Honky Tonk- review

I was lying by the pool in the middle of a vineyard in France (which is pretty much like throwing a duck into the middle of a lake and giving it lots of bread) when I was seized with a pang of emotion for most of my immediate family and texted them to suggest having lunch on the Sunday I got back.  They were clearly not feeling the love, or just hadn’t started on the rosé at midday, and the only one who was interested was Sister Number 4.

 

Famed for her inability to organise anything, arrive anywhere on time, or respond to texts unless in her direct and immediate interest (a genuine feat given that her phone is superglued to her face), I wasn’t too concerned when she hadn’t replied to a single message on Sunday morning.  I finally got hold of her at about 11am.  She grumbled down the phone like the kraken for about five minutes before she grudgingly agreed to let me buy her lunch at Honky Tonk on Hollywood Road.

 

It started to rain as I left my flat so I was forced to break into the casual ‘I’ve been caught in a downpour!’ jog that you see in films, complete with waving a newspaper ineffectually in the air above my head. I got pretty into it and was therefore surprised to notice, from a fleeting glimpse in a shop window, that I didn’t look like an artfully tousled film star so much as a loping Neanderthal with mad hair. I put my jacket over my head and walked the rest of the way staring at the pavement, lamenting my own hubris.  Just another one of those things that isn’t true in the movies, like running through airport barriers to stop the love of your life getting on a plane. Don’t. You’ll get shot.

 

I loped into Honky Tonk, feeling as proto-human as I apparently looked, and waited for the sister at the bar. The restaurant bit at the back was empty but for a lot of balloons, which looked sort of sad in the clear, grey light of a rainy afternoon.  On reflection, given the hard liquor and rock music, this is probably more of a Thursday night kind of place than a Sunday lunch one, but they’ve tried to allay that with a good looking brunch and good looking staff. We asked for marmalade margaritas. Tequila is a struggle at 1pm, which is probably a good thing, but they were great.

 

The menu is full on Americana. Not completely Southern grits, not wholly the dirty burger thing, not just Tex-Mex, but a roll call of the greatest hits from the good old US of A that complemented the stars and stripes playlist perfectly. Sister number 4 didn’t know what a quesadilla was (she also doesn’t know what a bison is, incidentally) so we ordered those and some pork ribs to share for our starters.  They were eaten with glee.  The quesadillas were bite size and especially delicious. The ribs were not an overwhelmingly Desperate Dan style rack so were manageable, but this is still filling food.  I only just forced down my mac ‘n’ cheese (and I was so good last time at not ordering macaroni cheese!) and my sister’s little face crumpled when she realised that there was absolutely no way she could fit bourbon and dark chocolate s’mores into her jeans.  

 

There was a lot more to explore here in terms of cool American drinks (juleps, sazeracs, picklebacks, craft beers) but it felt a bit wrong to bomb through those at lunchtime, so I will be back one evening to do their menu justice: this is more a watering hole than a gastronomic temple, but none the worse for it. 

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.

Soho Food Feast 2013

Last year, I had so much fun at the Soho Food Feast that I poured pimms over Angela Hartnett's feet. As you can imagine, I was thrilled to hear it was a two day event this time around. 

The idea is that you exchange money for food tokens, a concept more popular here than in parliament, and a variety of Soho based restaurants cook little plates of food that cost one or two tokens each.  

 There were bars by the French House, the Duke of Wellington, Ceviche (pisco sours), Chipotle (margaritas) and Milk & Honey (gin based cocktails, £10, in a pint glass... this was all I could decipher before labelling it A Bad Idea for my personal wellbeing and running away).  The whole event is a fundraiser for Soho Parish School, so the atmosphere is sort of 'kids and pissed parents' rather than anything grand.  When we arrived on the first day, Sean Bean was standing incongruously on the makeshift, rickety stage, letting people know about the raffle. I still don't know why he was there but he stuck around for most of the day embodying the age old 'Northern tough guy/Classical thespian' dichotomy in a silent, charming manner. Heathcliff in Hull. 

In no particular order, my favourite stalls over the two days:

10 Greek Street- crab with chili, asparagus, and salad.  I'm a sucker for crab anyway, firmly on the crab's side in any crab v lobster debate amongst my friends (these almost never happen).

Polpo- ricotta, lemon, broad beans and asparagus on toast.  They have this on their menu (or something very similar, I think this one had less mint)- a perfect, summery snack. 

Quo Vadis- roast beef, horseradish and watercress in a bun. And handed to me by Jeremy Lee, which made it taste even better.

Pizza Pilgrims- Neapolitan fried pizza. Oh my gosh, this was incredible. How would YOU improve a freshly made mini pizza? Obviously by folding it in half, sealing up the sides and frying it. Clever. The queues became enormous. 

Dstrkt- braised goat on pitta bread with watercress, garlic and chilli. This was so good it made me want to try Dstrkt immediately, despite its dodgy name and appearances on Made in Chelsea. 

MEATMarket- mini cheeseburger.  

Excellently impossible to eat. Ran rings around the GBK stand next door. 

There was also something I've just written down as 'scallop' that I remember being delicious. I know, you don't need to thank me, I'm here to help. 

