FreakScene - Farringdon, London

91 Cowcross St, Farringdon, London, EC1M 6BH

The world of food annoys me, which is why I've never really tried to elevate this blog above what it is: a place for occasional ramblings about something I ate.

In a way, I'm happy in my annoyance. The food world can do it's own thing, somewhere over there, and I'll do own thing over here.

From time-to-time, it encroaches on me, though. Uninvited.

Generally, it's a classic foodie post that will flash up on Instagram - it's picture perfect angle, lighting, shade, and texture not giving any indication as to the quality or taste of the dish; the text below, some meaningless platitude or name-drop of a chef, including the word 'that' - with strong emphasis.

But, on rare occasions, it'll be someone who works in the industry that catches me, in the real world, pinning me down (not literally) and boring me to death about some trend, food, detail, or knife sharpener.

This time it was a budding young-(ish) chef telling me about a burger.

I don't want to do him down. I don't want to stifle his career (ha ha - as if I have the power). But, if there was one thing I could have been bothered to say to him (albeit from a position of admitted ignorance) it's that you should really listen to your customers.

Burgers are done mate. Snore off. Which, as a potential customer, is the basic gist of my argument.

Yeah, his burger will be the best cut of meat from the happiest cow that ever skipped through a meadow, the best bread a baker can knead, the best cheese from the best milk a different cow shot from its udder, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Well, two things spring to mind. One, if you do that, you're an idiot. Surely, it'll be the most expensive burger that no one can afford, even if they wanted to buy it. So, you're cooked as a business. Two, if you manage to use the best ingredients money can buy and - miraculously - keep the price reasonable, then kudos to you. Still, it's been done. The ‘best’ burger is out there somewhere and people aren’t really that bothered about it. After all, it's a burger. How much better can it really be?

Ah. What am I saying. I shouldn’t do down someone’s dream. We all have them, no? Even if it’s only to run out on the field during a baseball game.

So, good luck to him. God loves a trier and all that. And, who knows, maybe the burger is due another shot in the arm, to boost it to levels I can't begin to imagine, while keeping it cheap enough to suit people's pockets.

Watch this space, I guess. Although, I'm really not sure I'll be visiting, regardless of how great *that* burger is said to be on Instagram.

Anyway, I know all three of you are asking yourselves, how did we even get here? Wasn't this meant to be a review of Farringdon’s latest food pop-up, FreakScene?

Yeah. Sorry. I tend to do that. Surely the three of you know that by now?

I'm sure I can join my rant and this review together, though. So, here goes.

What that chef should have done, is ignore his blinkered obsession with his greatest burger of all time and get his arse over to FreakScene, to see what people really want to eat.

Done! Boom!

FreakScene is how you do a restaurant (although, granted, perhaps not how you do a restaurant name). It's warm, welcoming, has friendly staff, and a menu that you want to order in its entirety (and, if you did, it only costs about £90). Basically, it ticks every box.

They describe the food as pan Asian, which it is. Lots of chilli, lots of pork, lots of rice, you know, Asian food. And, if you know me at all, you'll know I'm not going to run through each dish; more just pick out the highlights, before I get too too bored of my own voice - which’ll happen very very quickly (don't worry).

I can’t go any further without mentioning the beef fillet Takait with onion ponzu. I have no idea what at least two of the words in that description mean, but whatever they mean translates into f-ing deliciousness in your mouth. Seriously, this is one of the best dishes I’ve eaten - not this month, not this year, not this decade; just ever. The beef, so tender, so succulent, so warm but so rare. Whatever sat alongside it was the perfect balance of sweet, spice, and salt. Just all-in-all mouth dribblingly insanely tasty.

Frankly, I don’t know what you’re doing still reading this. Get to Farringdon, get to FreakScene and order three of these - now.

Mild beef induced ecstasy over, let’s move on to the chicken. Vastly inferior to the beef, yet still a 9/10. That’s no slight on the chicken; the beef is just *that* amazingly good. Stick it on your Instagram and smoke it!

Oh yeah, the chicken, fried in chicken (work that out) and served with a peanut soy / satay style sauce, so thick it was like tar, so sweet it was like a pudding, so perfect I started licking it up with my finger (that might be a lie, but you get the point). The chicken itself, so tender you could strip it from the bone with a single stare. God, it was good. Although, the beef was better - get a pen and write that down, so you remember.

