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.

burger & lobster

Well, if the Russians behind Goodman steakhouses, now also owners of sizzling hot Mayfair joint Burger & Lobster, couldn't even be bothered to come up with a more inspring name, then why should I for this post?

I'm not complaining, though. Burger & Lobster does actually deliver exactly what it says on the tin. Too many restaurants nowadays come over all superior with their conceptual dining and complicated seven-section menus so it's really rather refreshing to see someone has got the guts to go and do the complete opposite. You can imagine my excitement then, when I first heard a whisper (literally, the amount of press was less than modest) about Burger & Lobster, another no-res institution, and its promise of a £20 lobster, a whole one that is.

So when it officially opened last Saturday, I hurriedly got together with my food mate and raced down to Mayfair. Having recently visited a handful of prettily decorated, achingly hip new restaurants, Burger & Lobster's space came as a disappointment. It has all the right components: bare brick walls running behind the bar on one side and stripped grey concrete on the other, bright red banquettes at the back and a collection of quirky light fixtures (a row of bulbs sandwiched between two steel lobster claws suspended above our table made me smile)... yet somehow it felt lacklustre. At first glance it was reminiscent of an old-fashioned steakhouse, and not a particularly classy one at that.

However, I commend Burger & Lobster for its simplicity, and its owners for the ingenuity of putting two of the most loved foods together in one place, with a commitment to doing them both well. Essentially, what they have done is made the lobster (a primarily aristocratic creature) more commercial, and the burger (a less elegant fare) more up-scale.

What lacked in the interiors department was more than made up for with a truly great atmosphere, tipped by friendly and relaxed, but not overwhelming, service. The staff here greet you with such familiarity and charm, you could easily be fooled into feeling as if it's been your comfy little local for years. When we politely asked the whereabouts of our menu, our waiter smiled, pointed to his apron, emblazoned with the 'Burger & Lobster' logo and said 'this is it.' Our conversation went something like this:

Waiter: "Lobster or burger?"
Me: "Lobster please."
Waiter: "Would you like that grilled, steamed or as a lobster roll?"
Me: "Grilled."
Waiter: "With classic butter or lemon and garlic butter?"
Me: "Lemon and garlic please."
Done.

Even the laziest, most indecisive diners can't complain. It's the least I've had to work for my dinner and it felt great. At this point, a waiter arrives with our disposable bibs, an extra 10 points for Burger & Lobster. Ever since Chicago Rib Shack (their baby back ribs and onion loaf are my most shameful secret guilty pleasures), I have been looking all over for a place that provides these frightful-looking wearable napkins that make me look about eight. So they don't make the sexiest of outfits (I wouldn't recommend coming here on a date, by the way), but you never, ever, regret putting them on. I know this because I have, on too many occasions, ruined a treasured item of clothing, especially when it involves shellfish, meats on the bone and/or when I'm feeling particularly gluttonous.

The lobster, though smaller than I expected, looked and tasted great. It was soft, bouncy, sweet, and if I'm to be a tad pedantic, also slightly overcooked, but only by a mere 30 seconds - not the end of the world. The sauce, though lacking a little in acidity, was buttery and rich with a weighty garlic kick. It certainly won my vote and went incredibly well with my Albarino - a refreshing and unexpectedly dry Spanish white with beautiful honey notes that lingered on the sides of my tongue for just about long enough. The burger, cooked medium rare, was topped with cheese and streaky bacon which was more chewy than crunchy. The meat itself was succulent, juicy and the seasoning was close enough to being spot on. Both platters were served with a decent portion of fries and a salad, which sadly was so scantily clad with dressing, it might as well have been in the nude. The stars however, were the pickled onions and cucumber, which cut through the richness of that burger with a sweet, sharp crunch: an underrated feature that I never fail to appreciate.

There were only two options for dessert: chocolate mousse or lemon mousse, neither of which aroused my palette at the time, so we left them. Had I known what was coming for pudding I would have ordered a lobster roll to share as well, but hey ho, you can't have everything.

So did Burger & Lobster deliver? Well, in fact it did. I'd absolutely be back for a lobster, which I appreciated for the fun factor (who doesn't like tearing one apart and scooping out the best bits from the claws with bare hands?) and undeniably great value for money. But I'd be a fool to order the burger again. It was good, don't get me wrong, but for that amount of money, I was expecting full bells and whistles - perhaps a limited edition Wagyu topped with pancetta and a slab of expensive cheese - which it certainly wasn't. Considering Bar Boulud's Piggie Burger knocks you back a mere £14, it's fairly obvious that the Russians have taken us for a ride. 20 quid for a good burger was, quite unashamedly, a right rip off.

