Quo Vadis - My, haven't you aged well? - July 2013

It's been a while now since new chef Jeremy Lee took over at Soho institution Quo Vadis, and even longer since the Hart brothers refurbishment that brought it back onto foodie radars after a decade of sliding standards.

The space gives the impression of being bigger than it is. Room after room of fresh, clean and chic off-whites and brasses open up as you penetrate deeper while thick white table linens mute the noise from tightly packed neighbours, the majority of them the loud and jolly old boys of the advertising type I thought had abandoned Soho altogether.

The little touches from the staff are delicately assured. There's still or sparkling filtered water, a banter if you need, an efficiency of clear and serve if you're obviously otherwise engaged and an eye for attention matched by some of the seasonal dishes on the well turned out rustic menu.

And it's from that short menu that we grab a short but perfectly formed lunch. I wistfully but worthily skirt a chicken and guinea fowl pie, but suffer agonies when it turns up centimetres away on the neighbouring table, huge and gleaming, its buttery smell wafting over the slim divide between the tables. I'm also deeply envious of a huge hunk of bleeding ruby hued onglet steak that arrives next to it, served up with golden railway sleeper-like triple cooked chips.

Thankfully, I get to sample some of those chips with one of the other substantial mains on offer. Coqulet isn't a bird you often see on restaurant menus. In these days of tightly managed animal husbandry too few young roosters, like their bovine equivalents, get out of early infancy. This one made a great case for them to hit more tables though. A hefty half bird was served simply roasted, with gloriously garlicky herb butter squashed into every crevice. Packed with taste, soft, supple and meaty, the bird is more than a match for its stuffing.

Alongside that, there were two simple but effective fishy salads, both ostensibly starters, that worked well to create a combined main course. Young garlic shoots, crushed olives, peas and mint came together well, though the mint was a little overpowering. Beautifully cooked squid with asparagus was much better, a lovely mix of flavours and textures.

It's an accomplished restaurant experience, as you'd expect from two of the capital's more accomplished restaurateurs, and has a quirky but polished charm that should ensure it retains its place near the top of the London dining pile this time round.

 

Top image nicked from the restaurant - 

I was on a business lunch so photography wasn't an option

Plum and Spilt Milk - Railway dining heritage on the right track - June 2013

 So you've heard about the big name chef, who made his name working under Ramsay, opening up in the refurbished grandeur of a once iconic King's Cross hotel. The yesteryear venue name, the appropriately quixotic decor, the confidently egalitarian food and the bar, well, at least a couple of steps up from the Weatherspoons you'd normally find in a location like this. You've heard about it? Which one, because now there's two of the buggers...
Next door in the Great Northern Hotel and hot(ish) on the heels of Marcus Wareing's grand St Pancreas dining hall The Gilbert Scott comes Mark Sargeant's Plum and Spilt Milk (an indecipherably odd name unless you're a train spotter - P&SM the oddity obviously, Mark is still fairly common). The name refers to the site's railway heritage, evoked through colour and artfully referenced design rather than by slavish recreation of a buffet car thankfully.

And it is a truly, truly scrumptious design. As understatedly elegant as any of the grand dining rooms of the city. A ceiling mounted forest of light dapples elegant cream (or spilt milk) banquettes and warm golds provide a link to classily Deco black lacquered table tops. The little touches are the best. A darling milk bottle top mosaic lines the lofty period staircase up from the decadently deco bar and wall mounted sets of sockets provide handy USB and continental plug charging points over each table. Just don't leave your mobile on the handy shelf above the seating in your rush to get to the platform. 

The staff handbook also looks like it's taken a leaf out of the Caprice Holdings service bible - sassy, clued up and personable, you get the feeling that they'd remind you of your departure time if you didn't manage to rouse yourself after a tussle with the carnivore's dream that is the short, sweet menu.
 

