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!).

Social Eating House - Soho, London

58 Poland St, Soho, London W1F 7NS

This really isn’t a blog, is it? To qualify as a blog, I think you need some degree of regularity in your posts and what are mine? Months apart?

Yeah, the last one was in February, so I’m on for sixth in a month. That’s a pace so far removed from blogging, it’s glacial.

You also need some knowledge on the subject, don’t you? Or - at the very least - a passion for it.

I love food, because it keeps me full (for a short while). I love food, because it’s tasty. And, I love restaurants, because they provide the food. I’m not particularly passionate about them, as an industry. New openings in far-flung East London archways and the latest fad cuisine of an Inuit take on Peruvian street food, I really don’t care for.

So, what you’re only ever reading on this website is an uninformed ramble, by an ill-educated (when it comes to food), passion-less, permanently hungry keyboard jockey, who wouldn’t last five minutes serving tables, frying steaks, cutting up vegetables, or washing up.

Actually, that’s not true. I once washed dishes for 8 months. It felt like prison.

As ever, this is a long winded way of getting to the point - which is this: if you’re a chef, foodie, or a random passerby, someone I know or someone I don’t, please don’t be offended by anything you read here, as what I say carries very little meaning and even less weight.

Anyway, on to Social Eating House.

I have to be a bit careful here. I was taken here for my birthday, didn’t pay a penny towards the meal, and already had a few cocktails before we arrived; so, I’d better be careful what I say.

Hands up if you’ve ever eaten at a chef’s table? Some of you? Yes? Good.

Well, for those who haven’t, it’s simple - you sit in the kitchen, quite near the pass (the bit where the head chef checks the food before it goes out), close enough to see the meat sizzle, feel a little of the stove’s heat, and hear the c-bomb whenever it’s dropped.

And, boy, was it dropped!

Well, twice; but right after I complained (quite loudly) that the chef hadn’t used the c-word yet.

Talk about service!

Social Eating House is one of Jason Atherton’s restaurants. That means it could be excellent, as it was at Pollen Street Social (aside from that awful excuse for a pudding) - or, it could be fairly ‘meh’, at it was at Sosharu; so, I drew a line down the middle and expected it to be good.

And good, it turned out to be. Very good, in fact. Not excellent (that’s a rare score for this skinny Michelin Man wannabe to give); but, a ‘very good’ from me is that kind of score the chef should print out and stick to the fridge with a magnet.

Honestly, he should!

Starting with mackerel and finishing with milk tart, we took in a series of ‘modern European’ dishes of rabbit, sea bass, foie gras, and the like. You know, that sort of English meets French food, all done posh, and served in very small pieces - except for that foie gras.

Man, was that a lot of liver. Too much for me. I find foie gras sickly at the best of times and I was far happier with the root vegetable broth it was floating on. Mmmm...broth. I really am a peasant at heart.

The rabbit, I found disappointing - quite bland in the main, but with the odd burst of a slightly unpleasant flavour I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

The sea bass, on the other hand, was fantastic. If I remember rightly, it sat on mash. Rich, creamy, butter stuffed mash. I really really am a peasant.

To wash this all down was wine - lots of wine and some French pear cider, which seemed to arrive just at my glass was empty. Perfect timing.

And, in a way, that’s the real point of the chef’s table experience. It’s less about the food (although, obviously, that’s still massively important) and more about being treated better than the other customers. You’re not just any old schmuck, but minor royalty for a couple of hours, sitting behind a curtain that says ‘No Entry’ and given a private performance by the entire kitchen staff.

Sure, the rabbit was odd. Okay, the foie gras wasn’t for me. Put all that aside, though, as for two hours this peasant felt way more important than usual - and, better yet, he wasn’t paying a penny.

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.

Friends of Ham - Leeds

4-8 New Station St, Leeds LS1 5DL

How does the pub chain Yates still exist? Of everything that died a death in the last recession, that hideous home of the brown square-toed shoe and flesh-oozing boob tube, should surely have been next against the wall, after Woolworths.

