Richard's Reviews

How could anyone resist a dish which came with “pork pie sauce”? Sod the rest of the ingredients (scallop may have taken top billing on the menu, but not for me), pork pie is one of Britain’s finest contributions to world cuisine and here it comes in liquid form. Bloody marvellous.

This was our first time in the downstairs private room, and it is never going to win any awards for décor or warmth: it is small and private, but adorned in muted browns (at great expense no doubt), and just big enough for a table, but not big enough for drinks and nibbles beforehand (although they did try).

As for the food, as well as the pork pie sauce, the scallop that accompanied it was a big, solid just cooked example, topped with a mustard crumble and accompanied by a grapefruit jelly, the sweetness of which contrasted perfectly with the salty sauce. The ravioli of smoked spud with egg yolk and the risotto also got big thumbs up. Mains too were very good, although the cod with black truffle, whilst a meaty fellow, was a little bland, contrasting with the guinea fowl which can often be bland, but here was not.

Deserts too were perfectly fine: the chocolate tart was certainly chocolaty (although the basil ice cream was a bit tame), and the whiskey cream millefeuille was so fine, that I didn’t get a look in of a try.

Dissatisfaction from other reviewers seems mainly to be focused on the service: whilst there was nothing actually wrong with the service, it is definitely on the sniffy side of formal; arrogant from the first to the last. Now I don’t really want the “Hello, have you ever been to Hibiscus before” approach, but geez guys, you could lighten up just a little bit. Maybe a smile? Too much: how about cracking a little grin then?

So don’t go to be amazed at the décor or the service, and do remember that this is Mayfair, so prices are on the high side of stratospheric, but do go for the light, often brilliant, and never less than very good, food.

My mate Andy claims that nobody outside of American knows how to cook a decent burger. He is American, so maybe he has a point. Then again, in all my many, many visits to the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, I have only ever had one truly outstanding, memorable meal. The same number as I’ve had in Copenhagen. And several fewer than in Bray. So maybe Americans just don’t know how to cook.

There is always a queue outside Meatliquour, so we decided to brave it and find out why. Well it’s not the location, stuck as it is in the bowels of a concrete monstrosity of a sixties car park (land cleared thanks to the Luftwaffe) next to a strip club. Nor the décor, which is Berlin Bunker chic circa Glasnost by way of Camden market. Nor the service, which is relaxed to the point of incompetency.

It is the burgers: say what you like about any other aspect of the operation (and believe me, I shall), the burgers are quite spectacularly good. Forget GBK or any of the other pretenders to the crown of Best Burger in Britain, these are hands down winners. Just the right size to be grabbed with both hands, the meat the absolutely spot on texture, the perfect pickle, the juices (meatliquor maybe?) flowing down your arm, onion rings the size of donuts. Yes, this is burger heaven. Set in hell.

Of course I realise that I am getting old, but is it too much to ask for sufficient light to read the menu by? Maybe put some torches on the table? We had just about enough natural light seeping through to read the no-nonsense menu, which has succinct descriptions like: “bacon cheeseburger: bacon, cheese, meat, bread” and “chilli burger: nuff said”.

There are many other affectations, such as a set of bizarre (amusing?) rules, pinned to the bar (which include “no wanking, no dickheads, no freeloading, no shirtlocking and no gerbils”, although “guinea pigs are welcome”). Then there are the bar staff who all shout out “liquor” when a round is ready to be served. There is no cutlery, no plates… More

We found ourselves at The 10 Cases only as the other restaurant that we had booked failed to come through on the reservation and I’d seen this reviewed in the FT and it sounded much more fun anyway. There are rules to making reservations, but they are simple: the restaurant has to honour the booking, and so too does the booker. I am sure that many places overbook, like airlines do, as they believe that there will be a certain number of no-shows.

So when I reconfirmed the other place, I told them that, although the reservation was for four, there would only be three of us. This shouldn’t make any difference to the size of the table but, when I called back to say actually we would be four after all, I was told that I had originally only booked for three and it was impossible to change now. I was even told by the haughty receptionist that she had taken the original reservation, so she knew that I had only asked for three. Whatever: I had used that new fangled interweb thingy to book (and indeed had the email confirmation). So I used the self same digital manner to cancel, not trusting the analogue, and once again getting email confirmation.

The 10 Cases couldn’t have been more different. Having booked on-line, I had a call to confirm and said that, although booked for 10.00pm, we might be late as we were coming post theatre. “No problem”, I was assured “come whenever works”. I immediately had a warm feeling towards the place.