 
Starters are trad, light(ish) and often fishy. My thickly and thrillingly creamy smoked haddock soufflé glistened richly under a blanket of cheese sauce in an individual Staub pot bed, a little poached quail's egg perched on top like a candied fruit on a posh chocolate. It certainly gives the Dean Street Town House's version a run for its money. Other than that little piscine pearl, there was potted shrimp, dill cured salmon and delightfully moreish, gravy soaked lamb sweetbreads that we couldn't help but share among the table. 

It's not exactly ground breaking cuisine, but I don't get the sense that this restaurant is meant to be that. It isn't a light and casual snack before travelling. This is a big meal before you hunker down into your first class seat on the way to Brussels for that meeting.

Mains are similarly (and for me agreeably) old-school macho. They've got 3 or 4 hefty meat focussed options, a 'house' pie, and a couple of club lounge style fish dishes as well as a 'grill section'. For the real food nerds, the latter are cooked in (under? over??) a razzy new Inka Grill - a competitor to the Josper Grills that have been springing up in meat heavy kitchens over the last few years

 

Loin of pork was enormous. A genuinely shocking hunk of pig. tasty, but heavy going towards the end and being long and slow cooked to avoid the drying out that could have occurred with a piece this size it was a little bit too one dimensional and, dare I say it, a little bland. Another couple of those Staub dishes filled with fine beans, darling slivers of heritage carrot and a fair spicy apple chutney saw it through though.It was hard however to avoid the food envy watching one fellow diner demolish a soft plate of silken deboned Jacob's Ladder Ribs with accompanying turnip mash and the other plough through a peerless fish pie of buttery richness.

Puddings were in the same gentleman's club vein, though thankfully not served in the same Staub pots (they must have an amazing deal with the company that provides them). While a shared Tarte Tatin defeated two at the table, I ploughed on manfully through my chocolate fondant with malted milk creme, succumbing to the food coma only on leaving the restaurant. If you find it difficult to doze off on trains, here's your answer.

Despite costing a deal less to dine there, on this showing it's certainly no poor cousin to The Gilbert Scott next door. Sure it's simpler, but in this context that's unequivocally a 'good thing'. So we've now got a brace of ex-Ramsay chefs cooking up a storm in newly reinvigorated N1. Come on Angela Hartnett, how's about a hat trick?

 

Angelica - Rooftop tapas in Leeds - June 2013

There are now three rooftop restaurants in Leeds… That's right. Three… Turn up looking for the declining North and you'll miss it for the Gucci swinging models navigating staircases with their micro skirts.

Obviously that's not entirely true. The great cities of the North of England are decidedly less great than they have been in recent years and the less fashionable ones (sorry Hull and Bradford) are genuinely, sadly moribund in places, with threadbare tatters swinging where once a city centre was. Leeds is at least putting on a show for visitors, particularly those that arrive into its great arched train station.

Turn right and you'll pass the thankfully shuttered Majestyks Nitespot (sic, sic and thrice sic) once home to trashy, fighty footballers and the effluvia that worshipped them, now 'undergoing redevelopment'. Turn left and you've got delightful bar and charcuterie, The Friends of Ham where once there was only a tanning salon next door to the mighty fine Brewery Tap, itself once a grotty, soulless pre-commute waiting room serving booze, now a trendy little microbrewery and home to the delightful Leodis Lager. And to top it off, there's a shiny new shopping centre with (whisper it oh incredulous Southerners) an Urban Outfitters, Armani and a Victoria's Secret. Truly the Northmen have arrived, the poor sods.

Sat atop this slightly monstrous consumer trifle like a smug cherry are two floors of D&D (formerly Conran) restaurants, the only city to be so graced with a brace other than the capital. Packed at 8pm on a Thursday, already a regular hit with the locals it would seem...

