Tapas Brindisa - Is the original still any good? Jan 2013

So how's the original outpost of growing tapas juggernaut of Brindisa doing since I last visited? Not as well as I'd hoped unfortunately...

Situated on the corner of Borough Market's southern corner, no bookings Brindesa was always a tough (and tiny) table to score, light wood interior filled with souls exiting the market laden with goodies, unable to wait until their home before sampling them. The unlucky masses would look on through the floor to ceiling windows and resolve to turn up earlier next week.

A recent midweek trip to the neighbourhood let me pop in for lunch on one of the less screwily busy days for the restaurant before the market next door grunts into life on a Friday.

The menu is still a organic shopper's wet dream, everything veggie sourced from the nearby stalls while meats and spices come from the Brindesa shop, hotfoot from the best suppliers in their Spanish homeland. The joy has always been that you don't want to wait until you get home from the market, mainly because what the kitchen can do with the same handful of ingredients is infinitely better than anything you could manage.

We've been spoilt by Jose, and the jamon croquetas he now serves up on Bermonsey Street. Those are light, fresh and heaven sent, these lumpen cigars of gluey mash under a too thick oily carapace just don't cut the mustard. Huevos Rotos - broken eggs over fried potatoes and Iberico pork sobrasada - is unevenly cooked. Soft slices of spud seemingly decanted into a lukewarm serving dish, the egg just the wrong side of soft and the sobrasada, a thickly spiced tomato based sauce, huddled in one corner under a slice of waxen potato. A great idea, and one I'm looking forward to borrowing for an inevitably hungover brunch, but there's nothing here any reasonably home chef couldn't improve on.

Sautéed chicken livers with an onion and caper dressing were fine, and well cooked. If I'd just taken a plate of that with a muscular minerally and obscenely dry sherry, I'd no doubt be hurrahing from the rooftops.

Compared to a recent revisit to gracefully ageing Barrafina, the team at Tapas Brindisa have got some way to go to regain their crown. If you're in the area, nip round to Bermondsey Street and see what their old boss Jose Pizzaro is up to at his brace of eponymous restaurants, either one of them easily has the measure of Brindisa I'm sad to say...

   

Constancia - authentic Argentinian in Bermondsey - Aug 2012

Happy little local Argentine grill Constancia has been dishing out steaks to a satisfied stream of regulars for over three years. They're obviously doing something right.

Sat on an unlovely stretch of Tower Bridge Road, if it's on the foodie's radar at all it's only due to the fact you walk past on the way to Maltby Street Market. On the evidence of this experience, I'd be happy recommending a closer examination.

Based around a central grill, you can't get away from the pervading heavenly scent of steak. After a pair of freshly cooked and suitably spicy beef empanadas, we dived straight into a mixed parrillida containing steaks and sausages.

Two big lumps of beefsteak, rump and ribeye, sizzle away on the compact coal fired tabletop grill. Two plump Argentine sausages are dense, spicy and uncommonly good. Morcilla, crumbly homemade black pudding, is also a treat. The whole plate load, combined with a bowl of parsley and garlic packed chips is verging on the excessive. We struggle manfully through, what with us being men, but it's a massive hit of fat and protein. I love it.

The meat sizzling away on the brazier is flavoursome, but unless plucked from the coals at the exact right moment inclined to toughness. There's no chance for it to rest when it's cooked at the table.

It's not the cheapest of meals, with a decent bottle of peppery Malbec we spent just under £50 a head, though compares well to the likes of Hawksmoor or Goodman and is a whole lot better than the nearby Gaucho. It's great to have another option locally though and I'll definitely be back when next hankering for a hunk of cow.

   

Guiseppes - the Italian of your parent's first date - July 2012

No Shard watcher am I. Resolutely unimpressed by the see through penis substitute despite the raving of friends. I am also unhappy watching the area change beyond recognition as the monied classes roll in. Don't get me wrong, the sympathetic gentrification of Bermondsey Street, led by local businesses such as Wolff & Tay, Pizarro and the Garrison is a 'good thing', but the tourist focussed homogenisation of places like Borough Market drives me mad.

