I’ve always heard people raving about The Don but have never been so when, at a work party, a contact was complaining about never being invited out to lunch anymore and proceeded to list is as one of his favourite restaurants, I felt I had the excuse I needed to try it out. Come Monday lunchtime we were picking our way across the cobbled yard and down the stairs to the Bistro in the cellar (apparently they used to lay down some sort of sherry here, and they still offer their own wines).
The room was a brick arched cellar: we were seated in the second part which had widely spaced tables and comfortable blue chairs. I was sitting by the wall and there was a faint smell of damp, or chill, that faded as the place filled up and the food came out. At 12.30pm the place was still pretty empty but was almost full by the time we left.
Most of the menu choices are tempting (and hearty!) but as I was going out for dinner as well I thought I’d limit myself and went for a beetroot, goats cheese and chicory salad followed by wild mushroom risotto. My colleague was similarly spartan in her choice of soup butternut squash soup and risotto again, while our guest had pate and confit duck. Strangely, we weren’t given the wine list until after we’d placed our orders, although bread and water were forthcoming. I didn’t choose the wine but we ended up with a full bodied red – the waiter warned us that it was quite a heavy hitter but it suited the meaty mushrooms and duck.
Gossip came in the form of the upheaval at the Telegraph, the impact of the freebies on the London newspaper market and, indeed, environment, and the joys of Christmas shopping. Apparently the average spend per head on presents is a whopping £435. I can see the electronics bods rubbing their hands with glee. My starter salad was made up of good components and a classic mix of flavours. Simple, done well. The soup and pate were polished off too. The risotto was delicious with a generous portion of mushrooms and flakes of parmesan. It’s a bit like eating baby food, with the grains of rice adding the necessary bite. And they provided us with spoons to complete the picture.
Sadly there was no room for pudding but they looked terrific. I made do with a pyramid of chocolate that came with the coffee. As I didn’t see the bill I can’t comment on the price, although they mistakenly charged us for a cocktail. Going by the prices on the menu it’s a reasonably priced City staple and seems sure to stay that way for the foreseeable future. I’d definitely go back.
Thursday 29 November 2007
Bengal Spice
Sunday evening, time for another curry. We normally resort to takeaway in front of the TV but, having been inside for most of the day, R and I decided to make the trip to Bengal Spice, another Holloway curry house. We arrived at about 9pm and the place was pretty empty, with only two other tables busy. I don’t particularly like eating under the scrutiny of the staff (ok, this may be my paranoia, but the hush of a dead room is pretty disconcerting) but we’d got this far and weren’t about to turn back.
More white tablecloths, gently abstract art on the walls and a television playing Bollywood tunes, waiters propping up the bar. Unfortunately, R sat facing outwards which meant he spent most of the meal transfixed by the dance routines, while I got the wall. Two more poppadoms to start, slightly thick but fresh. Service was as discreet as it could be, given that by the time our meals arrived we were the only ones left. R opted for the green chicken massala which was impressively fresh looking with a strong chilli kick, and lemon rice on the side. Feeling greedy I ate my way through most of amchoor lamb (cooked with mustard seeds), dall, pilau rice and a nan bread. The nan was great, part blackened and crunchy, part soft and chewy, while the rice did what it said on the tin. The lamb was a bit fatty but tasty enough.
We had a small bicker when R headed outside for a cigarette after he’d finished his meal, leaving me alone and blank, but he came back in quickly to avoid a fight that was brewing down the road. Together with a glass of wine and a beer, the bill came to about £30. The place suffered from my experience at Indian Ocean the night before. Food was fine, if unexciting, but the restaurant really lacked atmosphere and needed more people in it. A decent staple if you’re in the area but in future I’d walk the extra ten minutes for a really good curry.
More white tablecloths, gently abstract art on the walls and a television playing Bollywood tunes, waiters propping up the bar. Unfortunately, R sat facing outwards which meant he spent most of the meal transfixed by the dance routines, while I got the wall. Two more poppadoms to start, slightly thick but fresh. Service was as discreet as it could be, given that by the time our meals arrived we were the only ones left. R opted for the green chicken massala which was impressively fresh looking with a strong chilli kick, and lemon rice on the side. Feeling greedy I ate my way through most of amchoor lamb (cooked with mustard seeds), dall, pilau rice and a nan bread. The nan was great, part blackened and crunchy, part soft and chewy, while the rice did what it said on the tin. The lamb was a bit fatty but tasty enough.