As you'd expect from their heritage, the room is an head turner. Sure, it's blowing a force 8 gale when we arrive but there's still a hardy few taking in the views over the redbrick roof tops of the city. There had been a hollow laugh from the GM when I'd tried to book for the terrace, "that won't be a problem, but we'll save you somewhere inside as well shall we, see how the weather goes", a canny lass… 

After eventually navigating a bizarre set of lifts and elevators, we walk out into the open plan atrium, its centre point a beautiful circular zinc bar packed with choppy haired mixologists. It's almost so pretty that you miss the raw bar at the back of the room. The decor is undeniably classy and understatedly mid-Century modern. With deep felt covered easy chairs, it's comfortable too, unlike the volume of the music, ear-bleed easy listening makes for a shouty experience, not a problem for the raucous groups of affluent professionals crowding the place dressed for a 'big night out'.

The menu raises a smile. There was a time when the concept of Yorkshire tapas would have suggested nothing as exotic as a bag each of salt'n'vinegar and prawn cocktail (the king of crisp) with an accompanying salted peanut or two - at first glance the menu of sharing bites at Angelica is at first a thoroughly refined departure from those dark days. We go for four or five, each arriving as they are ready. Other than a handful of items from the raw bar it's difficult to rustle up a coherent meal here. Snacks and nibbles aren't a problem in somewhere seemingly so set for a drinking crowd, but they're currently a restaurant too and it's hard to know whether they're trying to be Arthur or Martha.

 

The best thing that arrives on the table is a hearty salad of Swaledale blue, walnut, (tinned) pear and chicory. There's a Sichuan beef dish served in that slightly cringey 90's way on a few leaves of lollo rosso. It's tasty enough, but the only flavour is the overpowering iron tang of ground Sichuan peppercorns and served on a chilly plate it's entirely lacking in any sort of heat. Triple cooked chips were nice enough but the accompanying 'day fish' goujons were straight out of the Berni Inn cookbook. At £12.50 it's priced to be a solo main and four small, overcooked bits of fish don't cut the tartare sauce in a Northern town.

None of it is cheap mind, we spent £50 before touching the weighty drinks menu, and why for God's sake do they charge £2.50 for a 'bread basket'?! Management aren't stupid enough to charge for bread at the D&D London restaurants, even at Coq D'Argent, home of the £1000 Coq au vin... 

Desserts and drinks are more successful, a shared plate of mini 'seaside donuts' is obviously destined to become a house special, the hot sugared treats elegantly presented and ripe for dunking in the accompanying chocolate and vanilla sauce. It's a fun conceit even if it doesn't add anything to global gastronomy. Full credit for a decent range of Yorkshire bottled beers and some quite excellent cocktails.

Given the success of Antony Flynn, the Leeds version of Rick Stein, over recent years, the people of Leeds are ready enough for a few more decent premium bistros, but on this showing Angelica isn't one of them. A lazy meandering menu with no sense of place colliding with a cocktail bar that goes straight to the top of the city's list. I'd be tempted to cull the kitchen and focus on the booze.

 

  

The Anchor and Hope in Waterloo - Perfection revisited May 2013

I don't say it often, but dinner at the Hope and Anchor is practically perfect in every way. It's been a while since I'd been, and longer since I'd written about it, so thought that a re-review was due. I'm very pleased to say that its place in my personal grubby, food stained list of London's dirty, sexy and cool restaurants is still assured. If this review sounds smug in any way, that's because it is. I'm still purring like a contented cat a week later...

If you can't cope with the recycled pub schtick, the buzz and irritations of tightly packed, shared tables or are looking for a quiet romantic dinner (at least one that doesn't involve sucking meat juice from your fingers) then steer clear. If you're fond of being hypercritical, you'll be pleased to know it's also unsurprisingly difficult to get a table, even early week, so either get there really, really early or be prepared to wait in the over spilling and rowdy bar. Whinge about that, because you won't be whinging about much else.

Arriving late we were lucky enough to stroll straight in. Skipping the usual wait at the bar with it's attendant reasonably priced (if basic) cocktails and well kept pints, we opted for a lovely drop of spicy Douro from the shallow end of the wine list as we took to our rickety wooden chairs at the brushed wood shared farmhouse table at the front. For the Farmer, this was home away from countryside home, particularly when he'd settled long enough to peruse the single sheet menu with its gruff single word descriptors of fish, flesh and fowl.

