The Fish and Chip Shop - review

I booked The Fish and Chip Shop on Upper Street ages ago and had become more and more excited as time went on, as had the boys coming with me; two of the Chiswick lot, previously mentioned in these pages as...people I never mention.  When I asked them to choose pseudonyms for themselves, the first suggestions I received were 'Erotic Errol' and 'Legend aka I. Am'.  So they lost their voting rights and shall remain nameless.

In an effort to be cool (when in Rome Islington after all), I arranged to meet them for a few drinks at Slim Jim's, a rock and roll bar with bras on the ceiling.  I find this a bit sleazy.  There was a bar in Paris (directions available on request) where they put bras on the ceiling, but the waiters were topless and took the bras off the girls themselves, which made the whole thing a bit more tit for tat.  I can't imagine why you would go up to a fully dressed Axl Rose lookalike and hand him your bra but, then again, my idea of a good time is drinking too much indifferent Sauvignon Blanc and having an argument about apostrophes, so what do I know.

Anyway, I arrived to find one of my friends inside, downing a whisky. "Hullo", he said, and then, "let's go", which I thought was a little forward before we'd even eaten.  It turned out that our other friend was not there, having been refused entry.  For a brilliant moment, I thought he'd been turned away simply for being lame, which would have pretty much sorted our group out for conversation for the next ten years, but alas it was because he was wearing a suit.  I'm not sure a dress code is a particularly rock and roll thing to enforce, really. Wearing a suit doesn't automatically make you a jerk, nor does it reveal anything about what music you like.  It's a uniform as much as a policeman's clothes, or wearing a Metallica hoodie and having a ponytail when you're forty five years old.My friend, however, is a jerk, so they got it bang on with that one.

So there we were, a rebel without a cause, a rebel without a clue and yours truly, all dressed up (too smartly in some cases) with nowhere to go.  We killed some time in a pub and arrived early at the restaurant.  Despite our table not being ready, they kindly found us a perch (not on the menu, being a muddy river fish) and we ordered some cocktails.  These took quite a while to arrive but it was insanely busy and they'd given us a place (also not on the menu) to sit, so no complaints there.  We waited with baited breath.  Once moved to the comfier booth we were furnished with gimlets and an 'Old Man and the Sea' - "it tastes of watermelon", said my companion, sounding startled.  He was at once demonstrating a sensitive palate and the memory of a goldfish (again, not on the... I'll stop), as watermelon featured prominently in the drink's description on the menu.

The room looks 'traditional', but not like a traditional chippy at all.  Well, at least not like any of the ones near me.  If you're imagining strip lighting, peeling linoleum, formica and an obese man tossing scrag ends of fish into a stinking fryer whilst a desultory saveloy oversees an incidence of youth knife crime in the corner, you could not have got it more wrong.  It looks like a seaside pub, or maybe a ship.

The menu is short and sweet, and all fish.  You could do the whole thing without touching fish and chips themselves - there were good looking plates of grilled fish and vegetables and a shrimp mac 'n' cheese, which I forced myself not to order because all I want to eat is macaroni cheese all the bloody time, like some demented overgrown five year old.  AA Gill said it was good though.

We shared London particulars, three scallops with chilli and parsley butter, and crab on toast with avocados.  The scallops were delicious; butter slurped from the shells by two thirds of the company (the third was trying to keep his suit clean).  The London particulars are the 'famous' new thing - pea and ham croquettes with a mustard sauce.  Ham and pea soup is called a London particular after the fog of the same name (also pea souper...).  The croquettes were hot and crunchy and way better than soup.  Last was the crab - great quality meat, but a little dull compared to the other two.  I'm sure people said the same of our table.  One of my friends commented on the toast, but I can't remember what he said.

