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.

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 Pink Chihuahua - Soho

25-27 Brewer Street, London, W1F 0RR

'The Pink Chihuahua.'

I did not expect him to say those words. Mark, a sickeningly likeable person who has crafted his passion for drinks into a business (see Shaken and Drinks Galore), sat there in a tweed jacket, with a handlebar moustache, and well kept hair. The Connaught Bar at The Ritz, The Admiralty Bar at The Grosvenor, The Colonial Club on King's Row, or some other plush sounding bar I'd never heard of and wouldn't dare set foot in. That's what I expected him to say.

The Pink Chihuahua? Wow. If I'd put money on what I wasn't going to hear, I wouldn't have come close.

It must be a wind up. Some drinks industry jape that would see me dragging my girlfriend to a bar surrounded by men in vulcanised rubber pants and peephole Pringles.

Ha bloody ha, Mark. What a hoot!

But even though I hadn’t know this guy long, I had no reason to doubt his tale. He seemed a trustworthy sort and had plied me with plenty of free alcohol. I mean, what else do you do when a man buys you drinks? It would rude not to trust him. Ruder still not to pay a visit to a dark basement bar, hidden beneath a Mexican restaurant in the middle of the Soho, guarded by a tall, slightly mean looking bouncer.

It helped that I’d met one of the bar staff a few weeks later too. He corroborated the story. It's a genuine bar, that sounded genuinely decent, and one that Mark genuinely liked. The tales must be true.

So that’s what we did. That’s where we went. Descending the steep staircase into the deep dark basement beneath El Camion on Brewer Street. Why? Because that’s where The Pink Chihuahua is. Why? Because after watching Fifty Shades of Grey, I needed a couple of stiff drinks to remove the memory of a film so boringly awful a corpse wouldn’t have the patience to sit through it.

This bar might not be the place for lovers of a trendy cocktail: those worshippers of the ‘speakeasy’, who don a Dick Tracy hat, cradle an old fashioned all night long, and who like their bars coloured beige.

The Pink Chihuahua is a colourful place. Stuffed full of character, characters, pink graffiti, giant cartoon skulls, and 90s music. One wall is completely devoted to tequila, as is over half the drinks list, with the rest made up of rum and cachaca. Old fashioneds, white russians, and a host of other drinks are on offer, but this is the place to come for ice-filled tumblers of bright margaritas and small neat shots of mezcal (to sip!). The character just doesn’t suit a deep dark spirit or, indeed, pretension of any kind.

And that’s the beauty of a bar like this. It’s fun and with it, relaxing. There’s not a hint of snobbery, not a measure of exclusivity (although it helps to be a member, as technically it’s a members bar). You feel as if you could ask the barman ‘how do you spell tequila?’ and go from there; a barman who elected to show me a video of him falling of a bar stool while trying to be courteous to an unnamed girl - clearly chivalry isn’t dead, but it could kill you. Very random indeed.

Like tequila? Check out El Nivel, Covent Garden.

Smoking Goat - Soho

7 Denmark Street, London, WC2H 8LZ

I could start any review of a restaurant in Central London talking about tourists. The throngs of visitors who line the streets of Zone 1, drawn like moths to the bright lights of every Aberdeen Angus Steakhouse.

I’m a bit bored of that now, so I won’t.

It leaves me scratching my beard as to how to start this review though. I don’t like diving straight into the food; instead, I prefer setting the scene or waffling on about something almost entirely unrelated.

So, here we go...

On the edge of the Kalahari desert in Namibia, a few miles west of the Botswana border, lies the one horse (donkey) town of Tsumkwe. Having driven for hours along Namibia’s famously straight roads, turning the wheel only to navigate a swamp, the idea of boiling pans of water over a fire and eating yet more pasta mixed with cured meats, had lost it’s charm.

Fortunately, within the barbed wire of the campsite - heavily fortified against any animal or gun-toting local that the Kalahari had to throw at us (and there were a few) - was a restaurant of sorts. A tall triangular building, built solely of thatch from floor to ceiling, housed a charcoal pit (that CANNOT be a good idea) and a kitchen that served up t-bone steaks from who-knows-what animal for about £5.

A meal of meat, these t-bones were the size of my head - and I have a very large head. Yes, they came with chips. Yes, they came with salad. But these sides were purely decorative; the focus of the meal being meat and meat alone.

Smoking Goat, on Denmark Street, is a homage to that Kalaharian barbecue. It’s not. I doubt the owners have been to Tsumkwe and they specifically say they’re offering up Thai inspired cuisine.

Anyway, waffle - tick. Segue - tick. And the job is almost done.

One thing Smoking Goat and the Tsumkwe T-Bone Emporium have in common is polite, happy, pleasant staff. The guys in Tsumkwe were probably just happy to see customers (we were the only ones dining). The guys at Smoking Goat are clearly just nice people, and they get plenty of customers if the tales of queues on the door are to be believed.

The other thing they have in common is a very limited menu. Smoking Goat has an A5 menu in font size 38 and a chalkboard that adds a couple more options: mainly giant dishes to share with 5 people.