We had a small bicker when R headed outside for a cigarette after he’d finished his meal, leaving me alone and blank, but he came back in quickly to avoid a fight that was brewing down the road. Together with a glass of wine and a beer, the bill came to about £30. The place suffered from my experience at Indian Ocean the night before. Food was fine, if unexciting, but the restaurant really lacked atmosphere and needed more people in it. A decent staple if you’re in the area but in future I’d walk the extra ten minutes for a really good curry.
Indian Ocean
On Saturday I fancied some trad pub grub, but my local had stopped serving early, at 8.30pm “because of Arsenal”. I can’t even pretend to know what this means – had the fans eaten all the bangers? Onwards and upwards. Tapas was next on the hitlist but the restaurant was packed out, so C and I ended up in the Indian Ocean, gorging on curry. We were lucky to get in there, at 9pm the tables were full of football shirts just finishing up and heading out. But we were seated at a large round table (probably intended for four) at the back by the kitchen. C’est la vie.
The décor is pretty standard, heavy white table cloths, paintings with gilt and elephants, bar to the front and trundling trollies bearing plates of food. The waiters are attentive but there’s a tendency to try and up sell which can be exhausting if you don’t fancy a bottle of wine or numerous sides. We went for a beer and a glass of white (pretty sharp) and a couple of poppadoms to start us off. They were light, non-greasy and crisp and the mango chutney in the condiments wheel was better than average with proper chunks of mango and depth of flavour.
C settled on that old classic, chicken tikka massala, which was well executed, the chicken marinated and charred in the tandoor before being cooked up with the sauce. I went for a dish I’d never seen before – beef xacutti, a Goan curry with coconut. I love beef and, of course, it’s unusual to see it on the menu in an Indian restaurant. The curry was great, rich and just spicy enough, the coconut mellowing it. We went for pilau rice and a side of aubergines cooked simply with chilli, both excellent.
The bill came to just over £30 and arrived with wedges of orange and After Eights, a nice touch. Slightly pushy service aside, this really is a great restaurant and serves the best curry on the Holloway Road.
The décor is pretty standard, heavy white table cloths, paintings with gilt and elephants, bar to the front and trundling trollies bearing plates of food. The waiters are attentive but there’s a tendency to try and up sell which can be exhausting if you don’t fancy a bottle of wine or numerous sides. We went for a beer and a glass of white (pretty sharp) and a couple of poppadoms to start us off. They were light, non-greasy and crisp and the mango chutney in the condiments wheel was better than average with proper chunks of mango and depth of flavour.
C settled on that old classic, chicken tikka massala, which was well executed, the chicken marinated and charred in the tandoor before being cooked up with the sauce. I went for a dish I’d never seen before – beef xacutti, a Goan curry with coconut. I love beef and, of course, it’s unusual to see it on the menu in an Indian restaurant. The curry was great, rich and just spicy enough, the coconut mellowing it. We went for pilau rice and a side of aubergines cooked simply with chilli, both excellent.
The bill came to just over £30 and arrived with wedges of orange and After Eights, a nice touch. Slightly pushy service aside, this really is a great restaurant and serves the best curry on the Holloway Road.
Monday 19 November 2007
YO! Sushi
Despite the miserable weather, the other week I popped in to YO! Sushi after work with R to make a change to the gallons of soup I’m ploughing my way through on these grey autumn days. The Farringdon branch is fairly typical of the chain, not as glossy as the restaurant at Poland Street but clean, slick, with a mixture of tables and stools and the snaking chain ferrying food to all. A mirrored wall that caused confusion when R tried to point out the man who really looked like him sitting across the room. And then noticed the matching woman.
