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: Rotorino, Dalston

September and October saw birthday season in full swing, and as per usual this meant some good eating. After a summer largely spent cooking at home, it was time to make some bookings and try out places that we had long had on our lists. We had a random, yet delicious Masterchef dinner at their Southbank pop-up, experienced true pea-souper London amidst the skyscrapers (so we’re told) at Duck and Waffle and perched in sardine-tin Jose in Bermondsey to relive our Spanish explorings from earlier in the year. I often make note to slip a camera into my pocket for such visits, but on many of our recent ventures my forgetfulness got the better of me. All for the better though, as I do cringe at the blunt pauses caused by clicking away as soon as the bottom of the plate meets the table. The only recent time that the trusty camera got its calling was for a highly-anticipated visit to Rotorino in Dalston. 

 
This is the sort of restaurant that attracts me like a bee to honey, and ever since it opened earlier this year I’d been yearning to make a booking. The fantastic Trullo is on my doorstep, but like that Highbury institution, Rotorino appeared to have it nailed with a multi-course menu that instantly generated a smile to read. The photos had me salivating. It all looked and sounded proper. It’s no massive secret that I am shamefully obsessed with Italian cooking, so there was certainly room enough for another good restaurant in the area. I just love the food culture; what could be better than endless plates accompanied by good wine. Real celebration food. Total gorging food. Something on bread, something with cheese, something tossed in pasta, something charred and grilled, something sweet and finally something to perk you back up from the mountain of consumption. Heaven.
 
It was three days after my birthday at the time of our arrival. The standard hangover had passed, and the glorious September warmth still clung on. Beer gardens thronged as everyone desperately tried to bask in what could be the last hour of summer. The evening haziness still hung in the air. It was almost like a holiday. It’s been over four years since those trains took us through weeks of Tuscan sunsets and I miss it dearly. Any opportunity to release those old memories and I’m there. 

 
Rotorino shone like a jewel on the otherwise nondescript strip between Dalston and Haggerston. Quite literally. The new jazzy sign lit red what had been quite a subtle, almost secretive entrance. Inside it was all dim lighting, and a smart collage of wood, glass and tile. At our table we sipped a delicious Chianti and picked on bread. It was early and we were almost an island in the middle of a patchily acquainted seating area, but it still felt comfortable and in no way isolating; something difficult to pull off. A note on the bread; although hardly a revolutionary concept, it does surprise me how infrequently it is offered these days. It always seems to work wonders at taking the edge off those potentially awkward early moments, giving the diner something to occupy themselves with while they wait to be served, and the waiting staff a couple of extra precious minutes. And in this case, those old chalky dinner rolls had been swept aside for something a little more interesting that were almost another course in their own right.
 
We ordered big, loosened a few belt buckles and awaited a feast. That point in a meal is always glorious. You have waited and anticipated for your booking, laboured over the menu, contemplated time-over if it would be acceptable to order two main courses before finally commiting, and then you are just sat there knowing that you are just a touching distance away. 

 
The joy of Italian cookery is the emphasis on good quality ingredients, often very simply combined and presented. The plate of plump buffalo mozzarella, juicy figs, chilli and good olive oil was a real case of why didn’t I think of that. This is a dish that just wouldn’t really work if the cheese was bouncy, the figs were tough and the oil cheap, but here the procurement shone through and everything balanced beautifully. Likewise, the gnudi that Katie was served for the following course was something that she described as one of the best things she had eaten in a long time. The melt-in-the-mouth ricotta combined with a blanket of cheesy, buttery mushroom was just stunning. Ricotta also starred in my main, niftily tucked under the skin of a chicken and then roasted on bread. I never order chicken when eating out but this was a game changer. Truly inspired.
 
The problem was that with the brilliance of these dishes, you wanted it repeated across everything else, which sadly it wasn’t. The beef in both tartar and hanger steak form managed to taste of very little, something probably easily rectified with a bit of seasoning in the kitchen or had it been available on the table. Similarly the pasta that read so well, all anchovy and breadcrumb, was severely lacking on both parts when it arrived on the table. It was like a few blobs of this sauce had been added as an afterthought, barely touching most of the long naked rigatoni stretched across the bowl. 

 
I love a simple ice cream to finish a big meal, but the scoops of mascarpone and lemon balanced awkwardly in the sad citrus shell and in taste. It just didn’t seem quite right. Katie was equally disappointed with her tart, which seemed to have been made a long time ago and left to go dry and crusty. It came with some sort of cream that had been pebbledashed alongside and left a clay-like feeling in the mouth. We were hoping for some respite with a coffee but it came seriously burnt.