The first thing to note is that the restaurant is small. It has a counter and, this evening, a table of eight and a couple of tables of four. Another of my rules of restaurants is that the biggest table will always make the most noise, unless one of the other tables is a party of French, Italians or Spanish. One of the other smaller tables was French, so the rule applied (although of course it did mean that there were lots of cigarette breaks, when the noise level became bearable again).

Waiting staff are as friendly as the receptionist; ours claimed… More

In hindsight, it is no surprise that BrewDog ended up in Camden Town; it is the perfect place for the furry hat wearing, self-proclaimed “punks” of BrewDog to set up their first Sassenach stronghold. Trendy: bit out there, a bit edgy, a bit whacky and all just a lot tacky. Total grunge. The perfect marriage.

For the boys at BrewDog, and of course it is boys, have made a habit out of baiting the Daily Heil reading population of this fair isle: shove a bottle up a squirrels arse? Oh yeah, done that whacky little number. Invent the (at the time) world’s strongest beer, a 32° monster and call it Tactical Nuclear Penguin? Indeed so – that’ll get the blue rinse brigade spluttering into their morning valium. Issued shares to the beer swilling masses? Of course; how non-conformist is that? Hang on. What?

Oh yes, our friendly punks have forgone the pogoing and gobbing of punks when I was young, and taken the City option: get the proletariat not only to buy your mind altering drinks, but then sell off the production to them too. Lady Thatcher would be proud: “If you see McSporran tell him”.

The terrific bar is small, populated by a predominantly male audience, although not your usual bearded CAMERA crew, a more Camden experience all round: more tats and piercings than beards. You can tell you are in a trendy bar: the lads are wearing wooly hats. Indoors.

They serve some nice little tasting platters, at really good prices, but this place is all about the beer. And there is a fair range; ten BrewDogs on tap, ranging from the “lighter”, almost fruity Trashy Blond (at a mere 4°), through a mixture of dog (Dogma), blokey (5am Saint) and punk (Punk IPA) related names, plus guests from (at the time of writing) the US and Denmark. Given the range, it is great that the bar staff take their time with you, letting you have a taster before you pick whichever wackily monikered poison takes your fancy.

The stronger the beers get, the smaller the glasses they come in, until you get to the… More

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; this is a tale of two meals. The Delaunay announces itself as an all day dining place, so in the interests of fairness, I visited it at lunchtime and then for a late, post-theatre supper (for it would be far too gauche to call what one has here dinner). The experiences were markedly different.

This place smells new – that leather smell that you get from a new Roller amplified but what must have been the remains of most of the extras on Rawhide, overpowering as you first walk in. This will go over time, but what will not is the imposing nature of the room.

Much like their other joint, the Wolsely, Delaunay is grand, on the scale of a Lyonnais brasserie (or at least a New York imitation of one) or, given the pile of cakes, a Viennese grand cafe. Dark panelled wood lines the walls; that fresh, green leather in the banquettes and booths. The ceiling is high and floor polished marble. It reeks as much of money as it does of leather, although the patina of age will fade the leather, it will only enhance the smell of money.

Oddly, however, the clientele doesn’t seem so monied. It may be close to the Courts of Justice, but it is equally close to Drury Lane, so there was an odd mixture about the crowd. What is noticeable is that at lunchtime the old grandees of the City seem to be more prominent, wining out over the tourists wandering up Drury Lane, whilst in the evening, it is a different story; a younger, more lively crowd.

The first time I was in, Messrs King and Corbin were in, glad-handing the great and the good (I didn’t recognise any of them, but I am sure that there were those who were both). I was studiously ignored, but at least wasn’t sent to the Siberian wastelands of The Table By The Loo. The evening trip was a different story: we were fortunately not sat behind the glass, screened off area (which I first took for a private room, but turns out to be the restaurant equivalent of the naughty step), but instead had… More

The film Tampopo isn’t your usual love story. Yes, there is the hackneyed boy meets girl, saves her and her noodle shop from evil nasty villain, enlists the local tramp to help her make the perfect bowl of noodles, she lives happily every after whilst he rides off into the sunset (in a milk lorry with horns on the cab roof) storyline, but it is really a love story between the Japanese and food. Most especially, but certainly not exclusively, the noodle.