We took the two mains: duck legs and lamb ribs. The starter of fish sauce wings was a nice intro, but after two bites the salty salty salty fish sauce was sapping every dribble of moisture from my mouth. In other words, it was too salty.

The duck and lamb were far better. Sticky delicious meat that you could pick clean from the various bones and shovel down with a spoon of sticky rice and the spicy greens (the name of which escapes me completely).

It’s one of those meals that leaves you feeling satisfied. Nothing novel going on here. Nothing spellbinding. Nothing cutting-edge. No reduction of salmon’s foot, with a garnish of blended Yorkie bar, and a poached egg on top. Just solid meat - solid in the football pundit’s use of the word (it means good, strong, and reliable) - and a full belly to rub afterwards.

Again, it’s a bit like that meal in Tsumkwe. My introductory waffle, totally and utterly justified.

Like meat? Check out Le Relais de Venise L’Entrecôte.

Hix Soho - Soho

66-70 Brewer St, London, W1F 9UP

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?

Koya - Soho

49 Frith Street, London, W1D 4SG

‘So, which is the best restaurant in London?’ is an unanswerable question. I doubt anyone has eaten in every restaurant, for one thing. For another, tastes ebb and flow. One minute the bandwagon is carting ceviche, then pulled pork, eel fed duck, and lemongrass served on a bed of candied orange peel. Each time it changes, a different restaurant is the new found star, while the others are shunned like a leper colony.

A better question would be, ‘what’s your favourite restaurant in London?’ It’s still not an easy one though. Aside from the fact that I don’t really know what I’m talking about, my tastes change depending on the time of day. Foie gras makes for an unappealing breakfast, while a kebab looks mightily tempting at 2.00am, and a McDonald’s breakfast is just thing after you’ve had more pints than sleep the night before.

At a certain time of the day – specifically between the hours of 5.30 and 6.30pm - Koya is in my top 5. At any other time, the queue for this small noodle bar on Frith Street, Soho, stretches to the ridiculous lengths of an iPhone launch. I’m not one of those ‘don’t queue on principle types’. I don’t queue because it’s dinner time and I’m hungry. I’ll just go somewhere else.

As well as a certain time slot, Koya is best be visited on a cold damp Autumnal day. Scarves tightened to eleven, brown wet leaves underfoot. It’s not like we’re short of those, hence the constant queue. They serve noodles in a broth, with various meat and vegetables floating in it. A sweet, salty nourishing dish that tests the dexterity of diners. Thick udon noodles easily slip from chopsticks, spoons, and mouths, dribbling down chins, and sending broth splashing on to the po-faced couple who share the same small, intimate table for four.

Koya also serve an interesting array of ever-changing sides. Last time, it was hay smoked venison. This time, slices of pickled carrot and turnip, tempura pumpkin with a honey cured egg yolk and chilli salt. The pickles, firm, smooth to the touch, with a delicious bitter tang. The pumpkin, wrapped in its crisp blanket, hotter than the sun. Chopped, cooled, and dipped in the warm glowing egg, with a dusting of the spiced salt. Fantastic.

So, what’s my favourite London restaurant between 5.30 and 6.30pm on a cold September Monday evening? Koya. Next question…

Flat Iron - Soho

17 Beak Street, Soho, London, W1F 9RW

Steak, it's great, ain't it? A simple to cook cut of meat, packed with delicate flavours and a deeply satisfying texture. Cooked properly and seasoned well, it requires nothing to enhance it's flavour, any accompanying sauce reserved strictly for chips. 

Steak is a dish that makes me happy, leaving a big grin on my face and warm feeling in my stomach. Flat Iron should have me beaming then. A restaurant devoted to simple steak, with simple sauces and simple sides. Unfortunately, it didn't. My smile, firmly an upside down frown in reverse.

Oh where, oh where to begin. This was a monumental disaster of an experience. Were it a football match, it would be a 4-0 thrashing, at home, with three red cards, and seven broken legs. So, like Match of the Day, let’s walk through it, the pain and the absent glory from the first minute to the last.

On arrival, we squeeze through the small door to find a small queue. Oh wait, no it's not a queue, rather two men attempting to pay their bill in the doorway (strange, but understandable given what came later). Ahead, two waiters, chatting to each other. Joking, to each other. Anything, with each other, but the job they’re paid to do. It’s a shaky start.

Next, we’re led downstairs to the small basement bar. Three beers ordered and charged to our table. Wait? I’m sorry. We can’t do that? No, you mean you won’t do that, not that you can’t. ‘Computer says no’ in a bank, ‘waiter says no’ in a restaurant. Get a grip. This isn’t McDonald’s. Stick it on the tab, like you’ll do with all the food I order and all the subsequent beers. Foolishly unprofessional attitude to running a restaurant.