Just telling it like it is, folks.

29 Clarges Street, Mayfair, London W1J 7EF Tel: +44 (0)20 7409 1699

best of the brunch

It was the second last weekend before Christmas, which meant that, as far as my past experiences have demonstrated, we were going to spend Sunday afternoon pushing and shoving alongside millions of London shoppers who, like us, will also be trying to get their shopping done before the festive holiday season officially begins. The Chef and I were fully aware of this, but quite frankly we didn't have much of a choice.      


Certain that the day ahead wasn't going to be a pleasant or stress-free one, The Chef came up with the brilliant idea of boosting our energy levels with a brunch at Chris Corbin and Jeremy King's new restaurant, appropriately hailed as 'The New Wolseley'. 

It wasn't my intention to review The Delaunay, but seeing as I enjoyed my fried duck eggs with black and white puddings so much (mmmm, I know, my cholesterol levels have probably risen by 50% just thinking about it), I thought it would be a shame not to brag about it. After all, it's not like I offer up compliments as generously as I do my credit card to Selfridges. The Delaunay, which sits on the corner of Aldwych and Kingsway, is decked out in a familiar up-scale brasserie fashion we've come to expect from Corbin and King, and of course their legendary interior design mate David Collins. It's evident that some serious attention to detail has been paid to this 'grand European cafe'. There was nothing to not like about the black and white marble flooring, the sumptuous racing green banquettes and upholstery, dark wood and brass fittings with matching side lamps, the oversized antique train station clock, and as one would expect, some serious art. Although only on its third day of service, the staff was efficient, the crowd was smart, the service smooth, and the food, well, as far as brunch went, it was rather good. 

Admittedly I was surprised when we arrived at midday, to be informed that we only have an hour and a half on our table. Slowly but surely, diners started to fill up the spacious restaurant, and half an hour later it was packed. The brunch menu was classic but attractive. Eggs Benedict, Grilled Kipper, Omelette Arnold Bennett and Smoked Salmon Scrambled Eggs weren't anything particularly racy or saliva-inducing but they're also not the easiest things to get right. Breakfasts never are. The Chef had a steak tartare, which was good, though not without fault. The beef was chopped a little too finely and lacked a little acidity. Perhaps more capers, anchovies and a splash of tabasco would have given it that extra va va voom, but it was perfectly pleasant to eat. It was certainly better than a number of steak tartares I've had, but it still had a way to go in order to reach the standard of the Galvin brothers' version, which (aside from a one-off bespoke creation by The Chef, for me) is undoubtedly the best in London. My fried duck eggs were perfectly cooked. Rich gooey yolk oozed out to fuse harmoniously with salty, earthy and moist black and white puddings, while the fried bread lying lazily underneath soaked the warm bright orange liquid up greedily like a British tourist on holiday in Ibiza. It was a heavenly combination, if a tad too sickly. But I was greedy and finished it all anyway.The next hour on Regent Street was a struggle between trying not to trample on children and trying to ignore the fatty, yolky taste that formed a thin but palpable film, coating the inside of my mouth, throat and probably stomach as well. It seems I'd overdone it on the richness and it did not feel good. Having said that I'd happily go back next week for exactly the same thing. 55 Aldwych, London WC2B 4BB  Tel: +44 (0)20 7499 8558 

thank goodness for truffle season!

I truly believe that in my past life I was a truffle pig. I have an impeccable sense of smell, and I can often detect unusual, obscure odours from a mile off. This rare, and somewhat comical, talent of mine combined with an inexplicable need to sniff absolutely everything ever since I was a child (whether it's food, perfume or even everyday objects like mugs and shoes) makes my nose a very sensitive little soul indeed. It may also explain why the tiny, pebble-like fragranced fungus have always had a special place in my heart, and of course my stomach.

