I had wanted to visit The River Café for years. As a child, before I had any idea of what The River Café looked like or even really what it was, I was familiar with the iconic blue and yellow books, with the block-print fronts and frustrating lack of food photos inside. Growing up in the midlands, the thought of even beginning to look for coppa or trompettes de mort was preposterous. Why you would ever want to boil meat in milk was beyond me. But as I started to cook for myself and learn about ingredients it all started to make sense. The first recipes to gain the accolade of splashed pages and thumb-prints were the mushroom risotto and the lemon tart. Even now, as a reasonably competent cook and some 20 years after publication, they remain one of my first stops for inspiration.
When I moved to London 5 years ago I looked into making a visit. By then my own cooking had taken a more Italian direction, and I had just met the woman who would become my wife. Her and her father had a long working history with King’s Wharf and Richard Rogers architects, and throughout the nineties The River Café was their canteen. “Oh we must all go” they would say. Even as a plucky twenty-something looking to impress my date, I shat-myself when I saw the prices. I resigned myself that it was out of reach, and instead set about discovering the excellent Italian restaurants emerging a little closer to home. Five years on, and suddenly the now wife receives a tax rebate. “Let’s just book it and go!” she said. That’s my girl.
Booking made, the excitement of the visit, still a couple of months in advance, started to turn into fear. What if it all didn’t turn out as good as imagined in my head. Googling the see what others thought was a bad idea. “Shockingly overpriced” and “not what it used to be” were common. Was it worth risking spending enough money to pay for a holiday on a few hours of choking disappointment? But I had to go. This place had turned into my cooking mecca, and I just had to see for myself.
Hype is a brilliant thing for a restaurant. In the modern era, social media means that real buzz can be created in an avalanche of recommendations and filtered photographs, instantly turning the venue into a ‘must go’ location. But this also leads to make-believe expectations, and it is unfair to expect a restaurant to live up to this. From reading some previous reviews of The River Café, it seemed like people imagined that they would be hand-greeted by Lady Rogers, before being sat at gilded chairs, with a personal waiter who was able to pull themaway away at the merest thought about going to the loo. And those who visited expecting technical food full of squiggles and foams were truly missing the point.
Despite this negative feedback that had stirred my own apprehensions, I am relieved to say that I could not have wanted more from the whole experience. The simplicity of the room itself was a marvellous thing, peppered with those little architectural details that lifted everything else; that big red wood oven filled with iron pans holding grouse, veal and bass, the looming, projected clock, serving kitchen and diners alike, and those ‘hand written’ iconic menus. And I loved the references to it still being a working canteen at heart. The paper tablecloths may have looked a little out of place at first, but then Katie told me stories of how her father would have meetings there, and upon leaving the paper grids would be covered with scribbled building plans and notes. Brilliant. The room was a heaving bustle, full of smiling and laughter, yet right in the throngs of it, our table still had enough personal space that allowed us to engage without competing.
But it was ultimately the food that I was most worried about. Could such unashamedly simple food be somehow taken to another level? Well in short, yes. Every plate was a brilliant reminder that amazing ingredients, treated with respect and served simply, can be incredible. I love technical cooking and fancy presentation, but this was a total eye-opener, proving that sometimes the fancy frills aren’t necessary. My antipasti of raw veal with truffle was a prime example of this. I’d be surprised if there were more than five ingredients on the plate, yet that was absolutely all that was needed.
The dishes that followed carried the same hallmarks; wonderfully crafted pasta with soft, rich ragu, and perfectly cooked chunks of turbot and lamb that left us swooning. Contrary to what I had read previously, portions were mostly massive, and I was fit to bursting by the end of the main course. But I couldn’t come all of that way in freezing November without squeezing in that lemon tart, and I’m so glad that I did. Having made the recipe successfully many times, I assumed that this would just be a pleasant formality, a familiar ending to an outstanding meal. Wrong again. I now fully understand why that tart is the benchmark that all others follow. Quite how they achieve such a light, flavourful texture inside such delicate pastry is beyond me. I thought that I could recreate that recipe well, but this made my attempts purely amateur.
