David Joseph's Reviews

The combination of such extravagance led wording as ‘duck’, ‘foie gras’ and ‘truffle’ is too naughty to ignore. To catalogue them as part of the same dish is in fact rather nonsensical. Who wouldn’t choose it?

Jérôme Ponchelle’s ‘Ravioli of duck foie gras with leeks and black truffle’ sits brashly on The Capital’s 40th Anniversary menu (Dégustation Menu), which brings together classic dishes from distinguished chefs throughout its 40-year history.

A hotel and restaurant to neighbouring Harrods, The Capital celebrates a landmark year. The thick, coral and black carpeting in the entrance has the well-trodden characteristics of a starry past while glassy panelling and burnished fittings completes the typically stylish decor you’d expect to see in Knightsbridge.

The dining room is a little set in the past but nevertheless lavish and well cushioned. It’s a room in which people make an effort: ladies put on their heels and lippy and men splash themselves with eau de toilette.

Ponchelle (formally of Wiltons and The Connaught) took over from fellow French chef Eric Chavot in late 2009. The Frenchman’s philosophy to cooking is simple: “I believe it is important not to overwork a dish and to let the product’s own glory come to the fore.” His duck foie gras packed into fluffy ravioli parcels is an exemplification of this, expertly crafting powerful textures and surging with flavour.

Unfortunately, in 2009, The Capital lost both Michelin stars it held, a year in which it shared the accolade with such venues as Le Gavroche, The Square, Pied a Terre and Petrus.

Chavot’s mark is left on the celebratory menu however with his ‘Seared scallop with asparagus velouté’ (Chavot & Richard Hondier (2000’s)), in which a plump, crisp-topped, marshmallow-of-a-scallop sits neatly in a pea green velouté, finished with a single strip of Parmigiano.

Sommelier Julia Reynals paired the scallop with Levin Sauvignon Blanc 2006, perhaps no mistake as it originates from owner David Levin’s personal… More

As I arrive an onslaught of seagulls swoop for pickings at the ossified carcass of a herring. They pick and chew and squawk their dominance. A dinner dispute breaks out between the creatures. If they knew this rumpus was happening outside Rocksalt, they’d make a reservation and have done with it. The restaurant is on the Folkestone harbour and faces out across the English Channel and bracing sea air. If you’re unlucky you can just make out France.

There’s anticipation in the town since Mark Sargeant opened his first restaurant as owner/operator. Curiosity among locals and whispers in pubs. Not since the late-70s, when Kent locations such as Folkestone, Margate and Ramsgate were family holiday destinations, have people considered the food offerings from the county known as The Garden of England. Indeed, there was little reason to back then.

Now, however, as Rod Liddle recently highlighted in a piece for The Times: ‘Kent has more Michelin-starred restaurants than any of the Home Counties south of the Thames.’

Sargeant’s reasons for coming to Folkestone lie a little deeper than the foodie bubblings of the press. He was born in Kent and grew up scrubbing pots in the kitchens of the county before learning his trade at Michelin-starred Reads in Faversham. For Sargeant, returning to Kent was a move home and as he comments: “Folkestone chose me.” The salt water is in his veins.

Eight-years as Head Chef at Claridges and twelve-years with Gordon Ramsay, Folkestone seems about as peaceful and removed from a conurbation as possible. Like much of the Kent coastline, there’s a washed grandeur telling of a richer past.

The menu has an appeal and is largely dependent on local produce. There are a few colourful entries: red herring is quite literally the red herring jewel in the list: a beetroot-coloured mackerel smoked (by Sonny Elliot of Rock-a-Nore fisheries in Hastings) and served whole. There are traditional radishes, presented on a small wooden board, alongside an anchovy dip… More

Neatly tucked away off the beaten track, behind the Poole marina and out of view from Pizza Express, Storm is a small rustic empire of freshly caught fish (and Italian CDs), owned by Pete Miles, a local fisherman who runs the ship along with his wife, Frances.

Both Pete and Frances ensure that the daily menu is never the same, changing according to the fresh fish available, making each dish and each visit an individual experience.

As Lucio Battisti crooned over a crackling radio, I guzzled down the half dozen Irish oysters with red onion and thyme red wine vinegar (£6.00), while listening to music that took on a form of Gipsy King rendition. This was by all accounts, my first experience of an oyster, the plump and silky, and I have to say it, slimy meat from the shell, agreeing with me.

My service waiter was dressed in black and of Medearian decent. He welcomed me and my Pa upon arrival and sat us down immediately with a wine list in my hand. So far so good. I pursued the menu. The selection was limited but fine for lunch. A carefully chosen roster with good European variety in both red and white categories.

As the bustle of a seaside town weaved its way through the sea air streets and into the restaurant, we saw less of our charismatic waiter, who dashed from table to table, seating new customers and wiping down surfaces.

