Showing posts with label Mark hix. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mark hix. Show all posts

Wednesday, 22 October 2014

Hix Soho - Soho


I wasn't going to review Hix Soho, for one thing I didn't take many photos, for another I wanted a meal off without worrying about what I was going to write. But, why break the habit of a lifetime? Or at least one from the last two years.

Soho is a trendy old place and Hix is no exception. Leaving Oxford Circus station via Argyll Street, the tourists melt away around the landmark that is Liberty, replaced by the trendy folks wandering the side roads that flank Carnaby Street. Bags from new-vintage shops dangling from one hand, an en vogue cocktail in the other, while wearing the heaviest of all the denim - there's plenty of places for these guys to call home and the bar at Hix has a stuffed fox; that alone makes it perfect for this crowd.


Ignoring the complaints of some older folks about the quality of the chairs on offer, I liked Mark's Bar, as it's called. A long list of spirits, competent bar staff and no raise of an eyebrow when I asked for my whisky in a different glass. Well, what's the point of all these trips if I don't at least learn something?! It was quiet too, for a late Saturday lunch - the trendy crowd not yet out of bed. I drank a gin and tonic. Gin seems to be the flavour of the month, but I wasn’t quite sure who was paying, so I hedged my bets with a Tanqueray 10.

The bright lights and open space of the Hix restaurant is a stark (bright?) contrast to the bar downstairs. It’s my biggest bug-bear of day-time basement drinking. Like a long-haul flight, your body thinks the time wrong, not liking the sunlight that it’s not expecting to see. If only someone hadn’t been playing with the lights, that might have helped. It would have also been nice for the good service of the bar to continue upstairs too. For at least ten minutes (or it could have been fifteen - damn that basement jet-lag) we sat waiting for someone, anyone, to take a drinks order - the French guy whose accent was so thick as to make his words incomprehensible, the suited guy who helped to put the napkins straight, or any number of the other waiters who looked in every direction but ours. It was all very aloof. Perhaps I’m just not cut out for this part of town; everytime I visit I meet staff whose priority is anything but serving me.

The food, when it arrived, was good. Excellent in many places. The snacks of crispy pork crackling, parsnips crisps, and padrón peppers, were an amusing distraction. The price probably a little cheeky on the feeble bowl of crisps, and to be told the peppers would be delayed as ‘they need to be cooked’ is beyond a joke. When presented with the bill, I was inclined to remark that the money need to be earned, but then I wasn’t paying. Things began to settle when the final starter arrived. It was a salmon pâté - we’d already had one delivered; clearly someone couldn’t count. My plate of whipped squash and goat’s curd was tasty in parts; a tangy cheese, but a fairly bland squash. I suppose it is squash, whipped; I can’t expect much more. The main was far better. A duck hash with a double yolk-egg balanced on top. Earthy flavours from the meat, sticky sweetness from the egg, very morish. They can keep the white. Again, it’s white - what more can I ask? Well, perhaps a few more potatoes. I was warned not to order them as the hash is mainly potato. True, but I could inhale this number of potatoes and not worry about indigestion, choking, or even notice for that matter. Had this been my only side, I would have been disappointed.

Finally, an apple pie, smothered in custard. You can’t go wrong here, surely? Even I can cook a killer apple pie and I don’t even own a pie dish. I’ve had poor ones before though and not a million miles from where I sat, so I approached it cautiously. I needn’t have worried. This was a bowl of comfort that, even with a coffee, pushed my eyelids firmly closed. A good way to close the meal and by now there seem to be enough alert staff on the floor to get the plates tidied and bill settled quickly. Although, I wonder if that waitress who said she’d be back for the coffee orders is still be wandering around looking for us?

Saturday, 12 October 2013

Tramshed - Shoreditch

32 Rivington Street, London, EC2A 3LX

According to the Metro, Shoreditch has lost its edge. No longer the refuge of dead-beat artists clawing an existence from the gutter, where carrying a lowly iPhone 3 would get you mugged, Shoreditch is now a candy land for the affluent, with Liverpool Street suits wandering up for lunch at a high street eatery or over-priced poncery. These days the Gucci-clad thieves won't give you a second glance unless your iPhone 5 carries an 's'.

Perhaps Shoreditch has lost its edge. I've no idea. I haven't worked here for that long. What I can say is that I'd rather trade edge for security, impoverished artists for cash points, and salmonella for quality food. Shoreditch is awash with good places to eat. Of a lunchtime, you can glutton your way from Old Street to High Street, and back again, on cheap eats, eye-watering bills, and everything in between. Try doing that in Harlesden.

Just off the glutton trail, tucked down Rivington Street, is a surprisingly large hall that is Tramshed. Owned by a renowned chef (Mark Hix), with a Damien Hirst centre-piece, and occupying a building that could house no less than a hundred wannabe Yokos, Tramshed is everything the Metro must hate.

Tipping its hat to edgy credentials, at Tramshed you can dine almost exclusively on steak and chicken - I presume a vegetarian option is available, but they'd probably have to blow the dust off it first. The litmus test - steak and chips - was passed with flying colours, although I would say my steak was slightly more medium than rare. Bonus points too for being only the second place I've visited which serves Oxford Sauce. I just don't understand why this delicious, spicy brown, anchovy infused condiment isn't more widely available.

A series of sides accompanied our meal, but having foregone the recommended Oyster Ale (5.5%) in favour of champagne, I really can't remember what they were. I do recall the pudding, although I challenge anyone to forget a bowl of molten chocolate served with marshmallows and donut batter for dipping. I can also recall the envy felt for my friend's chicken and steak sandwich. Half the price of my meal and looking just as filling, if not more tasty, with crisp pieces of chicken skin poking out from each side.

When you next wade through the endless high street chains clogging the streets of Shoreditch, lamenting the disappearance of all those oh-so-trendy artists and violent muggings, turn to Rivington Street, visit Tramshed, and within minutes you just won't care.

Monday, 30 September 2013

Fish Dog - Shoreditch

5-7 Rivington Street, London, EC2A 3DT

Perfection is a rarity. No matter how good a meal is, there is usually a negative aspect to be found. Service, ambiance, and three courses - a restaurant has many opportunities to make a mistake. On this basis, street food has it easy: serving only one course reduces the likelihood of failure by a factor of three. Then again, street food has a plethora of discerning customers with a propensity for passing comment on Twitter, as well as a host of competitors for comparison in close proximity. Almost perfect isn't good enough if the guys next door are offering something better.

Perhaps it was the last of the summer sun, the lack of queue, or the timing of their tweet ('firing up the fryers'), but my visit to see Fish Dog in R3D Market was nothing short of perfect. For those who don't know this highly rated London street food, Fish Dog is part of the Mark Hix food empire, compressed in to a small yellow van. While the name may conjure images of fish wrapped in a sausage skin, Fish Dog is actually just a slightly different take on standard fish and chips. Moist, flaky white fish fillet is battered and served in a hotdog bun atop a line of mushy peas. Fresh, golden crisp fries sit alongside, and you're welcome to as much as tartar sauce as you can eat. Aside from being washed down with a beer, lunch doesn't get more perfect than this.