Columbia Road is that most mayflyish of London pathways. A ghost town of boarded up shops sit eerily amongst the cobbles and mosaic throughout the week, their enticing geometric windows totally inaccessible behind heavy, metal grates. Come Saturday morning and the whole place suddenly livens up, the air tinged with the smell of just-ground Ethiopian beans and the sound of heel on brick. And after Sunday’s floral cockney peacock display its back into hiding.
Thankfully there are still some beacons shining warm yellow light and open doors to those who dare walk the streets after hours. The Royal Oak pub is a favourite, showcasing that terrible representation of gentrification; good beer, some pulled, smoked meats and clean toilets. Ghastly. That said, I was genuinely sad to see the turnaround of the Birdcage, whose old-timer’s Saturday night karaoke was a hilarious and entertaining institution. And then there is Brawn. So subtle that it probably took me five attempts to work out where it was. But when I did, I was instantly taken by its charm; a small room (the back room even more concealed again) filled with wood tables and chatter, stripped back but with those simplistic twists of design that brought everything to life. Simple chalk boards and interesting prints hung from the walls and shelves bulged with wine. I had enjoyed a meal at sister restaurant Terroirs, with food led by flavour and comfort. A booking was only a matter of time.
Katie seemed less enthusiastic. “You want to take me to somewhere called Brawn? That’s offal right? So you want to take me to an offal restaurant? Oh great…”. But with a bit of gentle persuasion and upon showing her the menu (tripe only listed once!), she decided that there were at least a handful of dishes that looked “well nice”. I on the other hand thought that it all looked well nice. And I had secretly already made a booking. And there was no online booking thingamijig to silently back out, and I was damned if I was going to phone up with some measly cancellation excuse.
No matter where we go to, date nights are always lovely. And this was a particularly good one. This was the first evening of a two and a half week holiday. We would be wed within the fortnight and still had that energetic nervous excitement of whether we would be able to pull the whole thing off, or whether largely being lazily laid back for a year and flying by the seat of our arses for the last few months would indeed bite us in the bum. But whatever was to happen, we were on holiday. Rain had just freshened up a bright, warm evening and we were off out for dinner.
We sat on a charming corner table musing over the aesthetic joys of the room. We sipped beautifully balanced Aperol from brittle-thin tumblers, clinking delicately as the ice clumsily brushed the glass. Candlelight flickered through the orange liquid, making it appear molten around the edges. Food kicked off with a simple bowl of almonds. But such simple things are encouraging when each nut had been evenly covered with an oily, salty slick. Katie started with a classical combination of mozzarella, Serrano ham and melon. There’s no hiding in these kind of dishes, and the quality and ripeness were on key. What lifted such simplicity were the mint leaves that flecked between the white, pink and orange. My duck hearts however hit the jackpot. Since our visit we have indeed been successfully married and honeymooned. We have travelled around Scotland and eaten some incredible food. But I can still taste those duck hearts. The skewer of charred, yet melting meat sat atop sumac studded, soft chickpeas atop a thin disc of sourdough. Everything worked so well in texture and flavour. It was the kind of starter that you really wished would return for the main course and dessert.
After such a good start I couldn’t wait for the main to arrive. It’s always brilliant to see rabbit on a menu; one of those ingredients so abundant yet so often overlooked. The fact that it came swimming in a sea of tagliatelle made it a must order. I hate turning up to a restaurant with a pre-conceived idea of what I want to eat, but I have to admit that I had seen a photo of this dish previously, and I secretly hoped it would be available. It was a bit of a shame when in real life it didn’t quite match my expectations. The flavours were terrific, and they had really captured the gaminess of the wild meat. The pasta was delicate and thin. I just didn’t think the two came together very well. Instead of a ragu, the pasta was mixed with fairly dry little lumps of the rabbit and other diced vegetables. As I said, it was tasty, and I polished the whole thing off, but there was a level of oozy satisfaction missing.