A ten minute wait and we’re back upstairs, marched past the long benches and squeezed into a small box at the back of the room. I’d keep brooms in here, not a table and three chairs. We order three steaks: one, their standard £10 Flat Iron steak; one, a £15 Bavette; one, a £20 rib-eye. The waiter rattles through the menu at alarming speed. His face red from the lack of breath taken. He ignores one important distinction between the three steaks on offer - the weight. When quizzed, he regurgitates these too, albeit in two different measures, leaving me to do the calculation. Bizarre.

The waiting staff here are trendy. Super trendy. Uber trendy. The level of trendiness that stinks of arrogance and delivers an almost apathetic attitude in every word. It’s as if they don’t want to be here or, at least, they don’t want you to be here. Remember pal, it’s people like me showing up and paying that keep you, your skinny otter-skin boots, and your sustainably sourced earrings away from the labour exchange.

Like football, a meal out is a game of two halves. Service and food, split equally. The first 45 minutes, they lost. Terribly. Perhaps in the second Flat Iron can turn things around? Um...no. No they can’t. The food looks terrific. Wooden platters, with stone centres, hug the steaks lovingly. Small pretty bowls of salad, chips, and greens. It’s a beauty, but all style and no substance. All three of the steaks were woefully underseasoned. Bland as ricecake. The Flat Iron, chewy. The second steak, soft and succulent. The ribeye, wow. What an incredibly awful smell. I like my steak beefy, but this smells like it’s come from a part of the cow that’s usually left sat in the field while the animal is still living. Honestly, stomach turning. The chips too: boring and bland. The sauces, fine. The greens, great. The salad, tasty. What do people come here for though? Steak or the vegetarian side-plates?

At the final whistle, we’re hugely disappointed. As fans, we’d have left at 78 minutes. We couldn’t even leave at 90 though. Not penned in by police, but stalled by the waiters. Again, chatting. Again, to each other. Again, ignoring the people with money in their pocket and a bill to pay. What do I have to do to give you the money you so desperately don’t deserve? Christ, what a car-crash.

As we left, I asked for a quick comment on the food. The verdict? The beans were the best bit. Surely, six of the most damning words a steak restaurant can hear. Your line-up of ace steak strikers, defeated by the limp-lame substitute greens. Says it all really.

House of Ho - Soho

57-59 Old Compton Street, Soho, London, W1D 6HP

Shopping is always more chaotic than you think it'll be. Even with a fixed list, you get sidetracked buying jeans you didn't know you needed and held up while shop assistants lazily look for the trainers you really do. No matter the weather, the basement changing rooms are hot and humid, dripping with sweat. Two hours later, two hundred pounds down, and in possession of two damp armpits, you're ready to quit.

Thank God for lunchtime deals and thank God for Twitter for altering me to them. House of Ho, a Soho restaurant that comes highly recommended, are selling dishes for £5 between twelve o'clock and four. Do my eyes deceive me?

No. No they don't. And no queue either. I waltz through the door and glide effortlessly to a table for two at the window. Or rather, I drag seven heavy bags across the threshold, pant unintelligible words towards a scared looking barman, and throw myself down next to the open window, with the tramps, dead bicycles, and sex shops of Soho beyond. It's not a nice view.

Fortunately, inside, this is a pleasant restaurant with incredibly good food. Chilli squid - fast becoming a favourite of mine - is tender with a hot hit of chilli and a dip to match. The lobster - that's right, lobster, for £5! - is served in perfect small bites on top of a bed of glue-like noodles. I can forgive the noodles. It's £5 lobster! A sweet and salty duck 'salad' comes overflowing with nuts, chilli, and noodles - delicious. The real surprise was a plate of 'heavenly flowers'. I've no idea what this is. It looked like a pile of tiny flower heads, devoid of petals, with a small garnish of fried shallots sat on top. It tasted incredible.

It's so good, we ordered more. A side of edamame and a bowl of noodles, with green leaves and slices of seared beef. A second helping is testament to the quality of the food, rather than any gaping hole in my stomach.

I'll be back to House of Ho. Definitely. Although it may just be back for lunch, this time armed with an even larger roll of five pound notes, in place of those seven bags of shopping.

Burger and Lobster - Soho, London

Ikea is such a brilliant concept. Not because you can fully furnish a house for under £100, but because they make you do most of the work for them. You show up, stare at the displays, pick your own from the warehouse, go home and build. Once they automate the checkouts, staff costs will dwindle, and costs will fall even further.

In some ways, Burger and Lobster is very similar. "Wow, such edgy decore and such a clever idea", said the diners. No, not really. They just didn't buy lampshades, bulk bought at a gastro cash and carry, and did away with the menus. Next thing they'll have you collecting cold steak from the fridge and mincing it yourself.

I might seem critical of their approach, but actually I'm just critical of the ease with which people are amazed. And I'll admit, I'm one of them. It is a genius idea. Do one dish well (okay, two dishes - lobster and burger), serve with a tasty salad, some fries (no options on either), and a smile - and sell, sell, sell! A lot of places will offer a menu ten times the size, which tastes a million times worse. 

Send your least favourite friend early to wait in line, order a Snake Dog IPA (7.1%), and enjoy.