Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder?

And so I return. I have taken a lengthy leave of absence and for that, I apologise. I could appeal to your sense of compassion by complaining how hard I have been working (recognised by the FT, at the expense of my own personal food blogging ambitions) but I suspect this might fall on deaf ears. And honestly, I worked hard for about 3 weeks and then did a bit of travelling around and eating around. Since I last posted, I have had a couple of great meals at Babington House in Somerset, a decent-ish meal at Dean St. Townhouse (I was a little fed up with the Soho House Group thing by then), an impeccable return to Lantana where not even slow service could put me off and finally, the loss of my St. John-inity, which was tasty and atmospheric but quite hard work. I feel like I can't update you on new places until I have at least brought you a little bit up to speed on the above, as well as some great culinary experiences in Morocco, so here goes:

Babington House

Where Londoners go when they want to feel rural and earthy, and are fortunate enough to be treated to an early Christmas present is to a smallish country house hotel to the west of London called Babington House. I am not sure exactly how far west - I think it delivers to inhabitants of West London what Shoreditch House does to those in the East. The distances are pretty similar. So a fast train and an expensive cab delivered us in under two hours to little-London-in-the-plain, a magical 18th century house, complete with outhouses that have been considerately and amazingly tastefully converted into a gym, a spa, a couple of pools (one outdoor one decadently heated to steaming level), a shop (naturally) and a tidy vegetable garden so urbanised it looked like an outdoor branch of Waitrose. The setup is faultless and the décor is offensively tasteful. And the food - simple and spot on. My meals ranged from perfectly cooked roast chicken for two, roast beef with thick bloody gravy, and the best eggs benedict of 2009. The menu changes every day and despite only having the classic 5 starters and 5 mains set up, prompted rigourous and pensive self-analysis before coming to any meal decisions.

The breakfast was probably the highlight for me. We didn't have lunch on Saturday. It was that good. The room was laid out in the way that Londoners like to think that all country folk eat their breakfasts: a big farmhouse table in the middle of the room with lots of earthenware jugs, eggs with feathers stuck to them knocking around, piles of newspapers and a man to top up my coffee and orange juice any time they approached 1/4 empty. Amid this backdrop, things just tasted sweeter. The fruit compote that dolloped on top of the yoghurt was like nectar, the butter was soft and buttery and the cooked breakfast was superbly tasty. And the final garnish on the eggs benedict was provided by non other than celebrity love rat and former Glasgow Rangers reject Gordon Ramsey, treating his scorned family to a luxurious instalment of his guilt payments. Happy families indeed.

My main concern about the place was only its authenticity. One morning I woke up to the see the gardener carefully raking the leaves around the big old oak tree in the garden into a perfect circle around the base. And there was I thinking they just fell like that. However, authenticity ain't all that. This is the best English country house I've ever stayed in.

Lantana

Wow. Lantana got busy. Whilst I clearly wish places like Lantana (independent, great food, nice people) every success in the world, I do get annoyed when the world encroaches on your discovery. And so it was with Lantana. The same old story: Boy finds antipodean breakfast spot, boy loves ABS, everyone else loves ABS, ABS wins Time Out Café of the year, boy goes to ABS and can't get a bloody table. But on this Saturday, I decided enough was enough. I would wait. As long as it took. I didn't care. I was prepared to stubborn it out to experience what I potentially think is the best breakfast in London. As it happened, it only took fifteen minutes. Although about two months have passed since this visit, I still remember it fondly. The food in Lantana is so good. All the ingredients they use are incredible. The menu is so original compared to anything else you find in London (I hear it copies Bill's Café in Sydney but I don't care - I don't get to go to Bill's) and much like Babington, forces you into agonisingly long choices between corn fritters, bacon sandwiches, eggs benedict and my old basic favourite of poached eggs, bacon, tomato and avocado. I stuck to what I knew whilst she went, somewhat more exotically, for the Spanish baked eggs. I can't remember exactly what it tasted like, or looked like, but I know I haven't had a better breakfast since. As always, we saved some room for their French toast which had some deliciously rich sugary topping like frosted caramel. We waddled out of there, an hour and half after arriving, fatter, healthier, and perhaps only thirty quid poorer. I should say it's crap, so I don't have to wait fifteen minutes, but that would be selfish. It is brilliant. Go there. And if you see me waiting with my eyes boring into your back, just tell me "it serves you right".