They must have signed a pact with the devil though, because they're so alive and well in Leeds that the street outside is awash with faux leather and flab.

For those who prefer a different kind of meat market on a Saturday night, Friends of Ham is right next door.

A place I've wanted to visit for a long time, House of Ham (as I keep calling it, for some reason) has already been visited by everyone and anyone I can think of, reviewed within an inch of its life and always coming out smelling of pork scented roses.

I literally have nothing new to add, but when's that ever stopped me?

A restaurant-cum-bar, Friends of Ham has that Alpine feel, on a freezing Northern evening, of crisp, cold air on the outside and a room full of sweaty bodies, booze, ham, and cheese on the inside.

That's basically the review right there, in a nutshell.

Ham and cheese, served up on several platters. To not love that, you'd have to be dead inside. The sweaty bodies? That's just a strong indication that it's well loved. I guess, unfortunately, the same holds true for Yates, so it's not the greatest litmus test.

What we ate, I don't really know. Three platters, split six ways, with a salad on the side, and some extra bread - that's what. The specifics can go to hell. I don't pay to read menus (and I still haven't paid for that meal, actually 😬). I pay (when I do) to feel warm, fuzzy, full, and a lot happier than when I arrived.

That's what Friends of Ham delivers. Fulfilment. An excellent wine, washing down the lashings of thinly sliced porky deliciousness, in many shapes (mainly round, to be honest) and thinnesses, accompanied by wedges of great, full-flavoured cheese.

I wish I could say more, I really do. I wish I'd taken some photos, I really do. I wish I had the facility, capacity, or inclination to learn what I dined on, I really do. But, I don't, so you'll have to take my word for it's excellence, with this short, mainly ignorant summary:

Flipping good.

If you're ever in Leeds, visit.

Sosharu - Farringdon

64 Turnmill St, London EC1M 5RR

I haven’t written a review for a long while. Partly, it’s because I’ve been busy; partly, it's because I’ve suffered from mild writer's block; but mainly, it’s because I’ve fallen somewhat out of love with the food scene.

I was never really a food scene kind of person anyway. I was invited to the odd opening, sent the odd press release; but, I never had the time or energy to keep my nose firmly pressed to the scent of all that’s happening in London. Kudos to the people who do and who fill my Instagram feed with endlessly delicious looking dishes. Without you, I wouldn’t keep remembering all those many many places I’ve forgotten I wanted to visit.

It’s exactly here - on Instagram - that I’ve fallen out of love with food. Everything on Instagram is so pretty, everything on Instagram is so perfect, everything on Instagram is only ever described as being AMAZING. In the past few years, Instagram has killed the honest review - turning the food scene into one massive backslapping, navel gazing, race for followers and pictures of ‘that’ dish.

I love the pictures, don’t get me wrong; but, I hanker for the truth. Not everything is AMAZING - far from it - and plenty of dishes, places, and plates that I’ve eaten and would describe as mediocre, I see slapped with a thousand thumbs-up and smiling faces.

Or, perhaps, I’ve misread this situation entirely. Maybe everyone is happy with everything they post on Instagram, maybe to them everything is amazing, maybe I’m just a miserly, picky git, who looks for fault in everything, rather than just sitting back and enjoying the fruits of someone else’s labour.

Nope, it definitely can’t be that.

Anyway, on to Sosharu - Jason Atherton’s newest venture; a Japanese inspired restaurant, metres from Farringdon Station.

To set the scene, Sosharu isn’t the finest of fine dining, nor is it the sort of place you drop in for dinner on the way home. It’s clean, crisp, angular, filled with tables and chairs that cost more than the average salary, with a slightly snooty vibe, and staff who greet you with eyes that suggest they’d rather you were somebody famous. This is the sort of restaurant that attracts couples on dates - one of whom is looking to impress - and tables of tie-less, overweight businessmen, who pay on expenses and talk loudly about the people they know, wines they’ve drunk, and money they claim to have earned.

