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?

 

MASH Steakhouse - There's gold in them there basements - Dec 2012

After Brasserie Zedel, I thought we might have turned a corner in the 'restaurant-prices-like-phone-numbers' debate. A Regent Street restaurant with appropriately sky-high rents and rates offering top drawer scoff you'll struggle to spend £25 a head on. Surely everyone would be onto this?

Now the joint genius of restaurateur team Corbin & King manage this pricing at Zedel with few reservations, lots of tables and very high customer churn, turning tables three or four times a service generating many more, albeit smaller, checks.

So surely, applying that rationale, a similarly ambitious venue next door which has just undergone an equally sumptuous redesign in another vast subterranean space should (if they turn twice in a service) mean that things only cost twice as much? Sadly not. We're back to £100+ a head territory now, as next door neighbour MASH sells steak, and not much more.

The opulent (and obviously masculine) dining room feels designed to appeal to the international expenses crowd: without a view, you could easily be in Dubai, Chicago or Singapore instead of London. Deals are to be done here gentlemen... over steak, expensive wine and casual misogyny. That's a tad judgemental and almost certainly untrue but, being only a Rolex-throw from Mayfair, it is at least plausible.

It has a vaguely Mid West American inspired opulence, though my descriptor is as lazy as the broad theming. Call it essence of robber baron... Thick, plush, arterial-red carpets? "make 'em plusher". Gilded, glowing fittings? "make 'em golder". Bulging list of rare American varietals in a leather-bound list? "make 'em rarer, and add a zero on..."

The shock is that it's not American, but Danish. Despite channelling Smith & Wollensky or Chicago Cut, it comes from the land of stripped pine and Arne Jacobsen chairs. The only sign of this Scandinavian heritage on the menu came with a trio of Danish-origin 70 day dry-aged steaks. I'm not averse to the Stilton-like joys of aged steak, but a 45 day aged piece I had recently from the Ginger Pig bordered on overpowering at times, and anything getting close to 70 is going to be considerably and challengingly funky.

Diving straight in, bypassing a relatively uninspiring starter list, we shared a surprisingly petit USDA Prime Porterhouse. It was wheeled up to be carved on a butcher's block. I was hoping for a lot from an expensive if troublesome cut. Advertised as fit for two or three, in truth it was probably only enough for one and a half or two with sides and starters. The problem with porterhouse is that you have two different cuts, sirloin and ribeye, separated by the thick T bone. Lesser chefs risk missing the balance and pushing the sirloin to a med/well, or leaving unforgiving ribeye fat un-rendered. As far as steaks go, this was a good 'un. Rich, buttery and with a decently deep flavour, it did everything a good steak should.

Along with that hunk of prime meat, sides were measly for the price, and fine, generally just fine. Like supporting dancers in a meaty musical. Chilli fries came with a crunch and a crackle of heat, while a soothingly bland mac n cheese ticked our other carby box. You can't object to either, but at £4.50 a pop, I want to have the best darned carbs in the city.

With a cocktail before, a digestif and a one of the cheaper wines (the leathery New World spell book unsurprisingly offered little below £40), we managed to splash £225 for two, certainly more than I'd expected.

Tangentially, I remember being told by the International Man of Mystery, no stranger to the jet set, that this bland luxe internationalism is welcomed by many who spend half their lives in assorted high-end business hotels. "They want reassuringly expensive stuff they recognise, with the odd plain local speciality, because it's impossible to know how an authentic, highly spiced x, y or z is going to go down when you don't know which continent you're on and your body thinks that it's 4am..." With that in mind, MASH fits the bill perfectly. Just don't expect to see me back without the expense account.

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.

   

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.

   

Le Relais de Venise - May 2011

Where: Le Relais de Venise, Marylebone
With Who: Mr Pipes
How much: £25 a head with drink and service (no pud...)
Come here if: you're terrible at making choices

In the slightly rarefied surrounds of Marylebone, Le Relais feels like a bit of an anachronism. It's a French style old school canteen of a place that wouldn't feel out of place on the Left Bank with waitresses in formal maid's outfits, paper table cloths and decor that hasn't been touched since the 80's. Oh, and they only serve one dish. One. A plate of steak frites. I exaggerate slightly, if you force me to include the lettuce and walnut salad you get for a starter and the short dessert list of French classics, but your main course options are limited to one. Un. Eine. Uno. Served rare or medium.