Most people seem to go and have a couple of dishes as a light snack, but we’ve never exercised that sort of restraint and the plates pile up at an alarming rate. It’s like being in Toy Town, bright baubles of fish and rice trundling past, crying out to be chosen. I had a glass of white to wash it down and R had a bottle of some sort of lager. Rattling through the dishes, I managed to get through an aubergine dish, tuna sashimi, salmon sashimi, a mixed roll platter (YO! roll, dragon roll, vegetable futomaki) and a marinated salmon and dill salad. I should always remember to stick to what I know and love – raw fish. The marinated salmon was far too vinegary and, while I’m pleased I tried the eel, it reminded me of something I couldn’t put my finger on and not entirely pleasant. I quite like the YO! roll but the mayonnaise can be cloying. On the other hand, I could eat sashimi until it comes out of my ears.
I make all sorts of faux pas when gobbling sushi but I’ve finally learnt not to mix up the wasabi and soy and, actually, it is better this way. And someone told me you were meant to use the pickled ginger as a palate cleanser between morsels and this worked well too. But I still can’t eat an entire roll in one bite.
R managed to rack up even more plates than me and we were left with a veritable rainbow when it came to counting up the bill - £45 between us. Fairly cheap and cheerful but not exactly a light bite – we almost rolled down the road home. YO! may not offer a classic sushi experience but the pick and mix nature of the place is great fun and good for the easily bored. And first dates, it would appear, judging by the couple sitting across the conveyor belt. “Look at that girl, she’s eating raw fish!” he said excitedly, pointing at my plates. “Eeeew!” Well yes, this is a sushi restaurant. Maybe not one for hardcore sushi eaters.
A quick note, the loos are unisex, and you turn the basin taps on using a pedal by your knee. Do not be alarmed.
Most people seem to go and have a couple of dishes as a light snack, but we’ve never exercised that sort of restraint and the plates pile up at an alarming rate. It’s like being in Toy Town, bright baubles of fish and rice trundling past, crying out to be chosen. I had a glass of white to wash it down and R had a bottle of some sort of lager. Rattling through the dishes, I managed to get through an aubergine dish, tuna sashimi, salmon sashimi, a mixed roll platter (YO! roll, dragon roll, vegetable futomaki) and a marinated salmon and dill salad. I should always remember to stick to what I know and love – raw fish. The marinated salmon was far too vinegary and, while I’m pleased I tried the eel, it reminded me of something I couldn’t put my finger on and not entirely pleasant. I quite like the YO! roll but the mayonnaise can be cloying. On the other hand, I could eat sashimi until it comes out of my ears.
I make all sorts of faux pas when gobbling sushi but I’ve finally learnt not to mix up the wasabi and soy and, actually, it is better this way. And someone told me you were meant to use the pickled ginger as a palate cleanser between morsels and this worked well too. But I still can’t eat an entire roll in one bite.
R managed to rack up even more plates than me and we were left with a veritable rainbow when it came to counting up the bill - £45 between us. Fairly cheap and cheerful but not exactly a light bite – we almost rolled down the road home. YO! may not offer a classic sushi experience but the pick and mix nature of the place is great fun and good for the easily bored. And first dates, it would appear, judging by the couple sitting across the conveyor belt. “Look at that girl, she’s eating raw fish!” he said excitedly, pointing at my plates. “Eeeew!” Well yes, this is a sushi restaurant. Maybe not one for hardcore sushi eaters.
A quick note, the loos are unisex, and you turn the basin taps on using a pedal by your knee. Do not be alarmed.
Tuesday 6 November 2007
Le Rendezvous
Crisp, bright autumn day, perfect for sharing a cote de boeuf and a bottle of house red with a colleague at lunchtime. We went to Le Rendezvous, tucked away next to Charterhouse Square in the shadow of the enormous Malmaison. There’s something about Smithfields that fosters French restaurants, probably the proximity of all that meat.
Pretty on the outside, pretty on the inside. Charming waiters who are on first name terms, yellow walls, wine lists hanging from hooks, small tables set close together, menu chalked onto the blackboard above the window. The specials were lamb or swordfish but we’d already settled on the beef. We worked our way through the best part of a bottle and baguette (lovely butter), talking office gossip and need-to-knows before the main came.
The cote de boeuf came medium rare on a wooden board, the mini-moat catching the blood. A side of frites, a bowl of green salad and a pot of béarnaise and we were good to go. Although it doesn’t look like all that much on the plate (let me clarfy: it was attractive but didn’t look like much in terms of quantity), it was incredibly rich and we didn’t manage to finish the portion. It was perfectly rare and melt in the mouth in the middle and crusty on the outside, packing a real punch of flavour. The béarnaise sauce was silky and as good on the frites as the meat. The frites themselves were crisp and light.
