There is little more irritating than standing in a busy no-reservations restaurant waiting for a table. Every second of the quoted 20 minutes passes in freeze frames. You have already looked around and noted precisely how many mouthfuls each diner has left until possible vacation. You have practically gambled on those two in the corner not ordering dessert and you’re slowly edging over. You hate *everyone*, especially that couple who have ordered that second bottle of wine. Then two people walk through the room and embrace the waiter. After a quick chat and a bit of pointing he comes over; “they were before you. Your table will be about 45 minutes”.
We thought hard about leaving. We were perched on a tiny corner of counter and had a bottle of wine on the go, but it really felt like a bit of a piss take. Sure, these people genuinely might have been here before us. But they certainly weren’t there whilst we had been waiting and the heightened delay in sitting us down didn’t seem to support this. But it was late on a Friday night and the chance of dropping in on another local table without a similar wait was slim. This was also our second visit, and having enjoyed the first we decided to hang on. But any meal that starts with wanting to throttle the waiter is never ideal.
Early drama over and for the second time in two weeks we were huddled at the beautiful marble bar marvelling at what a wonderful concept the whole place was. The tiny space was thronging with people and every one of them was having a ball. Everything was simply and beautifully designed; a simple chalkboard menu, some meat-themed art and the odd bunch of garlic hung happily among the spotless white tile and marble. Plain tumblers, water bottles and cutlery in a cup completed the humble set up. I almost forgot that during daylight hours the space serves as a butcher proper; the ‘table’ moonlighting as the central platform for the evening’s high jinx would wake up in the morning as a meat slab. But the odd, unmistakable whiff of hung meat swirling around with the glorious smell of charring steak reminded me where I was. In a kind of Hannibal Lector way it was all very appetising.
We returned with the full intention of trying out some of the supporting cast of the short, confident menu. But as good as the butterflied lamb or pork chop sounded, the temptation to again order something from the list of steaks just proved too strong. The wing rib that we had gorged and raved about on our initial visit was unbelievably good and we just had to try and repeat that experience. But of course any pair who had just ordered 800g of rump needed something to keep them going first. Down plonks a plate positively loaded with pork rillettes, bread and pickles. And these were good ones; smokey and well-seasoned, proof that those old frugal dishes are back on trend for a reason.
I’m always a mixture of inquisitive and anxious when it comes to open plan restaurants that allow diners to look into the kitchens. A kitchen that runs like a well-oiled and disciplined machine is always a joy to watch. On the flipside, I have no desire to see a chef getting a dressing down from the boss or watch a mistake being made that would normally pass by unseen and without issue in a conventional ‘behind closed doors’ kitchen. Here I had nothing to worry about. Throughout our two visits Alex Szrok was the definition of chilled. He even had time to control the music. It was all very old-school; just one man and a stove, and he nailed it. The rump that we ordered on our second visit was soft and crusty and massively beefy in all of the right places. It was funny to observe a huge hunk of bloody steak sat on a twee patterned platter, but in practice it worked wonders. All of those resting and pan juices puddled around in the bottom, combining with the wholegrain mustard into the most joyous dipping sauce for those pink slithers of meat. A couple of weeks on and my tastebuds can still remember fragments of that deeply satisfying, savoury flavour. In terms of quality and taste it was up there with the best that I’ve had in London, all at a far more humbling price. We didn’t need much to accompany the steak but again the simple approach came up with the goods. A bowl of well-dressed greens and fluffy rosemary potatoes was all that was needed.
We had been annoyed to start with but by this point we had been well and truly won over. In keeping with the rest of the menu, the dessert menu was kept brief. By brief I meant one option. Cheesecake. And when a cheesecake was as tasty as that, that’s all they needed to offer.
Back to the concept; a butcher by day and a restaurant by night. It was like we had been invited to a lock in, someone had found a bottle of wine in the back and the butcher had decided to cook up a few choice cuts. There was a real makeshift nature, but once we sat back and embraced this and the fact that a small team had managed to create such a beautiful, bustling room of people all tucking into seriously delicious food then we realised quite how impressive it all was.
Working in the line of work that I do, I’m very lucky to have access to some really fantastic produce. For my dad’s birthday last year, my present to him was a large turbot. He has always loved eating fish, and the times when I was a child and he’d constantly encourage me to eat ‘disgusting’ mussels, get stuck in peeling prawns or cooking things like skate from an early age helped form the foundations for my own passion for food. That night we roasted the whole fish simply, sat on a bed of roasted lemons and fennel and surrounded by clams and mussels. A wonderful and memorable evening. Since then I’ve always wanted to have another go at cooking with a large flat fish, but have never had the occasion. Last week I ended up thinking ‘sod it’, and phoned up our lovely Cornish suppliers at Newlyn. A couple of minutes later I had a sizable brill ordered to wing its way up to me for later in the week.