Dean St. Townhouse

I don’t think I can really do this place justice. It really was an awfully long time ago. And we went during their cheapskate-not-really-open-food-at-half-price fortnight, so the service was a bit slow, and the food wasn't perfect. But clearly, because of their parent company (a phrase that was repeated to me a number of times by the staff - Soho House are starting to remind me of Taco Bell in Demolition Man - soon there won't be anywhere left to eat in London) it has great potential and the feel of the room is bang on. They have borrowed heavily from J Sheekey's (in the stylistic sense; the "Group" owns it so they could have borrowed out the till but I suspect they won't need to) and it is all deep red and black and white and trendy photos. The menu is long and exciting in a Wolseley-type way, and a city can never have too many restaurants doing this sort of thing. I don't remember a lot except that we argued about whether to have the trifle and the apple pie that we ended up ordering was sublime. The pastry was so light that it dissolved in my mouth in a satisfying sugary appley goo. I'll go back soon and give you a fuller download. But in the wanky way that social commentators like to make big predictions for places, I would like to group myself there by saying this place is "One To Watch" for 2010. I bet the Group will be chuffed with that.

St John

Now this was a place that had the weight of expectation behind it. Accompanied by two old friends, we tried out St John for our annual pre-Christmas dinner. Due to the nature of the celebration, I will no longer be able to recall all the minutae that I know you pore over, so I will instead recount my highlights and another lame promise to return. The whole feel of the place is that food is in charge here. No frills. Our waitress even drew a cow on the paper tablecloth so she could point to parts of it to highlight cuts we had never heard of. Not in a "this is our thing, we do this for all the punters" kind of way, just because it made sense. I ate their famous marrow and parsley starter which was very nice but a bit of a phaff. However, the reward for picking, scraping and scooping justified this, and the four generous shanks of bone you get to scoop out of yield plenty of the sweet stuff to lob on to some nicely grilled toast and vinegary parsley salad. For main course, I had duck and swede, which was just that. A breast of duck, decorated with a confit leg of duck, and a pile of swede mash. Simple. Lonely. Poignant. Okay, so maybe I take it a touch too far, but it was gratifying to have such a simple plate of perfect ingredients well prepared. It was tasty, but I lost this course to my two dining partners, who had elected to share the steak and kidney pie. My memory only takes me that far. Time and booze are the enemy of the forgetful blogger.

And with that lofty thought, I will leave you. Dream of Marrakech, for that is what the next update will be about.

Babington House
Somerset
01373 812 266

Lantana
13 Charlotte Place
020 7637 3347

Dean St Townhouse
69 Dean Street
020 7434 1775

St John
26 St. John Street
London, EC1M 4AY
020 7272 1587

Please Sir, Can I Have Some More?

I am not sure how to define moreishness, or what makes food moreish. Is moreish food good or just moreish? Should you draw dividing lines between food that is pleasurable whilst eating, but unpleasant immediately afterwards, like MSG-loaded Chinese (which I have now turned my back on), or a Big Mac, and food that is perhaps less immediately rewarding but which you don’t have to endure a seizure to enjoy.

And so with this in mind, we went last night for our three-monthly fix of that sweet, sweet horse. Or sauce. Le Relais de Venise, or L'Entrecôte as it is colloquially known, is a group of 5 or 6 French bistros with a true USP: a secret sauce, the recipe for which is the most guarded French item of the 20th Century. There is no menu. Everyone eats the same thing in a kind of upmarket overpriced post-ironic school canteen kind of way. We went to the (London) original, on Marylebone Lane, but they have recently decided to branch out, and have opened in the City also (I hear this one has had a few teething problems so if you are thinking about trying, stick to Marylebone). Also worth noting is the fact that you can’t book, which means there is normally a bit of a wait, however much like Tayyabs a couple of weeks ago, they don’t hang about in here, so the wait is not normally more than 30 minutes.