What I love about truffles is their unique wet-soil character, their subtle crunch, yet spongy texture, and the buttery, meaty, woody taste that combine to result in an earthiness that is somehow irreplicable. Some (cynics, mostly) say that a huge part of their appeal is their exclusivity - white truffle season, which starts in October, only lasts for a couple of months, and trifoleaux (truffle experts) confirm that as a result of global warming, truffles will become even more rare with each passing year - and the cost. Perhaps there is some truth in that. But I think what we're forgetting here is the fact that they're just so damn delicious. Ignore the fact that some Chinese casino owner once paid £165000 for a 1.5 kg white truffle - the largest ever to be auctioned (lucky bastard) - because it just makes the whole thing seem ridiculous. But to me, it makes perfect sense. If it has been scientifically proven that at least 80% of what you taste is actually what you can smell, that would explain why truffles, with their intoxicating yet delicate aroma, hold such an appeal.

Luckily, Christmas did come early this year for The Chef and I. Actually it came last weekend when we were given a special gift of a beautiful little white truffle. So we decided on a simple classic for our Sunday dinner. Sadly, I didn't learn how to make pasta - The Chef was concerned that by the time he managed to teach me the truffle may no longer be good to eat - so I can't take any credit for the perfectly thin, fresh fettucini that we had. I will, however, take full responsibility for an excellent bottle of Puilly-Fuisse, which I selected with care from the Waitrose Fine Wines section.

So, our home-made fettucini with white truffles and parmesan was... in the words of my favourite MasterChef judge, Greg Wallis, 'Coooorrrrr!! Like getting a great big kiss and a hug from a giant truffle!'

Need I say more?

itchin' to go to Mishkin's

It’s official. London is truly, madly, deeply in love with Russell Norman. The coolest self-confessed ‘uncool’ man behind some of the most successful restaurants the capital has seen in the past three years: Polpo (which, by the way, still conjures up a two-hour long wait at 6pm on a weekday), Polpetto, Spuntino and da Polpo. So it was of no surprise then, that when he announced he would be opening up a ‘kind of Jewish deli with cocktails’ in a prime Covent Garden spot (right next to Opera Tavern, as it turns out), tongues immediately started wagging, stomachs started rumbling and the twitterati started  tweeting excitedly in speculation of just how good Mishkin’s would be. And more importantly, how, oh just hoooww are we going to get in? 

The good news is that Mishkin’s takes reservations. Well, at least for now. “Do you remember when Polpo was taking reservations?” I’ve been asking everyone I’ve met for the past three weeks. “Well, yeah, I went when they were still doing that.” I told them proudly like I’d won the Nobel Prize or something. But more to the point, I was terrified that Mishkin’s will eventually wind up down the same no reservations route. So I did what I knew best – I got organised. On the very Friday that Mishkin’s officially opened, I telephoned at noon to make a reservation for Sunday. 

It was exactly like I’d expected. By the time we arrived at 7.30pm the cocktails were flowing, the bar was brimming and the restaurant itself was, all but two tiny tables, full. I got a sneaky glimpse of the A4 sheet on the understated reservation stand, which from where I was standing, also looked like it was exhausted of white space. 

The decor was in Norman’s true signature style: cool Lower East Side New York meets edgy East London. Bare brick walls, black and white chequered floors (one more of these in a restaurant and my eyes are going to go funny). Long, slender neon lights emitting dingy yellow glows ran vertically down the walls, interrupted in parts by stripped wooden pillars painted a ‘deli’ mint green. However, it was the details that impressed. It wasn’t just the cheap café-style furniture (think bright banquette seating and MDF tables with white formaldehyde tops), it was also the metal serviette dispensers, the red and yellow squeezy bottles, the tiny school canteen-style salt and pepper shakers that weren’t designed to moderately season, and the cans of soft drinks that lined the shelves... the amount of attention to detail was astonishing. Not only has Norman made ‘cheap’ incredibly cool, but he’s also timed it just right.

Now don’t hate me, but aside from the cozy interior and this unique magical atmosphere which Norman has pioneered and ingeniously sprinkled all over his London ‘joints’, I was a little disappointed. Mostly, with the food. A few months ago I tried my very first Matzo ball soup and fell in love with it. Perhaps Mishkin’s was unlucky in that my first and only taste of this classic Jewish dish was an experience that came pretty close to perfection - it was at Daniel Boulud’s DBGB in New York - but the truth is that it didn’t even come close to satisfying my craving. Although the Matzo ball itself wasn’t a bad attempt: soft, crumbly and light; the chicken broth was under-seasoned and lacked a kick that could have been achieved with just a pinch of cracked black pepper. Having said that, it was one of the better dishes of the night. 