With the larger flat fish such as turbot and brill there are two real choices to go for. The smaller fish between 1-2 kilogrammes are lovely cooked whole on the bone and make a cracking meal shared with a few people. But the bigger ones are something else, true dustbin lids that you can fillet or steak and still get a proper chunk of flesh from. Certainly something for a special occasion, or in this case, a blog challenge. When it arrived, I was taken aback at quite how big it was. At 2.7kg there was no chance of it fitting into my small fridge at home. So I got to work with it straight away, taking off all four fillets and making sure the bones and roe were kept so that I could use every single bit possible. Ideally I would have cut the fish into steaks, or tranches, on bone to maximise flavour. Unfortunately though my knives just weren’t heavy enough, and I had to make do with fillets. The plan was to cook them very gently in a strong fishy and buttery poaching liquid, allowing no chance of them going dry.
When using fish of such freshness and quality I didn’t really want to confuse it with a pile of other flavourings. So for this recipe I stuck along with tradition and nature, pairing simply with some sea vegetables and shellfish. The smokey flavour in the sauce and the burnt kale was inspired by my recent visit to The Manor in Clapham, and in this dish it adds a subtle contrast to the buttery flavours that I have also used.
Monk’s beard has long been on my list of ingredients to use, but in previous years I’ve found it tricky to get hold of during its swift season. This time around I luckily managed to order some from the wonderful Quality Chop Shop. If anyone hasn’t been, make sure to pop in when you’re next around Farringdon/Exmouth Market; it’s an absolute trove of great produce and gorgeous cooking paraphernalia.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the brill:
2 fillets of brill, taken from the thickest part of a 2.5kg fish, skinned
2 good knobs of butter
For the fish stock:
The bones from the brill
1 glass of dry white wine
1 carrot, chopped
1 leek, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
2 shallots, sliced
1 fennel, sliced
1 bay leaf
1.5 ltrs of water
For the burnt kale:
2 handfuls of curly kale
50g almonds
½ a garlic clove, grated
1 lemon, zest and juice
Extra virgin olive oil
For the kale and monk’s beard:
1 handful of monk’s beard, washed and trimmed
1 handful of kale
1 good knob of butter
A squeeze of lemon juice
2 tbsp of the fish stock
For the caramelised shallot:
3 shallots, thinly sliced
A good knob of butter
1 tsp of sugar
For the smoked clams, oysters and sauce:
20 clams
4 oysters
2 ladles of the fish stock
1 handful of straw
2 knobs of butter
Preheat the oven to 190⁰C.
First make the fish stock. Drizzle a little olive oil over the brill bones, season well and roast in the oven for about 20 minutes, or until lightly caramelised and golden. Meanwhile, heat some oil in a large saucepan and lightly brown the root vegetables. When the bones are roasted, transfer to the saucepan with the bay leaf and add the wine. Bring to the boil, then cover the ingredients with the water. Bring to a simmer and cook for 20 minutes, then remove from the heat and strain into a clean saucepan.
Turn the oven up to 200⁰C.
Scatter the kale for the burnt kale on a roasting tray and toss in a little oil and seasoning. Put in the oven for about 15 minutes, or until dark and charred. While the kale is roasting, set a dry frying pan on a medium-high heat and toast the almonds until golden on both sides. Transfer both into a food processor with the garlic and lemon and blitz until finely chopped. Trickle in a little extra virgin olive oil (about 2-3 tbsp) to bind everything together into a pesto-type consistency. Taste and season, it should be bitter and citrusy.
For the caramelised shallot, melt the butter in a saucepan and add the sliced shallots. Season well and add the sugar, then cook gently for about 20 minutes, or until golden and sticky. Keep warm.
Put a small saucepan on a medium-high heat. When hot, add the clams and a good ladle of the fish stock. Put the lid on and shake gently once or twice, then allow the shellfish to steam for 3-4 minutes, or until they are all open. Use a fork to remove the clams to a bowl and add another ladle of fish stock to the saucepan. Bring to a simmer. Open the oysters, draining their juices into the saucepan as well. Take the pan off the heat and poach the oysters for about 2 minutes, or until just cooked. Remove from the pan and add to the clams. Pour the clam and oyster liquid into a bowl. Put the straw into the bottom of your smoker and light well. When the flames have gone out and the straw is smouldering, put the clams, oysters and the bowl of liquid onto the shelf above and smoke for 5 minutes. Remove the smoked shellfish and sauce and set aside until needed.
