Restaurant review: Smokehouse, Canonbury

The Royal Oak pub on Columbia Road has a lot to answer for. Or rather, the beer at the Royal Oak pub on Columbia Road. It had been one of those delightful crisp Sunday mornings in Hackney. I was finished with work for another week, and with that one day that Katie and I would share we decided to stir early and make the most of it. First a caffeine hit, easily dealt with on Broadway Market, followed by a stroll through the City Farm to catch up with pig, goat and hen. Then a cautious dart across Hackney Road to the visual kaleidoscope of the flower market, dodging those last three bunches for a fiver and into the pub. That pub. It was barely midday but on a Sunday that is long past the start of beer o’clock. Although we had only just breakfasted, hunger was already stirring in every direction. It throbbed food. On tables all around babies and half-glasses were being shifted aside for boards of golden chickens or ruby lamb. Even the bar snacks board wasn’t fair; all charred brisket ends and crab. We supped on our cold pints and made suggestions over dinner plans but there lay the problem; it was Sunday. 

 
Sunday. The best day to be in the pub and generally speaking the worst to eat out. Sundays mean that dreaded thing; Sunday roasts. Urgh. I know most people’s spines won’t be too shivered at that thought, but to me they always seem like a wasted meal. Growing up, I was lucky in that our occasional family roasts were things of beauty. Potatoes fluffy inside a brulee-thin shell, mum’s Yorkies that hit the top of the oven. Chicken skin worth fighting for. It was a true family occasion, with bowls and platters passed around and everyone having a proper catch up. Why on earth would I want to sit in a pub having just begrudgingly spent fifteen quid to chew on leathery potatoes and carrots that still haven’t cooked through after 4 hours in a bain marie. Some do it right, but they are sitting with hen’s teeth for company. If I find myself caught staring down at Sunday menu I frantically look out for the anything but options and mostly get ditched with good old reliable fish and chips or a sad plate of pub pasta. I sympathise with the logistical nightmare that is turfing out high turnovers of often long-roasted joints and garnish, but it is only desperation over sympathy that ever makes me order one of the damn things.
 
Unfortunately no-one can be perfect, and Katie bless her soul adores a pub Sunday roast. So clearly a negotiation had to be reached as to where we would end up. I had followed the Smokehouse since it opened and knew its reputation well. A quick look at the menu confirmed it a perfect compromise, offering a full rundown of the favourites; pork, lamb, beef and chicken (well, poussin counts I guess) whilst still having a strong sounding hake dish and a veggie option should I wimp out. Within five minutes of faffing around on marvellously clever but beyond irritating iPhone booking systems we were in. Easy as that. And that was the start of how my faith in the traditional and much-loved Sunday roast was restored. 

 
At that point I was still nervous about the prospect, or at least that was my excuse for heading up Brick Lane and demolishing a monstrous bun of pork and hot sauce from the Ribman. I was even tempted to fill up further with a beigel. Despite wanting to visit the Smokehouse, a small part of me wished that it was on a different evening, as if on Sundays they all had the night off and allowed the Toby Carvery to take residence.
 
By the time we set off for dinner I had luckily walked off most of my earlier consumption. The bright day of early had been enveloped by darkness and rain, one of those evenings that make the street lamps appear almost old fashioned as their amber glow cut through the drizzle. The mist hit my glasses as soon as I was over the threshold and my shrivelled senses awakened to the warmth and cheer. I never doubted that pubs themselves were and are amazing places to spend especially grim Sunday evenings. Even at first glance, it was apparent that the Smokehouse had managed to combine being a serious restaurant and a good boozer. It wasn’t stuffy like those empty locals, devoid of atmosphere and populated only by the tiny ‘reserved’ sign upon every table. This was somewhere instantly welcoming, where people wanted to stay. It was also warm, at which point my glasses did their textbook steam effect rendering me momentarily blind. Must remember that that happens. 

 
Sitting in a charming seat near the pass with a fantastic glass of 2011 Chateau Tour des Genderes we were settled and knew we had made the right decision. We only really intended to have just the one roast course, but as all good menus do we were easily tempted to expand our selection. My starter of crispy fried oysters with bone marrow and dripping on toast was greasy and beefy and unctuous in all the right places. It was a plate a few components designed by someone who knew just when to stop. It was the sort of food that would create a window of time and a diverted walk if I find myself walking nearby in the future. Katie chose a well-assembled charcuterie board that would have been glorious save for the absence of bread or something crunchy. When we asked our server we were promised that some would be right along, but time went by and slowly I finished my own dish and Katie rather flatly nibbled her way through the rest without the slightest sign of a crumb.
 
