medlar: much more than mediocre

Never judge a book by its cover. That's one of the few personal rules I always try and abide by. No need to fret, I'm not going to get all self-righteous here, but I am fully aware that I, more than anybody I know, make the worst first impressions. You see, my eyes, to which I spend 15 minutes every morning applying a double layer of the blackest eye-liner to get a perfectly smooth line that finishes with an exaggerated harsh flick, are big, round and menacing. They make people feel intimidated. My earth-shatteringly loud walk, induced by sky high heels that I choose to disguise my 5-ft-nothing frame, makes me come across as arrogant. And the way I talk: loud, with an underlying bossy, negative tone is, well, just annoying. The list goes on... Anyhow, I'm not saying that everyone I know likes me now, but I'm quite confident that 90% hate me less than when they first met me.

But I blame no one. Even I sometimes can't help it. It is, after all, only human nature to make snap judgements. And in times like these, one must. The world is so saturated with choice and in order to get anything done, decisions must be made. Fast.

I have to admit that when it came to Medlar, I jumped right on my judgemental horse and ignorantly refused to disembark until last week, almost a year after it opened. Despite its rave reviews from the likes of Fay Maschler, A.A. Gill, Giles Coren and respected fellow blogger, London Eater, there seems to be/ have been relatively little hype around this medium-sized, nondescript dining room perched on the end of the King's road serving 'French-based' food taking 'inspiration from all over.' There, I've said it. If you'd heard that, would you be rushed off your feet and dialling frantically to try and get a table? I didn't think so.

What was my problem with Medlar? Well, for starters I haven't been entirely convinced by any restaurant that has stationed itself at the rahh, I mean far, end of the King's road in the past decade, not to mention that I've never been particularly fond of restaurants named after fruits (or vegetables for that matter) either. My biggest problem with Medlar (and my most shamefully shallow reasoning) however, was its decor. It looked as though it was crudely swept by the Scandinavian wind, then slapped in the face by Sloanies, who insisted upon a particularly dull shade of Farrow & Ball grey and a disgustingly brilliant mint green, and who made damn sure there was plenty of posh and pretty Chelsea spirit by covering the walls with twee botanical patterns. It didn't look confident or enticing, to say the least. And if the interior was unappetizing, what would the food be like?

Although its awkward location was much less noticeable in the dark and the dining room itself looked much less offensive under flattering night-time lighting, I still wasn't convinced. I didn't understand who or what it was trying to be, and most importantly, I hadn't the slightest clue of how my meal was going to turn out. I tried once more to rid myself of any scepticism I felt as I walked through its doors, but between the time it took to remove my five layers and being seated at one of the less exciting tables, I had almost definitely made up my mind that the experience was going to be ok, just ok.

But then the menu arrived and I realised just how much I had underestimated chef and co-owner Joe Mercer Nairne (formerly of The Savoy Grill and Chez Bruce). In the time it took to read the starter and main sections - 30 seconds flat - my bitter preconceptions and apprehension diminished. To say that it was a good menu would be an understatement. It read like a dream, one in which I (resembling Gisele) was lying in my La Perla lingerie (flat-stomached, of course, with hunger) and being fed all my favourite foods by David Gandy. It was unreal.

Having to decide between a Foie Gras Ballotine with Medlar Jelly and Brioche, Braised Tripe with Polenta, Tomato, Fennel, Bacon and Gremolata, and Crab Raviolo with Samphire, Brown Shrimps and Bisque Sauce for a starter was like trying to choose between pair of Lanvins and a pair of YSLs that were both on sale. After much thought, and with the influence of our charming waitress, I went for the Duck Egg Tart with Red Wine Sauce, accompanied by Turnip Puree, Lardons and Sauteed Duck's Heart. Being a romantic, I think it was the heart that won me over. And boy was it a good choice. The fried duck egg's extra creamy yolk leaked on to the thin, crispy pastry and joyously met with the robust red wine reduction that was sweet and salty with just the right amount of acidity. The pearly white turnip puree was silky smooth and perfectly paired with the exceedingly well-cooked springy, metallic-y duck heart. In my experience, fatty bacon bits are never an unwelcome addition to any plate, and this was no exception. The whole thing was a triumphant start.

This is not to say, however, that I didn't suffer from slight food envy. My fellow diner's Crab Raviolo was also hard to fault. The beautifully round, thin pasta was voluptuously filled with soft white crab, and combined with a familiar, but nevertheless tasty, rich creamy bisque and salty little pink shrimps. The emerald samphire added a refreshing sea-scented crunch and the diced tomatoes, a clean sweetness that brought the whole dish together like a perfect symphony. Wait, did I mention my jealousy?