Hunks of fresh tangy sourdough with a huge pot of butter were followed by fresh, fragrant and wonderful British asparagus, succulent green vestal virgins dipped in a fresh buttery mayonnaise and decapitated as quickly as we could get them down our greedy little necks.
  

Coming down to the mains eyes and bellies just couldn't resist the whole mustard braised rabbit for two to share. A quick check before committing for both of us - "How's the rabbit? Worth it?" The waiter's smiling eyes glazed over as under his breath he muttered "it's absolutely fucking beautiful guys". The staff are utterly delightful - when you ask opinions, you really get them. They smile as they reel off the staff dinner menu from last week, smile as they advise a cheaper wine than we were planning on and genuinely seem to love working there. And who wouldn't with this kitchen? I'm tempted to pay for a job here, just to guarantee tasting this food daily, though I'd struggle to get through the tightly packed tables after a week or so of it.

As well as raising a delightful herd of rare breed beef (and an equally delightful family) the Farmer has the most marvellous day job. He's a classically trained singer for hire (like a gun for hire but with marginally better better life prospects). It'd be a cliche, though not entirely untrue, if I said he was loudly singing in praise of the Anchor and Hope. That being said, there was definitely a contented hum from us both as we sucked the last bones dry. Soft, slow braised bunny in a creamy sauce sopped up with triple cooked chips. It's never been the healthy option, but when it tastes this good you just don't care.

 

The Reform Social and Grill - What What! May 2013

Spring! As the first rays of life-giving sun hit your upturned cheeks and the nights recede into long placid evenings with the promise of chilled rose wine. A thousand BBQ's rumble out of garages, the long forgotten, rusty and oil stained armoured vanguard of summer. Spring! A time of salads and green and the lightest of touches. Spring! The perfect time to visit a gentleman's club inspired grill restaurant then… ah. No.. sadly not.

I'd had the Reform Social highlighted to me by a number of people back in the depths of winter (i.e. various points in the last 12 months) and the reports had all said broadly the same thing. Pretty decent food, if heavy on the meat and puddings, and a dark, clubby, cocoon of a space with snug leather seating you could drown in. 

In summary, ideal for a long gentleman's luncheon before the weather breaks for the better... Well I'm no follower of fashion (just look at my wardrobe) and that's why I'd waited until the first fragrant days of warmth and light before pulling on my crushed velvet smoking jacket, adjusting my monocle and finding a saucy young slip of a gel to entertain.

Slotted underneath the Mandeville Hotel just off Marylebone High Street, the hotelish (and not entirely in a good way) bar was our first entry point. The way robustly blocked by a florid and fully padded post work crowd enjoying a discount deal on fizz we squeezed uncomfortably through to the dining room at the other side of the lounge. 

   

Here I was pleased to see a full crowd of mixed ages. My gentleman's jacket wouldn't have looked entirely out of place, but neither were we marooned in fuddy-duddy land. The table of birthday partying hipsters and a gaggle of courting couples dining gave our section of the long dark room a gentle (and genteel) buzz.

Things started very well with a crisp, clean and perfectly cooked duck 'Scotch' egg, wrapped in a pliant and piquant black pudding shell. It clashed with an unnecessary trough of apple sauce, but solo was note perfect.

The mains sadly were less accomplished in their delivery. Both arrived on a generic root vegetable puree, hay cooked hake was a fine piece of fish, but smokier and saltier than a Glaswegian sailors mission. Stuffed lamb breast, a substitution for the stout sounding Angus rose veal chop I'd been salivating for, came as an underwelmingly small and fatty roulade filled with a fishy breadcrumb mix and topped bafflingly with tight and over-battered scampi, an odd mix that did none of the constituent parts justice. A side of pumpkin with chilli and sage gave none of the flavour of either and was verging on undercooked to boot. There's a good looking grill section here filled with some handsomely sourced cuts. I can only blame our ordering for missing them out.