We had a bottle of their own blend wine, which was decent, and ordered cod and chips (me - classic, traditional), haddock and chips (friend 1, apparently northern), scampi and chips (friend 2, apparently from the 1970s) and two wallys (aside from my companions).  They're big gherkins, and you'll only need one.  Which I said eight times.  No matter, I'm about to lurch into the present tense and eat the best fish and chips of my life.  That good. The cod - flaky, pearlescent, perfectly cooked.  The batter - crisp, light, crunchy.  Absolutely excellent.  The boys said the same about theirs.  'Best chips in London' was bandied around.  The tartare sauce was zingy.

The only thing I would say is that I was extremely full.  I couldn't finish my food, which happens but rarely, and I was forced to call it a night before I was beached.

Flesh and Buns - review

Flesh and buns is a really dodgy name; like something that would happen if Hannibal Lecter developed a teatime snack range with Hovis.  The same people also have a ramen restaurant called Bone Daddies, a name I don’t get either, so I’m clearly just not on their wavelength.  Still, no matter, they’re not naming my children, and I had heard great things about the restaurant.

After an emotional reunion, my flatmate and I arrived in Seven Dials; once the most notorious rookery in London, and now somewhere you can buy Cath Kidston teatowels and SuperDry t-shirts. I pass no judgement, but let’s just say I always thought Gin Lane looked quite fun.

The restaurant is a cavernous basement. I had read a few reviews (I have almost no original thought) that mentioned the trendy décor, but I couldn’t see any, despite intensive lighting. It was all white, and alright. We were at the end of a loooooooong communal table that ran right through the middle of the place.  The decibel level was such that we had to shelve our best gossip for later on; the two Spanish men sitting next to us were charming, but I’m pretty sure they would have been bored by it. Honestly, even I’m bored by it, and it’s my actual life.

Rather ambitiously, the waitress told us to order five starters and then a ‘flesh and bun’ to share. Five starters? Neither my flatmate nor I suffer from a lack of imagination with regard to overconsumption, but even for us this seemed a bit much. We confirmed this with our table mates, who had just shared one main course. Both of them were small though, and sadly gossip-less. We compromised on three.

The starters were really, really good. Spicy tuna rolls were elegant, soft shell crab was crunchy, and the prawn tempura were crisp and blisteringly hot.

And now for the concept. The ‘flesh’ is a choice of meats or fish which come, generously, with a variety of sauces and salady bits, as well as the ‘buns’; four soft, steamed hirata buns.  These looked vaguely alarming - floppy and pallid not being a desirable attribute in any part of an evening out -but are the very latest thing.  To clarify, when I say ‘latest thing’ I mean in London. Apparently people have been eating them in Asia for yonks.  They were ok - certainly filling, and very fluffy. We had them with flat iron steak and I thought everything was quite sweet and cloying, especially compared to the sparkle of the starters.  I’m almost certain that’s what they’re meant to taste like though, I have an earworm telling me that Japanese and Chinese taste runs to sweet in bread, so it’s a palate thing rather than a criticism. Unless my earworm is wrong.  He could be. He once told me glass was a liquid, a ‘fact’ I have whipped out to stunned and admiring glances from my friends and family (sort of) for years now, and which I recently found out is not actually true.  ('No it isn't' said my flatmate in a clear, confident voice, fixing me with a gimlet eye as we nursed our hangovers one Saturday lunchtime at a sunlit window table somewhere on Fulham Road. If this sounds like a dream sequence, it's meant to. My dreams died that day).

I digress.  For me, the concept of Flesh and Buns wasn’t particularly compelling, but it has a fun atmosphere, charming staff, you can book, and it is cheap -  we were out with a bottle of wine for £35 a head – so I would recommend it.  Because you read this for the restaurant tips, right?

Notes from a broad

In celebration of Sister Number 2’s recent marriage, we all went to France without her.  It was infernally hot and my tan is minimal because I was forced to become the family’s unpaid chef for ten days, a role slightly more interesting that my normal position in the pack as unpaid lone voice of reason (self appointed).  One day, I made a courgette salad and Dad liked it so much there were some ‘hilarious’ jokes about another wedding.  In amongst the slavery, we had some pretty spectacular lunches.