Bluebird - review

There was gossip to be analysed, so the sisters and I decamped to Bluebird for lunch.  I arrived at 11.47am but, as it was a sunny, bank holiday Monday, the patio was full and there was already a queue of glossy people dehydrating, quietly and patiently, whilst they waited for a table. I went upstairs, where it was much cooler.  The only thing about my current penchant for shoulder pads (“what’s wrong with your normal shoulders?” said one friend, completely missing the point much as he’d just missed my entire arm during a hug by bouncing off the aforementioned item in my jacket), is that you get a bit hotter than normal concealing statement foam about your person.

So, inside it was.  As I surveyed the noisy rabble below, with an icy eyebrow and a powerful cucumber martini, I felt content.  Then my sisters arrived and asked me why I was wearing stupid shoulder pads.

We proceeded through cocktails with only the most minor of disputes. We’re more King Lear princesses than Disney princesses, as sisters go, but, after a brief game of musical chairs, this was pretty amicable.  More cucumber martinis and then the spirit du jour, or at least it was a few months ago- I lose track, pisco with passionfruit. We had the 3 course set lunch menu, reasonable at £25 a head with a glass of wine.  We split our starters as neatly as our doubles matches into two butter lettuce salads with champagne vinaigrette, and two mini kilner jars of potted, salted beef  and toast. Both were popular, although I thought the salad was a bit basic and was more of a side order. It had no ‘good bits’ in it, if you see what I mean. Nuts, avocadoes, tomatoes, spring onions, cheese, bacon…the things that turn a ‘salad’ into a SALAD.  

Main courses were two pork bellies with mash, one pea risotto, and my order, the joke, a piece of salmon so small that it looked like a starter. It was good, but genuinely half the size of everyone else’s, which didn’t help our natural sibling rivalry.  Cleopatra killed her sister, you know.

Normally I will swap any obligatory pudding order for cheese, but this didn’t appear to be an option so I went for the tiramisu, which at least has mascarpone in it.   I was also able to regale the table with the factoid about it meaning ‘pick me up’ in Italian. The withering looks were balm for the soul. Sister number 2 ordered a sticky toffee pudding with banana, and asked if the bananas could be left off. The waiter laughed at her because apparently the bananas were part of the sponge. I think, if you’re going to laugh at your customers, you should at least know that the fruit in sticky toffee pudding, if any, is normally dates.  The incident at least provided a moment of solidarity between us, as we tend to close ranks when threatened externally.  The pudding was good when it arrived, except they had cunningly disguised the clotted cream as a nice scoop of ice cream, leading to much exaggerated gurning when Sister number 2 dug in.  This time, we laughed more than the waiter.

Mine's the water

Bocca di Lupo - review

And now for something completely different. Not really, but it isn’t French.

My friend who moved all the way to Dubai just after our perfect evening of Colbert and Bond (she didn’t think it was so perfect, clearly), was back in London for a few weeks, so we went to Bocca di Lupo for lunch and a long catch up.

I had always assumed I’d been to Bocca. Not just because everyone has been, but because I can picture the room in my head, I’m pretty sure I’ve met the chef, Jacob Kennedy (untrue), and I have the cookbooks; even the black and white one specifically about pasta shapes. Who would do that if they hadn’t even tried the restaurant yet? Turns out, I haven’t been, I’ve just read a lot about it. This happens to me sometimes when I read too much. When I was 8 I became convinced that I was actually Laura Ingalls Wilder from Little House on the Prairie.

We sat at the bar, which I already knew was thick, cool, white marble with rounded edges, although actually I’d never seen it in real life. The menu, which again I was familiar with, is fantastic and I could have ordered everything. My friend has actually been before, so knew the score. We ended up with a couple of starters, some pastas and some grilled meaty bits, all to share. She didn’t want to drink too much so we had a nice bottle of white from Puglia (Bianco Salento, Lamadoro).

Venison tartare with parmesan was completely delicious, not that I expected anything less from the cervine version of one of my top things to eat, ever. Two small pastas, sea snail tagliolini and veal and pork agnolotti with walnut sauce, were excellent. The sea snails were finely chopped; you couldn’t see them, they just added a vague, sea salty flavour to the ragu. The fat, pillow shaped agnolotti were even better – the walnut sauce on top…oh my gosh. We also had a deep fried courgette flower each – crunchy and perfect.

For our ‘main course’, although, really, everything was little and could perfectly happily have come in any order, we had a lamb sweetbread and artichoke skewer and a slice of buristo each. Buristo is a blood sausage. Not nice as a concept, but it didn’t have the gritty texture that black pudding has, nor that worrying, ferrous tang; it was fantastic and relatively non-scary. Not having troubled ourselves with anything green up to this point, we ordered a side dish of agretti. That’s monksbeard, in English, so I basically still don’t know what it is; it looked like a smaller, wispier version of samphire. Very nice, sautéed with butter and lemon.

From the interesting, tasty food, via the smiling, efficient service, to the buzzy, warmly lit room; everything was perfect. Over the course(s) of a long lunch, Bocca has become one of my favourite places in London. Which is why I’ve been there so many times before, obviously.