Guiseppes, hidden away in a basement and accessed through a doorway in an alley under the shadow of the monolith (though that covers a pretty broad area to be fair), is resolutely old school. Guttering candles, faded Italian travel prints, roses on dark wobbling wood tables and an Italian troubadour most nights. This is the local Italian your parents remember.

Other than a glass of Montepulciano you could strip limescale with and some thankfully unproffered neon limoncello, it seems unadventurous but pretty decent. At less than a tenner for most mains it's reasonably priced too.

We scarfed bruschetta with zingy flavoursome tomatoes and a bundle of supermarket bagged salad followed swiftly by two big plates of passable pasta and sauce. There's nothing exceptional on the menu and barring a few specials on a chalkboard, no seasonal changes to a parade of old favourites. You won't find any of the art and guile of Zucca, Tinello, L'Anima or any of the modern Italians but given the £20 a head (inc drinks and service) price tag, we weren't too bothered. It's not that kind of place.

So Guiseppes. It's where you'd eat if your quick pint at the George spans into 2 or 3, you can't get a table at Brindisa but don't fancy wandering to Bermondsey Street.

And it's in a basement. Gentrify that. I dare you...

Pizarro, two cheers for Jose - Apr 2012

I dunno, you wait for London's tapas king to open one new restaurant, and two come along at almost the same time... No one was at all surprised when Jose Pizarro of Brindesa fame opened up jewel box perfect Jose on Bermondsey Street a year or so ago, there was a little more surprise when it was followed up less than a year later by bigger brother Pizarro a few doors down.

If the impression is that these are a couple of places he's thrown together, then it works. Jose is a absolute favourite for post work sherry and a pincho from the authentic little bar cum kitchen in the tiny space. I remember taking a Madrileno friend prior to dinner at nearby Zucca and after a swift but heated argument with the bartender on the best sherry on the menu and two plates of their heavenly croqueta, he happily declared it the equal of anywhere in Madrid.

Pizarro is a different level to the bustle of Jose. It's a significant step up in size for one, and though there's window seating and bar service, the majority of the covers occupy dark, masculine furniture evocative of a high end wine shop. We took a seat at the marble bar and eyed up the short menu.

While everything is available for sharing as you'd expect from the tapas king, there's a slightly more ordered approach here, with the menu broken up into small and large plates. We went for two of each, which arrived in that order, much in the manner of a starter and a main course...

As well as some of the divine jamon croquetas, we went with razor clams to start. Served in their shells with lashings of garlicky butter and sticky nuggets of chorizo to contrast with the soft flesh of the shellfish, they were perfectly well cooked if not quite to my taste, I traded the last one for another go on the croquetas, an outcome that suited both parties. Of the mains, we shared a slightly one dimensional if well conceived dish of roasted root vegetables and curdy but bland goats cheese. The other shared 'main' was as lovely a lump of roasted lamb as I've had in some time, soused in good oil and dotted with olives, insanely tasty little flavour bombs when crisped in the hot oven.

It wasn't as busy as I was expecting, possibly less surprising as it was a mid week lunch later in service. In itself not a problem, though it did deaden the mood slightly. I'd definitely recommend an evening table shared with friends. You can go through most of the menu between 4 or 5 of you and with the help of an exceptionally well chosen wine list and the knowledgable, friendly staff have a very acceptable night out.

  

Magdalen - Nov 2011

Where: Magdalen, Bermondsey
With who: Dr Vole and Northern Mother
How much: £20 a head without drink or service for 2 courses, £25 for two.
Come here if: you need a good local and you just can't face trekking to Andrew Edmunds.
 
I have a spectacular, cat in a bath shaped aversion to being that guy eating at the only table in a large unwelcoming restaurant. There's the sense of paranoia that comes with the assumption that everyone knows better than you, the sneaking doubt that the food can't, just can't, be any good and a wild flight of fantasy connected with the possible contamination from the tears of the chef / owner / investor peering out from the little door in the kitchen hoping against all hope that you're actually going to morph into a party of thirteen.

I mention it as heading towards an early dinner table at Magdalen, I had exactly those thoughts. After all, it's stuck in the trafficblown hinterland between London Bridge and Tower Bridge, handy for absolutely nothing, and just that bit too far away from Bermondsey Street to get much passing trade.