To start, head downstairs to the dark, sleek, brooding basement of a cocktail lounge that can’t decide if it’s a karaoke bar, a brothel, or both. The drinks here are phenomenal; the service, the same. My drink - the unappetisingly titled Gastown - smoked with layers of whisky and cynar, offset by a sweet hint of maple syrup, and glided across the tongue far too easily. I could have stayed for another.

Outside the cocktail bar there’s a row of Japanese toilets (in cubicles, I’ll add). They raise, they lower, they spin, blow, wash, and probably put on a light show if you press the right button. It’s all very impressive; a spectacle of busyness that doesn’t achieve very much. An almost perfect analogy for what was to come.

The dining room at Sosharu is cool, super-cool. Thin dark wooden beams - like a sea of bamboo in the night-time - divide the space, hiding some tables, leaving others exposed, while an army of brown-booted waiters hurry, scurry, and flit backwards, forwards, and sideways beneath the seriously scowling eyes of suited maître d’s. Behind the long length of bar, glittering with the glass of every bottle under the sun, more waiters polish glasses, pop corks, and pour an endless flow of wine into ever more intricate looking decanters. The atmosphere is frenetic, yet calm, precise, yet chaotic, busy, yet not, and all the while, exceedingly slow. Our drinks order disappeared, the first course did laps around the tables. The service charge, justified by the boot rubber worn to the floor and the repeated squiggles on the paper.

So far, so much style over so little substance - and that theme continued.

Sosharu is a Jason Atherton restaurant. Jason Atherton is a top chef at the top of his game. Previously, at Pollen Street Social we were served exquisite dishes packed with clever flavours, exciting textures, and a massive dollop of sparkle. Everything was AMAZING; apart from *that* pudding that looked as if the chef had kicked it onto the plate. Sosharu wasn’t any of this. The menu was short, yet complex, with an explanation from the waiter only making the latter worse. The dishes, however, were simple. The first; fried chicken. Large chunks of white meat, in a salty batter, lifted straight from the fryer of a local Chicken Cottage. Two piece chicken and chips is about £2.99; this was closer to a tenner, minus the chips.

Following the bland pop-corn chicken, were a series of mildly diverting dishes that I wished and willed to be better. I didn’t take notes - I never take notes - and the memory of these dishes passed me by before the fork left my mouth. The octopus, was just octopus. The tonkatsu, was just tonkatsu. The bowl of steaming rice covered in egg, was just a bowl of steaming rice covered in egg - such a sticky glob of glutinous gloop, that having eaten only three forkfuls, I’m probably still digesting it now.

The disappointment here wasn’t the taste, it was the expectation shattered by a lack of invention. Maybe I didn’t read the script, but with Jason Atherton’s name and Jason Atherton’s prices, I expected something really interesting, really mind blowing, genuinely creative, with each dish being a talking point to endlessly deconstruct and discuss. As it was, we were left talking about the obnoxiousness of the table sitting next to us, pondering on where our wine was, and wondering if the stern looking maître d' would be decapitating a member of staff for forgetting our order. I really hope not, but someone really needs to do something to up the productivity around here.

Cheap Eats: Part 1 - Three Michelin Starred Restaurants

Three Michelin Starred Restaurants, London

What a contradiction of a title. Cheap eats and Michelin starred rarely, if ever, go together; especially if the latter has the number 3 slapped in front of it.

Well, perhaps that's not entirely true - relatively speaking, anyway.

Visiting a restaurant with a single star a couple of months' back, I was told that they offered a two-course lunch for £19. Add in a drink and a tip and you're on for a £25 Michelin starred lunch. That's bang for your buck!

That conversation had me thinking (Buzzfeed style), where else that holds those famous stars could you eat cheaply?