My indecisiveness was elevated to dizzying new heights when I saw the unashamedly carnivor-heavy mains selection of Guinea Fowl with Gnocchi and Reblochon, Duck Breast with Confit Leg and Potato terrine, and Under Blade Fillet with Bone Marrow, Triple cooked Chips and Bearnaise, not to mention some enticing seafood options such as Bream with Baby Squid and Risotto Nero, as well as Red Wine Braised Octopus with Roast Cod, Crisp Indian Pastry and Frisee. (Yes, I really had to list them all!) 

I chose and changed my mind, and then changed it again, finally settling on Ox Tongue and Heart with Caramelised Endive Tart, Garlic and sauce Poirvrade. Again, it was the abundance of offal that gave it the X-factor for me. 

The thinly sliced roasted ox heart, cooked to pink perfection, was incredible - beefy, tender and oozing with juicy sweetness. While the tongue was soft and bouncy with a slight crunch, result of the quick caramelising in the pan just before serving. In the background, the sweet caramelised endive on another flawlessly cooked piece of pastry combined with the gutsy, though not overwhelming, garlic puree and fragrant, earthy girolles acted as perfect supporting roles for the two protagonists on the plate. 

My fellow diner also enjoyed her Guinea Fowl, which she said was lovely and moist. The Reblochon-covered potato gnocchi was applauded for its light and gooey richness, while the irony spinach and crunchy spring onions were also warmly received. As for the fun swirly thing on top, also made from Reblochon, well, it tasted as good as it looked. If only it was sold in a bag like crisps... 

My dining companion and I had just devoured four nearly perfect plates of food... could our dessert top that? Or will it be like so many other restaurants that often fall at the last hurdle? I thought the tarte tatin, which was designed for two, would be a fair way to judge. Like the most loved classic French dishes, tarte tatin (as basic as it sounds), is where even the best of chefs fail. It is one of my absolute favourite desserts and I could count the number of good ones I've had on one hand, with Medlar being one of them. The pastry was light and puffy, soaked in sticky caramel, the kind that gets seriously stuck between your teeth, and topped with moist and mouth-numbingly sweet yet sour apples that have retained a little bit of bite. Some prefer vanilla ice cream with their tarte tatin, others prefer creme fraiche; I usually ask for both. So the accompanying creme fraiche ice cream, which obviously went down a treat, was a true revelation - a real highlight from Joe Mercer Nairne's kitchen, and perhaps even of the night. 

So ask me again what I hate about Medlar. As it turns out, absolutely nothing. Apart from the fact that as soon as I paid (a very reasonable £60), I immediately wanted to book a table for the next day, and the day after that... and the day after that. 

Looks like Medlar got the last laugh, then. 

438 King's Road, London SW10 0LJ  Tel: +44 (0) 20 7349 1900 

battle of the burgers

"Do I look like the kind of girl who'd queue for a burger?"

That, used to be my line. In response to the countless surprised "What? You haven't been to Meat Liquor yet?!" And yes, that was an unspoken principal of mine. I was certain I had already experienced the best burger and that nothing, nothing I'd eat at Meat Liquor or any other overhyped (and remarkably fashionable) burger joint would in any way match up to Daniel Boulud's DB burger in New York.

It certainly took me long enough, but last week I finally made it to Meat Liquor, the brainchild of Yianni Papoutsis, formerly of Meatwagon (formerly Meateasy - I know, I too wish he'd stop changing the name). Sadly, I never made it to either of his previous venues. But it's all about Meat Liquor now and from the looks of it, it will be for at least another couple of years. Despite the fact that I've only just managed to get to one of London's most talked about restaurants of 2011, after what seemed like a decade after everyone else in the city, I think I've more than made up for it by having been twice in less than a week. This act alone is a huge giveaway (to anyone that knows me) that my Meat Liquor experience was, in fact, not at all shoddy.

Seeing as I've given it a good three months since the opening, I was confident there would be an insignificant amount of queuing involved. I was very wrong. The hype of Meat Liquor was far from over. In fact, if my last two visits (one on a Wednesday and the other a Tuesday) were anything to go by, the urban legend that is Yianni Papoutsis' burgers has spread even further. The lines were as long as ever and the aromas that seep seductively out of the vents and double front doors meant that once you're within half a mile radius of the premises, there's no going back. It would take too much willpower to walk away, leaving behind that unbeatably beefy fragrance that would linger, haunt and taunt you for the rest of the night. 

We eventually escaped the cold and entered what looked and felt unmistakably like a nightclub. I initially wondered, what on earth possessed Yianni and his interior designer when they decided that seedy red lighting, graffiti and offensively bright neon signs constitute good restaurant decor. For me it was more like a slaughter house cum brothel (with burgers)... but somehow, it works. The bar serves great cocktails, concocted by charming bartenders, at reasonable prices. When our waitress said 'Time of the Month'? in response to my request for a recommendation, I nearly slapped her. Luckily I caught on quickly and my cocktail was to die for.  

