J Sheekeys - A breathy and slightly pretentious review - Oct 2012

Going to J Sheekeys for their fruits de mer platter is for me the equivalent of walking into a spa. A brief respite of pure unadulterated luxury, a heady healthy hit that generally goes a long way towards improving my state of mind. The definition of a treat in other words.

It hasn't changed here in years, an I mean that in a very good way. Nicco Polo and I settle into a luxurious banquette with a self-satisfied sigh entirely at evens with the surroundings. Acres of luxurious linen cloths, a friendly and superbly well drilled FOH team and an awesomely good selection of shellfish. Nothing else needed.

Given my frothing tone so far, I should stress that while Sheekeys is luxurious, there's nothing pretentious about it. Seeing that we were struggling and wasting time with the faff of peeling the succulent little brown shrimp, our waiter gave a handy seaside tip, pinching head and tail together to pop out the sweet, fresh goodness. If I were a newbie contemplating attacking a platter, then this level of thoughtfulness would be even more appreciated.

If there's something vaguely erotic about the eating of an oyster, then fruits de mer is the culinary equivalent of no holds barred, hanging from the lampshade sex with a fruity, nubile and entirely innapropriate ex. A plethora of succulent, juicy little nubbins, blushing creamy pink morsels and taut sinews, each begging to be sampled next. Like the aforementioned illicit tryst, there's a wild menu of differnt styles, types and positions, everyone has their favourites and it's all so borderline lewd that nobody wants to imagine their parents at it.

After that, an ice cold buttery white wine and something to mop up the juices (see, I said you didn't want to imagine your parents at it...) we collapse back into the banquette. Perfect, absolutely perfect.

   

Extra time at the Hampshire Hog - Oct 2012

I didn't dislike the Hampshire Hog, well, not much. But I certainly didn't like it enough to venture back, at least not without very good reason. There for a business meeting on the recommendation of a couple of locals, I'd had a fleeting thought that I'd found a new local gem.

The decor manages to channel Jamie Oliver and Laura Ashley at the same time, but the shabby chic rustic air of a country tea room is likely only to fool those who haven't left zone 2 for a very long time.

It's a radio edit Mumford & Sons sort of place... The homely farmhouse look might come into its own on a sunny weekend, when I can imagine locals flocking to the lush beer garden, but on a random weekday lunch, other than a few Bugaboo toting mummies, we're almost alone in this West London 'Chiswick borders' pub.

Alongside a sanded down pale wood bar serving a reasonable selection of ales to the local Henrys and Jemimas, is a dining room and a 'parlour' with a few odds and sods for sale, nothing too risky, a couple of shelves of groceries and breads alongside posh 'bits' and locally sourced tracklements (or pickles as normal people refer to them) and the like.

It's in the dining room that you really start paying the price for this unfettered rusticania. If you're stupid enough to buy your bread from the local pub then you deserve to be charged through the nose for it, but £2.50 for a few slices in the adjoining restaurant feels sharp in anyone's book. It's pretty good bread (unlike the acrid oil it's served with), but it's been a while since I've even seen a cover charge, let alone one that steep.

This sharpness continues with the salads. You can have it unadorned for £12 (really?!) or 'add' salmon or ham, allegedly supplementary ingredients in a salmon or ham salad, for £2 a pop.

They're at the upsell again with the sides, slightly more to be expected I suppose, but adding £3.50 for frankly poor chips is frustrating. The fact we are told that most of the mains need an extra something takes the average main course price past the £18-£20 price point and into the "it better be bloody superb" mark.

So (finally) to the food...sadly, with the exception of that lovely bread it just didn't achieve for either of us.

"This is why people originally made fish cakes of course," ventured my guest of his solitary desiccated puck. "it's definitely the old, dry fish they couldn't use elsewhere.."

I was slightly more pleased with a reasonably sourced piece of ribeye from O'Shays. It was a nice piece of meat sadly marred by that capital sin of not being rested, arriving still taut and virtually still crying after it's recent application of heat. The salted chips were too rested sadly and clumped together sullenly on the side.