Again, that's relatively cheaply, before you get too excited. Unless you're some high-flying City type, you're not going to be eating at any of these places for less than your hourly wage.

However, you'll be surprised at how cheaply you can eat at some of the best places in London. Save up the cash from a couple of Byron visits and you're well on your way to dining at the very best of the best of the best.

So, here we go: the best deals a little research could find at three Michelin starred restaurants in London...

Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester
53 Park Lane, W1K 1QA
The Lunch Hour Menu: £60

Okay, £60 ain't cheap, but read the small print: it includes two glasses of wine, half a bottle of sparkling water, and tea or coffee. It's a full feast, for £60. A full three Michelin starred feast, for £60! I've paid more than that for a meal (granted, not lunch) and been very disappointed. Surely, here that would be impossible.

Me, I'm going for the pot of snails, the cod, and the hazelnut eclair. Just to note, they only offer this up Tuesday - Thursday, but just chalk it up as a dentist appointment with the office and ask for a mint at the end.


Restaurant Gordon Ramsay
68 Royal Hospital Road, SW3 4HP
Lunch Menu: £65

I forgot this guy still cooks to be honest. Most of the time I see him shouting on TV at people who can't cook - and how! We're back here for a lunch sitting - well, what did you expect? There never going to be a cheap option for Saturday dinner.

£65 now, so up by a fiver. No wine, no water, no coffee. Come on Gordon! Alain's looking the better option to replace my three visits to Byron now. That said, there are more words on his menu, so logically it must be better. Smoked mackerel and charred fennel is tempting, while I'm a sucker for rabbit and the strawberry and custard tart sounds sweet and summer-like.

Now, I wonder if he'll remember that time I served him up a beef stroganoff in Manchester?


Le Gavroche
43 Upper Brook Street, W1K 7QR
Business Lunch Menu: £54.80

So these guys no longer have three stars. Sue me. It's my blog and I'll include Burger King on here if I like.

Reasons for including Le Gavroche, in no particular order: 1) They did have three stars, once; 2) Michel Roux Jr is one of the best celebrity chefs going (when he's not banging on about potatoes); 3) their YouTube channel is basically my porn.

What do you have for us Michel? A very specifically priced menu, that's what. At £54.80 this is the cheapest of the three, but we are losing a star here, yet gaining back the wine, water, and coffee - in your face Ramsay!

The biggest problem for me is that everything's in French - le grille?! What the hell is that?! I'm going for the pork, followed by de boeuf. It's French, so meat-tastic! Shame about that pudding board though: ice-cream, cheese, or sorbet? Whatever, I'll just take a glass of milk...from that cow.

Up Next: Two Michelin starred restaurants in London.

10 Greek Street - Soho

10 Greek Street, Soho, London, W1D 4DH

Apart from some suburban idles, 38 long delays south along the District Line, and the area immediately outside Loftus Road, my outsiders vision of London was mainly based on Soho. Hours wandering around in the cold and dark, like a bunch of sore thumbs in a world we didn’t quite understanding, looking for a bar that we knew wouldn’t let us in. To my mind, London extended in this direction from King’s Cross until it hit the river and then further east than I was prepare to venture.

I’ve since learned this isn’t the case. London isn’t wholly a city of bicycle rickshaws, brightly lit sex shops, angry taxi drivers, overpriced pubs, dodgy looking clothes, and bars that won’t let three ‘lads’ in after 10.00, 11.00, 9.00, or whatever other round hour we happened to arrive after.

Soho isn’t either, it turns out. Well, it is mainly, but there are some decent bits, particularly tiny restaurants, with never ending queues spilling out into the front of those same angry taxi drivers.

10 Greek Street is such a place. So small, you’ll miss it, especially if that damn queue is there. Arrive early on a weeknight, that’s the tip with Soho and it’s definitely the tip with this place. Even better, send someone else and deliberately show up late - sorry Alex.