Katie’s main was the opposite, and was indeed wonderfully satisfying. Five decent pink medallions of lamb neck stood proud out of a deep borlotti and tomato broth. I love this kind of cooking, and I’m so happy that these kind of dishes are coming back into culinary fashion. The one problem that Katie encountered was in the eating. Armed with only a knife and fork, it was frustrating to be left with a delicious slick of inaccessible liquid sloshing about in the bowl.
As so often on these evenings, we were content and stuffed by this point. But as so often we were tempted by one last thing. I couldn’t help smiling as a large wedge of tiramisu was plonked down between us. And like everything else, it was balanced and flavoured with precise care.
Brawn is another tucked away gem that is well worth seeking out, be it for a quick lunch and glass of wine or a long, relaxing dinner. It is certainly worth braving deserted Columbia Road on a school night for.
Anchovies are one of those ingredients that split people. Katie hates the little oily, salty strips and will pick up their scent however well concealed in a sauce, under a heap of cheese on a pizza or poked into chunks of lamb. I know that screwed up face and “oh! There’s anchovies in here!” very well indeed. But I adore the things. I always remember my mum eating them straight out of those shallow tins when I was young, and I’ve enjoyed that tangy kick ever since. I’ll find any excuse to put them into a dish. And although punchy in their own right, used subtly they deepen, round off and enhance. But she will always notice.
On the other hand I deplore marmite. I used to bite into my brothers sandwiches by accident and pull that exact same creased expression. I’m often urged to spoon it into mash, sauté with mushrooms just try again on toast but I can’t. So swings and roundabouts I guess.
Back to those glorious anchovies. I’ve always had a vastly more savoury tooth, and often crave the deep hit of something salty. Crisps over chocolate any day of the week. Our rosemary plant has been flowering of late, releasing lovely fragrant pine just outside the back door. Recently at work I had an idea of crushing up a few sprigs with more of those anchovies (there is *always* a jar in the fridge) and some green olives. Tapenadey I guess, but a whole lot more rustic, with chunks of individual components giving little bursts of flavour. Even at work I could taste it; I almost ran the four miles back home.
But I couldn’t just sit there spooning this delicious concoction into my gob (I totally could and would). I needed some sort of carrier. A good sourdough or focaccia from my local and brilliant Spence or E5 bakeries would normally be the quick answer. But I’ve been criminally quiet on the baking front of late, and thought the whole thing would be that bit more satisfying as a result. I’d stumbled across a recipe for Italian ‘music bread’ a few weeks before and was astounded at how easy they were to knock up. In the fading evening light I dug out the trusty pasta machine, whacked the oven on full blast and the brittle, almost transparent bits of dough worked a treat.
Makes a fair few sheets, but they don't hang around for long.
Ingredients:
For the carta di musica:
200g Italian 00-grade flour, plus more for dusting
4 good tablespoons of polenta
150ml water
1 tbsp olive oil
Sea salt
For the olive and rosemary salsa:
A handful of green olives, pitted
4 anchovy fillets
1 garlic clove
4 sprigs of rosemary, leaves picked and finely chopped
1 tbsp capers, rinsed
1 lemon, zest and juice
A pinch of dried oregano
A pinch of dried chilli flakes
Extra virgin olive oil
Preheat the oven to 220⁰C.
Tip the flour into a bowl and mix with the polenta and a generous sprinkle of salt. Form a well in the middle and pour in the water and the olive oil. Work into a dough, adding a little more water or flour if necessary to achieve a smooth consistency. Knead well to release the glutens until the dough has a soft, elastic texture. Roll until thin, dust with a little more flour and then pass through each gradient of a pasta machine until it reaches the thinnest.
Line a couple of baking trays with greaseproof paper and brush with a little olive oil. Top with the thin strips of dough. Brush with more oil, sprinkle with a bit of salt and bake in batches for 5-6 minutes, or until very crispy and starting to brown in patches.
To make the salsa, put the garlic, olives, lemon zest and juice, anchovies, capers, oregano, chilli flakes, and chopped rosemary into a large pestle and mortar. Beat well until everything is finely combined. Pour in enough extra virgin olive oil to loosen into a spoonable salsa. Taste and add salt, pepper or lemon if needed.
