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…
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.
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.
Having lived in north and east London for a few years now, I’ve been getting happily accustom to the smattering of small, interesting restaurants popping up right on my doorstep. Som Saa have lit the charcoals in the arches just across the park, Hill and Szrok take the meat off the hooks and invite diners into their Broadway Market butchers, and it’s only a few minutes further to Sager and Wilde for the promise of a decent glass of wine and a melting toastie. They join old hands at places like Trullo, The Empress and Trangallan, and are all reachable within 20 minutes from my flat. This was heavy on my mind as TFL advised me in the bluntest way possible that my planned dinner booking would require bus, train and foot. I had to double take. It may as well have said air, land and sea. But there was promise that wrapping up warm on the first snowy day of the year to travel right across London would be worth it, and I was not so quietly excited. In fact I since I booked my table at The Manor my anticipation had been steadily building. I felt like I could recite the menu by heart, along with a handful of newpaper reviews that all shouted GO GO GO. So if there was a fall to be had I had well and truly dug my pit. Nine stops on the tube would be a long trudge for any disappointment to marinate.
I was early, and instead of doing the sane thing and finding a bar to prop for an hour, I decided a quick reacquaintance with Clapham was in order. It had been years and I was surprised. Yes, the same crap bars guffed out the same music that threatened to drown out recruitment consultants comparing shiny ties and cufflinks. But round the edges it showed that it wasn’t just the north that was enjoying its crop of food prospects. Perhaps a slightly ridiculous enlightenment, as restaurants such as Trinity and The Dairy have been making their mark for a good while, but aside from that were the little side street, neighbourhood restaurants; all dim-lit and full of bustle. And then there was The Manor itself. And I have never been to an eatery more brimming with surprises. The cleverly partitioned room gave an illusion for somewhere far smaller, where every area had its own intimacy. A mixture of scribbled graffiti and traditional old house relics adorned the walls, whilst the well-spaced tables were etched like a mischievous school child’s. It was refreshing to be somewhere injected with a sense of casual fun. But make no mistake, beneath all of the doodles lay some serious cookery.
Now back to that memorised menu. For a largely indecisive chap like me this was torture, and for all my revision I was still none the wiser. Everything read brilliantly, with each dish both simple yet intriguing. Staunchly seasonal British ingredients were hay-smoked, fermented or burnt, and combined with the more foreign influences of kimchi, medjool dates and wakame. Little bits of charm were also adorned here and there; at first I blindly assumed that the “Sweet Promise” and “JulieGirl” next to the fish courses were some sort of zany preparation technique, but as a frequent visitor to the coast I also recognised that they could well have been the names of the boats in which they were landed. A nice touch, and in keeping with the small-scale growing and supply ethos adopted by both the Manor and sister-restaurant The Dairy. None of this though could help us decide, and there was an extreme FOMO going on.
The first food to arrive at our table was a small loaf of beautifully warmed bread with a pebble carrying a heap of chicken skin butter. It was just the very thing needed to set us up for what was to come, yet if all food had ended there I would have left a very happy customer. It was that good. I was surprised we had any left by the time the bowl of Cornish crab, charred celeriac and buttermilk came. This was an absolute delight, with rich chunks of crustacean and wafer thin smokey celeriac bathing in a cloud of stupidly light, slightly acidic buttermilk. Everything danced along to the same swooning harmony; it was comfort food at its very best. By this point extra bread had been offered, which made excellent dunking until every morsel was gone.
Two vegetable plates arrived next. Both simple menu descriptions could easily have been taken as side dishes or menu filler; a bowl of greens and some cauliflower, but they were so much more. They were a masterclass in how to treat such humble produce and transform it into something incredible, the sort of thing that you want to feed to those boring folk who won’t eat unless there is a slab of meat. The cauliflower was all layers of subtle-yet still savoury sweetness, whist the kale and cavolo nero hid a depth of glorious char.
At this point another surprise at the arrival of chef and owner Robin Gill carrying two off-menu dishes. It was great to talk through the menu with the man who had designed it, although after what we had eaten already I’m sure it may have been a borderline gush-fest. The smoked eel, cultured cream, new potato and sorrel that he left us with was yet another triumph, and as a diner there is nothing more special than the hosts going an extra mile. The fish courses proper came soon after; a perfectly cooked piece of on-the-bone skate balanced beautifully with earthy mushroom and salsify, and clean and refreshing mackerel, nori and cucumber. With the massive amount of technique and ingredients running through the menu, most restaurants serve something that just doesn’t quite work. Here there was no sign of a bum note.
When a meal heads towards dessert, it sometimes feels like things start to go a little through the motions. Not here. This is where the fun really began. Invited up to the ‘dessert bar’, I couldn’t help thinking of childhood trips to Pizza Hut and endless bowls of synthetic soft-scoop. Instead we sat at a smart bar overlooking a super-clean and professional pastry section. Here we were introduced to pastry chef Kira, who was nothing short of brilliant. Despite us asking a billion questions and snapping away with cameras, she was composed and entertaining as she made us two desserts each. She told us that for the first time at a restaurant she had been allowed creative freedom and it showed; each bowl looked and tasted wonderful. The first I had was a lemon sorbet with gin and cucumber which managed to totally cleanse and cut through the total glut of consumption so far. This was followed by apple parfait, feather-light meringues and a sorrel leaf that emerged from a cloud of liquid nitrogen, so brittle it could be broken with the back of a spoon. Kira told us that she had performed for over 70 that day, yet every quenelle of ice cream or piece of garnish was handled with patience and perfection.
The last surprise of the meal was the price. For a long and winding meal packed with dish after dish of hugely impressive food we couldn’t believe it. Had this have been in a marble-columned hotel in town it could easily have been four times more and you wouldn’t have blinked.
So I can conclude with nothing different to what I had read pre-visit. GO. This is the sort of restaurant that you want to take each and every one of your friends to, the sort you want just around the corner to visit every week.