When our burgers, along with a generous portion of french fries, onion rings, deep fried gherkins, an enormous mound of chicken wings and a dog bowl's worth of coleslaw arrived, I knew we had over ordered, but I was too excited. Besides, the low lighting, which partly obscured the endless stream of fat dripping from my burger and how soaked the grease-proof paper on our tray was from the deep fried everything, helped conceal the exact number of calories I was about to consume. This was one of Yianni's clever techniques - you can't quite see what or just how much you're eating.

The classic cheese burger was juicy and rich, and so was the Double Bubble, times two. The chicken wings were good but nothing to write home about, although they do have their followers. The onion rings were better than the fries, but neither could beat the deep fried gherkins. If the purpose of having gherkins with a burger is to inject sharpness to cut through the richness of the meat, this completely contradicted itself and I loved it just for that. My favourite details though, were the bottles of Blair's Heat Jalepeno Mango sauce (a perfect cocktail of sweet and sour heat) and the crude roll of kitchen towels placed on every table (when you have a burger this juicy, ordinary napkins do not suffice). 

I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed Meat Liquor. The music was loud, the atmosphere was  buzzy and casual, and the staff, though not quite as edgy or as cool as Russell Norman's lot, did an impeccable job. They were great at not rushing you out, all the while knowing that there's a never ending line of people waiting outside in less than amicable conditions. I loved the fact that once you're in there, you're allowed to forget about the glum-faced diners, standing impatiently with their mouths open, drooling on the person in front's hair, and hell you even forget you were one of them ten minutes ago. Now, unless I am mistaken, Yianni's is not only a burger worth waiting for but also a restaurant you can't wait to come back to. 

After my Meat Liquor experience, I realised that Yianni did more than just serve me a finger-likin' good burger, he had also unlocked my inner burger-loving beast. The following Saturday I gave in and pursued my greedy little stomach to Hackney with the sole purpose of sampling Lucky Chip's version of beef in a bun. 

Netil Market, located just a stone's throw away from the better known and more eventful Broadway Market, is a strange little place. It was around midday when we arrived at a small car park on Westgate street that had evidently been tarted up, somewhat shabbily, for its Saturday-only market. Lucky Chip's van was standing proud and tall amongst a cluster of stalls selling all sorts of vintage (or more accurately, second-hand) things including clothing, furniture and other decorative items no one seemed interested in buying. Aside from a vintage camera shop (which attracted a lot of inconsequential attention), the oyster and fishcake stand and the tiny coffee cart in the corner which acted as a sort of hors d'oeuvres and afters for Lucky Chip's offerings, it was apparent that the burgers really were the piece de resistance here. 

I observed that there was a constant stream of people entering the market, with mouths open, stomachs rumbling; their pupils dilated as soon as they spotted the Lucky Chip van. But then they'd stop and abruptly turn left to do a ritual round of the market stalls they knew were selling all sorts of junk they didn't want. We did the same. Perhaps it was out of pity, or unconsciously, we didn't want to make it too obvious that we were LC virgins. But anyhow, all seemed to wind up queuing outside the green and silver box, embellished with two huge speakers and a tiny (I assumed) broken television perched on top.

The line was deceptively short. We ordered the El Chappo and the (Charlie) Sheen, which took skeptically long. But it seems the more lengthy the wait, the more rewarding the outcome. Lucky Chip's technique of steaming the patties before finishing them off on the grill meant the burgers were succulent, soft and tasty, yet surprisingly a lot less greasy than Meat Liquor's. For me, the winner was El Chappo's (smoked bacon, blue cheese, roasted jalapenos, aioli and cress) extravagantly salty combination, complemented by a welcoming kick of crunchy jalapeno and the bitterness of fresh cress. The (Charlie) Sheen, stuffed with applewood smoked bacon, Philly, aioli, cheddar and, star of the show, the beer-soaked onions adding a sweet and sour crunch, was also hard to fault. Despite the name, the chips themselves weren't so lucky - greasy but not crispy and unseasoned - but when the meat's that good, who cares about the veg?

So my conclusion is this. If you're in it for a really tasty burger with all the trimmings, including a lively, great atmosphere, pretty staff, pretty crowd and pretty darn good cocktails, then Meat Liqour will serve you well. However, if you're a straight up burger fanatic looking for a memorable meaty experience (minus the good fries), Lucky Chip is truly unmissable. It may have been the best moderately-priced burger I've ever tasted.

While I maintain that Daniel Boulud's DB burger is still by far the most accomplished - if you must know, he packs a layer of red-wine braised beef and a layer of foie gras between the most succulent minced beef - it weighs in at a whopping $20 (in addition to a ticket to New York). His Piggie burger at Bar Boulud in London is perhaps more accessible, but one can't deny it's no less than an extravagant treat. So, I have no choice but to eat my words. There may just be one or two burgers in London worth waiting in line for after all.