We ate early last night due to her new hours. By early, I mean most Northerners still hadn’t cranked up the microwave for their tea by the time we sat down. I think there was a group of Spaniards just finishing lunch as we ordered. But fortunately for us, there was no queue.

The only specification you give to the quaintly-dressed French waitresses is how you would like your steak cooked. So once this had been done (a scribbled R next to me and M next to her – Alan Yau nicked the idea), our starters arrived. To start with, they serve a limp green salad with walnuts and mustard vinaigrette, and some defrosted baguette. They must sprinkle a bit of the crack that they put in the steak sauce in the dressing also, as despite the unimaginative leaves, you find yourself licking the plate dry and scraping the average bread around it. This initial feeding frenzy over, they then hurriedly bring you your first helping of steak frites. The steak is thinly sliced, cooked exactly to our order, and is drenched with the secret sauce. The sauce is very good, which it clearly needs to be. It is buttery and herby, with tarragon, shallots and butter the standout flavours. The meat is fine. Nothing more. As it is so thinly sliced, you lose the satisfying juicy cuts that make steak just a staple food, but it done to ensure that every sliver is coated with their million dollar sauce. The chips also are just ok. Fairly greasy and a little bit McDonalds-esque, they satisfy the main credentials of the rest of the meal, that of greedy scoffable moreishness.

They smartly serve you half your steak and chips with your first helping (keeping the canteen feel going) and then as soon as there is enough room on your plate, they come and pile on the remaining half. The chips stay nice and crispy as a result and the portion is so generous that even I struggle to finish it.

So all in all, the meal is a pleasurable and familiar experience. There are a number of frustrations with the place. They definitely take the simplicity thing a little far – there’s no butter for the bread (a constant irritation for me), a few vegetables might add something to the main course and of course, the bill always manages to add to the already ill feeling you have once you’ve finished. Dinner for two normally comes to about 50 or 60 quid, once you have had a glass of wine from their short but classically French wine list, and some nice vanilla ice cream to satisfy any last morsels of remaining greed. But even knowing all this, I will return. They have cracked the formula it seems. Their costs are low, to match their variety, but the dining room is full from 6.30 to 10.30, and with 140-odd covers changing over at least 3 or 4 times over the evening, you don’t have to be a Euro banker (of which there are a fair few present) to work out that these sauce peddlers know a thing or two about making money. 

Le Relais de Venise

120 Marylebone Lane

020 7486 0878 

East Meets West

East London is a long way away. To a tribal Londoner like me, East London and South London are similarly foreign. However the difference between East and South is that there used to be no reason to go to either, but now, East has become cool. And popular. And rife with the type of laid-back well-sourced reasonably-priced food that I love. So I have to go there from time to time.

I have been meaning to go to Tayyabs for some time now. It has been open for 37 years, 26 of which I have been alive and 25 of those 26 have been spent eating “solids”. So it really is long overdue. To those of you who either don’t read any London restaurant propaganda, don’t work in the city, or aren’t Punjab families living by Whitechapel Road, you may not be familiar with Tayyabs. It is one of those places that people like to brag about being “in the know” about, despite there being a massive queue outside every evening. It is said to serve “the best curry in London” for less than the price of the cab it takes to get there.

Our first error was getting a cab there from Edgware Road. Some oddball asked if he could share our cab. That doesn’t happen when you are going to Hampstead. Oddballs don’t go to Hampstead. Anyway, we got there an hour later to be greeted by a scene that looked like Cuckoo on a Friday night, only more BYO. Fortunately, one of my more intrepid and shameless friends had been holding our table for 15 minutes against the tsunami of diners, both in and outside the restaurant. So we wedged ourselves into our seats, wriggled for a bit of elbow room, and studied the reassuringly brief menu. Everything sounded great, so that is what we ordered. As I was getting to the end of my ordering, food started to arrive. Five minutes later, it had all arrived. Most of it was very good. Some things were spectacular. The sesame naan, the peshwari naan, the barbecued tandoori lamb chops (which I hear are well known), in fact all the dry spiced meat and the dhal were memorable. The flavours were sharp and different, and none of the food left you with that typical post-curry heavy feeling that makes functioning afterwards so difficult. We cooled our palates with Tayyabs answer to a mini milk and before you could say “it took longer to get here than I did to eat”, we had been turfed out onto pavement, stinking like an Indian kitchen, so they could squeeze in another 12 seatings before the hour was out.