I really shouldn't have worried. On a misty, misserly autumn evening full of threatened drizzle and pavement leaf crunch the Magdalen engulfs you like that warm cozy welcoming local pub you know you can't have because you live in London.

Warm walls in deepest goulash line the handsome old boozer, now a fully functioning restaurant. The front bar hosts sofas for hopeful walk up and could possibly function as a working local pub, if mine smelt as nice as this though I'd never leave. The back room and the upstairs are table filled. White paper cloth and excellent lighting brighten the space.

Dr Vole started with a superb cauliflower soup. Admittedly it had more butter and cream pumped through it than strictly necessary but that worked wonders for both richness and texture... Nutty ribsticking goodness, the surface studded with roast garlic and tiny florets of cauli rested on a thick slick of autumnal comfort.

I went for a dish of fried calves brain with a mustardy, egg mayonaisey gribeche as much because I've never seen it on a menu before. It was challenging, more for the concept than the texture or flavour. Barely discernable lobes came as three breadcrumb fried patties, had it not been for the menu I might have been eating a subtly flavoured soft cheese, foie gras-like in texture. A little bland and pappy, the herby mayonnaise gave it a necessary bite, but I could have done with smaller patties, and a higher concentration of breadcrumb. The voice in my head proved a slight distraction, like having someone remind you about stillborn chicken embryos mid boiled egg.

   Mains were mostly meaty, other than a student standby potato and cheese pie in a puff pastry, saved from sanctimoniousness by deleriously good Ardrahan cheese oozing healthily through and a side salad of refreshingly different dandilion.
 
I flatly refused to share any of my beef cheek. Braised for what tasted like days in a girolle and onion reduction, sweet and tender meaty puck nestled in a smooth Jerusalem artichoke puree. The only complaint was on the texture, the meat fell apart when you showed it a fork and the whole thing, delicious as it tasted, was smoother than Justin Beiber's PR machine.

By now flushed with an excellent house red and coming close to satiation. Quince crumble, a pear and almond tart and other desserts were sadly a little too wintry to tempt. They do however have some excellent salted caramel chocolates that slid down perfectly with coffee.

Overall, Magdalen is a great example of the perfect local restaurant. Friendly service, faultless cooking of good ingredients and the feel good equivalent of a laugh with a great mate, it's certainly somewhere I'll be back to again and again.

   

Jose and Zucca on Bermondsey Street - June 2011

Where: Jose and Zucca, Bermondsey Street

With who: J School and Dr Vole

How much: just over £40 a head for the entire evening. Sherries and starters in Jose are between £3 and £6 and you'll struggle to spend over £18 for 2 courses at Zucca.

Come here if: you want to try a range of great restaurants in a relatively small space

We'd finally hit summer. Friday night spent lolling outside the pub and a perky Saturday of sun and fun with walks wearing shirt and no jumper. A continental day ended appropriately with a hoped for but unscheduled aperitif stop in Bermondsey tapas joint du jour Jose. Owned eponymously by Jose 'Brindisa' Pizarro and garrulous business partner front of house expert Herve, it's finishing the job that neighbour (and final dinner destination) Zucca kick started and making Bermondsey, Street at least, a real foodie destination.

I have a slight problem with tapas restaurants out of their native environments, and it's that you can't crawl. The joy of tapas for me comes with a gleeful bowl around the neighbourhood and a bite and a glass in each joint. Moderation, exercise and a pub crawl in one. With a little help from Herve, we may have cracked it.

Prior to dinner and after a long warm walk, I was ready for a glass of something dry and crisp and cold. I steered us into Jose, keen to have a gander. The white tiled space focussed around the marble slab bar feels uncharacteristically out of place in South London, the heat emanating from it even more so. A combination of the small room, a large stove surrounded by Jose and his brigade, no air con and a sunny day meant I nearly lost the others at the first hurdle. The place was packed, no more than 25 in there, but it's enough not to want to be there when it's busier. No reservations means that like Spuntino you're going to have to come early, or be prepared to wait. As Herve explained, they're not aiming for the (London) bridge and tunnel crowd but hoping to add something to a great little local scene prior to opening larger restaurant Pizarro later in the year.