This is rich food, simple and comforting. We lingered over wine and headed back to the office after a leisurely hour and a half. At £25 a head for the beef, bread, bottle of wine and an extra glass of the stuff and service, it was a deeply satisfying lunch. It’s a cliché to say it’s like a little piece of France tucked away in EC London, but it really is the case.
Pretty on the outside, pretty on the inside. Charming waiters who are on first name terms, yellow walls, wine lists hanging from hooks, small tables set close together, menu chalked onto the blackboard above the window. The specials were lamb or swordfish but we’d already settled on the beef. We worked our way through the best part of a bottle and baguette (lovely butter), talking office gossip and need-to-knows before the main came.
The cote de boeuf came medium rare on a wooden board, the mini-moat catching the blood. A side of frites, a bowl of green salad and a pot of béarnaise and we were good to go. Although it doesn’t look like all that much on the plate (let me clarfy: it was attractive but didn’t look like much in terms of quantity), it was incredibly rich and we didn’t manage to finish the portion. It was perfectly rare and melt in the mouth in the middle and crusty on the outside, packing a real punch of flavour. The béarnaise sauce was silky and as good on the frites as the meat. The frites themselves were crisp and light.
This is rich food, simple and comforting. We lingered over wine and headed back to the office after a leisurely hour and a half. At £25 a head for the beef, bread, bottle of wine and an extra glass of the stuff and service, it was a deeply satisfying lunch. It’s a cliché to say it’s like a little piece of France tucked away in EC London, but it really is the case.
Thursday 1 November 2007
Skylon
The South Bank is one of my favourite parts of London, so I was delighted to be spending my autumn family outing at Skylon in the Royal Festival Hall. We met in the RFH Bar, clusters of tables spread across the great space of the building, surprisingly empty on a Wednesday night. The bar itself felt a long walk away from the seating areas, moored centre stage while the chairs pushed up against the windows. With a G&T at £3.60, it’s not a bad place relax with a book or people watch on busier nights. Much better than the majority of pubs and bars clustered around Waterloo at any rate (the NFT bar on the river side is also a good spot, although I haven’t tried out the new one yet).
Skylon is on level 3 with its obvious selling point being the views across the Thames. We were eating in the brasserie and had a wonderful table next to the floor to ceiling windows looking out over the Hungerford Bridge and London Eye. The views don’t quite beat the OXO Tower round the bend which stretch across to the City but they’re pretty impressive all the same, all water and lights and reflections. We were asked if we wanted anything to drink pretty much as soon as we sat down, and before we’d had a chance to glance at the menu. My mother and I went for Kirs, which were pleasant enough – not too sweet! – while my father had a dry sherry (Tio Pepe, I think). The table looked elegant, round black leather mats and neatly rolled white napkins with knife and fork in the middle. This latter was slightly bizarre as we were given an additional set of cutlery when the table was laid for our starters and, unrolling the napkins, had our second pair in hand.
The brasserie menu is simpler than the restaurant, balanced between meat, fish and pasta and eggs. Eggs for dinner? Well, that’s what my brother went for. Bread and butter was brought round once we’d ordered our starters and wine: a Languedoc Sauvignon Blanc that was perfectly drinkable at £18 and an Australian Shiraz at £23 (the Argentinian Malbec had sold out). I couldn’t resist the bubble’n’squeak topped with poached egg to start. It was a risky move, the only time I ever have it is at my grandad’s house the day after Boxing Day and it’s something I always looked forward to. This was a neat golden pattie topped with a grilled flat mushroom and poached egg and was quite delicious, albeit in need of a little pepper. My father went for the same and was similarly pleased – it’s a very satisfying, comforting dish. My brother went for steak tartare having been keen to try it but not spotted it on any menus. It came in a ring with the egg yolk sitting perfectly in the middle and was, apparently, really interesting; “not what you’d expect it to taste like at all” (I believe this was a compliment). Fish soup was top of the list for my mother, appearing in a deceptively small but deep bowl with a side plate of traditional accompaniments. It all looked very pretty and tasted darn good.