I’d like to say we began the meal by discussing Wichenstein over a game of backgammon; instead, we drank negroni’s and rambled about wine, addiction, and the corporate-shafting that is Valentine’s Day. The hot-topics of the day.

Starters were off the list for this meal, so the negroni and accompanying bread had to do. The beef was singing from the chalk-board: all £60 of it. It screamed my name and bullied everything else. When there’s £60 of beef to be had, who wants to know about the lesser animals of the farm?

This dish didn’t arrive, it landed. A monstrous plate of longhorn beef, cooked pink, and sliced into inch wide strips. The gorgonzola potato gratin and heap of kale acted as foundations to the main stage. It was a dish wellworth it’s price-tag. Succulent beef, sticky potato, buttery kale (or perhaps that was just the juice from the meat) - what more could you ask? The chalk bully, entirely justified it’s position.

When riding a high, any down is more crushing than it should be. Take the post holiday blues: work isn’t all that bad, but it feels terrible when you can’t just stop at 11.00am for a beer. The same can be said for a poor pudding after a cracking main course. The culprit here was rice pudding with rhubarb, so lacking in sugar it could have been a lemon. Pudding is basically a conduit for the sweet sweet sweet stuff, but if it’s removed and replaced with rhubarb it’s a recipe for a lip-suckingly tart dish that’s hard to enjoy.

Oh well, I suppose you can’t have your cake and eat it all the time. Or have your cake, eat it, and find it’s deliciously sweet...all of the time.

Next time, I'll just order more beef.

Like Soho? Read about the Pink Chihuahua.

The Importance of Service

Various

With annoying frequency, the age-old debate about the value of service is kicked from its slumber. Whether it accounts for twenty, thirty, fifty, or any other percentage of a dining experience, the fact that the debate exists shows that it's an important element of a meal.

The debate still misses the point, mind you. It suggests that service can be split into an exclusive part, separate from location and food.

It can't.

You might visit a restaurant in an uninspiring location, because the food is excellent. You might visit a restaurant with average food, because of an incredible or convenient location. You won't visit a restaurant with poor service. Period.

While location relates to accessibility (or the view) and food the substance, service relates directly to the enjoyment of the experience. Was it easy to get to? Yes. Did you like the food? Yes. Did you enjoy yourself? No.

That's not a score of 66%. That's a zero. You won't visit that restaurant again, nor will you recommend it.

So, good service isn't important, it's essential, and no restaurant should underestimate its importance, ever.

Good service is only the beginning, however; it dictates whether or not you enjoy a meal, while great service dictates how much you'll spend.

Logistically, between the customer and the kitchen, lies service. Financially, between the customers wallet and the till, lies the same. Waiters are there to explain the menu and take an order. Within that process lies the opportunity to guide the customer towards an aperitif, a particular starter, the specials, a digestif, the cheese, and another bottle of wine.

The skill of the waiter is to make this up-sell seem perfectly natural; a suggestion to enhance a meal, not a cold-call sale. Would I like some olives? No. No I wouldn't. Would I like a snack while I consider the menu? Yes. I'm hungry, of course I would.

The difference for an individual customer is relatively small, the difference for a restaurant, magnified across a table, a sitting, a day, a week, a month, is potentially huge.

Take a table of seven people arriving at a crowded restaurant only to find space at the bar. They're hungry, they're through the door, and they've sat down. That's seven mouths, seven stomachs, and seven wallets, sat in your restaurant. A poor waiter takes and delivers a single drinks order - £7 each; £49 in total. A good waiter converts this to two drinks - £14 each; £98 in total. A great waiter upgrades the order to include bar snacks - £20 each; £140 in total. The greatest waiter keeps them happy at the bar and works to finds them a table - ££ each; £££ in total.