I sucked down deliciously dry sherry while we gorged, an early doors licensing quirk meant no booze without food, on a couple of the delicious tapa from behind the counter. We grabbed a couple of plates judging they would suffice as starters. Sea fresh boquerones, juicy white anchovies, came in a light and sweet seasoned cava vinegar, Murcian speciality pisto, a simple full flavoured Spanish version of ratatouille, came with a perfectly fried duck's egg. Giant yolk flecked with salt looming over the the plate reminding us of the late spring sun. Despite the specials board (cruelly featuring crab and basil croquettes the next day) you'd struggle to make a full meal out of the place, but that's partly the point. Grab a couple of plates, and move on. We admitted to Herve that we were going on to Zucca for our mains; "there you go then! There's your tapas crawl.. start here, mains at Zucca and then on to Village East for a cocktail or dessert." Tapas crawl, Bermondsey style.

Dinner at Zucca is always a treat. It's always worth a try on the day, you might be lucky, but generally it needs booking. If you want the perfect example of a local restaurant, it's right here. Seasonal fresh and good ingredients, reasonable prices and friendly knowledgable staff. It's not a difficult combination, but it's surprisingly hard to find. The buzz in the bright, light room is palpable. Intending on only a main, we were upsold to a shared Zucca Fritti, their house special - lightly deep fried sticks of pumpkin and squash, breads and then given a complimentary plate of spinach frittata. No complaints from this one, though my stomach did let out a moan on seeing the size of the veal chop that followed. Having written about Zucca a couple of times before, I'll happily attest to the meal being up to its usual standards and urge you again to go if you haven't.

And the dessert? Not a chance. Though by the time we dragged our distended bellies out of the door, Village East was just starting to get going. There are worse ways to spend a Saturday night...

Katzenjammers and Maoz Falafel, alternative beer soakers - Jan 2011

Most beery nights out in this country seem to end up with some form of badly packed meat. (fnaar..) It's inevitable that we'll end up in the local kebab, pizza or burger joint, many of which haven't changed in years, despite the general increase in food quality across the country. I can track my life by these places. Drunken nights in Balham ended with the famously titled Chicken Under The Bridge. This substituted for a university institution in my affections, the doner meat pizza from Primo Pizza in Hull, itself a replacement for the Grantham Charcoal Grill, where I first witnessed the power that grilled meat, heavy seasoning and raw onion can hold over a grown man. 
And so it continues. Regardless where I'm lucky enough to trough these days, I'll always have a soft spot for the simple joys of a post beer bite. Sometimes you've just got to keep it simple. 


Here's a couple you may or may not have tried, I'll add more over time...
Where: Katzenjammers, Southwark Street, London Bridge
How much: Food is between £7 and £10 a head but you're here for the Bavarian lager predominantly 
Come here if: you fail to get into Brindesa and don't fancy any of the pricy options nearby.
In a nutshell: Barvarian style bierkeller in Borough. The name translates as caterwaul, appropriate for somewhere designed around low slung ceilings and loud, communal conversation. It was half full but still verging on too loud, not somewhere to take a date certainly, but the kind of place an office party could get their vocal chords limbered up before heading to a discotheque. The beer list is solid, lengthy, German and available in steins. The food list is perfunctory and pig flavoured. A number of different sausages come with (badly) fried chips, the other specials include Wiener Schnitzel, a plate size slice of pork, covered in breadcrumbs and forced into the fryer. Germany perversely manages more Michelin starred restaurants than any other European country other than the UK and France, but manages to have a universal reputation for bad, fried food. Katzenjammers offers a fun night, but won't change your mind about the cuisine.


Where: Maoz Falafel, Old Compton Street, Soho
How much: £5.50 for a Maoz Royale (three falafel in pitta with hummus and fried aubergine, served with a massive salad bar)
Come to either: if you just can't cope with another lamb shish or dubious chicken inna bun
In a nutshell: Post drink dining for vegetarian drinkers. 