Continuing with last week’s theme of simple and quick Italian-based meals, it occurred to me that it had been far too long since I last dug the pasta machine out. I love the therapeutic nature of kneading smooth dough before rolling it into thin sheets and delicately shaping. And this is where the true beauty lies; once you have mastered the dough the options are limitless. On busy work nights simple, rough strips of pappardelle can be cut to be tossed through a swiftly made ragu. With a bit more time on your hands intricate and delightful little raviolis or tortellini can be made. Fresh pasta is always such a satisfying thing to make, and always tastes completely different to the shop bought stuff.
This dish in particular was heavily inspired from a recent visit to one of my favourite Italian restaurants; Trullo in Highbury. Their simple ingredient and flavour-driven food never fails to be brilliantly satisfying. The starter that Katie had on that occasion was tortellini filled with ricotta and honey, a combination of salty and sweet that I had never experienced in pasta before. It was light and fresh yet carrying that sweet satisfaction and comfort of a good pudding. I was instantly inspired, and it wasn’t long before I was in the kitchen trying to make something along the same lines.
As with all simple Italian cooking, try and source the best quality ingredients possible. In Stoke Newington there are a couple of cracking little Italian delis that are like traditional treasure troves. Counters lined with rows of brilliant cheeses and cured meats, freshly made pasta and marinated antipasti. I could have stayed for a very long time.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the pasta:
200g ‘00’ grade pasta flour
2 medium eggs
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
A good pinch of salt
For the tortelli filling:
200g good ricotta cheese
3 tbsp grated pecorino
2 tbsp honey
A sprinkle of dried chilli flakes
A few gratings of nutmeg
For the sauce:
60g butter
3 tbsp flaked almonds
6 sage leaves
To finish:
Finely grated pecorino
A few gratings of nutmeg
Black pepper
To make the pasta, mix the flour and salt in a bowl and form a well in the middle. Crack in the eggs and drizzle in the olive oil. Combine well with a wooden spoon, then use your hands to knead really well for about 10 minutes, or until the dough is silky smooth and elastic in texture. Wrap with cling film and allow to rest in the fridge for at least 30 minutes.
While the pasta is resting make the tortelli filling. Spoon the ricotta into a bowl and mix well with the honey, nutmeg, chilli and pecorino. Season well and taste; you want just the right contrast of salty and sweet. Cover and set aside.
Fill a large saucepan with water, add a good amount of salt and bring to the boil.
Roll out the rested dough in a pasta machine right down to the thinnest setting. Cut 3-4” squares out of the sheet and carefully spoon a heaped tablespoon of the ricotta filling into the middle. Lightly brush around the filling with water. Fold the pasta squares in half to form rectangles, using your fingers to seal all around the filling and expelling as much air from inside as possible. Repeat until all of the filling is used up. Dust the finished tortelli with a little flour and set aside while waiting for the water to boil.
Put a large, non-stick pan frying on a medium-high heat.
When the water is at a rolling boil, gently drop in the tortelli and cook for 2.5-3 minutes.
As soon as the pasta is cooking, melt the butter quickly in the hot pan. Add the almonds and the sage leaves and allow to crisp up as the butter turns a nut-brown colour. When the tortelli is ready, transfer to the butter pan with a slotted spoon. Carefully toss to cover with the butter on all sides.
To plate up, spoon three tortelli onto each plate. Sprinkle some of the sage leaves and almonds over the top and drizzle with a little of the butter sauce. Finish with more grated pecorino and nutmeg.
