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).