Thankfully there was a knowing hand on the desserts, reason almost to return in themselves. My Bakewell Pudding, a crispy puck of choux filled with tart fruit and covered in thick vanilla custard the colour and consistency of whipped butter. A darkly decadent chocolate and blood orange pot was equally moreish. Given what I saw of the cocktails, I'm tempted to return for a lush's afternoon tea combining the two.

On a slight negative note, there was a noticeable level of fractiousness among the front of house team, commands and critiques hissed not sotto voce enough to be unheard as the harried team flew around us. It wasn't ideal. They were pretty good face to face, just less so when talking to each other.

There's less knowing cool than at that other modern bastions of of 'private member's-chic' like Dean Street Townhouse and Hawksmoor (both of whom definitely hosted planning meetings for this place) but that's not necessarily a bad thing. It doesn't do it quite as well as the aforementioned, but does well enough at a reasonable price that you won't probably shouldn't mind. 

 

Waiting for 10 Greek Street - Apr 2012

This month I will be mostly doing nothing new... I'm going to try to only go to places I've been to, and enjoyed, before. Over recent months I've definitely been guilty of only focussing on potentially exciting openings, as often as not being fairly underwhelmed. Either that or I'll don sackcloth and ashes and stay in till after the Olympics.     

     

The problem is that my eyes are literally bigger than my belly. And there are so many new places, each sounding more exciting than the last; authentic BBQ, London's first Peruvian, basement sex shop Mexicans, a slew of one dish or one ingredient specialists and pop up this, that and the other. It's a frothing seething circle-jerk of new. And it all sounds so bloody good on paper.   

So apart from being able to smugly inform you what I think of these places the second they appear, what other benefits are there to being first? Sweet few as it turns out... If you're lucky you miss the crowds, but you also get to deal with a world of settling in services and chefs and while you might discover a little gem, you're never going back to find out if it was truly as good as you thought it was. While restaurants can be like theatre, there are also plenty of reasons for returning to old favourites.

     

After a few years of East and West most definitely being best, Soho and Covent Garden, my preferred stomping grounds, are undergoing a resurgence at the moment and 10 Greek Street ticked every on trend box when it opened last month. A barely reclaimed austere space with found decor, a short and simple list of regularly changing seasonal specials and a no reservations policy... All they needed were young, beautiful staff with tattoos and you could chalk up a restaurant of the year nomination here and now.  

Ah, that oh so 'now' no reservations policy... Leave your number and head off for a drink in Soho's glamorous Soho. I pushed our cagey host on a rough time but he wasn't being drawn.

"Any idea roughly how long we'll be? It doesn't matter, we're not starving, we just wanted a rough idea?"
"Couldn't tell you mate, we'll give you a call when it's your turn."
"20 minutes you reckon? Half an hour? An hour? Two?"
"Could be mate, could be."

We retired to the unlovely pub across the road, poised, like slightly boozy sprinters ready to flee... I understand the logic but it hardly makes for a relaxing pre-dinner experience. I wonder whether they'd have waited for us if we'd just got another round in as the call came?  

And the food? After a three beer wait it was probably fine. Very well sourced, moderately well cooked bits of rare breed protein served with clumps of heritage green stuff on a bed of carb. There was probably a gravy too. It really wasn't bad at all, Someone had rare, too bleedy (sous vide maybe?) duck, and I remember totally enjoying what was almost certainly a pork chop on celariac mash but without looking at the menu I can't be totally sure. After another couple of bottles of wine I don't recall a huge amount. We all finished with a pear tartin, also fine, though no real oomph to it, and none of the blackened sticky toffee notes you need in a good tartin. A perfectly acceptable end to perfectly acceptable cooking. 

You're not here for the food at the moment though, it's more for the knowing ambience of early adopter and the whiff of new. If you're after that, you won't be disappointed. When the buzz dies down, there's a decent little local bistro here, the kind you'll want to get to know. I'd save it for the early week dinner in a couple of months time. It's going to be there for a while, so don't all rush at once.

At Hugh... this time the only thing I can describe!