Popping to the loo between courses is a bit strange – you head out of the restaurant, across the hall and next to the lifts. If you timed it badly you’d be fighting people at the interval. It’s an eerie experience padding across the carpets of a near-deserted RFH, and rather disconcerting having just left a bustling brasserie.
As I’m trying to cut back on my meat intake I opted for the lemon sole with brown shrimp for my main course. It was an enormous hunk of fish with a lovely flavour, complemented by the salty shrimp and the buttery sauce. I personally think I got the star of the bunch but my family were equally keen on their choices: pork tenderloin on polenta for my mother, guinea fowl with puy lentils and Iberico ham for my father and my brother’s eggs (poached, with white crab meat and hollandaise). We had sides of rocket and parmesan salad and French beans which were fine – hard to go wrong really. It’s a bit cheeky but not at all unusual to charge £3 for a small side when the main dish doesn’t come with any vegetables but that’s a minor complaint.
More of an issue was the service which, while charming, almost vanished after we ordered our puddings. Time taken from finishing pudding to getting the bill (ordering coffee in between) was over an hour, giving us plenty of scope to debate the class system in this country, whether we could use economic definitions to label people, whether this counted if it differentiated from how they might identify themselves, whether it is possible to identify yourself as one thing when the parameters have changed, and how the cult of celebrity contributed to the situation. Outcome? No-one likes to call themselves middle class, although most of us probably are (certainly my family at any rate – but don’t tell my mother!). Or maybe we just think that because of the circles in which we move.
Puddings were fantastic: an amazing chocolate brownie with vanilla ice cream and butterscotch sauce for me, warm, moist and nutty; pear poached in red wine with honeycomb ice cream for my father and special of the day, pecan pie, for my mother. And a glass of port for my brother. With three coffees and still and sparkling water it came to £216, service included. The food is great but the service, while cheerful, isn’t. It’s an experience worth having but be prepared for a wait and a fairly steep bill. The restaurant menu looks interesting and at £37.50 for three courses doesn’t look ridiculously pricey so I might be persuaded back for that in the future, once they’ve had a chance to iron the waiting issues out.
Skylon is on level 3 with its obvious selling point being the views across the Thames. We were eating in the brasserie and had a wonderful table next to the floor to ceiling windows looking out over the Hungerford Bridge and London Eye. The views don’t quite beat the OXO Tower round the bend which stretch across to the City but they’re pretty impressive all the same, all water and lights and reflections. We were asked if we wanted anything to drink pretty much as soon as we sat down, and before we’d had a chance to glance at the menu. My mother and I went for Kirs, which were pleasant enough – not too sweet! – while my father had a dry sherry (Tio Pepe, I think). The table looked elegant, round black leather mats and neatly rolled white napkins with knife and fork in the middle. This latter was slightly bizarre as we were given an additional set of cutlery when the table was laid for our starters and, unrolling the napkins, had our second pair in hand.
The brasserie menu is simpler than the restaurant, balanced between meat, fish and pasta and eggs. Eggs for dinner? Well, that’s what my brother went for. Bread and butter was brought round once we’d ordered our starters and wine: a Languedoc Sauvignon Blanc that was perfectly drinkable at £18 and an Australian Shiraz at £23 (the Argentinian Malbec had sold out). I couldn’t resist the bubble’n’squeak topped with poached egg to start. It was a risky move, the only time I ever have it is at my grandad’s house the day after Boxing Day and it’s something I always looked forward to. This was a neat golden pattie topped with a grilled flat mushroom and poached egg and was quite delicious, albeit in need of a little pepper. My father went for the same and was similarly pleased – it’s a very satisfying, comforting dish. My brother went for steak tartare having been keen to try it but not spotted it on any menus. It came in a ring with the egg yolk sitting perfectly in the middle and was, apparently, really interesting; “not what you’d expect it to taste like at all” (I believe this was a compliment). Fish soup was top of the list for my mother, appearing in a deceptively small but deep bowl with a side plate of traditional accompaniments. It all looked very pretty and tasted darn good.
Popping to the loo between courses is a bit strange – you head out of the restaurant, across the hall and next to the lifts. If you timed it badly you’d be fighting people at the interval. It’s an eerie experience padding across the carpets of a near-deserted RFH, and rather disconcerting having just left a bustling brasserie.
