London Restaurants by category
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?
When you get collared into giving a sympathetic ear to a tale of work woe, I've found that the only thing to do is to take them for a spicy lunch to blast past the doldrums. It's my version of chicken soup for the soul and on that basis, the new Chinatown diner advised by spicy Sichuan specialist Fuchsia Dunlop (a critical part of the successful Bar Shu and Bar Shan) should have been a slam dunk.
Positives first, the food is pretty good. Mapo Dofu, that gunpowder spiced tofu wonderment, wasn't as spicy as I'd prefer but definitely hit the spot for my guest (it was also randomly twice the price of my main). My bowl of Dan Dan noodles, slow cooked pork mince in a powerful rich sauce, another dish that Ms Dunlop has brought to prominence, was umami powered perfection with a slow build of the numbing pepper and chilli heat as you moved towards the base of the bowl. If I still worked round here, that'd be lunch. Daily.
A fine, cheap and large portion of five spice roasted duck on the side tasted as expected but could have done with a dip of some sort and maybe some pickle or cucumber spears to counter the slightly dry meat. The only real disappointment came with aubergine fritters, one of my favourite veggies (particularly when dealt with by the Chinese) but a slippery critter once cooked, stuffed here with a frankly slimy pork and green veg mix, the thin fried coating offering little protection.
Worker's canteen seating, a patriotic martial soundtrack and 'We All Go Gloriously Together' propaganda posters of shiny tractors and bucolic peasantry with bulging biceps evoke the early optimism of the Communist revolution - Think back to the first days of Tony Blair and everyone dancing outside to D:ream in 1997, now multiply it by several million...
Optimism aside, I'm not entirely sure they've really thought the naming concept though... Those up on their 20th Century Chinese history know of the Big Leap Forward as an unmitigated collectivist disaster that caused the death by starvation of over 18m Chinese in the following 4 years - about as inviting as an abattoir themed all you can eat BBQ place or a bakery and cake shop called Marie Antoinette's Place. Try googling the place and you get pages and pages of famine references, hardly an optimal pre-dining experience...
For this quality at a tenner a head in this part of town, I'll be back. It's a good little option opposite the stage door of the Hippodrome. I'm not sure it's special enough to warrant a trip on it's own though.
Italian restaurants in hotels are a bean counter's no brainer. That's why so many hotels around the world have them. The cuisine is widespread, recognised and inoffensive to everyone, easy to prepare and (if you scrimp on the ingredients and the time) easy to come out at a low bottom line cost. Unfortunately the difference between a good one and a poor one is all too evident, but not until the food lands in front of you.
Villagio, unfortunately positioned on the Hammersmith roundabout opposite the bus station has that suicidal Hilton airport hotel vibe down to a tee. We went with guests, travellers thankfully too jetlagged to notice what the hell they were eating.
The room has that large, cold, boomingly beige, parquet wood vibe known the world over to those who need to turn tables between breakfast, lunch and dinner with a minimum of fuss. From the glossy corporate menu to the service there's no love here.
The food isn't even Hilton. It's Holiday Inn at best. My guests 'Italian' burger was a room service disaster. A lukewarm granite puck slapped between anaemic re-baked on the premises focaccia. The fries were alright, like underseasoned refugees from the nearby bus station MacDonalds. Chicken al Fungi was little more than underheated and cheap ricotta studded with gray lumps of protein masquerading as mushroom. No doubt someone counted the lumps to make sure I didn't get more than my allotted share. I was glad, I couldn't cope with any more than my allotted share.
As well as Hammersmith, they also have branches Berkhamsted, Andover and Barnet... I may pass.
Where: Mooli's, Soho
With whom: work lunches, I think I've introduced most colleagues now. if I haven't taken you, then it either means I'm not enough of a fan to share the spare five minutes I get to eat, or you don't work near me...
How much?: A remarkably reasonable £4.50 for a large Mooli.
Now I grumble right? It's one of the reasons that you read the reviews (other than the fact I ram it down your throat every five minutes), but every now and then even I find somewhere that I just can't complain about, and Mooli's may be that place. But I'm a Grumbling Gourmet, and certainly not qualified to just be a Gourmet, so will give them both barrels.
Complaint no 1: There are long queues at lunchtime
Complaint no 2: I've the sneaking suspicion that they could turn it into a chain, and thus become the corporate enemy. After all, being in on the ground floor of a food revolution is wonderful, but you don't want to admit to shilling for a nationwide chain, "hey guys, I've found this beautiful new sandwich shop... artisanal, fresh, Pret A Manger I think it's called.."
The premise is simple. A small shop on Frith Street sells 6 types of Mooli, Indian style wraps of meat or veg in a roti roll. They do a better job of explaining this than me. Take the wrap, eat the wrap, smile...
I habitually, like an addict, go for the Goan Pork. More pulled pork, this time an unctuous slow cooked spice hot mix, almost past the point of individual strands and spread like a rough pate on the freshly cooked wholemeal roti. There's a pleasing crunch and sweetness from the pomegranate seeds and a lettuce, cucumber and tomato salad shares the porky bed and adds a touch of cool to proceedings.
The Keralan beef with coconut and raita works well, as does their new goat, a spicy step change from the more subtle beef. I've tried a bite of the veggie Mooli's but keep getting side tracked by the pork.
It's too simple a concept for a long review. The fact I take people there most weeks sums up my feelings for the place, it's the same pleasure I get introducing people to a great new band. I hope that it can and does roll out (geddit, geddit?) further so I get the chance to look at the Mooli's on every high street and remember back to when I knew first, and best...
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...