The food is great and the prices embarrassingly low (fifteen quid each), but I won’t be hurrying back. A restaurant for me is about more than just the food. The experience has to be taken into account. And while fun, this was all a bit too frantic and hurried to really savour the food.

In the famous words of the Pet Shop Boys, and with a tune now adopted by my sometimes shy fellow Arsenal fans, it is now time to “Go West” (or Three Nil on Saturday afternoon). Or, for some inexplicable reason, Go Westfield.

A Sunday trip to Westfield seemed like a good idea at the time. Never again. It is the least relaxing way to spend a Sunday. I feel cheated out of half a day of weekend. I was thinking about taking the morning off this morning to compensate. But such is my duty to my small but loyal readership (and apparently global – my recently installed Google Analytics tells me of my 3 readers in California, my one in South Africa and two in Australia (whom I know well!) – anyway, this makes me sound small fry), I must inform and educate on places I visit to aid in the acquisition of The Knowledge!

So where does one eat at Westfield. The options are many. And I suspect all would have been better than the one we chose. “The South Terrace” boasts the same collection of restaurants that you find on any typically soulless new promenade in a newly gentrified area. A conveyor Japanese, a flat pack Italian, a faux French bistro. A private equity owned alley of mediocrity. You wouldn’t think choosing badly is possible but it is. And its name is Balans.

Balans is a small chain of restaurant-cum-bars, and as they are situated in generally quite decent areas (Soho, High St. Ken) and I had received recommendation on this particular one, I thought this might be the least worst option. It may well prove to be that, although I don’t ever intend to find out.

We were first showed to a table at the far end of their al-fresco terrace, the only table with no cushions and untouched by the kindly hand of the porch heater. It looked like the naughty table. We declined and were instead offered a seat at their bar, offering a glimpse into their open plan kitchen (they are proud of this). Someone needs to tell the owners of this chain that they do not want their kitchen to be open plan. This is not like the robata grill at Roka, where you get to watch the expert chefs delicately balancing flavours. This is not the tapas bar at Barrafina, where your mouth waters as simple ingredients are perfectly combined. This is Balans. The food is pre-packed, processed and warmed up. I don’t want to know where it has come from. I try not to think about it as I eat it. I hope that by combining enough different flavours in my mouth at one time, that by thinking of the sustenance that this amount of calories will give me, that I will forget about the provenance of my meal.

The menu performs the heinous crime of offering a complete cluster”$%* of national cuisines (mezze plate, burgers, calamari, gyozas, stir fries). However, we were hungry, it was late and we had accepted our fate. I ordered the “famous Balans burger”. She had scrambled eggs with toast and a contingency plan of granola with yoghurt. We tried not to watch as they removed it from its bag, or however else they prepare it. Instead we tried to make ourselves comfortable on bar stools that ludicrously both lean forward and are too wide for the space they occupy. 25 minutes later the food arrived. By this time, and for the second time in a weekend, we stank of kitchen. Where I have economised on food this weekend, I have lost out on dry-cleaning costs. The food was predictably gross. Lazily prepared, the scrambled eggs plate was dirty, the toast was cold, and the eggs looked like they had been thrown up by an unwell chicken. My burger was soggy, under-seasoned, enveloped in nasty cheese and presented on a squidgy bed of tired chips. We shared the granola and yoghurt. A true least worst. It cost 25 pounds. I suppose that is about right, sadly. In a fair world, it would have cost ten.

The moral of the story: Stay central.