Every other dish, great. Marvellous. We finished every one we ordered. I’m not going into detail, though; 1) I can’t remember the detail, 2) you can read the menu above, and 3) I’m now bored of my own voice.

There’s only one thing left to do - plug the heck out of FreakScene and tell you (for the last time) to get there before it closes it doors for good. When you do, order *that* beef (just in case I didn’t say, it's great!).

Sushi Tetsu - Clerkenwell

12 Jerusalem Passage, London EC1V 4JP

It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? A while since I’ve trotted out a restaurant review, that I’m not sure many people will take the time to read.

Why it’s been so long, I don’t quite know. Possibly, because I’ve been eating out a lot less lately, possibly because every time I’ve put ‘pen to paper’ I’ve bored myself within the first five lines - and, that’s never a good sign.

Writer’s block, they call it.

Either that or I’m just not cut-out up for this food writing lark.

Regardless, I decided to struggle through for Sushi Tetsu and - at least - try and write something that didn’t send me to sleep. Let me know if it works for you too.

I’ll confess, right now, I’ve never heard of Sushi Tetsu (but, as we know, I’ve never been a well-informed food writer; if I can even be called that at all).

It seems everyone else has, though. And, everyone else also knew the price.

What a price! A £65 minimum spend.

A massive thanks has to go out here to Steph who picked up a fair bit of the tab. I’ll buy the next one, I promise.

The question a price like that raises, in this instance anyway, is how good can sushi really be? Can something that you can now pick up at almost every sandwich shop, for about £6 really be worth 10x that price?

God, if I was any good at this, I would make a case for, a case against, and draw a line somewhere down the middle.

How good can sushi be? Very. Can it ever be worth that much? I guess so, because enough people are prepared to pay for it.

But, the value of food really depends on the situation. The venue, the company, the time, the place, your very own mental state. Not just a cost / taste analysis.

A McDonald’s is pretty good, when it’s cold and crappy outside, your useless football team have lost at home (again), and you’re craving an overdose of dirt cheap fat, sugar, salt, and caffeine. Meet me last Saturday and just try to tell me those things aren’t some of the best life has to offer.

Good sushi - or even great sushi - has a subtle flavour. It’s not going to bowl you over, slap you around the mouth, and announce itself like a hideous, bloated, bald racist on his first day as President.

Nope. It’s going to play gently across your mouth and, if you focus too much on anything else - lights, music, booze, the idiots at the table next to you arguing about the bill - then you’ll miss it.

The culinary equivalent of blinking at the Formula 1.

Sushi Tetsu provides exactly what you need here; the perfect scenario to appreciate the quality of each dish. A cross between a massage parlour (a genuine one, not a seedy one), an upmarket bar, and a phone box, it’s tranquil, it’s quiet, it only has seven seats; and, if one of them is occupied by a total gobsh*te, who spends the whole meal yakking away about his life, opinions, theories, and trips to Morganville, then I imagine it’s pretty damn annoying for everyone else.

Yeah, sorry about that.

So, seven seats. Yep, you heard me right. That’s all Sushi Tetsu has. It’s a phone box of a venue and, if you’re looking to book, you need a fast dialling wand, some dirt on the chef, or a slightly geeky friend who can build you a Twitter based alerting system that texts you when a table is free.

I kid you not.

This really is a thin sliver of a restaurant, where even a medium sized-man has to squeeze sideways between a pillar and a post to make it to the postage stamp of a toilet at the back. Seven seats, arranged along a bar, behind which the diligent, patient, highly professional chef works tirelessly to prepare (what looks like) the best quality fish going and serve it directly to the total opposite staring back at him.

The waiting staff, float between the diners, top up their water, answer their ignorant questions with a patience equal to the chef, and try to tempt another drink down their throats.

Why am I boring you with the layout and a description of the staff’s meticulous nature?

Well, I’m trying to portray the atmosphere, because that’s what this place is really all about. The food is great. I’m sure if you know sushi, you’ll say it’s even better. Served from a plastic tray, accompanied by a tiny folk and a small fish of soy sauce, you might not tell the difference; but, that's not the point (have I made that clear?).