 

Bruno, Lorgues

 

You know that joke about someone’s face proving that God has a sense of humour? Well I feel the same way about the existence of a restaurant serving six course lunches entirely consisting of truffles in the South of France. Bruno gets through a metric tonne of truffles a year, and the five menus only vary in the grade of truffles used on each course, and are priced accordingly.  As an amuse bouche, there were grainy, light brown summer truffles (aestivum) on toast. In the middle of the table, in case we were seized by a sudden craving, shavings of coal black melanosporum truffles interlaced on a plate, glossy with olive oil and crunchy with salt, like a tuber carpaccio.  The palate cleanser was a truffle ice cream.

 

The experience is so overwhelmingly truffled that Sister Number 4 broke down and wept as she was presented with, and I’m actually going to quote directly from the menu here, “A potato, simply cooked in the oven, served with a cream of white Alba truffles and topped with grated brumale truffles”. So simple.  It truly was the best of times and worst of times.  No quarter is given to the fact it’s 30 degrees outside, which you just have to admire.  As lunch progressed, Sister Number 3 remarked that it seemed to be the hottest day of the holiday so far. It actually wasn’t, and we were still sitting on a cool, mosaic-ed terrace shaded by mulberry trees, but the amount of energy we were putting into our bodies in the form of truffles and their accompaniments (apparently sweetbreads, foie gras, pastry, toast, beef and potatoes go best with truffles) had played havoc with our internal temperature controls. 

 

I have no idea why Bruno decided to open his homage aux truffes in the South of France, but I’m pretty glad he did.  You can also stay there, which I would suggest might be a sensible option since I didn’t regain full mobility for some hours afterwards.

 

Mirazur, Menton

 

What follows now is of course not compromised by the fact that the maitre’d gave me his card and asked me to look him up, but Mirazur is probably the best lunch I’ve ever had.  The chef, Mauro Colagreco, is an Argentinean cooking French food in the minimal, Scandinavian style, in the South of France a mile or so from the Italian border. And you thought Bruno was confused.

 

The first thing that made me love this place was that it looks like a film set for a 60s Bond film. The view is spectacular, and Sean wasn’t even there.  The second thing that made me love this place was the fact that the bread came with Pablo Neruda’s Ode to Bread, in French. A gimmick, you may cry, but you weren’t there and it worked.  The third thing that made me love it was that, despite the fact that it is very, very smart, the whole team were friendly and relaxed and didn’t follow you to the bathroom and then turn your napkin into a swan.

 

The menu Carte Blanche is an eleven course event, and everything we ate was tiny, clever and perfect. The flavours were clean and meticulous; fish caught that morning, clear tomato consommé, lemon verbena with onions, pigeon with coffee semolina, eggs filled with caviar, sage foam, wild mint, cherry and green bean salad, prawn crackers… it looks silly written down; a bit like Lewis Carroll has been at the opium again, but it was conceptual in the best possible way. Afterwards, we drove into the hills following Biggles and butterflies.

 

La Bastide de Saint Antoine, Grasse

 

This was probably the most traditional of the lunches, both in the Provencal style of cooking and also the clientele, who were Riviera to the max. Botoxed (but with wrinkly arms- why?! Why would you iron your forehead and ignore your arms? It looks like your head is wax melting onto the parchment of your body), tanned to a walnut hue, golden watches glinting in the sunshine from underneath bright Pucci silk prints….and that was just our table. Fabulous.  The food was old French, which I always think of as the amount of attention paid to the sauces. I had a ‘foie gras three ways’ starter (‘when in Rome’ I thought, as I wondered where to inject botulism into my body next)  and then pollack, which had been cooked to translucent rather than cotton wool, and was delicious with girolles and courgettes in a light sauce. It was also described on the menu as ‘le merveilleux colin’, which made me laugh. There was a sea bream with a thick, lemony sauce, something I’m going to pretend was a sea bass because I don’t know what it actually was in French, with a ratatouille, and scallops with tonka bean and truffles, which was probably the most inventive.  All the fish was cooked perfectly, and the lunch was light, pretty and classic.  Unlike our dining companions.