Love doesn’t really do it justice though; maybe obsession is a better word to describe it. In one of the early scenes, the young padawan is learning the correct way to eat a bowl of noodles from the Yoda like master. Should he start with the pork or the noodles? When should he drink the soup? He is told to caress the pork lightly with his chopsticks out of respect, but put it to one side whilst taking some noodles, all the while eyeing the pork. Only once some noodles and some soup have been noisily ingested should the pork be approached. Reverently.

I haven’t a clue whether this makes any sense at all, whether this ritual enhances the noodle eating experience or even whether anyone in Japan actually does this (although, having visited the wonderful country, I suspect that there are some who do). What I do know is that Koya always looks to be packed, with a queue snaking out the front, no matter what time of which day you go. It has thus taken months to actually get here and, having gone, I cannot quite see why the queue is so long.

The food is simple udon noodle fare: big, fat noodles in broth with a choice of toppings. Pork, unusually, doesn't come as sliced, but minced, in a spicy, almost sweet, sauce. The tofu, whilst looking like fried chicken, was, as it should be, totally tasteless, acting as a receptacle for the flavours of the broth. Both dishes fine, but lacking in profundity.

We started with an excellent seaweed salad and some mixed tempura, which was pretty good, if the batter a little on the heavy side; I… More

Camino is a tapas bar. Now that may sound obvious, but it is not, unlike so many Spanish restaurants in London that call themselves “tapas bars”, a restaurant (well, part of it is, but that is the dull part – the part that I am talking about is the bar area that takes up about three-quarters of the place).

The excellent Fino, Salt Yard, Dehesa, Brindisa (as well as the execrable La Tasca and La Reuda chains) may all claim to be tapas bars but they are not; they are restaurants. Destination places. Places that you book. Places you go to as a group for an evening, not places to drop in and have a small snack and a glass of something on the way to the next one.

Camino is as real as you are going to get outside of Catalonia, and within the confines of English licensing laws and national character. In the main bar there are no tables and chairs, merely stools around tables that are fit best for leaning on. There is a long bar for doing the same, from which sprouts taps dispensing Estrella Damm. There are those napkin dispensers that give out pieces of flimsy paper that, after one wipe, are fit only to be scrunched up and dropped on the floor. Barca are winning on the TV in the corner; a couple of sherries and a couple of tasty snacks leave you change from a score; Australians in beanies are chatting up the bar maids: you could be on Los Rambles. Well, apart from the fact that it is raining and grey outside, the place closes at midnight and nobody has tried to mug you in the last five minutes (although, given the proximity to Kings Cross, this is never a given).

As well as the Estella come the wines and the sherries (disappointingly, only four or five, all different styles, but all fairly mainstream), each by the bottle, glass or carafe, that you will find at any self respecting Spanish restaurant in town, but also sidra (natural cider), so little found outside of its home in Asturias. This is not, however, as you would find in Asturias, theatrically poured from great heights… More

I have tried to love Bocca Di Lupo, I really have. But at the end of the day I just don't. It's not me, it's you; you're just not my type.

And this is odd, as you really should be. Deep fried fish, game, interesting wines. They're all here. But, and I don't really know why, the whole is somehow so much less than the sum of the parts, that I just can't find the love. Like finding out that Kylie supports Spurs; heartbreaking as, on paper, everything seems so perfect.

It's not as if I haven't tried; this is the fourth or fifth time I've been, but it still doesn't click. I'm sorry, but it's Polpo for me from now on for small dish Italian nosh.

This weekend was the second time I'd tried to go in the last few weeks. The previous time I'd booked for four. One pulled out so, when I was called to reconfirm, I confirmed for three. The fourth then changed their mind, but, on calling the restaurant, I was first told I'd only ever had a booking for three, and was the told there was no way we could up our booking to four. Now I'm sorry, but the restaurant has tables for two or four. Where exactly were three going to sit; on a table otherwise for two or four?

So I cancelled and we went to Ten Cases. Yet I still got chased for not having turned up.

Now I suppose that this should have been a warning. But no, a couple of weeks later I tried again. No troubles with booking, but arriving ten minutes late, we were told that our table wasn't ready. The great thing about modern technology (other than updating cancellations, it seems) is that everything comes up on the reception screen. No reservations book, all on screen.

So I could stand there and watch the red flag counting by how much the people on our table had overstayed their allotted time. 26 minutes overstaying for a two hour reservation. Sorry, but you need to manage this if you don’t want people to get annoyed about standing around waiting for a table that they have booked. Now I don’t like aggressive table turning, but I do… More