London Restaurants by category
When I was a young man, there was a weekday evening TV programme that reviewed computer games. This was back before gaming became mainstream 'popular culture' and were just the thing that little boys did after they'd graduated from Panini stickers but before they had discovered Rebecca Burley's cleavage and the intense joy of illicitly obtained cigarettes.
One of the many features I remember from the show, other than the venerable Patrick Moore as the titular Gamesmaster dispensing advice on how to reach previously unachievable levels and slay end of dungeon bosses, was the hilarious Viewer Reviewer section. Each week a pasty faced young limb from the provinces would be given the first play of a new game before reporting back in the way of any normal twelve year old confronted with adults and a TV camera: "I liked this game, it was good." they'd intone nervously. "The graphics were good and the sound was, um, good". Warming to the theme, "overall this game is recommended. If you like that sort of game". Hardly Giles Coren, but then who am I to talk?
The Blues Kitchen on the Camden High Road makes all the right noises, and some of the things it tries, it manages to pull off perfectly. On a Wednesday evening at 7.30pm, it's slick, reclaimed brick and artfully themed interior is packed out and booked out, so much so that we're told by the chipper and efficient front of house that there isn't a table until 9.30. We slink back across the road for another pint before being called with a cancellation.
Staff are universally friendly, funky and devoid of the 'tude one might expect given the locale (and the crowds). Beers from a slim list of US crafts are pricey, but a wonderful set from house singer Katy Anderson and her band the Rumours is as deliciously well done as it is unhyped. In hindsight, I'd have opted to sit nearer, have a couple of beers and enjoy the set more.
The menu is, unlike the bar, a pretty straight summary of good ol' Louisiana stylings. And the selection of burgers, fried or BBQ'ed goods and gumbo certainly fit the design theme. Like the teen reviewer of my youth though, I can't get round the fact it was all good, but 'just' good. Despite the potential to be so much better. A shared platter of sliders were fair enough, perfectly adequate support to the band and the beers, though the new house special of deep fried alligator tail fillet could have been chicken or pork given the level of cooking it had endured in it's panko crumbed prison.
The mains were united in three aspects; great ingredients, cooked well but woefully underpowered with their seasoning. My St Louis pork ribs were perfectly juicy and tender, cooked perfectly over (allegedly) aromatic wood chips, but just didn't have any flavour to them. Lovely meat, but someone had totally missed the marinading stage. Cooked nude, without the thick umami kick and spice a good sauce should have brought, they were just 'nice', sadly no more than that. The same, even less forgivably, was true of the gumbo… A deep slow cooked stew of seafood, meats and spices shouldn't need to be liberally salted and peppered just to render it edible, especially when otherwise it was so well prepared. It was puzzling though maybe that's 'fine' if you're not a big fan of the duurty BBQ experience.
Sadly, despite the stunning rhythm 'n' blues and the friendly staff, I can't see that I'd be back in a hurry for the food. It's a great option if you are unlucky enough to find yourself trapped in Camden of an evening and more than adequate for a night of music and drinks, but the food feels very much ancillary to that. "Overall this place is recommended. If you like that sort of thing".
Or - 'If Jamie Oliver had a grandmother called Muriel'...
Arranging to meet a colleague in London's museum quarter, I tiredly stumble into the first place I come to, folksy new brunch and lunch place, Muriel's Kitchen.
Named after some venture capitalist's grandmother (who obviously had a smart eye for a roll out and a chain concept). It's as British as only South Kensington can be, like a plastinated theme park recreation of a fictionalised remembrance of a bucolic rose tinted past. See also Irish pubs in airports and Michael Gove's education policy.
The look goes for Farrow and Ball country kitchen, the menu farmer's market chic. If there's a limit to the number of times they can reference fresh and local and 'fun' I can't find it. It's been designed by a focus group consisting of the wives of Tory grandees and former prison guards.
The staff are joyless and borderline scary as they contemplate table turn and space yield in a way that would impress the most ruthless of bankers. We're all crammed in closely and efficiently despite the space being less than half filled. I pitied the poor sods who followed after me and, unhappy with their allocated seating at the apex of two, cold windows attempted to move. "All of the chairs are assigned to a table... Please don't move them. No, no. Those tables are for four people only". This is 'fun'... with deliberate quotation marks.
Despite that oh so jolly treatment, the food genuinely isn't that bad. My cheese omelette was borderline undercooked (in true French style) but fresh, light and creamy with a good hit of sharp cheese. The chutney alongside is just as I remember from my mother's WI days. Poached eggs are blisteringly golden, melting across acres of blushing toast that crunches with seedy goodness. Only anaemic coffee lets it down, I could be taking the line on parsimony too far but it tastes like the second time the beans have been used.
It's generally a fine breakfast, with fine ingredients, albeit for a fairly 'fine' price. As it is removed we are upsold more tea, coffee or additional pasties. Declining, we are immediately presented with the bill and practically cleared with the table. Despite a decent breakfast, sometimes you remember why eating out is not just about the food...