Now if you're going to do that, you better be bloody sure that you've got the right dish and you're cooking it perfectly. Since for me, steak and chips is pretty much my perfect dish and certainly my last meal (on the proviso I die in close proximity to Hawksmoor or Peter Luger), this should be my perfect restaurant.

It's certainly not up in that rarified company, though neither are the steaks £30-£40 a pop. It's not 'alf bad though... The Parisian sibling is just known as L'Entrecote so you'd expect the steak to be an entrecote cut - or rib-eye as you might see it called elsewhere. It feels like something else though, faux fillet or sirloin, as there's less marble than you'd expect and it's just not as flavoursome as I'd want from a rib-eye. You receive it in two parts, the second held back and kept warm by the team of French maids, served with yet more shoestring frites. This is often disconcerting for the newbie, as the first tranche of meat is a good sized portion on it's own.

Their USP comes with the sauce. A thick tasty secret recipe sauce in the truest sense, it's got a kick of white mustard, thyme and a thousand and one other ingredients. It's an interesting accompaniment and though pleasantly spiced, it doesn't overwhelm the steak at all.

A weird and wonderful old establishment, and certainly somewhere you should come at least once. The concept started in Paris and has (very) slowly spread over the last 50 years to take in 2 branches in London and another, relatively recent, in New York. It's not the finest steak you'll ever have, but it's competently cooked, quality meat at a reasonable price in a quaint setting.

Steak Club @ A la Cruz - The Second Meating - Apr 2011

Where: A la Cruz, Farringdon
With who: 15 good steaks and true
How much: starters between £3 and £6, mains vary wildly, but for £20 you'll have more meat than you can cope with
Come here if: you're organising a big party for carnivores.

While Gaucho have cornered the market in the pricier end of fine Argentine dining they're not the only cooks on the block specialising in the meat heavy cuisine of the region. John Rattagan, of Buen Ayre fame, is making his own slower push into the market. His original has been a popular authentic local staple on Hackney's Broadway Market since 2004 and the management team have moved a little up market to a converted pub between Farringdon and Exmouth Market. Opened in 2009, it's the first proper asador (named after the traditional fire pit that cooks most of the meat) in the UK.

Where the original is a little rough and ready with a large open firepit on which hunks of meat sit and sizzle, they've tricked this one out slightly differently. White walls, dark woods and a more refined air should justify a higher end price tag, but thankfully they don't hike the prices to match. You can eat well here for not much more than a starter at Gaucho. Thankfully too, the grill at the heart of the restaurant remains.

Empanadas, the rock and roll brother of the Cornish pastie, stuffed with densely packed spiced mince (beef naturally) and deep-fried for extra emphasis, they are a staple of Latino street food. Here they're petit recreations, almost a little too refined, served with a fairly forgettable salad of roast veggies and thankfully, lest we saw them as too healthy, a slice of melted provolone cheese. 

These were followed swiftly by plates of mixed sausages and charred, chewy sweetbreads, known as Mollejas in Argentine. The latter were served with vegetarian taunting similarity to barbequed halloumi, jazzed up with a sharp lemon drizzle. The sausages were fine in the main though the morcilla, Argentine blood sausage based on pork, was best. Dark, herby and with a subtle chilli tang, it was soft enough to spread on bread and truly a thing of beauty. 

Nice as these all were, the steak's the thing. Served to the table on Parillada grills, thin metal trays heated with charcoal, they're mighty meaty lumps of rump and rib-eye. The advertised 300g per head feels like an under-estimation initially but it's more than enough to tame the most savage beast and we're forced to send shamefacedly for doggy bags. Great cuts, cooked well. The secret here is to get enough onto your plate before the residual heat of the grill takes it past the desired level of done.

Unable to give it true justice, I remember enjoying a dulce de leche ice-cream and some fine coffee to finish, but I only had thoughts for home, my bed, and a long snooze. Meat dreams are made of this...

Rodizio Preto - Feb 2011

Where: Rodizio Preto, Wilton Street, Victoria

How much: £15 for access to hot and cold buffets and £20 a head for the full meaty menu

Come here if: you're organising a big party for carnivores who don't take themselves too seriously.