Three recent examples demonstrated that even the most fashionable and sought-after restaurants don’t get service right - at least not all the time. Whether it’s extreme aloofness in Soho or damn-right rudeness in Hoxton or the City, these three restaurants lost pounds from that day’s taking and subsequent pounds from potential future visits.

I’m sure the owners, sat high in their counting houses, won’t worry about the missing pounds from a single bill. For now, these restaurants are popular, no doubt profitable, and with queues around the corner on most nights, there isn’t a cloud in their business plan's sky. Over the long-term though, customer disappointment leads to a slippery slope of increasingly bad press, fewer tables, fewer bums on seats, stagnation, and possibly failure.

It’s important, then, that no restaurant should underestimate importance of service - ever.

Conrad's Beer - The Best of 2014 and other awards

Various (many London)

At this time of year every chef, restaurant manager, and restauranteur pays close attention to the broadsheets and their 'Best of 2014'. The most savvy among them keep a keen eye this way, though.

The Conrad's Beer Best of 2014 is THE make-or-break list for restaurants looking to attract my Mum as a customer. Without a good word in here, they'll never win her business.

To feature in the Best of 2014 list, the restaurant has to be one I've visited for the first time in 2014 and (for reasons I can't really explain) can't be located outside of the UK, so San Sebastián is out.

There's also one or two awards going for those who fail to make this list, for reasons both good and bad.

The Conrad's Beer Best of 2014

8. Eyre Brothers, Shoreditch

"A place like Eyre Brothers, with it’s refined dishes, crisp white napkins, and lack of craft ale shows that Shoreditch can offer cuisine above that of the half-foot burger, the bucket of diablo wings, and child-sized steak."

7. Mezcal Cantina, Dalston 
"A firm favourite on Instagram, the prawn tostadas were in the words of hipster culture, epic."

6. Carioca, Brixton

"Carioca is (a) culinary delight. Carioca serves up Brazilian delicacies, including a perfectly balanced lime-filled caipirinha."

5. Cafe Murano, Mayfair

"The food perfect, the portions a tad small, but all the more reason to order more courses. The vegetables crisp and fresh with tangy ricotta and a helping of someone else’s beef carpaccio."

4. Silk Road, Camberwell

"At £20, including beer and tip, Silk Road is a crazy steal. Try as you might, you couldn't spend more than £30 there, nor could you come away hungry."

3. The Bunk Inn, Berkshire

"With well-balanced flavours and a delightful presentation carried through every dish, you might find yourself taking a room, waiting for breakfast, and perhaps staying again for lunch."

2. Roxie Steak, Clapham Junction

"Roxie’s is...a destination for steak. A higher quality, higher value steak, you are unlikely to find in the capital."

1. House of Ho, Soho

"It's so good, we ordered more. A second helping is testament to the quality of the food, rather than any gaping hole in my stomach."

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The Conrad's Beer Alternative Awards 2014

The Plastic Basil Plant Award for the Worst Restaurant:
Yard, Shoreditch

"Halfway through the meal, we noticed a couple on one table clearly going through a break-up. It must be hugely depressing to be dumped while eating at a restaurant this bad, although if Yard is the sort of place he brings her on a regular basis, she was probably hugely relieved."

The Deer Hunter Award for the Strangest Dining Room:
Mien Tay, Bethnal Green

"The room upstairs...was empty, save for two flies circling the lightbulb, but it was definitely a room ready for something suspect, and if not roulette then storage for an ill-gotten whale or some unfortunate's bedroom. The duvet sticking out of a cupboard strongly suggested the latter.

Best Use of a Pig Product in a Drink: 

The Bayou Soul, Camden

"Cocktails at Bayou were of the more complex and refined variety. A bacon and maple syrup Old Fashioned was everything I’d expected and more - sweet, salty, smoky and sour; a well-balanced drink with a small ice-bowl of bacon pieces balanced on top."

The I Can't Believe It's Not Vodka Award:
Unnamed

An bar in Kensington, where the barman tried to pass a shot of water from a display bottle off as a shot of vodka. Apparently, this vodka is so smooth, you can't taste the 40% alcohol. Yeah...right.

