Italy.

We order baked chestnut mushrooms and rosemary polenta chips to start, both of which take the chill off this wintry night and soften the sting of my £20 mistake.  We split the butternut squash ravioli and a salad of prosciutto and pears that arrives sans pears.  They quickly correct it, and while it’s perfectly good I wish I had asked for a more adventurous dish.  Thankfully, the tiramisu, with its hints of orange, is one of the best I’ve ever had.  And the banana brownie – an idea I initially resist – is again one of the best I’ve ever had.

So yes, I’ll jump through hoops to get to Jamie.  And no, I haven’t even tried to dodge that fare. 

Jamie's Italian is at 19-23 High Street, Kingston KT1 1LL.  Buy before you board!

All Ears

Have you ever played that game where you try to guess how long the couple at the next table have been together?  It was after the first set at 606 Club in Chelsea that we noticed this particular pair.  Pretty city boy.  Ego masseuse.  Almost certainly in the early throes.  We’re not sure we ever heard her speak.  His eyes kept darting around the room as he carried out his man-ologue.  He was too into himself to be into anyone else.  This duet was definitely doomed. 

OK, so maybe that’s a bit harsh.  But it’s hard not to be when everything else at 606 Club was, well, music.  I can’t believe I didn’t know about this place before.  It would make a great date spot with someone who isn’t hogging the microphone.  On my way there I couldn’t help thinking about the Sex and the City episode when Carrie goes to the jazz club with Big and ends up making eyes with the musician.

Not a huge jazz fan, I nonetheless felt irresistibly pulled into a world that seemed far, far from London.  I loved the cosy tables, the chatty service, the potluck menu.  Grilled halibut was on the dry side, but accompaniments of okra and Dauphinois potatoes formed a satisfying trio.  A duo of layered chocolate mousse between a sliver of cake and a slick of ganache was so good we needed an encore in the form of vanilla cheesecake with raspberry coulis.  We shared it, I promise.

But what really hit the spot, to my sweet surprise, was the entertainment.  The Dave O’Higgins Band did more than drown out the banker babble next door.  They brought out a cadence to London nightlife I hadn’t experienced, without a single word.

606 Club is at 90 Lots Road, SW10 0QD.  £40 each for dinner, wine, music and maybe even some eye contact with the bass player.

Guilty As Charged

Forgive me, Morrissey, for I have sinned.

The other night I committed a multitude of sins of the flesh – a far cry from my former vegetarian self.   Les Trois Garçons have had their wicked way with me, and I am still blushing.

I first heard about the place in a round up of best restaurants to seduce someone, and after my own experience there I can see what they mean.  Dinner followed me into bed, my dreams and even woke up with me the next morning.  It was an intense dining experience, and I’m still having sweaty flashbacks as I recall what was, in the end, a mingling of primal instinct and subordination. This was the kind of evening you need a shower after.

Here’s a plot twist for you:  I was there with Jennifer Klinec of Eat Drink Talk, the creative cooking school.  Her beau happens to be head chef Jerôme Henry.  That means menus closed.  That means “yes, chef.”  That means blindfolded with my wrists tied to the bedposts.  Especially after I tell him I’m a recovering vegetarian, and he replies with a mischievous laugh right from the belly.

One can’t overlook the restaurant’s now legendary menagerie décor.  It’s animals on the walls as well as your plate, plus antique handbags dangling from the chandeliers to keep things light-hearted in this boudoir.  Oh, and Charles Aznavour crooning from the speakers, something I haven’t heard since my mother played him in the late 70s.

My heart beat a little faster as the first course arrived.  Fresh brioche, then fennel velouté in a tall shot glass with dainty sun-dried tomato crostini – for dipping, of course.  Phew.  This I could wrap around my little finger.  I was so far off the hook.

Things progressed breathlessly from then on, and the second course was an act I am still trying to come to grips with.  It was my first encounter with foie gras, a cardinal crime for someone who once shunned so much as an egg.  But the kitchen was intent on baptizing me, sending out a terrine of it embedded with brioche and dates plus a slab seared with quince.  I dutifully ate, my mind at complete odds with my tongue.

But I had little time to contemplate what I had just done, for things rocked back to more comfortable terrain with massive lobster ravioli, filled like plump down pillows with whole—not shredded—meat peaking out from under—get this—shaved black truffles as big as rose petals.  Magic.