If there is one thing that can redeem a diner’s faith it is a knockout course and that is exactly what happened next. Not that I needed redeeming mind, as the mellow contentment from my starter continued straight through. I could dress up a paragraph or two gushing about my smoked lamb shoulder main but to cut to the point it was far and away the best Sunday roast dish I have ever had. The meat was no match for silver cutlery or teeth and instead melted into smokey submission. Every other element on the plate was cared for with matching attention; Yorkshire puddings with perfect crisp and sog factor, an inventive broccoli cheese puree and potatoes that gave those old family memories a run for their money. A smart yet wholesome plate of food. We swooned when the condiment tray came around offering vats of mustards and sauces. I was dumbstruck, my Sunday scepticism had been given a well-deserved kick in the teeth. 

 
And just when things seemingly couldn’t get much better along swung a small bowl of rice pudding. Comfort food followed by comfort food. Rice pudding is deceptively hard to get just right, and here both subtle sweetness and portion size had been expertly judged. Katie opted for the Double D tart, and whilst saying that the pistachio ice cream was the best she’d tasted she found the rest a little rich. Having said that, without my nut allergy I doubt I would have had a problem putting it all away. Again it looked another cracker.
 
We have eaten out a fair bit in the last few months, and our evening at the Smokehouse was certainly up there with the very best of them. The food, atmosphere and ethos of the restaurant was fantastic. The only nagging point was the service throughout the meal which was patchy at best. Not just for the bread no show, it just all seemed a bit disjointed. We were left hanging for menus and drinks a few times while our waitress casually dressed empty tables and hovered around. We ordered a final glass of wine each after our mains to see us through pudding, yet these only managed to arrive as we were taking our last spoonfuls. But the highlights of the meal in general far outshone this, and we left with swollen stomachs and broad grins.
 
If like me you are loathe to a pub Sunday roast dinner then book and visit now. The earth will move. We will certainly be back.

Restaurant review: The Fish and Chip Shop, Islington

There are two things about food that I tend to get ridiculed for the most. While the first is the way that I eat pizza, a story for another time, the second is that my favourite thing to eat is fish and chips. Despite all of the cooking that I do, I just can’t get enough of it. It’s that comforting smell that cuts through the cold on a wintery evening. The ‘fuffing’ that results from not letting the chips cool down. The soothingly greasy crunch of the batter and the melting, delicate fish. I harp on about memories and how they connect with food, and to me fish and chips is sitting next to dad in the car on the way back from the football with the plastic bag burning my thighs and the steam getting in the windows. Or sitting at my grandparents picking what seemed like the millionth bone out of the cod. It’s something so familiar but never gets old, and always the menu choice in otherwise unreliable eateries. 

But going down the chippy has never been fancy. It was just the thing when faced with an empty fridge or unexpected crowd. That shop light that you wished would still be lit when all others had closed. To me it’s just as much about the situation in which it is being consumed, improved tenfold if I happen to be anywhere coastal. While storms were battering Mull over New Year we were sat on the front wrapped up in the warmth of stodgy vinegary chips. And my trips to Devon and Cornwall are never without a harbour-side fish supper. It is perhaps in Padstow where Stein set my current benchmark. I had never sampled deep-fried monkfish before, but in the still afternoon sun watching the mullet ease around the moored boats it was perfect. True, monkfish might be more fancy than the norm, yet it was still housed in a cardboard box and we were still offered a cup of tea to accompany (something that despite my love of the food, I have never understood). In reality the consistency is really the thing. You can get some pretty awful cases of thick, flabby batter and spongy fish from time to time, but mostly you get just what you expect. I’m not that fussy. Even to the point where normally I’m a stickler for a crisp, fluffy chip, yet find love for the thick mulchy sog when the potatoes have been patiently wrapped that bit too long. 

So not too much pressure for somewhere seemingly trying to add a bit of posh to all this. It made me a bit nervous to be honest, like when I encounter the word ‘gourmet’ in a restaurant name. I am a man of simple needs; all I wanted was crispy batter and freshness, not for my fish to appear in a tuxedo. I worried that the simplicity of it all might be muddied by an injection of class. But what The Fish and Chip Shop did really well on was changing the experience. Unfortunately not every chippy finds itself in Port Isaac or Oban, and in reality a lot of the ones that aren’t are a pretty sad affair. The only time that you would even consider eating-in in these places was if a hurricane was forcing the door shut. Or if you were in Brighton, and you fancied adorning some bunny ears and joining a hen do. And when these occasions force you to, the sticky table covers and bleach white lighting never make you hang about for long. But on Upper Street, the dim light glittered off the cut glass and a happy bustle thronged. Like everyone had bought their takeaways to the same place to have their family gatherings. 