Shakey Pete’s Ginger Brew is the best thing to drink in the land. That is a fact. Since first sipped, Katie and I have found numerous excuses to somehow end up walking down those side-stairs into that dark, dirtily-mirrored room to beg a check-shirted, bearded man to provide us with some. We have dragged friends along, sat them down and made them experience quite how much wonder can be contained in a heavy glass tankard. We’ve spotted copycat replicas as far away as Sydney, and we’ve tried to make it at home to impress dinner guests. It’s the most tasty, refreshing and well-balanced cocktail I have even drank. It’s dangerously drinkable, often consumed in a manner similar to that of a glass of water upon awaking with a violently dry-mouthed hangover. The only thing not going for the Shakey Pete, is that it’s shit to photograph. Dark room plus reflected light plus amateur photographer mean no piccies here. So I’ll have to describe it: it looks like someone accidently tipped a ginger slushie into a half-finished pint. Perhaps the lack of photograph was for the best. But they are the best.
And the best thing when you’re getting lashed on lager-based cocktails? Oh yeah, loads of food so loaded with meatiness it’s unfair. The big slabs charred on the Josper are kept upstairs; here the menu is all burgers, ribs, pig heads and wings. Admittedly, we had visited before, and with the stiff competition of the London burger scene we were sad that to us the Hawksmoor burger didn’t quite cut it. It wasn’t bad by any stretch and everything was in the right place; good meat, soft, brioche bun, nice and pink in the middle etcetera, but it just didn’t match the decadent beauty of places such as Patty and Bun, Honest or Bleeker. As lovers of pretty much everything else Hawksmoor this was a bit of a shocker. But this reviewing stuff can be a fickle business, and it’s easy to judge too much from one attempt alone. So last time that Pete dragged us down for an ‘accidental’ Monday night date the menu was opened again.
As we sat there chatting though the menu I realised quite how much of a food-hypocrite I can be. Katie was considering the pig’s head poutine, and I was talking up the merits of the good old plain chip. To me, a chip covered in all sorts of shredded meat, gravy, ‘angry’ stuff always sounds great, but nearly always to the detriment of the humble bit of potato upon which they are heaped. Any effort to create that wonderful, delicate shell and fluffy middle is ruined. It may as well be mash or fried potatoes. Katie shook her head so much it nearly fell off. I feel similarly about burgers and obscure toppings. The waiter comes over; Katie opts for the cheeseburger. Good girl I think. My brain then has a minor “what are you thinking!” moment as I somehow manage to order kimchi with mine.
My bog standard, unadulterated chips were beautiful little things indeed, each given the love and attention a whittler might give a prized spoon. They crunched like a brulee and were given a welcome zing when dipped into the (*separate*) lime mayonnaise. Ok, so I clearly can’t get with the soggy chip thing, but the rest of Katie’s poutine was deep in thick piggy flavour and soft, smokey meat. That I’m all over. As for the burger, thankfully my faith in Hawksmoor wizardry was restored. Despite harsh reservations, the kimchi that didn’t narrowly miss splattering my groin and stayed in the bun provided a refreshing spicy twist without overwhelming the rest. Sure, the burger didn’t have the same oozing, cheesy richness that I love from other joints, but what it did have was a more defined clarity of flavour. Too often burgers become a squidgy, indistinguishable mush, but here the patty held a rich, well-seasoned beefiness and remained the star of the show.
On previous trips to Hawksmoor, the meal often ended on a slightly frustrating note. Having gorged on the best part of a kilo of steak, gnawing every speck from the bones, you are then faced with a list of desserts full with custard, clotted cream, salted caramel and suet. Ordering starters and mains with eyes bigger than my stomach leads to just no more space at this point. It’s just not fair. But having had just the burger this time around I finally managed to take advantage. Clever desserts with 20 elements of frozen, quenelled and spherified stuff all over the plate are all well and good, but sometimes the old-fashioned British puddings can rival in satisfaction. I always swoon at the thought of a sticky toffee pudding and this one didn’t disappoint. It was the sort of thing that brought a smile with every mouthful.
There was always the temptation for another cocktail; it’s the sort of place where you want to just sit back and while away the rest of the night. But I knew that we would be back before long. The bar at Spitalfields is always a lot of fun and a great place to hang out. And more worryingly for my waistline, I’m now looking forward to returning to devour the rest of the menu. Although it will be hard to not just sit there shovelling down sticky toffee pudding time and time again…