I would have been content to stop there, but we were in for a long night.  Shin of beef arrived piled high, and wood pigeon appeared spread under a shower of more truffles.  Jen asked if I wanted to swap plates; and by now I knew well that, in this room, a question was simply command.  I swapped, ripped the meat from the bones and swallowed.

Please, oh please—dessert!  And so tenderly did it come—chocolate parfait with cherry compote and miniature cakes for me, fruit salad with sauternes and passion fruit sorbet for Jen.  Yes, she could have a nibble; but this was my absolution, and the pleasure would have to be all mine.  I do confess.

Les Trois Garçons is at 1 Club Row, E1 6JX.  Check your culinary inhibitions at the door.

Gone Fishing

There’s lots of good fish in the sea – maybe!  But the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you’re not mackerel or herring yourself, you are inclined to find very few good fish in the sea.

—D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover

Second impressions, I find, are much more important than the first.  I am almost always wrong at the outset, and I like catching myself on it.  When things are not what they seemed, it reminds me how handicapped we all are to be operating from one point of view.  That's why people need each other.

A first impression carries a lot of baggage.  What you’ve heard and what you’ve imagined before you’ve seen it combine to form a very powerful image that is almost always way off the real thing.  In short, you’ve already formed your first impression before you’ve had a chance to encounter the very thing in question. 

That’s why I’m writing about Arbutus, again.  I went there for the second time last night and, tellingly, had the roast plaice and a repeat of that angelic squash.  Everything was going just as before, so you can imagine my dismay when the dessert—an undercooked crème brulée— sent my glittery first impression into a cascade.  The place is as perfect as the few good fish in the sea – which is to say, not entirely so.  And still Arbutus charms me to pieces.  I want more.  If only to see if they get dessert right next time.

Restaurants are a lot like people.  Take a big opening, with all the hype and celebrity chef, the sleek design and six-week wait.  Then it turns out like New Year’s Eve – a whole lot of anticipation for a ho-hum night with a fat bill.  Compare that to the beauty of stumbling into an unassuming trattoria positioned suspiciously close to the Duomo…I had my best meal ever at La Giostra in Florence.  A magical first impression that becomes more powerful the longer I go without.  I am sure the fact that I can’t go there on a whim has a lot to do with its allure.  Then there are the growers, the places whose imperfections become part of the magnificent puzzle that makes them comfortable and special at the same time, over time. 

You’ll smell a bad fish right away.  That’s not a mistaken impression.  That’s instinct.  But if you keep coming back for more, despite the supposed imperfections, you just may have found yourself a good fish.

Sparks Will Fly

For the past three nights I’ve had a front-row view of the many fireworks going off around London north of the river.  One after another, up they go in a dizzying spectrum that, to be honest, has become boring.  It’s old news by now, and part of me feels guilty that I’m not pressed against the windows watching them.  Then the other part makes me get up and check every so often to make sure the explosive sounds aren’t something else.

Is it just me, or does it feel wrong to celebrate by shooting these things in the air in light of what’s going on in the world? I suppose it’s no different than any other aspect of our privileged lives, such as my dinner at Zaika this evening.  I was invited by dear friends who do a much better job at ordering than I do, so I closed my menu shortly after opening it, allowing myself to be surprised by the flavours that followed.  Zaika’s Indian cooking is a welcome mix of the traditional and the modern; and, while exquisite, I can’t imagine it tasting as wonderful—or meaningful—had I not been sharing it.  And therein lies the true privilege.  So, next year, party at mine for Bonfire.  Something tells me it’ll be a bit more special.

Zaika is at No1 Kensington High Street, W8.  Light their fire.

Arbutus Americana

After reading Monkey Gland’s beastly account and having recently started eating meat again, I was looking forward to Arbutus last night.  Oh yes, and then there are the adoring reviews, which the restaurant itself is not at all coy about.  As soon as you walk into the sleek, modern space, a shiny “Time Out best new restaurant 2006” sign glints smugly at you from the hostess podium.

And yet the place gives off none of those “I’m too sexy” vibes, making it, of course, all the more alluring.  Instead, everything exuded a quiet sensuality, the kind you get on a successful date when you don’t quite know what hit you until you realise you just don’t want to leave.

Some call it French peasant, others the odd "modern eclectic", but the real test for the food was that I was meeting Amy, my newlywed friend visiting from Chicago; and we had much to catch up about.  I was really looking forward to Amy’s brand of no-nonsense straight talking.  It’s funny how you truly learn to define and appreciate these things once you've been away from them.  As our marathon chat sprinted on, it could have been easy to make less of the plates that passed before us.  But not so here.