   

Tom Aikens at Somerset House - Fings ain't as bad as they used to be - Mar 2012

So a long time ago now, at least a yonk, if not two, I went to one of Tom Aikens' places. In fact, I went to THE Tom Aikens place. The one called Tom Aikens (as opposed to Tom's Kitchen, or Tom's Plaice or Tom's Terrace). In case you're not sensing the theme; the brand is all about Tom. Like a high end and less paunchy Jamie Oliver, or a much prettier Gordon Ramsay. 
 
Anyway, it was horrid. Tom Aikens that is. The restaurant, not the man. I was on a bad date and could barely afford to pay for half of the meal at those prices, and they are pricey prices - whilst also being in the company of an upwardly mobile wannabe Sloane desperately making eyes at investment bankers. I cried inwardly at my arts industry salary and looked daggers at the Charlies and the Henrys and the Hugos floating around the starchy dining room. None of us came out of it looking good. The food was forgettable: the sort of drawn out pale insignificance that makes you dread that this might be it for an inexperienced Michelin diner, like a schoolboy watching bad Shakespeare and dismissing the bard entirely.

But I digress. I didn't go to 'casual' offshoot Tom's Kitchen, nor to his shortlived fish restaurant, Tom's Plaice. The idea of travelling to the centre of Chelsea to eat overpriced fish and chips while watching the locals slum it didn't appeal. But I did go to Tom's Terrace, the Somerset House summer pop-up overlooking the National and the Southbank, where I experienced a huge wait for a pointlessly expensive sharing board of assorted sandwich fillers and promptly fucked off to Joe Allen for a burger.

Now all of this is a little unfair on Tom. He's certainly putting himself out there. He was the youngest British chef to win 2 Michelin stars and he does a whole host for charidee. I feel a little sad that his brand concepts have delivered two memorably disappointing dining experiences. So I went back. Well, I let myself be taken back, this time to Tom's Kitchen at Somerset House. Separate to the Terrace, it's a spare, almost monastic space, especially in the early spring weak lunchtime light. It's wealthy austerity, a "we're only casual dining, no silver service here so don't worry about the pricing" sense of scene. Wooden furniture is heavy and simple, the tables are unclothed. Reclaimed industrial lighting adds a glow to augment the large high windows. In short, it's nothing showy.

The food is good old comfort food, nothing more, nothing less. It's what the good folk of Chelsea like most about their version of the local cafe, and it's clearly aimed here at the ladies who lunch after a morning at the Courtauld. There's certainly nothing here that'll scare them. Mussels, crab cakes, chicken liver parfait and soup of the day to start. Steaks, grilled fish and calf liver for mains - It's a menu befitting an upperclass hotel dining room from the 1950's. My guest went for the cured salmon and a thick juicy ribeye. £28 for a 10oz serving isn't the greatest deal in town, though it was seemingly well enough cooked.

I went for the soup of the day, a creamy butternut squash number and have to say that I can still taste it: rich, buttery and sweet, perfectly seasoned and with the tiniest spike of chilli, like liquid sunshine. That was followed with the beer-battered fish and chips. Haddock I think. Though our server didn't know, which you should, you really should, especially for £17 a (small) portion. It wasn't a patch on cabbie's favourite, Masters Superfish, just over the bridge on Waterloo Road. But you don't take captains of industry there, unless they really want to go. 

So it isn't the cheapest of spots. And the menu won't set you on fire with its innovation. But if you're in Somerset House on a midweek lunchtime, that's probably not what you're looking for. It's certainly pricier than it needs to be for the quality and the service, but of the three Tom's, this was was by far my favourite.

   

Arbutus - The opposite of pop up - Mar 2012

With the current craze being for reservation free dining, unless you're actively surfing ahead of that zeitgeist or are prepared to huddle in the cold for 45 minutes minimum even for a table at 7, you'll be left wistfully wishing you'd got 'it' before Twitter did. New dining is about social support networks, and by the time you read about it in the old media, it's probably already jumped the shark.

Thankfully you don't have to try and corral your less cool friends into the latest reservation free pop up as the plethora of these has thankfully given you an excuse to revisit slightly quieter options that don't feature on the Twits radar.