As I’m trying to cut back on my meat intake I opted for the lemon sole with brown shrimp for my main course. It was an enormous hunk of fish with a lovely flavour, complemented by the salty shrimp and the buttery sauce. I personally think I got the star of the bunch but my family were equally keen on their choices: pork tenderloin on polenta for my mother, guinea fowl with puy lentils and Iberico ham for my father and my brother’s eggs (poached, with white crab meat and hollandaise). We had sides of rocket and parmesan salad and French beans which were fine – hard to go wrong really. It’s a bit cheeky but not at all unusual to charge £3 for a small side when the main dish doesn’t come with any vegetables but that’s a minor complaint.
More of an issue was the service which, while charming, almost vanished after we ordered our puddings. Time taken from finishing pudding to getting the bill (ordering coffee in between) was over an hour, giving us plenty of scope to debate the class system in this country, whether we could use economic definitions to label people, whether this counted if it differentiated from how they might identify themselves, whether it is possible to identify yourself as one thing when the parameters have changed, and how the cult of celebrity contributed to the situation. Outcome? No-one likes to call themselves middle class, although most of us probably are (certainly my family at any rate – but don’t tell my mother!). Or maybe we just think that because of the circles in which we move.
Puddings were fantastic: an amazing chocolate brownie with vanilla ice cream and butterscotch sauce for me, warm, moist and nutty; pear poached in red wine with honeycomb ice cream for my father and special of the day, pecan pie, for my mother. And a glass of port for my brother. With three coffees and still and sparkling water it came to £216, service included. The food is great but the service, while cheerful, isn’t. It’s an experience worth having but be prepared for a wait and a fairly steep bill. The restaurant menu looks interesting and at £37.50 for three courses doesn’t look ridiculously pricey so I might be persuaded back for that in the future, once they’ve had a chance to iron the waiting issues out.
Thursday 25 October 2007
Bertorelli, Frith Street
I met my father outside the Curzon Soho for a meal before heading off to see fantasy romp Stardust (the sort of film that gives me unconditional happiness). With so many places in Soho we couldn’t decide where to go, but I wanted to check what had opened on the site of my previous favourite Frith Street Italian, Tomato. It turned out to be Barrafina, which from the outside looking in appeared to be pretty authentic and very lively. Probably tremendous tapas too if it’s anything like its sister restaurant, Fino on Charlotte Street. But we weren’t in the mood for a la plancha cooking and headed off to the Bertorelli opposite.
The room was large and rather characterless but non-offensive, although the tables for two were a bit too close together in a pack ‘em in way. On being seated we were offered a choice of water: tap, still or sparkling and went for two glasses of tap with lemon. It’s rare to be offered tap water in a restaurant and should be done in more places. The menu is pretty straightforward with antipaste, pizza, pasta and meat and fish dishes with a selection of sides. Not the cheapest chain but the food looks more interesting than Strada or Café Uno. After a very heavy meal the night before, I went for a buffalo mozzarella caprese salad with basil and pine nut dressing. Unfortunately the bocconcini were too cold and rubbery, lacking the creaminess I was craving, and the tomatoes didn’t have enough flavour to carry the dish. The pine nuts seemed to have disappeared altogether. For around £6.50, this was a disappointment that I could have made better at home with the helping hand of Waitrose. My father had calamari which looked much as it always does when fried.
The service was very fast and our main courses arrived almost as soon as our plates had been cleared. This is fine for pre-theatre, but as we had time to kill it felt a little rushed. I’d decided on roast salmon with balsamic roasted onions, cherry tomatoes and black olives with spinach while my father had settled on ravioli with salami, mortadella, spinach and a brandy sauce. We shared a side of zucchini fritte. The salmon was cooked well, rare, if you can do that to a fish, nicely pink and wobbly on the inside. The onions were somewhat acidic on their own but worked when teamed with the fish. The olives overpowered the dish but had good depth of flavour. It worked, just, saved by the salmon. Sadly the zucchini were a let down. I adore the things and order them pretty much whenever I see them on a menu, but these were cut too thickly and were subsequently too hard. They weren’t bitter and the batter was fine but they could have been the star of the show. The pasta looked tasty enough but I neglected to steal a forkful.