The idea of a vegetarian fullstop on an evenings entertainment isn't everyone's idea of fun (and never used to be mine). Then I met Maoz. Freshly made falafel, a large salad bar and Belgian style fries. Cheaper than you're average 'bab, and a darn sight healthier. Service is quick, and you get all manner of crazy sods through their glass doors, spilling onto the basic formica tables. You order your falafel, small deep fried sphere of chickpeas, they arrive served in a pitta pocket that you then fill from the extensive salad bar. I'm a particular fan of the roasted cauliflower, coriander and red chilli sauce combo. Each to their own, just try and forget that there's no meat...

Review of Zucca - Nov 2010

Where: Zucca, Bermondsey Street
With who: Northern Mother and The Vole
How much: £75 for three courses and a bottle of wine
Zucca opened earlier in the year to rave reviews from bloggers and critics alike. Many had no idea how they could create their homely yet modern Italian cuisine at the prices they were charging, many of the same people also raved about the quality of the simple ingredients and this man, reading the bundles of food porn produced, licked his lips and vowed to get there, and soon. Well time moved on, and other places opened, and this man didn't get down there (though close) so it was with pleasure while sculling round for somewhere to take Northern Mother, that this man was reminded of the little (still fairly new) cozy, modern and cheap Italian on Bermondsey Street.
Slightly uncomfortable sub-Habitat chairs aside, the space is a welcoming one. Light walls and exposed brick link the floor to ceiling windows that mirror the open kitchen across the rear. The tables are small and close together, but the high ceilings don't allow the volume to get too loud or your neighbours conversations too intrusive.

And the food? Well I've already booked my return. It's a rare place that makes you feel like that, but Zucca is the restaurant equivalent of a huge hug from an old family friend. And I want another hug. We started, encouraged by the friendly, observant and on the ball waitress, to go for a selection of shared starters. Prosciutto di Parma with a perfectly ripe fig was good, two excellent ingredients in harmonious marriage. Cardoons, celery like sticks of artichoke thistle a rare sight on a menu, came slathered in a thick and slightly boozy fondue cheese which proved perfect for being mopped up by the real star of the starters, the Zucca Fritti. Sticks of pumpkin, squash and carrot with the odd leaf of zingy basil came cooked in a tempura light batter and piled high. The healthiest fried food I've ever had and for a jaw dropping £3 a plate. This would be my lunch, daily, if I lived in the neighbourhood.

You have the option of a pasta course, either before or instead of the main, a bold and light chicory, lemon and gorgonzola taglierini that both The Vole and Northern Mother opted for, and an intriguing bucatini, a spaghetti-like shape with a hollow centre, served with a seasonal pheasant sauce. The gamey notes continued into the carne, where I went for a whole partridge, served with slightly pointless and bland potatoes (the nearest to a duff note I had). Tender as I've had, with a rich stickiness on the breast and a salty umami-filled gravy made from the juices. We shared a homemade tiramisu, rich and creamy, and a panna cotta with poached pear, illiteratively pleasing but as a dessert just too bland for my palate. For £25 a head, it felt like we were committing theft.

Menier Chocolate Factory - Oct 2010

Where: Menier Chocolate Factory, London Bridge
With whom: Most recently, The Vole
How much?: We went for the Meal Deal. Genuinely a bit of a deal too.. £24 as opposed to £19 for the ticket and £14 for the two course meal. 

A lovely rose prosecco was only a fiver.

You gotta grab a bite to eat before the theatre. It's not football after all, where you can nosh away during the action. I get the logic, but when a ticket costs north of £60 (in the West End at any rate) you can see why people are tempted to skimp on the food and, if they don't skip dinner entirely, grab a sandwich instead. Because of this, good pre-theatre dining can be challenging. Everywhere has a pre-theatre menu these days, and too many are ill thought out, hastily constructed and as hastily served. 

There are a fair few exceptions worth noting in the West End. Arbutus and Wild Honey have compelling and very reasonable pre-theatre offerings boding well for the newcomer to their group, the soon to open Les Deux Salons. Dean Street Townhouse is a great deal close to Shaftesbury Ave and the old fall backs of the Ivy or J Sheekey are perfect for visiting parents. On a more casual tip, a spicy roll at Moolis or a trip to any of the Byron Burger outlets will fill a hole and I've spent many happy evenings hoovering up a spicy bowl of pho at Viet behind the Palace Theatre before heading into a show. Joe Allen with its off menu burger is still my favourite post show haunt.