Sushi Tetsu is cosy, yet relaxed. A meditation chamber (I think Steph called it) of a place, the lights, staff, sounds (lack thereof) - except for that loudmouthed idiot (sorry again) - create the perfect tranquil state; where time stops, you feel lightheaded, you’re prepared to trip right over that £65 line, go mad and order the octopus sushi.

Which, they didn’t let me have. Damn them. If I shouldn’t have the octopus, why is it on the menu?

Ah, who cares. Basically, if you don’t know your sushi, be prepared for a few mild embarrassments like that.

We tucked into three sashimi, first; oyster, tuna, and sea bass (I could be wrong), each changed on every bite by the application of more or less wasabi, freshly ground from the fat green root sat on the chef’s table.

The first plate gone in seconds - this meal felt like it would all be gone in a few seconds more (and don't worry, this review won't take much longer).

The sushi, though, is more relaxed. The chef works his way methodologically through the orders. Rolling rice, slicing fish, glazing with soy, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, and serving up each morsel with one word and a bow.

Mesmerising, his hands dancing back and forth across the counter stopped even my conversation. The occasional flame joined the dance and licked intricate patterns across delicate, succulent, seared beef-like tuna.

Finally, the sushi rolls of salmon and tuna were beautifully massaged into shape in front of us and finished as quickly as they were sliced.

And, then we were out. Through the door, complete with 20% more bowing, floating back along the dark alleyways of Clerkenwell.

It was like a massage. It felt like a therapy, with a light touch that left a heavy mark. It seemed like a dream. I wanted a whisky and I wanted to sleep (what’s new). Strangely, all that transfixed staring, that distinct lack of chewing, suddenly felt like it had been hard work, reflected in the wallet and the eyes.

Maybe it was a dream. I half expected to turn back and see the entrance replaced by a different shop, selling forbidden objects and frogurt; but, given how many people have since mentioned the place, I'll conclude that it was real. To be honest, it might as well been a dream, as I doubt I’ll be back - wiring up your mobile to a Twitter feed in the hope of a last minute cancellation just seems like far too much effort for a lazy man.

The Jerusalem Tavern - Clerkenwell

55 Britton St, Clerkenwell, London, EC1M 5UQ

Beer fast becomes a hobby. Surprised by that first bottle or draught that actually had taste, so the curiosity begins. Before long copies of the Good Beer Guide appear on the coffee table, every trip to a new destination involves a consultation with Twitter, and now, with Untappd, each sip is recorded, each destination marked, and each badge cherished.

I'm still ignorant. That bottle of St. Peter's Ruby Red Ale sat in the fridge for a month. The strange shape telling me this was some weird spirit, to be avoided at all cost. Luckily, I know people who aren't so stupid and while reading the lines of Twitter one day, I realised that this was beer. Good beer from a good brewery. Unfortunately, someone else had already drunk it.

Not to worry. The information now committed to memory, when a lunchtime meeting was suggested in central London, The Jerusalem Tavern - a pub owned by St. Peter's - was my sole and selfish recommendation. A dogleg away from Farringdon Station, nestled between furniture designers and corporate PR agencies, the imposing doors of The Jerusalem Tavern stand solid and closed. People barely visible through the dark windows on either side, the only indication that the place is open. Inside, it's a tourist's dream. More wooden panels than wall space. Small tables in unexplained pokey corners. An Ollivander's Shop of a pub.

Pointless to say, but the beer is good too. A silky pint of bitter slips down easily, perhaps too easily. This is a haven of the lunch meeting that turns in to an all day session, and from the almost wall-to-wall suits sat there at 2 o'clock I'm not the first to think that. The food is well suited to this audience. The dishes slightly more complex than you'd find in a standard pub, providing a good excuse to meet here more regularly. Of course, the litmus test is still the burger and it didn't disappoint - medium-rare, a strong bun, and a healthy dash of salad. The chips, all four of them, did. Potato that thick takes some cooking and there was far too much of a starchy chew to this side.

Apparently, The Jerusalem Tavern isn't open at the weekends. That's a shame as I'll need a day off to complete my mission of one beer from each tap and one more day to recover. Alternatively, schedule a lunch meeting here, just don't expect to make it back to your desk that afternoon.