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.