Outside the West End, it gets a little more tricky to garner decent recommendations you stand a chance of getting a table at. A number of the off-West End venues have pulled their own pre-theatre catering in-house in an attempt to get some of this lucrative market with varying levels of success. The National demonstrate neatly how 'for the nation' they really are with a £22 two course beast in their Mezzanine restaurant. Why this is priced higher than many Michelin starred restaurants

equivalent offerings 

is beyond me (unless you think they're taking advantage of a captive audience?). It's a large step beyond the £15 you'll pay for Alan Jones classic French cooking over the road from the Almeida and around the same as you'd pay for three courses at Ramsay alumni Mark Sergeant's exciting Swan restaurant at the Globe Theatre. The Royal Court is cheaper still with mains in its basement cafe around £8.

The space is well put together industrial lost and found. Jam jars with tea lights, mismatched furniture, rough hewn wood, exposed pipework and brick. It feels curated, but not affected. The set menu pleasingly changes dependant on the show, regionally relevant to the setting - mood food if you will. Great if you get Aspects of Love, La Cage Aux Folles, or the Italianate thriller the White Devil, but less intriguing if the play is set in modern day London. 

To be fair, the Menier Chocolate Factory isn't yet in the same league as the four mentioned above. But within the constraints of a (fairly) commercial business, artistic director and owner David Babani has created a theatre in tandem with the building around him. The restaurant and bar space feel very much part of the fabric of the organisation. It's telling that on the night we were there, Timothy and Sam West, the father and son starring in the evening's performance of A Number, were settling down to eat along with the audience. 

Good value at £14, but with only two choices per course. I went for a (slightly too subtle) cauliflower and stilton soup. The Vole went for the other starter option, a smoked salmon and chive mousse. Pleasant enough, but nothing that would set the world alight. The vegetarian main was a treat though. A dense cannonball cake of cloying pumpkin specked risotto was served with a sweet pumpkin puree and courgette spaghetti (well spears in our case, but others looked more accomplished). We finished with an ebullient seasonal fruit crumble, a university rugby player sized portion for a slimfit £3 supplement. It wasn't the most professional meal I've eaten, but there was an enthusiasm and willingness to please that made you forgive mistakes in service, presentation and flavour. Like a meal at a good friend's house, I wanted to like it more than I actually did. I come back to the pricing at the National Theatre, nearly ten pounds more expensive per head. The Menier could take advantage of their captive audience, and arguably they need the additional revenue far more than one of the few organisations that will be deemed too big to fail in the cuts. The fact they don't, and provide good solid food prior to an evening of excellent theatre, means I'd be happy coming back again and again.

Caphe House, Bermondsey Street - Oct 2010

Following on from recent wanders down Bermondsey Street, I thought that this place deserved a mention. Caphe House is a small and friendly cafe in the midst of bustling Bermondsey Street, snadwiched between the greasy spoon authenticity of Al's Cafe and the myriad of chi chi boutiques and uptheirownarse coffee emporia. A Viet cafe feels very gentrified for this very white working class area, but in ethos at least, it's nearer in style to the old Bermondsey than the new. The furniture is more discount than designer and they're not winning any awards for their decor. That being said, I'm not here for the view. They serve a selection of pho (noodle soup w selected meats), summer rolls and the object of my affections, the banh mi roll.

I went for the roast pork roll, served as a standard pre made white flour (rather than the traditional rice flour) half baguette with shredded pork. The thin slivers of cucumber and red chilli in the roll cancel each other out nicely and balance with the grated carrots in this spicy Vietnamese street treat, but the chilli vinegar is heavily cut with soy and too saltily strong. For £3.50 it's difficult to complain. They also do a good range of Vietnamese treats, noodles and pleasingly sell a number of authentic ingredients, just like mamma used to use. If every street had a Caphe House, we'd be in a much better (and spicier) place.