We kept out appetites in check by splitting a starter: half a spiced Autumn squash with fresh sheeps ricotta that dissolved like a cloud on the tongue, tiny girolles, wet walnuts and Muscat grapes.  It was so earthy that it elevated itself to the divine.  We would have ordered more, but after voicing the requisite  cries of “My, you look so thin!”, it was par for the course.  The dessert course, that is.

But first there were the mains to get through; and this menu is hardcore carnivore, so there was no turning back.  Amy went for the hake wrapped in Parma ham with octopus and piquillo peppers while I pushed old habits aside with the bavette of beef “persillade” with a dainty heap of January king cabbage and a miniature copper pot of maximum-calorie dauphinois potatoes.  A little dab will definitely do ya, especially as we continued our theme of sharing is caring.

Never one to forego a culinary homerun, I scanned the dessert menu excitedly.  And there, between the warm Valrhona chocolate soup with vanilla ice cream and the panna cotta with slow roasted Provencal figs was the winner that tugged teasingly at my apple-pie roots: iced parfait of peanut butter with bitter chocolate sorbet.  The familiar flavours arrived sculpted high and divided by a sugary lace wafer that was deconstructed immediately.  Conversation lulled briefly as we tried to get to it before it melted away, and soon a cheese course of bonde gatine and Harbourne blue took its place.

The food at Arbutus is at once genius and simple, much like Amy’s advice. After three hours I didn’t want to say good-bye to my friend or Arbutus.  And, lucky for me, there’s always next time.

Arbutus is at 63-64 Frith Street, W1D 3JW.  Bring a good friend.

Let's Go Crazy

You could walk right past Crazy Bear, but you really shouldn’t, especially if you’ve just been paid, which of course I hadn’t.  But that’s another story these days.

Situated quietly just behind the restaurant row that is Charlotte Street, walking into Crazy Bear, with its padded leather booths and plastic chandeliers, is like stepping onto the set of Casino; but do the drinks really have to cost a jackpot?  I suppose you’re actually paying the rent for the swish downstairs bar and a name like “Classic Harry’s White Peach Bellini” – all upper case and nearly £10 for it.  Ouch, and I’m not even mentally converting to dollars anymore.

The staff’s perma smiles soon ushered us upstairs to a very cosy corner, but don’t try the bench if you’re on the short side like me.  I felt like Alice in Wonderland and quickly switched to an armchair.  Does this matter?  Yes.  Crazy Bear is so perversely lush you feel like the whole atmosphere is either moving away from you cinematically or swallowing you up with every tiny sip of peach puree.

Maybe I should really just eat tapas these days, because I was infinitely delighted by the first and last courses and practically careened off course with the second.  We ordered a bunch of starters to share: a surprisingly sexy prawn and apple spring roll which I sneaked a second portion of, perfectly pert fried baby squid, an airy spread of mixed tempura and a spongy dumpling assortment I could have done without.

And then, why oh why did I?  Thai green curry with all of two – count them, two – pieces of tofu in what amounted to a puddle of coconut milk, oil and chillies.  Lots and lots of chillies.  I like a little heat, but more as a splash of perfume discernible only to those who get very close to you than a blast of Opium that precedes you.  This was simply too much.

I was gagging for dessert.  And, at long last!  To my surprise, dessert was the best part of the meal.  It was unusual for a Thai restaurant, but there you go.  My white chocolate and mango parfait on a neat round biscuit base and an impressionistic spray of passion fruit puree was like finding a secluded beach on a blistering walk.  I had teetered between ordering this and the salted caramel, but luckily someone else at the table hadn’t let it get away.  With its pistachios and peanuts and a blob of chocolate sorbet, it was one of the most creative, why-hadn’t-I-thought-of-that concoctions, childhood sticky sweet and voluptuous at the same time.  Suddenly, the curry washed from my mind and tongue in rapid waves.  I only wished I could have erased the £51 tab with it.

Crazy Bear Restaurant & Bar is at 26-28 Whitfield Street, W1T 2RG. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Mover & Shaker

I first heard about Salt Yard from a wine shop, the kind that actually gives advice you can use.  And the best I have gotten so far has concerned a restaurant, as it happens to be one of the few in town serving my favourite Rioja.  But not tonight.