No matter how hard I think about it, I just can't force myself to really recommend Rodizio Preto to you. It's trying so hard (and succeeding) on so many levels, but the whole just didn't quite work. I knew it was too good to be true when, scanning around for somewhere to take the Radio Star for a (very) belated Christmas dinner, I came cross Victoria's very own all you can eat Brazilian meat buffet... So many reasons why that sentence should make sense. 

The restaurant themes itself as a Churrascaria, a Brazilian BBQ restaurant. After filling your plate with hot and cold Brazilian starters and sides (don't get too much.. seriously) you sit back and wait for the Passadores to arrive. Translating essentially as meat waiters, they bring large skewers to your table, carving off hunks of animal to order. 

It's a modern but undistinguished Latin American cafe style place focussed around that large buffet counter. Think 3* hotel breakfast room in the Algarve with canned Portuguese pop pumping out of the TV on the wall and you won't go far wrong. But you're not here for the look, you're here for the meaty experience. Friendly staff give you a card to place on your table that you swivel between 'Sin' and 'Nao' depending on your need for meat. They ignore it mostly, piling delectable cut on top of cut. Feel free to turn them down early on, I looked away from my plate for a second and returned to 4 or 5 lumps of cow. It's a marathon, not a sprint...

The skewers work, really well in the main, though miss hits come with a chicken sausage, too doughy for all of us, and a too tough fillet steak wrapped in bacon (what? Why!?). Other than that, chicken thigh takes the cooking process well, caramelised, crackling skin protecting the tender flesh, but as you'd expect, the real highlights are the slivers of steak, three or four different cuts or twists, served mainly rare and oozing with taste. The umami notes in the charred edges of the steak are heady and superbly flavoursome, tastebombs in your mouth to be savoured. Pork loin is another winner, unctuous porky fat delivering a whallop of taste. I'd recommend taking a thick piece of the beef shoulder too. It's a fatty cut, but takes to the churrasco grill superbly, fat rendering into moist flavour.

The salad bar disappointed a little. It's 'traditional', if you use traditional as a euphemism for cheaply prepared, fairly bland food you don't recognise. Hot sides consisted of rock solid cheese 'puffs', insipid and tasteless polenta cubes, onion rings and little breaded torpedos of deepfried plantain. The cold options were either mayonnaise based cubed veg, rice, or selections of random veg. As I say, keep it tight and leave room for the cow. Have a salad for lunch if you're worried about the state of your waistline.

Review of Hawksmoor Seven Dials - Jan 2011

Where: Hawksmoor, Seven Dials, Covent Garden
How much: £55 a head, mainly on meat this time.
Come here: if you've got pure meaty soul. 


Ok, so rocking up at ten on a Friday night after a few lagers wasn't going to be the best introduction to the meaty joy that should be a night at Hawksmoor but, having been to a recent and successful Steak Club at their older brother in Liverpool Street, at least one of the gang knew what to expect.
We went expecting the finest burgers, perfect post pub fodder, and were drooling at the description of the Third Burger, a rotating option aside their classic hamburger and the Kimchi Burger, a spicy Korean melange attracting Marmite-like attention from the reviewing community. This month's Third Burger was enthusiastically sold to us by our bubbly server, and promised a topping of pulled pork rib topping the Longhorn and bone marrow patty, enthusiastically moulded from the best the Ginger Pig has to offer.
After that description we were sold. Draft brew (slightly too floral) arrived in pint pots which, along with the communal bar tables and the uber-friendly staff gave the reservation free bar area the feel of an up-market American frat bar.  
At this point our server, mortified, appeared from the kitchen to inform us of the end of the burgers for the night. Made fresh, the fridge was bare, and the burger had to wait for another day. Instead we went for the bone-in Prime Rib and the Porterhouse. Two full kilograms of meat serving to sate three hungry (slightly drunk) men. Minimum sides needed, the steak was sufficient. 
Many have tried to describe these steaks, I can't really see the point. Cooked perfectly, they're sweet and meaty joy. Start by imagining the best steak you remember tasting. Now imagine the steak that steak wanted to be when it grew up, and then you're part of the way there. The triple cooked chips were a little lacklustre and passed hardly noticed, though the bone marrow went alongside the steak perfectly.
It's not the cheapest night out. A kilogram hunk of the finest steak will set you back around £65, though that should feed two (normal) people and you get a pretty decent list of smaller cuts, at around the £20 to £25 mark.If you're a fan of culinary subtlety (or heaven forbid, vegetables) then Hawksmoor isn't the most obvious place to come. And while I plan on bringing my other half here, it's not the most obvious place for a date night. Bring your friends instead, grab a hunk of prime rib, and settle down for a dose of the meat sweats.