My main complimented my starter nicely, the fresh baked fillet of Cod served with Welsh rarebit topping on mash and wilted greens (£8.50), was washed down by glasses (my father and I managed a lunch-time bottle) of crisp Sauvignon blanc, a light and crispy cold white, and less complex than many, that matches heavenly with fish, and particularly this dish.

Fine wine, food freshly caught and presented on the plate, and very reasonably priced, the beaten faux rusticity, yet entirely modern location is at current, a hidden gem in the back alleys of a small Dorset fishing town, though it will not remain this way for long.

Tsuru’s Bishopsgate branch sits neatly in a glistening cyber vessel. Prodding into the air, arena scaffolding connects the Star Trek ship design to other neighbourly offices, underneath which Tsuru is settled. Trying to find address: Tsuru 201 Bishopsgate, was a relentless search, eventually overcome by asking a passing fat businessman if he knew where there was a sushi restaurant nearby? He did. My chubby knight, my hefty cherub, pointed me in the right direction.

And so I found Tsuru and met with other likeminded and grumbling foodies to sample dishes from Tsuru’s new menu. After an aperitif of Quinta da Lagoalva rose that looked like Ribena and tasted like cranberry, we dived into our first plate of Aburi Saba (seared cured mackerel served with a glowing dollop of English mustard). A lovely presented plate showed the top slices of seared mackeral, crispy and pearly silver, with its pink and meaty centre underneath. The fish tasted so plump and clean that I didn’t want to ruin its freshness by mixing with mustard, so instead enjoyed the solo taste of seared mackerel before Carla jumped in to consume the remains. This was an excellent start to the evening and I frantically desired more.

Kushi Katsu followed (pork and red onion katsu) served on sticks and deep-fried to create a golden crunchy effect. Pork, mushroom and red onion lined the stick, all coated in breadcrumbs, allowing them to crisp and brown on the outside while remaining tender and moist inside. Kushi Katsu was served with luke-warm Akashi Tai honjozo sake served in an ochoko (a small, cylindrical cup). It wasn’t great; a drab straw-like taste failed to develop and remained a flat and generally lacklustre finish for sake.

Luckily there were better things to come from our third plate of dragon rolls matched with a deliciously syrupy Akashi tai daiginjo sake that had a long and soft ricey texture with a warm sweet finish. The dragon rolls were made from unagi, cucumber and avocado and placed neatly in a line… More

As a kid I hated the tube. The London Underground terrified me, all the bold black lines scattered on the maps, the multi-coloured stops blurring and confusing the hell out of me. Goodge Street always seemed funny.

As an adult I developed bravery and overcame the phobia.

Taxis’ I’m partial to. They make travelling from A to B simple – most of the time.

Influxes of Arabian son’s have invaded the capital. Our Hampstead cabby (without tom-tom) took us up, down, around, and at one point I thought, through, Hampstead Heath. In broken English he asked for the name of the destination, “The Spaniards Inn,” I said, thinking its history and notoriety would be enough. “Planards Inn?” he replied. “No, Spaniards, S.P.A.N.I.A.R.D.S.” It was like speaking with one of those telephone cinema selectors – “Maidstone Odeon please.” “Did you say Watford Odeon?” “Nooooooooooo!!!”

My blonde companion (anything similar sounding is already copyright of A.A.Gill) urged the driver to listen, “I’m familiar with the route, but not certain. Take a right turn and then drive straight for 200 yards.” Her temper was subtle and controlled, unlike myself.

A ten-minute journey took forty minutes and we arrived tired and weary, above all, hungry.

With its history; its lob-sided wooden floorboards, tall winding staircase and rural fireplace, The Spaniards Inn has the exact appearance of an ancient Hampstead tavern.

The legendary highwayman and famed rogue, Dick Turpin, is said to have drunk here and used it as a hide-out. According to the pub’s own information, his father was the landlord here in the early 18th century and Richard was born at the inn. Some even claim that Turpin’s ghost haunts the premises, which could explain why our evening went from absurd taxi drive to a ridiculous restaurant experience.

The service was snail slow and embarrassing, comparable to the pub atmosphere of a busy student’s union – genuinely nice kids but without an idea of basic service, manners or even remembering to place… More

You can enjoy the buzz and flow of tourists in Borough Market on any day of the week. Saturday lunchtime – and Valentine’s Day at that – is probably not the best day to casually eye-up food stalls, sample freebies and find a table that’s not been booked for the past two months.

It is London’s oldest food market, standing in its original location for two hundred and fifty years. Along the South Bank, the Thames as your backdrop, Shakespeare’s Globe your neighbour, all eating establishments have their market flowing past their doors from morning till evening.