Tayyabs 

89 Fieldgate St, London

020 7247 6400

Balans

Westfield London

Ariel Way

Shepherd's Bush

020 8600 3320

Big Band Week

Like an X-factor hopeful, entering week 3 and finding themselves in front of a full 32-piece band (probably lots more, 32 sounds about right), so I find myself, standing beneath the soles of giants, in attempting both a meal and a review of a mighty culinary force – you could say that this week, I am taking a huge risk. For those of my readers for whom, in 2002, the year that La Tante Claire served its final meal, viewed eating out as a strictly dough balls followed by American Hot based experience, I should share the findings of my googling.

In 1970, a young chef called Pierre Koffmann arrived in London. Via Le Gavroche and the Roux brothers, and the Waterside Inn in Bray, Koffmann earned his stars (three of them) at his restaurant La Tante Claire, on Royal Hospital Road (where Ramsey’s place has kept the tradition going). Along the way, he taught great chefs including Tom Aikens, Marco Pierre-White and a load of others we should all know but don’t. To conclude this short story, LTC was open for 25 years, Koffmann was a legend, then he swore he would never touch another saucepan again and disappeared, only to be found 5 years later, cooking in a cave for Lord Lucan, Richie from the Manic Street Preachers and Glenn Miller. Or he quit to be a restaurant consultant. One of the two definitely. Fast forward to 2009. It is London restaurant week (apparently). And Koffmann agrees to lend his name and cooking skills to a specially erected cathedral on the roof of Selfridges. Such is its popularity that having initially been scheduled to stand for just one week, the £200,000 structure has been given an extra fortnight. And I was a fortunate beneficiary of this on Friday last.

Entering Selfridges after hours was almost too much for her as I thought she might make a break between entrance and lift, but navigating the shopping gauntlet with surprising ease, we ascended to the roof. I had been hoping for something more Willy Wonka-esque but we emerged into a nicely decorated corridor, beckoning you through to the main event. The sense of occasion was palpable for the second time in a week (thanks Nick Griffin). The menus arrived. Despite some slight eye watering at the £75 pricing, the excitement was definitely intact as we deliberated over our choices. Aided by extensive questioning of the knowledgeable waiter, we decided and waited for our food to arrive. And obviously had a nose around the room. The room was decorated very tastefully in two tone: off white and black, with the black coming from lights fashioned out of Magritte-like suspended bowler hats. The crowd was very mixed, young and old, fat and thin, local and B&T but before we could start staring at people too hard, our first (and only) free bit of food arrived. An amuse of duck rillettes on celeriac remoulade did exactly what it was meant to do, that is leave me whimpering for more food. I occupied some of this time in some serious mental exercise – that of navigating a discussion with a sommelier without spending more than I intended. I failed miserably, but my consolation prize was a very nice bottle of 2005 Chambolle-Musigny (for those of you that are interested). It was good and it adds a new grape variety to my limited arsenal.

My favourite course arrived promptly after. I had lobster and avocado cocktail; she had langoustines with pressed leeks. I believe the latter was once of the chef’s signature dishes (I think he had a few) and it was absolutely superb. The langoustines, thankfully peeled, were juicy and cooked to perfection, with a nice simple smokiness while the soft pressed leeks balanced the dish perfectly. My lobster and avocado cocktail, served in a martini glass (my second martini glass of the evening – I am normally so averse to them but the setting seemed to justify it) was good without being mind-blowing. There were small chunks of apple hanging out with the generous chunks of lobster which definitely added to it. To follow, I had “Royale de Lievre”, a hearty dish of hare cooked three ways, with a braised leg, slices of fillet and a slice of loin that’s been stuffed with foie gras. Although all delicious, the sticky and tender braised leg was the nicest meat I have eaten this year. The dish was rounded off to perfection with some soft buttery tagliatelle, a rich deep sauce that will never be bettered and a few carrots that looked a little lonely. Her Challans duck with herbs and spices was excellent also. The portion was too big which is a rare but honest complaint. I was selfishly a little preoccupied with Miffy though to be too interested.

Pudding was all about one thing. The pistachio soufflé, topped with pistachio ice-cream. As they served you this perfectly risen soufflé, they depth charge the ice-cream into the middle. This was food in action. Who needs El Bulli. Who needs Nazis on Question Time. They should try to launch it from distance next time. All of this needless piffle detracts from the adulation that this pudding deserves. The soufflé and the ice-cream were orgasmic, which was fortunate given how stuffed I was when I got home.