And that was perfectly fine.  Salt Yard Charcuterie Bar & Restaurant, as it is properly called, is so popular that the best table I could get when I called the previous day was the last one, at 9:30 p.m.; and so we were quite surprised to be seated right away when we tried our luck a full hour earlier (The Devil Wears Prada is no epic, to be sure).

I had a six-grape blend Artesano Tinto, a smooth number with a mild spicy hit on the tongue, making it a satisfying stand in for my absent red.  But the five dishes that followed, weaved with the flavours of Italy and Spain, were the true stand outs.  First up, inverted piquillo peppers resembling miniature Santa hats arrived as twin crimson peaks oiled with piquant black olive dressing.  Inside, tender salt cod surprisingly held its own.  A trio of manchego cheeses of various maturity with quince membrillo should have been saved for the end, especially as we became slightly distracted by the roasted golden beetroot awash with tangy balsamic vinaigrette under a tent of red-veined foliage.  The tortilla of the day, etched like a mosaic with young peas and beetroot leaf, was both tender and flavourful.  A nice change of pace from the usual potato overload.  And the squid, fried in a simple golden batter with flecks of cayenne pepper, was delightful with its thick, golden aioli.

The only disappointment was a pedestrian chocolate cake that really should have been warmed to be worthy of the homemade vanilla ice cream melting alongside it.  The small, windowless room downstairs also became suffocating (upstairs is a smoking bar), and the noise suddenly felt like a choir gone out of control.  But these are a small price to pay, especially as the bill came to less than £22 each including service.  And, come next year’s smoking ban, that’ll be yet another problem gone puff.

Salt Yard Charcuterie Bar & Restaurant is at 54 Goodge St, W1T.  I'll drink to that.

Join the Chorus

The reviews were legend, wet with spit. It had the best breadbasket in all of London.  It was conceived shortly after the wedding of Sam and Sam.  It was wholly unpretentious, and yet everybody wanted to be there.  Moro. 

It seemed I couldn’t go a day without hearing something—however remote the connection—that would trigger a Moro thought.  Cristiano Ronaldo, the Portuguese prima donna = Moro.  Spanish tourists on the tube = Moro.  Othello = Moro.  Then, people I knew began to gush about recent—or worse, frequent— visits, provoking a string of arrangements made, hinted at, scheduled, undone. One too many times did I have the Moro carrot dangled in front of me, only to be cruelly whipped away when I was close enough to take a whiff.  I was going to have to take matters into my own hands.   So, as soon as I scheduled my mother’s flight to London in celebration of her 60th, the very next number I rang was heard in Exmouth Market.  And finally, last Saturday, it was my turn.

The first thing you notice about Moro is that there is nowhere to hide. The space is completely open, precluding any sort of private interlude, in case you had any ideas.  Boisterous and busy, with tables very close together, this is not the place for meaningful exchanges, business or otherwise.  Celebratory and carefree, formalities have been discarded in an environment that is, appropriately, more honeymoon than courtship.

Besides, you’re here for the food.  And, delightfully, you’ll discover creations so open and honest in their simplicity that the only thing worth keeping quiet is how reasonably it all costs.  I had the charcoal grilled bream, lean and lemony and perfect with buttery corn migas and a spray of grapes worthy of baccus’ dainty fingertips.  My mother ordered lamb chops atop chickpea puree and flanked by grilled peppers dressed with hot mint sauce.  For dessert, we dipped between a chocolate and apricot tart that could have been picked from a mythological tree and a delicately divine cardamom ice cream showered with rose petals.  Such a sensuously teasing spread, even the staff can't hold back a knowing wink.

At last, I was in on London’s worst-kept secret, especially as the following morning Simon Schama was only too eager to reveal that he celebrated his 60th there as well.

Now, there is another side of Moro I have yet to try: the tapas menu, just at the bar.  A swirl of aromas, a succession of bite…sized pleasures.  Your back to the room.  Hush, keep it down now.  Voices carry.   

Moro is at 34-36 Exmouth Market, EC1R.  Yes, I know you know.

Temptation, Treason & Tapas

Is there a more Bacchanalian cuisine than tapas?  It all depends on the participants involved.  If you do it right, the seemingly incessant stream of bite-sized flavours, colours and textures demands an equal outpouring of red and white.

Of course, half of the allure is in the communal nature of it. It was bank holiday weekend.  I was booking a table for ten.  Seven women, three men.  All single. Isn’t London grand for the boys?

