Restaurant review: The River Café, Hammersmith

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…

Allotment ribollita with borlotti beans, rosemary, rainbow chard, leeks, bread and olive oil

Every time I talk to my parents on the phone, invariably at some point the conversation turns to what they have eaten recently. This is normally met with a modest ‘oh just some odd bits of veg from the allotment’, but I know that that is a damn lie. They talk about their plot like some barren land with a few brown leaves poking out here and there, but the reality couldn’t be more different. They put so much work into it and I’m always so impressed whenever I see it. They took me up there at the end of last summer and I was gobsmacked. Disciplined rows of proud, vibrant vegetables stood in architecturally framed raised beds, all village fete standard and all crying out to be picked. I was like a child in a sweet shop. Commuters must have raised a few eyebrows at the muddy-kneed man laden with earthy bags and smug grin on the way home. So when they offered to return there right at the end of a recent visit I bit their arm off. 

We drove up at dusk, and the view standing on the hillside looking down at Brighton and the sea bathed in sunset reds and burnished golds will stay with me for a long time. But I couldn’t linger for long, there was digging to do and the light was fading fast. I couldn’t see much of what dad was doing under torchlight and only responded to hasty ‘quick Sam, put these in the bag’, and it wasn’t until I got back to my kitchen in London that I could marvel at what goodies lurked inside. Last summer it was all nasturtiums, new potatoes, broad beans and courgette flowers, but this time stunning rainbow chard, flowering rosemary, leeks and purple sprouting broccoli. Not a bad yield for the half a dozen trips my parents had made over the winter. My mind was racing as to what to make, and with the lingering late winter chill still in the air a soup it was to be. This would also be the best way to cram in as much of the newly-picked produce into one bowl as possible. 

When I was young, despite not having such a keen interest in what I was eating, I always remember that in the kitchens of my cooler friends were the same blue, yellow and green books. Although I didn’t identify or read The River Café cookbooks for years afterwards it feels like they’ve always been there, and they’re always my first port of call when looking for inspiration. I love the simplicity and focus on quality ingredients, which often provide the starting point even when attempting something much more complicated. Proper food that you want to eat, not just look at. Although my ingredients and flavourings are far from those of the authentic cavolo nero packed ribollita described within those dog-eared pages, the principal of showing off simple fresh greens is the same. 

Talking of beans, the borlotti beans used here also came from the folks; dad proudly presented me with a jar of the mottled beauties that he had dried and stored from last summer’s harvest. Although I have previously made this with standard tinned beans, it really makes a difference taking the time to prepare them yourself. At this point I added even more garlic, rosemary and bay and was left with about a litre and a half of lovely stock to form the base of the soup. It’s just such a shame that they lose all of their individual markings in the process. 

This recipe makes a lot of hearty, revitalising soup, but the good news is that the leftovers just get better and better. And it’s easy to tweak everything to just how you want it, with a squeeze of lemon, some more chilli or with some crispy prosciutto broken over the top.

Serves 6 generous portions.

Ingredients: 

Olive oil 
1 onion, finely chopped 
1 carrot, finely chopped 
3 medium leeks, finely chopped 
3 cloves of garlic, finely chopped 
1 tbsp fennel seeds 
2 small dried chillies, finely chopped 
2 large sprigs of rosemary, finely chopped 
4 slices of prosciutto, finely chopped 
2 tomatoes, skinned and finely chopped 
2 large handfuls of cooked borlotti beans, drained but retaining the cooking water 
2 large bunches of chard, stalks chopped and leaves sliced finely 
2 handfuls of stale bread, crusts removed and torn into small pieces 
1 small bunch of wild garlic leaves, torn 

To finish: 

Parmesan cheese, finely grated 
Flowers from the rosemary 
Good quality extra virgin olive oil


Heat a large saucepan to a medium-low temperature and add a splash of olive oil. Add the onion, carrot, leeks, garlic, prosciutto, rosemary, dried chilli and fennel along with some seasoning and cook slowly for about half an hour, until everything has softened. Tip in the chopped tomatoes and cook for another ten minutes. Stir in the chard stalks and half of the cannellini beans, topping up with the reserved cooking water until covered, about 750ml-1ltr. Bring to the boil and then reduce to a simmer for 20-30 minutes. 

Transfer the remaining cannellini beans to a food processor and blitz until very fine. Add to the saucepan with the torn bread and the chard leaves and stir will to combine. Pour in more of the bean liquid if needed and break up some of the bread with the spoon to achieve a thick yet pourable consistency. Cook for another couple of minutes until the chard leaves are tender and then finally add the wild garlic leaves at the last minute. Taste, and season if necessary.

To serve, spoon into shallow bowls and drizzle over a good amount of extra virgin olive oil. Sprinkle over parmesan and some rosemary flowers and a good crack of black pepper.