Heat up the large saucepan of fish stock and bring to a simmer. Stir in the butter for the brill, then remove from the heat. Season the brill fillets, then lower into the liquid and poach, using the residual heat to cook the fish. After 5-6 minutes it should just be cooked through.
While the fish is cooking, melt the butter for the monk’s beard and kale in a saucepan. Add the kale and monk’s beard and a couple of tablespoons of fish stock. Cook on a medium heat for a couple of minutes until the greens are cooked but still al dente. Squeeze in the lemon juice.
Reheat the smoked sauce and whisk in the butter until thickened and emulsified. Add the clams and oysters and gently warm through.
To serve, spoon a bit of the burnt kale and almond onto each plate and top with some of the kale and monk’s beard. Add a good tablespoon of the caramelised shallot and scatter over the clams and oysters. Position a piece of the brill on top and finish with a good amount of the sauce.
Well, this week I have to say that I have been royally treated. After a delightful mid-week trip to Clapham and The Manor (see last blog post) I was fully prepared to never eat again, and allow those lingering flavours to ember on my taste buds. But the weekend marked five wonderful years with my dear Katie, and as always our idea of celebration is a proper meal out. Traditionally this would be at Hawksmoor at Spitalfields, a stone’s throw away from our very first date. This is always an enjoyable if not reliable way to spend an evening, but I was excited that this year we would be ringing the changes. Also, I should say that an ‘accidental’ wing rib at the excellent Hill and Szrok the night before solved our steak fix. A few weeks ago I wrote of my inspiration from discovering Café Murano, and with all of the scurrying around in between our booking crept up fast. I adore and champion eating at the wonderful small and humble restaurants local to me, but there is also something joyous about getting dressed up and making your way into town for something a little grander. It’s such a rare pleasure, but always gives a celebration like an anniversary a sense of occasion. When we slipped through the heavy curtain and got our first glimse of the restaurant, with long, lamp-lit marble bar, beautiful wine racks and bustling tables I knew we’d made the right decision. Some places feel the need to fill a dining room with music and create an atmosphere, here there was just the comfortable sound of chatter, wine glasses and cutlery. Other reviews will run through a history of the other famous restaurants to inhabit this space, but upon my entrance on Saturday night this didn’t matter a jot.
What was constant during our visit, from the very first interaction to the last, was that we witnessed a total masterclass in service. Nice, friendly service is all well and good, and thankfully common in the vast majority of my dining experiences. But this blew everything else out of the water. Some restaurants just don’t quite get it, particularly the stuffier places. Places where you are immediately mobbed by highly-polite yet clinical robots and left cold and out of place. Good training is one thing, but having the right people is another and Café Murano really nailed it. Everyone was confident, chatty and engaging. There was never that awkward pause and back-straighten as soon as a member of the waiting staff approached. Even little things like how every time one of us left the table, our napkin had been folded for our return. The service was so seamless that it took a couple of times before we even noticed that this was happening. We were truly made to feel special throughout our evening.
Big nights out are always made better started with a cocktail, and the tangy and dangerously drinkable Frank 75 got things off grandly. Such a boozy beginning also loosened us up whilst browsing the menu. I was flattered when our waiter apologised for the lack of osso buco that had inspired me for my last recipe on this blog. Katie scoffed that everything I ordered seemed to include her nemesis the black truffle. With cicheti, antipasti, primi and secondi decided we certainly weren’t going anywhere for a while. Lovely slices of uniquely flakey focaccia appeared quickly with soft, fruity oil poured from a height. As if we needed something to keep us going. But those moments before the food arrived were not wasted, it was great to gaze across tables and open the window to other people’s evenings; a smart early date, some theatre goers, a celebration like ours and a couple of old, leathery men who looked like part of the furniture. The room too was also full of little details. The circular lighting set at just the right brightness. Those wonderfully designed wine cabinets. The cookbooks on the square block shelving. Enough to be visually drunk.