Time for the bill. I had noted earlier that Lord Rodgers had cleverly not included windows in the toilets, for petrified customers to make a dash out of. There’s no getting around the fact that the meal was hugely expensive. But with that I can in no way complain. It was no surprise; the restaurant made their prices clear and I chose to visit with that knowledge. Was it worth it? Absolutely. It was quite frankly the best Italian food I have ever eaten, with polite, unstuffy service in a lovely room. I would certainly return again given the chance, perhaps for a long, carefree lunch sat outside by the river on a hot summer’s day. In the meantime, I’ll have to go and dust off those blue and yellow cookbooks all over again…
Sitting on small communal tables, throughout our meal we had often shared brief conversations with the couple sitting next to us, mostly in the way of “oh I wish we’d ordered…”, “can we squeeze our plate in that gap” and “sorry, that’s our bottle of wine”. All spirited and well humoured excursions. Midway through our meal things changed. “Oh! What’s that dessert you’re eating? It looks great…” they asked. At that moment, I happened to be crunching on the remnants of a deep-fried seabass head. The crispy cheeks and gill covers had been devoured, and I was contemplating going in for the eye. I couldn’t help but smile a little as their faces dropped, horrified at this revelation. And that was that from them for the rest of the meal.
I wouldn't normally excuse such Hannibalistic dining habits, but it is exactly what Som Saa brings out in you. You want to dredge every single crumb of flavour from every single plate. With their year-long residency at Climpson’s Arch in London Fields within a hair of completion, Katie and I hopped across the park on a clear chilly evening last week for one final meal. Situated no more than a 5 minute jaunt from our front door, it has been the perfect option for that last-minute, spontaneous date night; the no-booking system often allowing us to slip in with little or no wait. On nights when heaving and faced with a flustered hostess and long list, we were able to soften our bad luck and simply try again another night. Thankfully last week we spied a couple of vacant seats in the glow of the warm yellow light and jumped.
The space is a magnificent example of Hackney-esque ingenuity, carving a working roastery for the excellent Climpson and Sons coffee during the day before stoking up the outdoor (literally a shipping container) kitchen for Andy Oliver and Mark Dobbie to work their magic in the evenings. As you sit there surrounded by coffee sacks, roasters and polished extractors you are interrupted mid-conversation every 10 minutes by the rumble of trains above. It’s creative and charming, especially considering that such a place exists hidden in an otherwise ramshackle, dark East London street. Yet somehow such a concept has sparked waves of talent; before Oliver and Dobbie it was Tomos Parry, who went on to run hugely celebrated Kitty Fishers in Mayfair. During their residency, Som Saa have found their own unbelievable success, and in their bid to open their first permanent site, managed to raise £700,000 through crowdfunding in just four days.
Our food last week was as good, if not better than on previous encounters. Crunchy school prawns started things off, before tender cuttlefish, a truly gorgeous off-menu curry of sweet, autumnal gourd, papaya salad and the dish that started the piece, the deep-fried seabass. Each dish came bathed in its own unique and fragrant flavourings, and each was utterly delicious. The philosophy behind all of the food was so refreshing; instead of falling back on tired and diluted Westernised classics, the menu is more of a reference point, an introduction to something new. I had never heard of any of the dishes before, and I have never eaten Thai food like that in London, or indeed outside of a few trips to Thailand. The whole balance of flavourings was judged to perfection, fireball hot yet tempered and addictive. It was sadistically satisfying to feel your lips burn and swell with heat whilst shovelling such brilliant food. Endless sticky rice was on hand for fire blanket duty, and for the new (and strangely wonderful) sensation of squeezing the warm grains out of each bag.
During the savoury courses your tastebuds were brought to such a peak of acute sensitivity, that it was almost a joke when desserts were handed out. Suddenly everything was flooded with soft, ever-comforting grilled banana, palm sugar ice cream and sesame. It was like that moment a fairground waltzer finally grinds to a halt. I could have almost melted off my chair (stool).
Food aside, the front of house, lead by Tom George, seemed to effortlessly run what must be a difficult room of randomly seated parties, and the throng of people waiting to jump on the next ledge, gap or corner. They all seemed genuinely excited about what was to come.
It will be sad to see Som Saa leave the Arch. From a purely selfish perspective, it sounds like I’ll have to travel a little further east in search of their food when they re-emerge next year. But also in the way that the food, venue and atmosphere fused together so well. I really hope that they adopt some of these stripped-back, communal surroundings in their next venture. It will be very interesting to see how Leandro Carreira gets on with his residency, he certainly has big shoes to fill. And with Portuguese food on the bill, Climpson’s Arch yet again revolves into an exciting new chapter.