I don't want to labour the point, but given that you can pick up 2 course lunch menus for £20 at many Michelin starred places in arguably more expensive locations, and would pay less than £9 for 2 courses at Zedel, this pricing for the level of quality delivered verges on the ridiculous. Lovely beer garden though...

   

Cote in the City and Mishkins - The Grumbling Gourmet goes solo - Oct 2012

I've never had a problem with eating on my own, partly because I'm lardy, and partly because I think that there's something perversely romantic about solo dining. Just you, the thoughts in your head and the flavours in front of you, with no distractions. The idea of sitting at the bar in a solo reverie makes me feel more like the be-hatted guy in Edward Hopper's Nighthawks than a lonely businessman refuelling after a long day. 

I've spent amounts of time travelling for work over the last few years and so have got used to it, now sitting at a random bar has become one of the highlights of a trip, particularly when the basketball is on. 

Cote St Pauls 

Surprisingly, given my thoughts on most chain restaurants, popping into a Cote brasserie for a bite to eat at the bar isn't an issue. I don't mind the Covent Garden and Soho branches, having used both as a passible lunch or afternoon meeting spot previously. However the one in the City doesn't have a bar, just a large basement space, and a set of tables along one wall, facing out into the main restaurant and occupied entirely by single, middle aged men. Before I realised my mistake it was too late. I'd been identified as one of them and led gently to be deposited in the arctic of solo dining. 

I'm not sure who was more on show; us or the inane works party we were facing. A works party dinner on a Tuesday night, oh what fun! I won't go into detail, suffice to say that they were definitely having a wilder time than the banquette of solo diners in silent judgement opposite. 

The menu is generic brasserie, the quality matches, tonight at least. I tried first for a steak hache, before being informed "we can't serve below medium rare I'm afraid..." glad at least that they acknowledge why they're unable to serve that simplest of brasserie dishes served at anything less than a medium rare (you're not allowed to serve at less than medium rare unless it's minced on the premises...), sad because it was all I was looking for. 

In the absence of home chopped steak I went for the onglet frites, served with a garlic butter and little else. Not bad. The solo diner in me couldn't complain at a single mouthful. Sure it wasn't the best steak i've eaten in my life, but nor was it meant to be. For the price, I could definitely have done with a thicker or more substantial slab. Served with a passible fruity Pinot Noir, it wasn't a bad experience, but the atmosphere leaves something to be desired for the solo diner. 

Mishkin's in Covent Garden 

It's been a while since i've popped into Mishkins, Russell Norman's Jew(ish) Covent Garden diner. If his other sites channel Venice or Brooklyn, then Mishkins wouldn't look out of place in the Lower East Side or the up and coming bits of New Jersey. It's a little louder and a little brassier than the others, and that's not necessarily meant in a bad way.

The beautifully designed 'found' space has settled in well, though you'll struggle to see anyone in the evening gloom. It'd be the ideal place to have a central London affair. I also had a slight quibble about the pounding baselines we're put through, but I'm probably the only one. Certainly the smiling staff don't seem to have a problem hearing. I put it down to my age, grateful for their pleasantries. I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does. 

The ubiquitous tattoligan behind the bar is a friendly enough cove, more of an Eton Rifle than an Enfield Charger though. It takes guts to get a tattoo just to get a job, so one can only hope that double inked sleeves were part of a life plan prior to hearing about Russell Norman and his cheeky chain of diners. 

I started with corn dogs as good as I've had either side of the pond, beef franks encased in a grittily accurate coating of corn, served with a piquant tomato salsa. Desperately seeking carbs mid one of those weeks I went for a mac 'n' cheese to follow; a sizzling skillet full of all of the right ingredients. It's a dangerously dairy affair, ideal for two, but physically too much cheese for my British stomach. I didn't quite manage to finish it, and it was a solidly single noted affair that needed a salad or a spicy meat to loosen it up a bit. 

Other than the pumping tunes, is there any fault with the place? I have to say that the house Merlot was truly execrable, a surprise for these boys, but regardless of that, the lovely service and the comfortable food made me vow that it wouldn't be long before I sat at the bar again.