For snacks we picked on delicately fried fritto misto and well-handled truffle arancini, such things often so criminally bastardised were a perfect start here. My small plate of slithered raw beef with tiny white beans and a less-tiny heap of black truffle was the thing I looked forward to most and it really didn’t disappoint. With such a dish it is easy to misjudge the simplicity, but the meat was well seasoned and coated with more of that oil, with the subtlety of the truffle and texture of the pulse. Katie swooned at her creamy burrata and smokey grilled aubergine. With courses this good so early in the meal it made for excited anticipation for the roll of courses still to come.
More truffle tried to conceal beautiful dainty little duck tortelli sitting in gooey rich meaty sauce. Where it was all about subtlety in the antipasti, our pasta punched with flavour. I was inspired by photos of the osso bucco before, but now I was inspired by the taste of this. That pasta was something a future recipe will certainly be revisiting. The venison ragu in front of Katie was equally comforting, with tomato adding a welcome acidity to meltingly tender game.
Although there had been no ‘winner’ in previous courses, Katie was adamant that I had achieved this with my cod main. The fist-thick loin itself was cooked to soft perfection inside a golden, crunchy crust, and sat atop a sea of buttery lentils spiked with strands of prosciutto. It was the sort of food that given a chance you could eat every night through the winter. Katie’s lamb wasn’t too far behind though, also rustically perched on a bean stew flecked with vibrant salsa verde. These dishes were just the food that reached to my core. Fantastic ingredients cooked simply to achieve the deepest flavour and satisfaction. They were presented well and looked smart on the clean plates but that wasn’t the point. The glory was in the eating.
We were allowed a short break after this onslaught of food. I was full to the point where I worried that my eyes would pop out to meet the insides of my glasses. Well-written dessert menus are deviant things, there to tempt and lure even the most overcome. And how can you refuse when you are given a piece of paper promising Amalfi lemon tart, baked pear, ricotta and amaretti or chocolate and almond cake. And those staff were so nice. And it was such a nice room to spend an evening. Oh sod it, we’ll share. We were practically immobilised yet had gone and ordered yet another something. But wow. I’ve made and eaten a lot of lemon tarts, and this one was right up there. You felt like if you wobbled it for long enough it must surely burst. When we dreaded eating more it was light and perfect.
Then we got given more. The insightful front of house had already congratulated our anniversary, but this was made concrete in those eleven letters miraculously being piped in chocolate surrounding three perfect balls of ice cream. When we were in dire need of something sharp, the mango, pear and blackberry scoops came to the rescue. We also ordered some short, reviving coffees when the sommelier approached with a mischievous grin on his face. Cradling a lethal bottle of grappa, he poured us a glass to send us on our way.
It’s often the little things that you remember of a meal, but those two acts of kindness and surprise were part of something much bigger. We had been totally looked after and were humbled, both in service and in food. I think we might have set a new anniversary trend, but I will be returning long before that. When everyone is so obsessed with new openings or food trends, they need to remember what brilliant places we already have.
Now that all of the hectic scurrying about over Christmas and New Years has been done I can settle down again to the relative tranquillity of this blog. Hectic doesn’t really quite cover it. Every year I always vow to be organised, to buy my presents months beforehand and be quietly smug when late December comes. Did I manage to achieve such grown-up, stress-free bliss this year? Did I heck.
Christmas was also busy at work; my first in my newfound fishmonger profession. Ever since I started, a day didn’t pass without the fabled words “you just wait ‘til Christmas” escaping someone’s lips, and now I fully understand. Needless to say, after providing what felt like most of North, East and South-West London with their lobsters and smoked salmon for the big day a rest was definitely needed.
One thing that particularly surprised me whilst working over Christmas was the sheer amount of oysters that we sold. Having not really come from an oyster-guzzling family, it felt crazy to sell people 60, 70 and more. I love the idea of a huge platter of them, all shimmering and dressed, to be lazily consumed with a glass of prosecco whilst waiting for Christmas dinner to arrive. Although I have to say that the thought of waking up on Christmas morning with a hangover and the task of shucking them all is not hugely appealing!
With this in mind I was inspired to return to a native oyster dish that I made a few months ago and that somehow I had forgotten to write about until now. It was the middle of September, and with the water starting to gently cool the shellfish season returned. After a barren summer we now had piles of plump, strong mussels, clams squeezed tight shut and boxes of beautiful oysters. I had never really seen or eaten native oysters before, and as with anything like this I was intrigued to give them a try. An idea was soon firmly planted in my head of making a few different dressings and garnishes and celebrating this first tasting.