Gaucho Grill - Tower Bridge - Sept 2010

Where: Gaucho Grill, Tower Bridge
With who: The Daddy and Pipes

How much: starters £4 to £5 and mains around £7 to £9

We were celebrating. We hadn't seen The Daddy for a while, and he was just about to become The Daddy Redux. That called for steak, and wine. Much wine.

The word of the Gourmet has spread, and so I'll often get challenged in situations like this to 'pick good'. This was one of those situations. Matters weren't helped by the location, expeditious for the group. The Daddy and I have done Goodman recently, and while I could have pushed for Hawksmoor, it was too far away to hit the brief. Anyway, the Gaucho in Picaddilly is a favourite of mine and I wanted to believe that the quality permeated through the  group like the marbling on a fine ribeye. We planned and booked for 8pm, and I raised my cachet with a pre-dinner drink at The Draft House. The Daddy fired through a pint of Rauchtbier, the smokey ham notes providing in his words, "the only starter I need".

Decorated like a goth's wet dream. This is uber masculine design. Consisting entirely of blacks, mirrors and the odd flashes of cow, the room disorientates at first, black doors open onto black rooms through black walls, until you manage to pick out the shades. The crowd in the place is similarly male, a slightly confused couple sat next to us slotted uneasily next to large groups of braying men, flushed of face with bonhomie, wine, good steak and self importance. Deals weren't being done, but like Keens and the grand old tradition of New York steakhouses, they were certainly being celebrated.

It didn't start well for for the restaurant service wise I have to say.. We sat in the (black) departure lounge of the bar and sipped insipid cocktails. I went for the Bloody Asado, a watery £8's worth of roasted plum tomato, red pepper and vodka, reminiscent of a very cheap salsa. The Daddy was nearly ejected after ordering an (off menu) effeminate Kir Royale. 45 minutes after our reservation time we were still sat there. "Don't you carry some weight? Do they know who you are?" Pipes chimed in hopefully. Yes, I do carry some weight, and I'm about to (hopefully) add some more, and no, they neither know, nor care who I are. The location and the crowd would suggest they are focussed firmly on the volume business market.


We finally sat down at a table an hour and 15 after our reservation. The urgent need now was for food and fast so we skipped the starters and got straight in. For the record, the starters have always been a hit in the past. Fresh fish ceviche and tiraditos are bright and clean, served straight up with lime and lemon, the citric acid 'cooking' the meat. The Daddy and I looked no further than the Gaucho Sampler, a 1.2kg board of fillet, rump, sirloin and ribeye. The meat arrived served as requested (though identified incorrectly by the server) and was a melting joy. With a bottle of excellently chosen Malbec, pre-identified by The Daddy and recommended by the server (one bright spot was their wine training) the meat was exactly what we needed. Moving through the sampler board from cleanest (fillet) to most complex (ribeye) flavours I was amazed by how clearly the differences in cut shone through when served alongside each other. It's a must do experience for the steak lover.  Pipes was less lucky, he'd ordered a 'new' cut they were promoting, a thick fillet style piece with a thin white band of tender fat, but ended up with a churrasco cut of what appeared to be rump, thin sliced and served with an excellent (though unexpected) chimichurri. Checking the bill later, they'd charged it as a fillet too... not good. Sides were largely forgettable (and incorrect).


Ultimately you're here for the meat, and probably business. If you're looking for a great steak experience in London then go to Hawksmoor. If you're looking for an authentic Argentinian steak restaurant, go to Buen Ayre in Broadway Market. If you're bringing your (mainly male) team to celebrate winning a piece of business over a few bottles of Malbec and some decent steak, then the Gaucho will do just fine.

Bermondsey Street and the newly opened Draft House - Aug 2010

Where: Bermondsey Street followed by The Draft House,Tower Bridge Road

With who: My inner devil and Mrs Jones
How much: With a couple of beers and a cheeky 50% discount on the food we spent £20 a head in The Draft House. 