The Real Greek on Bankside has everything in its favour. There are other Real Greek restaurants in Spitafields, Westfield, Covent Garden, Marylebone, Putney, Clerkenwell, and the original in Hoxton, which opened in 1999. My opinion of Greek food is not great. I have not sampled enough to reach a conclusion. Like you, I’ve sampled the midnight kebab, booze injected and stumbling home from a night on the town, but true Mediterranean dining experience, no.

Walking in to any empty restaurant, on February 14th, is not a good omen. Our waitress walked us to a table in the corner at the back. This puzzled me. There was no one else there. Frankly, it would have been quicker catching a bus to our table. Why don’t they give you an Oyster card on arrival then let you pick a table of your choice?

Our welcome was cold. “This is your table, here is your menu, bye.” Puzzled by our introduction, I conversed with my guest who agreed and was also appalled. We were given the hospitality of a guilty man appearing in court.

From the hot Mezedes menu I ordered grilled kalamari marinated in paprika and honey (£5.75), along with a meat sharer (£25.00) consisting of pork, lamb and chicken, bifteki, meltitzanosalata, htipiti and flatbread. The kalamari had potential but was cold and rubbery and thus, ruined. The grilled sardines were fine, but that’s as much as I can say.

All the food arrived cold (much like the staff) and was served on… More

The English Dictionary’s definition of Heron:

noun – “Any of numerous long-legged, long-necked, usually long-billed birds of the family Ardeidae, including the true herons, egrets, night herons, and bittons.”

No mention of colour, stripes, dots or multi-coloured oily feathers, yet The Painted Heron (restaurant and not to be confused with an actual painted heron – interfering with animal protesters and the RSPCA) in Chelsea, is certainly flying in the right direction.

Somewhat isolated along Cheyne Walk (sparsely separated like many fine dining Chelsea establishments: Chelsea Brassiere, Ramsey’s), the restaurant boasts The London Restaurant Award 2008 and a nomination for The Best Indian Restaurant 2008.

Head Chef Yogesh Datta’s innovative recipes make up the intricately flavoured dishes and the menu that has Indian restaurants up and down the country talking: Cornish albacore tuna in tandoori spices & fried cashew nuts, wood pigeon supremes tandoor roasted medium rare with hot & sour spices, tandoori Grouse (whole) with crispy fried potatoes, slow cooked lamb shank in hot curry with Rajasthani red chilli paste.

Datta has earned free reign over The Painted Heron after displaying magnificent techniques and creations at the Tabla in Canary Wharf, his signature style defined as, “Classical Indian cooking to the European environment by using carefully selected, top quality fresh indigenous and imported ingredients.” So that’s that then, maintaining all the spice, tickle and kick of classical Indian cuisine but with a stylish manner and modern-hand, presented in minimalist style to a European environment.

It is fine Indian cooking. The poppodoms were good, the dip choices superb. A cold avocado cools the taste buds back down to reality after both a cherry curry and garlic, onion and tomato mix. A terrific introduction. A glass of Sauvignon de Touraine followed (£5.50 175ml).

Wild catch soft-shell crabs fried in sesame & chilli batter (£7.50) was wonderful, a little tough… More

It’s Friday evening and I haven’t booked. My date Alicia is tugging at my sleeve in complaint, making her irritation known. The Fulham restaurants of stature are glowing with busy diners and those I wouldn’t be seen dead in are not worth my consideration; however at this rate Chicken Go Go may be our evening setting?

We walk towards the Broadway and Alicia suggests we try the Harwood Arms. “Without a reservation?” I reply. “Harwood Arms in Fulham? With the Michelin star? Who serve the venison Scotch egg?” So, with no other plan we threw caution to the wind and turned into the quiet suburban road where the famed gastrobub sits (depressingly coloured) and entered, praying for a tray and seat in the toilets at the most.

As expected, the sparsely decorated room (“painted pale Farrow & Ball shades” said Giles Coren) was full of romantic couples, with upscale French families and the odd pick of neighbourhood natives, no doubt surprised to find their local wrapped in euphoria and out-of-towners since January walking on their patch, sitting on their stalls and drinking their ales.

The Michelin-starred gastrobub is one of a kind in London. It was a new entry for the prestigious award in 2010 along with The Pipe & Glass Inn in Beverley, Yorkshire and Michael Parkinson’s The Royal Oak in Paley Street, Berkshire.

The food is good rural pub grub, served cleanly and simply. My deer and walnut terrine (£6.50) was served with a salad of chicory and pickled prunes and warm crunchy toast. Presented on a tree trunk – okay, modernist wooden plate – it was a decent size for a starter. The terrine was powerful in flavour and soft to cut but there was a clear outweigh between pâté and toast, as there always is, it must be impossible to achieve – there is never enough bread, pita, chapatti, naan, damper or bagel to accompany and spread-on or mop up with.

Air-dried Cumbrian ham (£4.50) from the Bar Menu was again served on a tree trunk (a littler flatter and lighter wood this time) and there… More