What happens at Steak Club, stays at Steak Club - Dec 2010

Where: The Hawksmoor, Spitalfields
With who: 12 good Steaks and true...
How much: £50 set menu, covering starters, skillets of steak, sides to share and half a bottle of a very acceptable house wine each.
Come here: to worship at a temple of meat
When I mooted the idea of a Steak Club to Nicco Polo, Mrs Jones and others, there was no question it would be an enormous screaming success. Not due to the grand organisational skills of yours truly in any way, more down to the fact that most of my friends are slathering, semi-obsessive carnivores too... There was little discussion where the first meeting would be, and a month after inception 12 of us were sitting down in the atmospheric (if slightly gloomy, hence the lack of photos) backroom of one of my favourite restaurants in London, Hawksmoor Spitalfields. It's a seriously macho restaurant, I'm sure you can picture it if you haven't been, bare brick walls with a butchers tile motif, functional and solid dark wood furniture and a large, well stocked bar in the centre of the room. It's a British take on the classic American steak n' cocktail concept that arrived in 2006 like a rain shower in a desert. Chosen, and loved, for its near fanatical devotion to quality cow, we approached them with the request to host our first steak club. We wanted meat, plenty of it, and I was confident the team would oblige. 

Their opening salvo of family style (the annoying Americanism for shared plates) starters set the tone. Tamworth belly ribs, like the rest of the meat here UK sourced and supplied by the Ginger Pig, were smokey, sweet and tasty. Bone marrow came roasted in the bone, mixed with soft yielding onions and served with a sourbread toast. It had the texture of foie and a dense almost mushroomy flavour. I'd have traded my mother for another bite. 
The steaks had to go some to beat that, thankfully they lived up to their (and my) billing. Platters of Bone-in Prime Rib, Porterhouse and Rump arrived to table, surrounded by a variety of unhealthy, but super tasty, sides. The Prime Rib was exceptional, certainly my favourite, succulent and perfectly cooked to a medium rare with an almost tart tang of blood. The Porterhouse wasn't far behind. An expansive mattress of meat, juicy soft tenderloin and equally tasty strip steak around the bone. Intensely flavoured and seasoned to match, soft enough to cut with a fork. 
It's not an obvious place for a date, unless the resulting meat coma is something you can both rise above, but is certainly solid enough for a (macho) client meeting. We found out quite how well it works for a coming together of meaty minds, a successful start to Steak Club, and a high bar for other vegetable dodgers to reach. 

Buen Ayre - Oct 2010

Where: Buen Ayre, Broadway Market, Hackney With who: Mrs Jones How much: More meat than even I can eat for £23 a head. A phenomenally priced Argentinian wine list too, with several at around the £12 mark, several decent Malbecs under £20 and very little that went above £40.