Cool Japanese clothing designers reading Huffington on their iPads sat in organic cafes selling artisan coffee and cake. Yank bankers in civvies, park Porsches with expensive baby seats and small dogs alongside asymmetric art students.
Quirky coffee houses with regulation Gaggia (Gaggi for the plural?) that roll into cool West Village style bars in the evening. Estate agents hunting in packs and florists by the (obviously organic) bakers dozen. Old churches, old factories, Zandra Rhode's Textile Museum and the throwback of Al's, a proper working man's cafe. A strong sense of renewal.
It could have been Hoxton, but things are moving south. Bermondsey is well and truly reborn. 

It might just be the perfect street to take a stroll on a Saturday, and is a great one to introduce out of towners put off by Brick Lane's bustle. If you can't find enough to occupy you at nearby Borough Market, then take a stroll down Tooley Street. A host of people have hit up Zucca with reviews, mostly positive, describing it as a near perfect local Italian with a modern twist and praising its emphasis on fresh ingredients. Village East was stylishly ripped (deliberately) from the area of Manhattan giving it the name and among the coffee bars, the Bermondsey Street Cafe is a perfect spot to people watch over an organic soya latte (or a double espresso - whatever floats your boat). 
On Bermondsey Street, pubs like the Woolpack and The Garrison have given up on their working class roots and now sell upmarket (with prices to match) gastro vibe with (that word again) artisan brews on tap. They've got some serious competition now with the arrival just round the corner of another of Draft House pub from Charlie McVeigh. While 'chain' can be a dirty word in the restaurant world, and 'concept' a filthier one, every now and then you find someone who makes it work. On the evidence of the three Draft Houses he now has, it could very well be that McVeigh is one of those. 


It's not really fair to review so quickly after opening, the place is in soft launch as highlighted by still unfinished corners and a 50% discount on food, but then I'm not really a reviewer so I doubt I'm breaking a code or will cause too many sleepless nights for the team there.

The space is interesting. By which I mean odd. It grew on me after a while, though that may have been the excellent Kiwi Macs Gold lager I was sipping so easily. Decor as standard for refurbished 'rescue' pub, Farrow & Ball shades of grey and a beautiful restored bar packed with pumps (twenty four draft beers and ales on tap, each with their own glass, it's a sight to behold). Oddly though, they've channeled New York Diner for the tables, chairs and artwork. It feels slightly disingenuous but by no means bad. I quickly got used to the lime splash of the banquettes and focussed on the beer in hand. Once it's packed with people, it'll make little difference anyway. I'm not sure whether they have a no music policy, or if it's one of the bits they're still waiting on, but I did feel the lack of music, could have done with something in the background to cover mine and Mrs Jones inane chatter.


The menu is classic, competent gastro pub. 8 mains, a handful of snacks / starters and pates, burgers and steak. I don't think there was a dish on there I wouldn't eat, and I'll certainly be back for a go on a rolled rabbit, mint and lentil starter (not yet ready to roll sadly) and a plate of Lincolnshire belly pork with a black pudding hash. As it was, we went for the red blooded option. Mrs Jones had a perfectly cooked ribeye packed with flavour and I went for a steak tartare. Sadly, it was 'pre-mixed', something I've never been a fan of. One of the best things about tartare for me is being able to chose the ratio of herbs, onion and particularly tabasco that flavours the raw steak. There's also something pleasingly visceral about breaking the egg into the blood red mince. On a positive note, the steak was beautiful and for my palate, the chef got the flavours absolutely spot on, though I'm someone who likes a strong tabasco kick and this might have proved too much for others. I don't know I was overly keen on the chips or the bearnaise either. Neither was bad, but the chips wilted a little and the sauce was too thick. There are however, strong signs of a real quality in the ingredients and my starter of buttered brown shrimps on crostini was among the nicest versions of this particular dish I've ever had. rich nutty shellfish cut through with a hint of citrus in the sauce. 


I love the fact that the beers can be served in 1/3 pint glasses, giving you chance to try some really interesting brews. The wonderfully helpful chap behind the bar was very happy to chat through the list, pulling us a taste of an intriguing Schlenkerla Rauchbier, a 5% beauty that tastes of smoked ham. I couldn't manage a pint (and they don't sell it by the pint) but it's good to see that they're going for flavour. It's a bit too far away for a regular post work pint, but is a great go to option when in the area, and I'll be making a few trips just to work through that beer list.