Perhaps more than anywhere in London, Hackney seems to be full of evolving
small spaces. A wasteland becomes a garage which becomes a studio, boutique
shop or café. Small greens have become community growing spaces and bike shops are
squeezed into every nook and cranny. Suddenly small strips of shops down quiet
roads have been transformed into interesting hubs of passionate small-traders.
Wilton Way is one of them. A few months ago I was supping a much needed coffee
at the lovely Wilton Way Café when I noticed that one of the tiny units
opposite now held a cluster of tables. It was all very understated, some pine
here and grey there, a bit like a smart restaurant had put all of its tastefully-dressed
tables into storage. But the sparkling glasses housed wine and the seats sat casual
lunchers chattering and clattering crockery. I was intrigued, and the best bit
was the chalk board outside, charmingly handwritten with what looked like a
masterclass of seasonal produce.
Research soon followed this discovery, which of course wasn’t a discovery
at all. High praise came from all directions and it seemed like Mayfields was
already the darling of both the food blogger and the newspaper critic. Photos
of the food appeared to justify this, achieving that tricky thing of making
choreographed food look like a natural assembly of beauty. I was overjoyed when
on a random Friday, my mother-in-law suggested that the three of us try to
sneak a late table. It was about time too, and by the time we visited it seemed
like an itch that I had been waiting to scratch for weeks.
And it is why with such anticipation that I am sad to say that I just
didn’t really get it. It had started so well. The staff had managed to squeeze
us in on a busy evening, and the throbbing room drummed up that kinetic feeling
of excitement. The menu backed this up with yet another selection of dishes that
sounded slightly unusual, but had always been made for one another. Katie rolled
her eyes as we ordered the duck hearts, but stuck out for the ‘brill’, which is
so often just that.
The asparagus with lardo and egg yolk looked smart and tasted better,
creating an amazing amount of comfort for such small contents. Those pesky
hearts followed, and Katie squealed as I marvelled the satisfying simplicity of
plump, pink hearts cut with tangy herb. So far so good, and a slight betrayal
of my earlier statement. But the scallops that came next just couldn’t fight
through the citrus dressing and peppery radishes. It was all very subtle, too
subtle for me and I lusted for that wonderful sweet caramelisation that occurs
when the molluscs meet a hot pan. At this point it also started to become clear
that each plate came as its own independent ‘course’. A strange discovery given
that I had asked the staff about ordering before we started and this hadn’t
been mentioned at all.
The presentation of all dishes remained consistently staggering
throughout, and the next dish to hit our table was a piece of perfectly cooked
lemon sole cleverly hiding under scales of fine daikon. The liquorice provided
a different and challenging twist to the more normal aniseed pairings of fennel
or perhaps pernod, but as interesting as it was I don’t think I’ll ever wake up
in the night craving it. The initially comforting warmth crept and crept, and
the mellowness was a bit much by the last forkful. It was all very clever and
showy, something that continued into the brill that followed. As we had
misguidedly ordered two, this was the first proper time to get stuck in, but
what should be championed as royalty of the sea turned out tough, and swamped by
a merge of other things flying around on the plate. Again simplicity sprung to
mind and a beautiful moist tranche hanging out with some lemon and artichokes,
far away from a tasteless powder and random onion.
Thankfully the desserts were much more successful, although after the
seemingly structured ‘one plate at a time’ routine with the savoury courses, it
was a little odd to have both puddings and cheese plonked down in front of us
all at once. Where things before might have been taken a step or two too far in
places, technique was set aside for joyful marriages in flavour. The almond
cake with lemon curd and strawberries hit those comforting nostalgic baking
memories, whilst the chocolate mousse and lime leaf ice cream gave the deep satisfaction
that the evening had long been craving.
I could have eaten all of those final dishes to myself. And I think
that this was fundamentally what was lacking in the evening. There is a
wonderful satisfaction in eating a delicious plate of food, savouring every
last mouthful at your own pace while your friends and family do the same. Here
each plate was isolated, instantly attracting analysis as three forks dove in
for the same piece of lardo. That relaxing dynamic was removed. As such I only
felt like I experienced a fragment of much of the food that I ate at Mayfields,
that I was missing the key part that bound some of the dishes together. Clearly
the food is skilfully made, for almost unrivalled value for money in a
brilliantly inventive location. But sitting in that small space it seemed like
a parade of showy techniques and daring ingredients pairings, without fully
getting to grips with what the diner really wanted.
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