Choosing the cuisine was easy.  But was I going to remain faithful to my beloved Navarro’s, or stray somewhere new? 

Navarro’s, at 67 Charlotte Street, has been a steady on the top tapas list since 1997.  It’s old-fashioned and festive in the kind of way you expect Spanish restaurants to be.  It knows how to push all the right buttons with satisfying classics like champiñones al ajillo (mushrooms in garlic and rosemary) and bacalao a la roteña (stewed cod).  The voluptuous Navajas Tinto Crianza 2002 (Rioja) is alone worth a rendez-vous. 

But there was another place just down the road I had stolen more than an occasional glance at.  Fino.  Standing over there at 33 Charlotte Street like a smug stud since it first crashed the tapas scene in 2003 with its swank cocktail bar and basement restaurant, it seemed everybody wanted a piece of Fino’s “modern” tapas.  And now so did I.  I’m sorry; I was weak.

And this was the night.  We staggered the men around the table; and, already slightly light headed from the sugary cocktails, I had the delicious task of ordering.  I asked if there were any special requests.  Then I ran down the menu, asking for two of this and three of that. 

We got off to a fumbling start with a tellingly sanguine-less sangria: high on sugar, lacking in body. We switched to wine.  Soon the food made us forget the initial awkwardness.  Queen scallops arrived on rows of Botticelli shells resting atop salt dunes as if offered by Venus herself.  The usual patatas bravas were reincarnated here as thick garlicky sticks with a side of hot sauce.  The cod showed up in the form of breaded, round croquettes and tartar dip.  Tortillas (omelettes) were stuffed with either spinach or chorizo.  Hands criss-crossed as more than two-dozen plates danced over the table.  There is something about eating with a group that infuses the experience with a devil-may-care attitude. 

Tapas go fast, and so did the talk, including a biting exchange between The Personal Trainer and The Barrister about the nutritional value of alcohol, a love letter on the marvels of RSS while The IT Guy read this blog on his Blackberry, and an expose on the bathroom etiquette of women in New York vs. London.

And so onto dessert.

Now this had become a rampant affair.  And if it was going to be new, hell, it was going to be different.  Out went the traditional flan and crema catalana.  “A round of white and dark chocolate shots!” someone yelled.  The lack of restraint was contagious as the last course appeared. Spoons floated in flights of both ceremony and deliriousness over the plates, dipping into the warm fondant and pistachio ice cream here, and then the stack of sugar-dusted donuts there, before the raspberry shortcake was thrust into the centre of the table, punctuated by restrained sips of the layered liquid chocolate and more copious ones of the dessert wine.  I’ve no regrets, but perhaps I should have concentrated more on the fondant.  A good fondant gets me every time.  There it is, looking so handsome and composed.  But give it a good poke, and the real substance of it starts to unravel.

I woke up the next morning with neither a hangover nor a shred of guilt.  Modern love, or old-fashioned romance?  When it comes to tapas, you don’t have to choose.

Tortilla Española for Two

2 medium roasting potatoes such as King Edward
Olive oil
A good pat of butter
1 small onion
6 medium organic, free-range eggs
A bunch of flat-leaf parsley, stemmed and finely chopped
Maldon Sea Salt
Black pepper for grinding

Scrub and cut the potatoes into 1/2-inch pieces. Place in a roasting tin, toss with enough olive oil to lightly coat and spread in a single layer.  Bake at 200C/400F until golden, about 40 minutes, stirring halfway through so they don’t stick.  Meanwhile, put the butter in a heavy 8-inch skillet and turn the heat to medium-low.  Peel, halve and slice the onion, then add it to the pan when the butter melts.  Cook, stirring frequently, until translucent and just starting to colour, about 10 minutes.  In a bowl, lightly scramble the eggs with the parsley, salt and generous grindings of black pepper.  Add the potatoes to the onions, stir and cook for another minute.  Pour in the egg mixture and turn the heat up to medium.  As it starts to cook, use a spatula to gently coax the sides of the omelette toward the centre of the pan, allowing the uncooked egg to run down the sides and into the bottom.  Cook until mostly set.  Pop the whole pan under the broiler and grill until the top is nicely golden. (Keep a close eye on it; if the edges start to act like a soufflé, press them down with a spatula.) Cool slightly, flip onto a plate and cut into wedges.  Serve with slices of creamy avocado, a jug of good sangria and a clean conscience.