As the food had come so fast we decided to have a peek at the puddings. There were a number of tempting options with an emphasis on ice cream. While we deliberated, my father filled me in on family developments stemming from his trip over to Gloucester to see the relatives. Top of the list was the news that my cousin’s husband, the undertaker, and somehow acquired a surplus to requirements coffin that he was intending to turn into a drink cabinet. Given that the house is already stuffed to the gills with gargoyles, masks and photos of red telephone boxes, it will certainly fuel gossip at the school gates. In the end I predictably went for the tiramisu and my father opted for the raspberry sorbet with amaretti biscuits. The tiramisu proved to be the surprise hit of the meal – not as good as homemade of course (they always skimp on the mascarpone) but much better than the bricks of cream, sponge and cocoa you often get. This was properly steeped in coffee, moist and fairly rich.
We polished off the food with a bottle of Orvieto Classico from the all-Italian wine list. It was appley at first and easily drinkable, ok but not one I’d go for again. I didn’t see the bill but for around the same price you could get a better meal in a place with bags more character. Or something a lot worse. So it’s a safe bet, but uninspiring. Next time we’ll squeeze into a spot at the counter of Barrafina.
The room was large and rather characterless but non-offensive, although the tables for two were a bit too close together in a pack ‘em in way. On being seated we were offered a choice of water: tap, still or sparkling and went for two glasses of tap with lemon. It’s rare to be offered tap water in a restaurant and should be done in more places. The menu is pretty straightforward with antipaste, pizza, pasta and meat and fish dishes with a selection of sides. Not the cheapest chain but the food looks more interesting than Strada or Café Uno. After a very heavy meal the night before, I went for a buffalo mozzarella caprese salad with basil and pine nut dressing. Unfortunately the bocconcini were too cold and rubbery, lacking the creaminess I was craving, and the tomatoes didn’t have enough flavour to carry the dish. The pine nuts seemed to have disappeared altogether. For around £6.50, this was a disappointment that I could have made better at home with the helping hand of Waitrose. My father had calamari which looked much as it always does when fried.
The service was very fast and our main courses arrived almost as soon as our plates had been cleared. This is fine for pre-theatre, but as we had time to kill it felt a little rushed. I’d decided on roast salmon with balsamic roasted onions, cherry tomatoes and black olives with spinach while my father had settled on ravioli with salami, mortadella, spinach and a brandy sauce. We shared a side of zucchini fritte. The salmon was cooked well, rare, if you can do that to a fish, nicely pink and wobbly on the inside. The onions were somewhat acidic on their own but worked when teamed with the fish. The olives overpowered the dish but had good depth of flavour. It worked, just, saved by the salmon. Sadly the zucchini were a let down. I adore the things and order them pretty much whenever I see them on a menu, but these were cut too thickly and were subsequently too hard. They weren’t bitter and the batter was fine but they could have been the star of the show. The pasta looked tasty enough but I neglected to steal a forkful.
As the food had come so fast we decided to have a peek at the puddings. There were a number of tempting options with an emphasis on ice cream. While we deliberated, my father filled me in on family developments stemming from his trip over to Gloucester to see the relatives. Top of the list was the news that my cousin’s husband, the undertaker, and somehow acquired a surplus to requirements coffin that he was intending to turn into a drink cabinet. Given that the house is already stuffed to the gills with gargoyles, masks and photos of red telephone boxes, it will certainly fuel gossip at the school gates. In the end I predictably went for the tiramisu and my father opted for the raspberry sorbet with amaretti biscuits. The tiramisu proved to be the surprise hit of the meal – not as good as homemade of course (they always skimp on the mascarpone) but much better than the bricks of cream, sponge and cocoa you often get. This was properly steeped in coffee, moist and fairly rich.
We polished off the food with a bottle of Orvieto Classico from the all-Italian wine list. It was appley at first and easily drinkable, ok but not one I’d go for again. I didn’t see the bill but for around the same price you could get a better meal in a place with bags more character. Or something a lot worse. So it’s a safe bet, but uninspiring. Next time we’ll squeeze into a spot at the counter of Barrafina.
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