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