Despite these early plus points I was most concerned about the food. The menu read confidently, betraying the simplicity of just serving out of the fryer. Scallops, langoustines, woodland mushrooms and a curry sat alongside the battered options. It all sounded rather nice. We began with a small platter of tiny sweet queenies posing daintily in their shells. They had been treated properly and paired with the usual suspects and were devoured swiftly, like a witty compère before the main show. Really I was only there for one thing, here performing in locally-brewed ale. My main anxiety was the trendiness, and the declining scale this usually inflicts. There’s no room for small portions when it comes to food like this. It needs to warm your bones and fill your stomach. No smears or quenelles here, please. 

This was of course quashed as our table became a tetris game to accommodate each of the different dishes. I am always thrown when fish or steak are served all alone on a plate, looking like the last person in the school team selection. If this was attempted elegance then it was quickly smothered with a scattering of chips and a dollop of tartare. That was better. And to my relief, delicious. The surroundings and fancy sides such as cabbage and bacon may have implied one thing, but when it came to the fish they didn’t faff around; they just did it well. My tummy was happy and my head saturated by glorious nostalgia. A mug of greying tea was replaced with fruity ale and we even had battered pickles. These onions and cucumbers read like the ultimate bar snack, and despite not quite matching the hype were still moreishly consumed. Mushy peas are a contentious issue, and here they diplomatically offered both crushed or marrowfat. I yearned for a bowl simply seasoned and buttered but that’s just me. 

All deeply satisfying stuff. Our only complaint was the layout, which could have its own seafood simile. With tables tightly packed in we suffered the occasional bum hovering perilously close to our eagerly awaited fish as our neighbours squeezed to and fro. But it was a small price to pay for the bustle that it helped create. We left with that wry glow that a lovely evening had been had. At last a bright star in the largely swathing mediocrity of Upper Street. Who would of thought that humble old fish and chips would be the cause of all that.

Bream with crispy polenta, oregano pesto, chorizo and broad beans

Fish

I love fish, I really do, and I don’t eat nearly enough of it. I think that this is typical of many people, and sadly is resulting in the decline of fishmongers on the high street. This is slowly destroying the connection between the animal source and the finished dish, and it is worrying that future generations might purely associate fish (or meat for that matter) with a bland coloured lump in a vacuumed plastic packet. 

When visiting a decent fishmonger, not only do you get to see the origins of what you are about to eat, but just the spectacle of the different colours, shapes and sizes is inspiring in coming up with what to cook. Many times I have been to a fishmongers with something in mind, only to be completely thrown by seeing something else that looked good. This just does not happen in the monotonous aisles of supermarkets, and even in the bigger ones with fish counters, the fish often look in a sad and old state.

Buying fresh fish can be quite expensive, and I always look at it as a bit of a treat. Fish like monkfish, turbot and brill are for very special occasions only. But in any good fishmongers there should be a wide selection of different fish on offer, to suit all budgets. Mackerel and mussels for example are massively underlooked and cheap, and are really easy to turn into fantastic dishes. 

Fish selection is important, and there are a few signs that you should look out for to make sure what you buy is fresh. Firstly and most obviously, fresh fish doesn’t have that overwhelming fishy smell. Other good signs of freshness are full, non-sunken eyes and red gills.

Bream with crispy polenta, oregano pesto, chorizo and broad beans

The joy of cooking with fish is that you don’t need to do a lot to it to make it taste great. Although in this recipe the polenta takes time to prepare, the rest is pretty easy and quick to assemble. I always make too much of the pesto and of the polenta, as both make great leftover meal components. 

I have chosen to use bream in this recipe because it is delicious, and the crisp skin and soft white flesh go really well with the other tastes and textures in the dish. Very similar to sea bass, it is readily available, sustainable and fairly cheap. I prefer to buy my fish whole and fillet them myself, but you can get the fishmonger to do this if you like.

The key to getting the skin on the fish lovely and golden and crispy is to make sure that you use a non-stick pan, and that it is hot when the fish go in. Always put the fish skin side down and carefully use your fingers to push down a little on the fillets for the first 5-10 seconds to help prevent the fillets from curling. 

Serves 2 as a lovely summer meal

Ingredients:

2 bream fillets, scaled and pin-boned

1 knob of butter

For the polenta:

1/2 a red chilli, finely chopped

1 large clove of garlic, finely chopped

1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves, finely chopped

75g uncooked polenta (the quick cook variety)

400ml water

For the pesto:

1/2 bunch fresh oregano, finely chopped

1 lemon (juice only)

1 clove garlic, finely chopped

4tbsp pine nuts, toasted

2tbsp pecorino cheese, finely grated

Extra virgin olive oil

For the broad beans:

300g broad beans, podded and shelled

1/3 ring cured chorizo, sliced into 1/2cm squares

First of all, prepare your polenta. Gently sweat down the garlic, chilli and thyme in frying pan on a low heat for a couple of minutes until cooked, but watch out that they don’t colour.