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That concludes the awards for 2014. A big 'Well Done!' to the winners - and get your £10 in an envelope to the usual address asap. Cheers.

Camino - King's Cross

The Regent Quarter, 3 Varnishers Yard, King’s Cross, London, N1 9FD

It's difficult to know what to do on a bank holiday. Screaming hordes of pushchairs and children descend on everything in London, turning a gentle stroll along the Regent's Canal into a fretful dodge between the shouting, blubbering, spinning, bollard tall tots that teeter on the kerbstone edge between the towpath and the water. It doesn't help that those without children decide it's a good day to attempt a personal best in the canal side stage of the Tour De France.

Gibbering with shell shock after a frenetic early afternoon walk, a restaurant seems the best place to hunker down - eat, drink, and pass the time until the watershed is up and it's safe to venture outside again. Or at least it would, were anywhere serving food on a bank holiday. Perhaps it's not publicised in restaurant circles, but as far as I'm aware the first Monday in May has been in the diary as a holiday for some time. Surely a lucrative day for those in hospitality - a two day Sunday. Time to wheel out that roast again.

It would seem not. Grain Store were only doing a bar menu, with the waitress trying her best  p*ssed off school teacher impression - we sat for ten minutes and didn't get served - while at the Filling Station you can't eat until 6 o'clock. I have money to spend adding inches to my waistline, but clearly nobody wants it.

Thank God for Camino. Open in the afternoon and serving food. Wait though, what's this? We can't sit here? We have to order here? And the kitchen will be shut inexplicably for thirty minutes? A tradition Spanish experience I see. After an early order of various tapas that the chef managed to deliver before his mid-shift nap, we were left waiting over a few drinks, while the lights went out one-by-one and the seemingly competent staff were replaced in a single swoop with every trainee waiter in the North London area. Confusion ruled supreme as food was delivered to the wrong table, eaten, cooked again, and finally arrived, along with half our cutlery but not the rest - that took a second trip.

The food, or at least what was available (how can a tapas bar run out of peppers?), was average at best. The patatas was patatasy, the chorizo chorizoy, the baked noodle and cuttlefish dish bland and uninteresting. Nothing here is spell-binding, nothing magnificent, nothing I'd eat again in any sort of hurry. Perhaps if the staff showed a little more life, competency, or training I could be gentler, but when you have to give a lesson in how to take payment for a bill, you begin to wonder if you should be paying yourself the 10%.

The Rookery - Clapham

69 Clapham Common South Side, London, SW4 9DA

A desirable place to live, Clapham. Eateries, drinkeries, greeneries, and a chicken shop with a TV crew. Here exists every crawl you could image: club, food, pub. The latter, all tweeting their wares to the tech literate and highly social residents of this South London village. And why not? That's how we found The Rookery after all.

A tiny fronted venue overlooking the Common, The Rookery is a pub when empty and a restaurant when full. The taps flow with Meantime and a dusty cocktail list sits on a shelf. Squinting at the menu through the dim candlelight - this really is the trend - only one word was clear: pie. Rich, sticky venison underneath an egg glazed crust. Moreish and hugely filling, it would have benefited from a few vegetables. Shallots, carrots, celery, perhaps some mushrooms, something to absorb that intense flavour and provide a change to the endless forkfuls of meat.

While pie is the food of the trencherman, nothing comes closer to that overused term 'comfort food' than bread and butter pudding. Usually something to shy away from in restaurants - chefs usually fail to mimic the delicious inconsistencies of home cooking - this version, with a layer of chocolate and banana, had that farmhouse kitchen greatness to it. Thick, stodgy, sweet, burnt, and soggy, all rolled in to one dish - probably a welcome sight after a march around the common, and definitely requiring another one after to burn through those calories. If only it hadn't been raining.