Arbutus is one of these. Just off Soho Square, it's a clean contemporary dining room serving clean and contemporary seasonal Modern European food. They specialise in some of the biggest of flavours, put together with the lightest of touches. I start with a contender for best starter of the last few years; squid and mackrel 'burger'. Infinitely better than it sounds, it's an absolutely joyous hockey puck of freshest seafood that absolutely hits the back of the net for me and my Cordon Bleu trained dining guest.

If you prefer dining out to involve a bit more effort on the part of the chef than just piling good ingredients on a plate then you'll be pleased. There's a real sense of craft demonstrated here that stops short of showing off.

Chef Demetre delights in multiple incarnations of ingredients in each dish, in this case rabbit for Cordon Bleu and tripe for me. To be honest, the portion sizes got a bit messy. I know offal is cheap but I literally have four large plates to plough through. Slow cooked as an enormous cassoulet on the side is marvellous melting and soft. Topped with crisp parsley crumb, a distinctive uric tang rises with the steam. It's not that, but the portion size that defeats me in the end.

Less successful is the small plate of slightly soft chewy crackling served alongside. It's a fatty afterthought that doesn't add much to the meal and is mostly ignored. The main dish was a Marsailles style rustic dish known as Pieds-Paquets, tripe stuffed with chopped ham, garlic and herbs, rolled into little parcels and simmered for 6-7 hours. Just when I thought I was done, a final meaty flourish gave me a toast topper of fine chopped garlicky tripe. Superb, but I had meat coming out of my ears.

By contrast Cordon Bleu's shoulder pie and saddle of rabbit were positively Lilliputian. They seemed to go down well, he was scraping the tiny Staubb receptacle clean while I was still ploughing gamely on. It's a good thing he talks more than I do...

Their set lunch is one of the best business dining options in Soho and at £50 a head including a decent bottle of something ertzatz and Italian, dinner doesn't need to break the bank. In a pleasantly surprising touch, a cheaper bottle is recommended when our first choice isn't available, I only wish more restaurants would dare to do this. Another nice touch at the three restaurants in the group is the vast number of wines available by the carafe.

Arbutus may not have the blistering white hot buzz of nearby transient neighbours, but it sure as hell competes on quality. Take advantage of the fact that everyone is currently queuing outside somewhere else.

on.com/b/link/560500/biglink.gif" style="border:none;width:200px;height:146px" />

Karpo - A split personality in King's Cross... Mar 2012

Places like this are a gift to write about, if not necessarily one to share... Karpo is truly a bizarre little (big) place. 

If one were crazy enough to open a restaurant in London then it's fair to say that King's Cross wouldn't be the obvious place for i unless you were intent on proving your craziness to all and sundry. Despite the money being pumped into the area, it's going to be a while before anybody in their right mind heads there for anything other than the train station.

That being said, if you are going to open a new resto, it's important to stand out from the crowd. And one way to stand out, when you're surrounded by a million and one single item places around serving only burgers or only fried chicken or only subs or only sarnies, is to make sure you serve absolutely eeeeverything...

After some excellent lemon soused pickled veg and moreish (if teetotal) bourbon pecan nuts we greedily attacked the menu. There's a lot I like the look of, but very little that readily goes together as a meal. From an overly diverse selection of hot and cold starters we travelled from Britain to Finland via the Deep South. With the exception of an over plasticised Lobster Mac 'n' cheese, the other plates worked well, if not necessarily together. Southern Fried Quail was finger lickin' excellent, the oft dry bird protected and gamey flavours enhanced by a spicy, crispy crumb. Scandinavian style eel on a dark nutty rye was a silkily simple morsel perfectly executed as was a firm and rich British classic of brawn on toast.