It’s funny how the end of the meal is often the most memorable, that time when you feel the warmth of full-stomached satisfaction or when you start to get irritated by the time lapse in the bill arriving. Despite some brilliant plates of food, we left slightly deflated. Compared to other similarly-ranged ventures such as the aforementioned Trullo or Polpetto in town, where each dish had us scraping the porcelain for that last morsel, at Rotorino some of the things we ate seemed lacking in care. Fundamentally I’m a greedy eater and I never leave food on a plate, but here great chunks remained. For the fairly serious money it totted up to, I don’t think it’s enough for just one in every two or three dishes to be up to it. Had I sat there another time and just ordered the mozzarella, the gnudi, the chicken and finished there this review would be the total opposite, a winner. There is clearly good food being made, and most of what we ordered could have been great on another day. So I am cautious with my conclusion at this point, and I look forward to returning. If not just for another bite of that chicken-soaked bread.

Restaurant review: Polpetto, Soho

This is the year that Russell Normal jumped onto the television screens as the entertaining and fair Restaurant Man. The man all-seeing and all-knowing at the heart of his growing restaurant empire. He could quote how high (to the tape-measured centimetre) every bar was, the distance between each chair and the serial numbers of the light bulbs. He exposed the flaws and naiveties in budding restaurateurs (sic) who looked to make a quick fortune in hospitality having never washed a glass or served a plate in their lives. His likable modesty and calm temperament came as a refreshing change to previous ‘fix the business’ franchises; miles away from those furrowed Ramsay outrages. But in doing this he has put himself on a platform. Upon visiting his establishments you now see the calculations. You can imagine Norman pacing the space in his furred parka, advising his decorating team to stain underneath the wall lamps and talking up the merits of silver cutlery. In somewhere like Polpetto, all intimate with pleasingly mismatched furniture, dim lighting and rustically stripped back walls, the romance is slightly overshadowed by knowledge of the whirring business cogs that lay behind it. 

If the expectations raised by the owners profile weren’t enough, the rest was achieved by the restaurant itself. I can’t remember anywhere drumming up as much anticipation followed by such universal praise for a very long time. Top marks from newspapers and a twitter meltdown duly followed. We were excited as we approached on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, with the heady expectation of a damn good feed. The problem with a no-reservation policy is that nightmare of being stuck in an endless snaking queue, but as is often the case, you can sneak in easily enough around peak times. The place was dead in that no-mans-land period between lunch and dinner, but the small space still felt intimate and romantic despite the absence of fellow diners. We loved the silver, mismatched furniture and wall lamps. The menu listed very well. 

The day had been hot, very hot, and Soho had been sweating from every pore. Polpetto instantly had us dancing in the palm of its hand at the mere mention of a rhubarb bellini and an Earl Grey iced tea. We were then taken on holiday with an orb of creamy burrata, with sharp and spicy samphire and chilli interrupting only lovingly. Much like at sister-restaurant Polpo last summer, I was impressed that for somewhere so connected with terms ‘small plates’ and ‘tapas’, the portioning was bang on. Tender little chicken oysters swam in an unctuous bowl of gravy and cannellini beans, and we wished that the melting beef shin strozzapreti would never end. Where the food had missed the point at my recent visit to Mayfields, here Florence Knight and her brigade had well and truly lived up to the hype. 

But much like an episode of the Restaurant Man, when things were going swimmingly, you were still never far away from some drama. At some point around our main course, our peaceful surroundings were shattered by what can only be described as a chef having a meltdown. A screaming tantrum, quite impressively, came banging through a closed door and up a flight of stairs from the kitchen to our table. A flurry of worried and nervous looking waiting staff ran past. I can’t say whether the unseen woman having a hissy fit was indeed Knight, or whether they had a valid point or not, but whoever it was, it was rather embarrassing, and an awkward moment to be part of. If this had been part of his show, you could almost picture Norman outside talking into a camera, blasting this unprofessional tirade. Thankfully there were a mere handful of tables to experience this ‘entertainment’, but that’s hardly the point really. 

Things sweetened up by the time puddings were delivered, thankfully devoid of any blood or broken bone. I feel that it’s hugely unfair to put something called ‘fried pecorino and honey’ on a menu, as however good everything else looks, there’s only one thing that I’m going to order. This is something that I’d seen and read about beforehand, and to say that I was excited would have been an understatement. But I have to say that I ended up a little disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think that melting cheese and honey can ever be a bad thing, but I half-expected more. The cheese had lost any defining flavour, the batter was on the thick and chewier side of crisp and it needed a good hit of something salty to combat the honey. It certainly all got wolfed down though. As did Katie’s panna cotta, which was as light as a feather and full of summer fragrance. 

For fantastic food in a relaxing and well-created environment, Norman has yet again nailed it. We left with full and happy bellies and I would return in a flash. A few let downs were there; dreadfully inattentive service in an empty restaurant and a kitchen outrage to remember are a little disappointing but hardly unforgivable. And I must say, that little Virginia Wolf quote at the foot of the bill came across slightly arrogant and cheaply unnecessary. But we had indeed eaten well, and for that alone Polpetto was a triumph.

Restaurant review: Mayfields, London Fields

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.