Meanwhile, bring the 400ml of water to boil in a medium sized saucepan.

When the chilli, garlic and thyme has cooked and the water has boiled, add the polenta to the water in one slow pour, using a spatula to stir at the same time. The mixture will start to thicken immediately, and once the lumps have been stirred out, return to the heat and cook for 4-5 minutes. 

Once the potenta has cooked, stir in the cooked chilli, garlic and thyme and season well. Pour the mixture into a lightly greased, rectangular shaped container (I use a tupperware box) and leave to cool. During this time it will solidify, and once cold, cut the polenta into two rectangular shapes that will support the fish. 

While the polenta is cooling, make the pesto. Mix the chopped oregano, garlic, pecorino and lemon juice into a small bowl. Crush up half of the pine nuts roughly and add, along with the whole ones. Pour in enough olive oil to make the mixture quite loose, and season well. Tasting at this point is important, you may want to add more of any of the ingredients to make it just right.

Pre-heat the oven to 180ºC, and take your fish fillets out of the fridge at least 15 minutes before you plan on cooking them

Heat a medium non-stick frying pan to a medium-high heat, and add a good glug of vegetable oil. When hot, add your polenta rectangles and cook on each side until they go crispy round the edges. Transfer to a baking tray and put in the oven to keep warm.

At the same time as the polenta rectangles are frying, heat a frying pan or saucepan on a medium heat with a small amount of vegetable oil, and add the chorizo. When it starts to crisp a little, add the broad beans and turn the heat to low. Season well.

Once the polenta is in the oven and chorizo and beans are slowly ticking over, it is time to cook the bream fillets. Put a large non-stick frying pan on a medium-high heat, and add a good glug of vegetable oil.  When hot, season the fillets well and place them skin-side down in the pan, holding them down carefully for about 10 seconds. Cook the fish for 4-5 minutes on the skin side, checking the colour of the skin occasionally and adjusting the heat. While this is happening, use a metal teaspoon to baste each fillet continuously with the hot oil in the pan, running the hot back of the spoon along the fillets as you do. This will cook both sides of the fish at once, and will give the flesh a lovely pure white colour and really soft texture, while the skin protects the flesh from the direct heat of the pan. After 4-5 minutes the skin will be crisp and the flesh will be cooked, so remove the pan from the heat and add the knob of butter.

To plate up, place the polenta in the middle of the plate, and scatter the chorizo and broad beans around it. Carefully place the fish skin side up on top of the polenta, and drizzle a tablespoon of the pesto on top of each. You are now ready to go!

The best thing about this dish is how flexible it is. If you can’t get bream, any white fish will work, although try and choose one which has the skin still attached. Similarly, the oregano can be swapped for traditional basil, and the chorizo for bacon. 

Restaurant Review - The Island Queen, Islington

This review is short, and is mostly here to express my delight at stumbling into a pub at 2.30pm on Saturday and finding that a brunch menu was in service. As I work on Saturdays until the early afternoon, I often miss out on weekend breakfast trips, so I was very pleased to find that I could still have my breakfast experience well into the afternoon and accompanied by a much needed pint. 

I was also sitting in a very lovely pub. The Island Queen is tucked away in the maze of well-to-do streets between the bustle of Upper Street and the canal, and you wouldn’t know it was there unless you were looking. Well furnished and welcoming, it is the ideal place if you are looking to spend an hour of two somewhere relaxing reading the papers.

The atmosphere is the thing that makes this pub work, the place has a busy bustle to it whilst being serene at the same time. The staff were charming, and happily topped up my pint when I asked. The prices for drinks on the other hand are hideous, and I will always shudder before parting with the best part of a fiver for a pint. Especially one not quite filled up properly.

The menu looks like good pub fare on paper; eggs benedict, traditional and vegetarian breakfasts along with wild mushrooms here and potted something there. In execution however it was a slight disappointment. I was still overjoyed at my breakfast, but I think that I would have been just as overjoyed at receiving the same in an average greasy spoon. My sausage and black pudding had long been forgotten, to the point that ‘well caramelised’ had flown well and truly out of the window. The egg was basically deep fried and hard yoked, and the beans were just beans. With the build up from the menu, I had hoped for something that didn’t resemble Heinz. The saving grace was the addition of bubble and squeak. I really don’t know why it doesn’t appear on other menus more often, when most of the time when cooked at home it’s the best bit.

This all sounds a bit doom and gloom, and perhaps unfairly as I ate it all, and everything tasted like a breakfast should. It was just that it didn’t seem to have been made with very much care. It is a nice pub, and the other food that people were eating also looked lovely (I had moments of food envy), so I would tell others to give it a try. The menu certainly looked nice, and on its day I’m sure (and hope) it’s just as much a treat as the surroundings you sit in.