The execution of this meal was perfect. It was the best meal I have eaten this year. I recognise that I praised the Bull & Last somewhat vigorously last week so I am concerned that you might think my standards are just plain low. I assure you this isn’t the case. I have just had a combination of luck, good selection and silence on my bad meals.

[As a caveat, however, I am off to Tayyabs next week though, which is said to be good enough to permanently quell Pakistani/Indian tensions. If only Kashmir was closer to Whitechapel…]

The Best of London

I haven’t had anything to write about for a little bit. I would call it writer’s block but I find that a bit too self-congratulatory. I thought about writing a piece on the good food but disappointing room at The Bath Arms at Longleat. But aside from a lovely weekend, which not even a risibly cheap Bath parking ticket and the temporary closure of the monkey enclosure could ruin, there is not a lot that I can share with you from this. So I returned to my day job (this blog can’t quite support me yet) and with it, to the monotony of the EC1 food offering, where, like a good song, the best dishes are overplayed to the point of tastelessness. And so in order to unpeel myself from my gastronomic malaise, the girlfriend and I decided to do what shall now be referred to as “The Best of London”. We concluded half way through our evening that this is really the very best that London has to offer. Like previous commentators, I am tempted not to share the findings of last night with you, but unlike previous commentators, my small but dutiful following (made smaller by the recent break) probably knows where I went anyway, so I may as well spill the beans.

Last night I had dinner at what may well be the best gastropub in the world. If you work on the premise that London is the only place where good gastropubs are (a tall order to some, not me), and that this is without question the best one in London (despite Time Out spitting in their face with a Runners-Up award), then you arrive at my logical destination. The Bull and Last, of best chips in London fame, is the restopub in question, and it is situated on the other edge of Hampstead Heath. I have realised on previous posts that I haven’t tended to discuss the food in that much detail. I think this is because there is nothing that really jumps out at me. I cannot say this about the B&L. The food is amazing. In our/my normal fashion, we ordered a collection of starters to come whenever. I prefer this to having a main course. Friends have often laughed about this, calling it cultural (I call them anti-Semitic. Not very productive). I am so predictable in my ordering. Even within our ordering a collection of starters, I managed to squeeze in a starter which was itself a collection of charcuterie.

Last night, however, this method was vindicated (if it indeed had ever been in question). Starting with the charcuterie plate. Ahh. Such a charcuterie plate has never graced a table of mine before. A triumph. And this from a man who has sampled every permutation of charcuterie plate going. I even remember the exact contents, which nobody ever does. Contained on this sensational board was the following: a big dollop of chicken liver parfait, two slices of duck prosciutto, a pot of goose rillettes (maybe duck, my only ambiguity), a ham hock terrine with a tangy orange chutney, a little deep friend cube of pig’s head with “gribiche” (better than Helman’s), some amazing grape pickle, capers, caperberries, breakfast radish, cornichons and some nicely dressed watercress leaves. The board arrived, beautifully stacked (I really must take up photography) with a pile of hot brown toast. And it tasted comically good. The liver parfait was rich and smooth, the pig’s head full of flavour, the duck prosciutto as good as I have ever had (cured on site). And all of this for a tenner. Or twelve quid (I don’t remember). Either way, it makes nearly every other restaurant in London look absurb. I could eat this every night and not only not be bored but be positively elated with every mouthful. While I was buried in charcuterie gargling with pleasure, her roast pumpkin soup was producing similar results. Aside the soup was a small bowl full of the perfect amount of caramlised and roasted chestnuts, which made an already deep and flavourful soup even closer to perfection. Also battling for our affections were the chips. I don’t really know what I can say about these chips. They are thrice-cooked, or thrice-fried or something else involving performing three separate actions, but whatever it is, it makes the chips 300 times as nice as any chips you have ever eaten. Just go there. I can’t explain. I don’t even want to explain as it makes me too hungry. I think there was a salad which had something to do with chicory and pecorino and walnuts present also, but much like watching The Invincibles in the 2003-04 season where I was too busy marvelling at Henry and Pires and Vieira to notice that Freddie did a pretty good job too, it got somewhat lost in the brilliance of everything else on the table. To round off the meal, we rushed through a light and perfect fig tarte tatin with gingerbread ice-cream. The name of this dish speaks for itself. And it was better than I thought it would be. The bill was about forty quid including the perfect Bloody Mary that I guzzled down in the first five minutes. Amazing. As we drove off, we discussed where else in London comes up to the Bull & Last. Neither of us could think of anywhere. I will still be thinking about that meal the next time I go there. Which may well be this weekend.