I'd tried to match the Southern theme with a main of 'Shrimp and Grits'. Pleasant enough, it just wasn't as I'd expected. Traditionally served as a slightly looser mixture, the corn grits were here more like a firm toasted polenta cake, topped with four or five big plump shrimps and doused in a rich salty gravy. Not actively unpleasant, but neither was it entirely satisfying. The polenta came hotter than the sun, an unwelcome plating error. Other mains veered from Asian influenced fish, via Moroccan chicken through to North European potato pancakes. As I say, none of us had a bad meal, there just wasn't a central concept to hang it off.

Like the food, there's definitely a deal of thought gone into the design of the place, though it tries to be as all encompassing as the menu. The interior designer must have had an awfully challenging time. You can imagine the conversation over the mood boards. "Ok, I'm not sure on the menu concept, it looks like you're trying to offer a little bit of everything, which is great, so we could take the design from any number of these five different styles, which do you prefer?". "All of them... Let's have all of them. At the same time..."

There's Lower East Side concrete chic into Scandi furniture and an eco/sustainable herb wall, a British member's bar downstairs next door to a Hard Rock styled section with plectrum tables and wall mounted guitars and that's without mentioning the black, red and gold blinged bathroom suitable for an oligarch. Enough already, just don't come here with a headache...

Quirks also exist at the similarly schizophrenic Bob Bob Ricard, but there the design pulls it together perfectly and while the menu moves around, there's plenty you can make a great meal from. 

Neither Karpo's menu or decor really seem to know what they're trying to achieve currently, and to be honest neither do we, which is a shame, as there's definitely talent in the open plan galley kitchen at the back, focused too widely on an extensive range of disparate dishes. It's a pleasant enough meal, made good by excellent company, but there isn't anything else that'll drag me back here and I couldn't begin to describe it well enough to send anyone else.

Auspicious returns part 1 - Sunday lunch at the Dean Street Townhouse - Mar 2012

I've been back to the Dean Street Townhouse a number of times in the past year since my last review and haven't had a bad meal yet. A number of key staff have decamped to 34 Grosvenor, but those that remain firmly epitomise the individuality and attention to detail you expect from Caprice Holdings and Soho House. The menu has had a few tweaks over time, but it still specialises in unpretentious British comfort food served in comfortable surroundings. 

One thing I haven't done however is head down there for a Sunday lunch. At least until last weekend, when a group of us were chivvied to brush our faces and arrive broadly on time (after me the next arrival was 20 minutes after the table time, with the last person getting there over an hour and a half later - we have a flexible attitude to timekeeping..) 

I don't think I've enjoyed a meal more in years. Yes, it was the getting together with a great group of friends, an enjoyable experience whether you're in the DST or the Scunthorpe branch of a Harvester, but the location really created the occasion. There's nowhere better I've found in central London for generating an appropriately louche atmosphere appropriate to a boozy blow-out on a Sunday.

We all waded into the Sunday special Bloody Mary menu, four different twists on the classic cocktail including an spicy number cut with Scotch Bonnet peppers and a 'Hair of the Dog' with mustard and horseradish. It's a 'fuck you' take on the weekend mimosa menu you see at Soho House New York, and the perfect starter after a big night out.

Eschewing the lighter starters on the set lunch menu, I dived into a haddock souffle from the a la carte, velvety rich and as comforting as a boarding school matron's bosom. It was served with a parsley sauce drizzled from a copper pan by a man whose sideboards would have him thrown out of stuffier establishments. I regretted my excessive starter as soon as the plates of Hereford beef hoved into view. Yorkshire puddings the size of planets sat atop two thick slabs of perfectly pink prime rib roast. Sides were shared, sparingly, and for the next 20 minutes there was virtually no conversation as we attempted to make a dent in our plates. The cauliflower cheese on its own isn't as good as you get at Hawksmoor, but it's an admirable foil to the beef. There are greens, and honey-cooked veggies, and roasted potatoes and... in short, you'll struggle. I struggled and I'm a semi-pro. You probably need training first.

Beef juices leaking out of our every pore, not one of us could cope with desserts, though matron would surely have tried to force a spotted dick on us if she could. Coffee and we were done, blinking into the thin spring sunlight, incapable of eating for the rest of the day. They've still got it you know...