I've been pulled up on the largely erroneous name of the blog a few times recently, and I have to say in my defence, that it's less about me lacking in discernment, and more to do with the recommendations I get. I'm not afraid to grumble if what I've had has been piss-poor (yes La Tasca, I'm looking at you) but it is hard to grumble when you visit somewhere with such a genuinely positive vibe.
If the Gaucho Grill is the 18 stone bully of the Argentinian Steak House scene, kicking sand in everyone's face and making you think that they invented the art of grilling meat, then Buen Ayre is definitely the speccy nerd. Except that this speccy nerd really knows how to look after himself.
If ever a man were born with a steak knife in his mouth, then that man must be Buen Ayre's co-owner, John P. Rattigan. Born to expat Irish parents, a nation not slouching when it comes to fine cattle husbandry, on a cattle ranch outside Buenos Aires, he eventually moved to the UK to set up Buen Ayre. His title is not Chef, but Asador - the title given to those Argentines who shoulder the heavy responsibility for the BBQ - the high priest who officiates over the holiest holy of Argentine cuisine. 
So Buen Ayre is a steak restaurant. That much is clear. There is no point going here unless you too worship at the altar of meat. 45 covers only, it could sit quietly in the corner of one of Gaucho's barns. They run two sittings, 6.45pm and 9pm, and I'd advise the later one... trying to stagger through this quantity of meat in 2 hours is a challenge. 
The centre point of the rustic Hackney restaurant is the authentic parilla that takes pride of place in the bijoux open-plan kitchen. It's a huge metal grill, custom built in Argentina, on which the slabs of beef are stacked before being lowered onto a base covered in glowing charcoal. The sight of the grill, a bovine version of the Spanish Inquisition, groans with meats and sausages and serves to highlight why you're not here for the salad. I would describe the rest of the restaurant, but dear reader, I didn't notice it. Wood? Maybe some pictures? Sod it, I was here for the meat...
Bread (standard white baguette and a couple of Jacobs crackers) was rescued utterly with a heavenly mix of blue cheese and butter to spread. God knows how good that would have been on nice bread. It came with a brace of homemade empanadas; crumbly buttery pastry cases like spicy Cornish pasties enclosing fresh, hot fillings, designed to take the edge off our hunger. I couldn't stop with the blue cheese mix, determined as I was not to ruin the steak to follow. 
We went for the Parillada Deluxe. A metal tray heated over some of those charcoals, served to your table with a selection of steaks, sausages and cheese (yes, cheese, I'll come back to that). The tray arrived dwarfing the diminutive server, the pair of steaks stacked precariously over the grill. The deluxe comes with a 14oz sirloin and an 11oz rib-eye, both served the rare side of medium rare (to the possible detriment of the fattier rib-eye), sizzling slightly on the plate. If this wasn't enough, the grill also contains two large sausages, disappointingly dry this time but I've been assured that this is a rarity, and four nuggets of a homemade spicy, crumbling black pudding. And a disc of creamy provolone cheese with a topping of dried herbs, sizzling away in a corner of the plate, pulled away in artery threatening lumps. Nice as it was, it felt somewhat extraneous, like they were really trying to fill you with as much fat as you could take. Vital, tasty, life affirming fat for sure, but I felt towards the end of the marathon a little like a force-fed goose. The meat for the record was good. Very good. And certainly one to wave under the nose of anyone who has ever uttered the sentence, "I never bother with steak, it's all too samey for me". I won't mention the char, or the marbling, or any of the other phrases that confirmed meatheads will bandy around, but will confirm that the flesh was deep red throughout and had the most beautiful, almost sweet, taste. 
We didn't have time for desserts, feeling slightly rushed at the end of our time slot. It's unlikely we'd have had room for any, but the option would have been nice. A swift espresso then instead, before rolling off into the Hackney night. I'll be back, and will find it hard to go back to the Gaucho after this. Have a look, you won't be disappointed. 

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.

Review of Bedford & Strand - Sept 2010

Where: Bedford and Strand, Covent Garden

With who: Ed Hitter in Chief
How much: between £12 to £15 a main, starters £6 - £8

An anonymous doorway on Bedford St, just off the Strand (see what they did there...) takes you downstairs and into a well designed white tiled, mirror lined bistro. It isn't difficult to find, but is thankfully anonymous enough not to appeal to the tourist herds piling in to TGI Friday two doors up for their chicken wing shakes.

Desk bound working lunches are the norm in the UK, with work done over an actual lunch (by which I mean useful business related conversation) seen as a bit of a perk. They wouldn't go for it on the continent... Bedford and Strand is the kind of place that Keith Floyd would have unearthed in a railway station in rural France. In short, the sort of place that we should all have access to regularly. They do a two course set lunch for £12 and to be honest, I'd be in there most days if i worked in the neighbourhood. A casual meeting with Ed Hitter in Chief was proposed and he kindly offered lunch at his 'local'.

It's a simple rustic French brasserie menu with a great little wine list priced by 'reliable', 'honest', 'decent' and 'good'. I wasn't drinking, but there were enough here by the glass that I was made to feel slightly envious. Like some of the best spots round here it was a former wine cellar, think Gordons or Terroirs, and there's something of the dark, comfortable evening venue about the place. Leaving into the sunlight felt frankly wrong.