To cut a long story short, celebration was the furthest thing from my mind when it came to opening the first one. I had opened oysters before, but it had been about a year, and despite approaching the whole thing very confidently I was soon hot-headed and embarrassed at how I couldn’t get the damn thing open. Unlike the normal rock oysters, natives take a bit more prising, and I really wasn’t prepared for it. Luckily, with calluses fast forming on my hands, I got it open. And as per usual, once that first one was popped open the rest soon followed.
After getting in such a flap, the eventual eating was made all the sweeter. Each flavouring really worked; accompanying and not overpowering the clean, mineral taste of the oyster. I could have eaten a bowlful of the almost scampi-like crispy fried variety, as long as someone else opened them for me…
Serves 4
Ingredients:
12 very fresh live native oysters
For the crispy oysters:
5-6 tbsp panko breadcrumbs
3-4 tbsp plain flour
1 large egg, beaten
Vegetable oil for frying, approx. 500ml-1ltr
For the pickled cucumber:
1 small-medium cucumber, deseeded and cut into thin strips
100ml cider vinegar
50ml water
50g caster sugar
1 shallot, finely sliced
1 garlic clove, crushed
A few tarragon sprigs
1 tsp fennel seeds
For the watercress oil:
2 handfuls watercress, washed
1 lemon, juice only
5-6 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
For the diced apple:
½ a braeburn apple, peeled and finely diced
1 lemon, juice only
A small pinch of caster sugar
For the hollandaise:
200g unsalted butter
4 tbsp white wine vinegar
1 bay leaf
6 black peppercorns
2 egg yolks
½ lemon, juice only
For the soft leek:
1 leek, finely julienned
1 large know of butter
A squeeze of lemon juice
To garnish:
A few small watercress leaves
A few tarragon leaves
You can prepare the watercress oil, the diced apple, and the pickled cucumber the day before.
For the watercress oil, bring a medium saucepan of water to the boil. Fill up a large bowl with cold, icy water and have it ready on the side. Blanch the watercress in the hot water for 30 seconds before draining and plunging into the cold water. Once cooled squeeze dry and transfer to a food processer with the lemon juice and extra virgin olive oil. Blitz to combine well, then transfer to a small bowl. Cover and refrigerate for a few hours, preferably overnight. Once infused, strain through fine muslin into another bowl and discard the now used watercress pulp. Cover the green, flavoured oil and set aside until needed.
For the diced apple, put the finely chopped apple into a small bowl and combine with the lemon juice and sugar. Cover and refrigerate until needed.
To make the pickled cucumber, pour the vinegar and water into a small saucepan along with the herbs, garlic, shallot, sugar and fennel seeds. Bring to the boil. Put the cucumber strips into a small bowl and when the pickling liquor is hot, pour it over to cover. Allow to cool.
On the day of eating, prepare the other elements of the dish.
Melt the butter for the leeks in a frying pan. Add the thin leek ribbons, season well and sweat down on a low-medium heat until soft and sweet. Add a squeeze of lemon juice to taste. Keep warm.
Melt the butter for the hollandaise in a small saucepan. While the butter is melting, add the vinegar, bay leaf and peppercorns to a small saucepan and reduce until only 1 tablespoon remaining. Strain into a small food processor. Allow both butter and vinegar to cool slightly. Add the egg yolks to the vinegar along with some seasoning and combine well. With the motor still running, very slowly drizzle in the warm butter until it has all been emulsified and you are left with a thick sauce. Mix in a squeeze of lemon juice to taste; you want it to be quite sharp. Transfer to a bowl and set aside.
Pour the vegetable oil for the fried oysters into a saucepan, you want enough to be 2” deep. Heat to 180⁰C.
For the crispy oysters, place two plates and a small bowl together on a work surface. Pour the panko and the flour onto the plates and beat the egg in the bowl. Season each element. Carefully coat each oyster in the flour then dip into the egg, so that it forms a thin paste around the outside. Finally cover with the panko breadcrumbs. Fry the crumbed oysters in the hot oil, in batches if necessary, for 1-2 minutes or until golden brown. Drain on kitchen paper.
Shuck the remaining oysters just before serving. Carefully remove the meat and give the shells a quick scrub.
To plate up, arrange three shells on each dish. Spoon a dollop of the hollandaise into one of the shells and top with a raw oyster and a few tarragon leaves. Position the other raw oyster into another of the shells and pour over a little watercress oil. Garnish this one with some of the diced apple and watercress leaves. Arrange some of the pickled cucumber into the final shell and top with the crispy oyster.