I probably should tell you some more about the feel of the place, the clientele, the room, the provenance of the guys that run it (I used to play football with one of them at University. I wouldn’t exactly call us mates. He thinks my name is Stan, as in responding to the question what is your name, my weak diction announcing “It’s Dan” caused the obvious result) and I will, but not now. For now though, I implore you to go there and eradicate the memory of every crap meal you have ever had at a gastropub. And try to remember why you ever bothered going anyone else apart from there.

(I have realised that I have forgotten to tell you what else is included in “The Best of London”. This wasn’t on purpose. Take the short hop over to the Everyman in Belsize Park and have your post meal coffee or tea flopping into the practically horizontal sofa, watching a great film. And go home smug in the knowledge that your evening could not have been any better).

Break Fast at The Wolseley

On Monday, I extended my nightly fast to 8pm in the evening. I am not sure why. Something to do with superstition and not wanting to break a sequence. If this blog lasts long enough, then you might hear some more on this.

I am told that the only place to break the fast in London is The Wolseley so with the opportunity to get the year off to a perfect start, I accepted the challenge and booked for two. With a slight delay and a great parking spot (my girlfriend is a trend-setter - she argues that people only park where other people park for fear of getting tickets - I call them petrolherds), we took our seats at this great London dining institution. I should probably confess that I have some pre-existing bias. I love it there. Which of course makes any positive comment I have irrelevant, and any criticism deep, powerful and lasting. Or perhaps I overstate my influence. Anyway, back to the restaurant. And how much I love it there. The room is a winner. You can be sitting next to the toilets, as we were, and still be sitting at a great table. The buzz in the dining room is…a buzz. I am never sure what people refer to when they speak of atmosphere you can cut with a knife, or roll with a rolling pin, or shape into small balls then blow through a straw. You get the feeling you are in the place where the locals in the know eat. There are sous waiters, and waiters, and junior managers, and managers, and senior managers, all designated and ordered by various forms of cloth and neckwear and accoutrements. I even think that I spotted the owner walking around with a yellow tie made of a richer silk mix than that of his senior managers. But back once again to the restaurant. I am determined to not let my unflinching love for this place flinch.

For starter, we ordered chicken soup and dumplings (for me) and a chopped salad (for her) – here we received special dispensation. They kindly agreed to chop the salad especially as only the non-chopped salad was available on the menu. The soup, served direct from its’ bronze saucepan, was too concentrated for a consommé but I do acknowledge that serving a Jew chicken soup and asking him to not find fault is akin to asking him how he is and receiving the answer you seek. The chef punished us for moving off menu by putting too much mustard in the dressing on the salad. By this point, our shrunken and atoned stomachs were already nearly satisfied but before we had time to consider this too much, my wiener schnitzel and her burger arrived. I was delighted. It was as good as you would find in Vienna. Probably better. That is what the Wolseley do. They take specialities from all over the world and make them better than they do in their homeland. And serve them on beautiful plates, with lovely silver cutlery. And deliver them to you using sharp-suited, well-humoured waiters. And you are too intoxicated by the splendour of it all to notice that the burger wasn’t cooked medium as asked for, or the chips are a little dry (and nowhere near as good as in The Bull & Last – by decree of my girlfriend, the best chips in London), or it takes a while to get the bill because your waiter is charming the table next to you.

But I forget all of this, because I can’t get away from the fact that I love it there.