I can honestly say that there wasn't anything I wouldn't have eaten from the menu. Cauliflower and White Truffle Oil soup vied for my attention among the starters alongside Chicken Liver Parfait, Goose Rillette and potted crab. We were on a time constraint so skipped sadly by and onto the mains. A couple of nearby city types from large local employer Coutts on the Strand tucked into large, padded well seared steaks, served with crispy looking thin frites. The money managers murmured their approval.


On a (slight) health kick, I skipped the Braised Rabbit in a Mustard Sauce and a wonderful sounding Parmesan Crust Pork Chop and went for the Chicken Caesar Salad. large slabs of plumb charred chicken breast arrived on a well seasoned salad with the (admittedly inauthentic) bonus of crispy bacon strips. The dressing was fresh, piquant and delightful. Ed Hitter in Chief took plump fishcakes in hand, they looked stunning, a mixture of smoked haddock and seasoned potato in a crisp crumb.


A very solid option for the area, and proof of Covent Garden's delightful ability to reinvent old spaces and manage to provide well for the locals as well as the tourists, something it's more difficult to say for transatlantic cousin, Times Square.
   

Eating the World Cup - England v USA June 12

Where (in South Africa): USA v England, Rustenburg, Sat June 12, score 1-1 (poor sad Robert Green..)
Where (in London): For preference, Hawksmoor or Goodman, though I do look forward to trying the Soul Food Kitchen soon and you can't argue with a Bodean's BBQ fix.


Now if you follow the hypothesis of Matthew's rather lovely blog - It Ends With Dovi - and I advise that you do, it seems it must possible to eat the food of any nation in London. While Americans might not be as well served as the Italian, Indian or Chinese ex pats, I had assumed there must be some places they could get the taste of home. Expectation overpowers actuality. While there are lots of foodstuffs one associates with the States (the two best known examples are burgers and the simply served steak, while others may throw out chowders, tex mex and soul food), American cuisine is by definition a fusion of imigrants doing their best with the flavours of a recently settled nation. There are actually very few authentically 'American' restaurants to chose from.
There are however, vast numbers of steakhouses and burger joints that populate our fair city and some of these are worth some explanation here (with links to the restaurants and reviews where they exist).


The humble burger
There are some great examples available in London, including the best burger I've eaten outside the US (and possibly only second to In 'n' Out), the Classic Cheeseburger at Lucky Seven in Westborne Park Road. Other fine exponents include the off-menu brioche bun at Joe Allen (off menu, so the story goes, to avoid embarrassing the actors who can't afford to eat as much as their friends) and the near legenday Meatwagon (head over to Ibzo's messianic post here. He's a man who appreciates meat as much as me and sums it up very well. The last time the wagon rolled up at the Florence in Herne Hill, there were hour long queues. I blame it on Twitter...). The other two of real note are Hawksmoor and Goodman, more of which below.
On steak
Likewise, we're well served with steak, that other staple of American dining. Hawksmoor (my review here) is top of the list for me still, but recent experiences at Goodman (my review here) and Maze Grill prove there's stiff competition in this sector. All three do excellent burgers as well, though that's not really what you're there for... I'd avoid the Black and Blue chain (my review here) unless you're absolutely desperate, the other three are infinitely better and it almost goes without saying that you should never, ever walk into an Angus Steakhouse, unless you have to dine with someone you really dislike. 

The Diners
Where the diners exist, they're often just chain burger joints, and a real mixed bag, rather than the working class temple to short order chefs seen and expected across the states (see my review of New York's Viande for photos). There are none that standout as being exceptional, though I do have happy memories of boozy milkshakes at The Diner in Ganton Street. Exceptions
There are a few exceptions. The 'family-friendly' New Orleans 'themed' Big Easy in Chelsea is populated by teenage Sloanes and banker's with their young families neatly combining a large number of my dining prejudices, (or predjudi?). I have similar distain for the faux Tex Mex of the Texas Embassy on Trafalgar Square after an awful press night there. We have the tasty Bodeans BBQ restaurant chain, perfect for a Friday lunchtime 'Soho Special' (hot pulled pork and burnt beef brisket ends in a slightly too sweet BBQ sauce served in a sloppy bun). The other interesting option is Brondesbury's Soul Food Kitchen, Transport for London have transpired twice to keep me from it, but I will be trying the fried chicken, cornbread and mac and cheese (a vastly underrated carb-filled goldmine) soon.