Custard tart. Two words which so perfectly sum up the new wave of ingredient-led yet wholesome food that has emerged out of new openings of late. Home cooking, but done better. Plates of food minus smears and quenelles, in relaxed environments minus stiff waiting staff, quaveringly-poised behind your chair whenever they predict that you might require the toilet. Places like Lyles in Shoreditch and Primeur in Highbury have nailed it, somewhere you could take the parents for a celebration meal, or just as easily pop in for a glass of wine and snack. And championed in the middle of all this is the humble custard tart, that familiar staple, elevated with a bit of careful, clever cooking into something dominating column inches and Instagram likes.
And this is what my eyes quickly focussed on upon first glance of the Sabel pop-up menu. A dreamy list of rissoles (a word that I can only associate with childhood dinners when it was clear that what my mum meant was ‘meatballs’), slow cooked meat, and the current dairy darling, ticklemore cheese. All so refreshing; there were no games in this menu. On second thoughts this wave might not be so modern, and perhaps this is just the norm of what the St John revolutionised all those years ago. But whatever the case, I just wanted to eat it all. And there was a custard tart.
And what a space for it. The Lower Clapton Road is now on the fringes of the relative wild west it used to be, and in that damned name of ‘gentrification’, there are now some rather interesting ventures cropping up. And I would certainly not have imagined for one second that that beautifully restored first floor of the Palm 2 building would exist, all wooden floors, fans of flowers and glorious evening light pouring though large industrial windows. At the end was a shiny fitted professional kitchen, chefs basking in that false pre-service window of ease. Although technically a pop-up, this was certainly no flapping amateur pulling questionable casseroles out of the oven and charging £35 for the pleasure. Sabel meant business.
But the good nature of the conventional pop-up were carefully maintained. The host and the chef were lovers soon to be wed. The waiters were roped in friends and family, all gunning for the cause and effortlessly friendly. There was a charm similar to childhood stories read from Happy Families books. And the 60-odd covers, about twice that of many permanent openings, were kept compact on trestle tables and everyone encouraged to interweave.
Then there was the food, and this is what mostly set it apart from anything else sharing the pop-up label. Casual, homely food is one thing. Homemade food covers for sloppiness and execution, “here’s something I just rustled up”. Or at the other end of the scale, a load of sterile, disjointed restaurant dishes that feel lonely in such surroundings. But all of the food at Sabel was made and presented with a clever cunning, banquet style food that still wowed and wowed course after course. Early highlights included whipped brown butter on good sourdough and a clever take on a tomato salad; crunchy with seeds with tangy hits of that crumbled ticklemore. And to round off the starters was a platter of beautifully plump and sweet queenie scallops, perfectly accompanied with vibrant pureed avocado and gazpacho dressing.
The starters were a strong indication of what was to come, and the main certainly didn’t disappoint. China dishes piled high with smoked wheat (a total revelation), peas and lettuce were topped with meltingly flavourful chunks of lamb neck. A few bits of slow cooked meat on a risotto-style base, something simple in theory that could feasibly appear on any home-cooked menu. But this was seriously accomplished cooking, with each ingredient maximised and balanced in total harmony with the next.
As well as the quality, the amounts of food on offer were nailed. As one of the younger children of a large family, there is always a slight panic when sharing food is laid out on a big table that you’re going to receive your fair share. But there was just enough of everything, even allowing for that extra spoon or two of that bit that you particularly liked. Which was all of it.
And then there was the custard tart. By this point we had been truly bowled over, and were drunk in praise of everything. Had an unboxed supermarket tart been plonked onto the middle of the table, we would have probably fought with excuses as to why this was the right thing. But of course this wasn’t the case, and perhaps this was the course that stole the show. Firm-set but smooth and light as you like, the accompanying berries almost weren’t needed. We had two slices each.
All good meals have you infectiously analysing each bit as soon as it’s over. And as we spilled out onto the Lower Clapton Road, we couldn’t help reliving that smoked wheat, that tomato salad or indeed that custard tart. I can’t tell you how much I recommend Sabel Feasts. For pure enjoyment, quality food and value they would run most restaurants for their money. Which for a pop-up is simply mindblowing.
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.