The rest wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t great either. The much anticipated meatloaf (I’d seen a cheekily enticing image of this a week earlier on Twitter) was tasty. It was peppery, meaty, and the egg inside, which oozed out perfectly sticky yellow lava as soon as I punctured it with my fork, was undeniably, simply genius. Sadly the texture wasn’t as soft or as juicy (lack of fat, I assume) as I remembered a good meatloaf to be. The cod cheek popcorn, a dish that should have been right up my street: easy, fun and moreish, also failed to excite. The batter was sort of crunchy and the fish was soft, but it was hideously under-seasoned. The best bit was the tiny slivers of green chilly that lit up my tongue for a split second. The latkes and smoked eel was, simply put, just a little odd. The latkes was too dry and I couldn’t really tell that the eel had been smoked, but that didn’t offend me as much as the combination of apple sauce and soured cream. I wasn’t entirely sure if the sweet apple sauce and the soured cream, which when combined resulted in this unpleasant congealed milk texture and an off yoghurt taste, was an authentic Jewish feature, but I was positive that I didn’t enjoy it. 

The whitefish and spinach knish was not entirely unpleasant, but it very much resembled and tasted like a fishcake that had been beaten up by a gang of angry (and probably hungry) youths. The peppered oxtail cholent, which I got really excited about, turned out to be a soggy bowl of unseasoned mush. The only dry bits on the plate was sadly, the oxtail itself.

But then, just as I was about to give up hope on Mishkin’s, a miracle occurred. It came in the form of a modest warm choc chip cookie with chocolate ice cream, effortlessly served on what looked like a side plate that’s been hanging around in the back of your grandmother's cupboard for a century. I’m concerned that if I try to describe it, one could mistake this for a sophisticated dessert that tried too hard, and it may ruin it completely. So I’m going to settle for a simple “it was sooooo delicious” instead.

As we sat and ate, tables were constantly being turned around, right up to the minute we were leaving. It was incredible to observe and to witness the start of success for this little 3-day old Jewish diner. I can’t deny it, the man’s a genius. Even with that very average bordering on below average food it’s serving, there’s no doubt that Mishkin’s will be packed, night after night, and week after week. In fact, I probably won’t be able to get a table there again for a while, and I’ll be sorely disappointed. Because being there makes me feel cool and the lighting makes me pretty. And as long as a restaurant is capable of doing that, it should always be given another chance. 

25 Catherine Street, London WC2B 5JS  +44 (0)20 7240 2078

an offally good weekend

Last weekend was a special one. The Chef had both days off (which almost never happens), so our tiny, yet well-equipped and lovable kitchen hosted a double whammy of culinary operations in which I attempted to learn how to cook. 

After a morning of looking at art we couldn’t afford at The Affordable Art Fair (I know, ironic, right?), we stumbled into Selfridges Food Hall on Saturday afternoon in search of something less dear and far easier to swallow. The Chef made a beeline for the butchers counter - I knew exactly what he was looking for. And when our eyes simultaneously set on the wet, plump, milky-pink chunks of veal throat sweetbreads, my stomach fluttered. This was a guarantee that tonight’s meal would be no less than delicious, even if I was involved in the cooking process. We then moved along to the poultry section and picked up some beautifully shiny brown chicken livers as well for Sunday. 

One may argue that seeing as this is my second cooking lesson, attempting to master a sweetbreads dish seems a little (if not a lot) too farfetched; surely it’s way too technically advanced for an amateur. And technically, that is true. But what is the point of having a one-on-one with a professional chef if you can’t skip a few steps? So, it was pan-fried veal sweetbreads with sautéed mushrooms and caramelised chicory for dinner. Mmmm... even writing about it makes me hungry. 

The most challenging part was removing the membrane so needless to say I left this up to the pro. (I guess this is cheating a little bit but it’s also good to know that the butchers can perform the task for you anyway.) 

To celebrate the start of our offal weekend adventures we opened a bottle of the 2009 J.M. Boillot Montagny 1er Cru - an intense, oaky chardonnay with an intriguing and unusually fresh finish. A robust, yet bright white wine with a good amount of acidity that went surprisingly well with the sweetbreads. Ahhh, the sweetbreads (I can’t help but make that noise in my head every time I mention them) … Every bite was like heaven. No, more like arriving at heaven’s doors to discover that it’s the biggest Prada store in the world. The thin brown, salty and crispy shell on the outside broke in my mouth to reveal the succulent, delicate texture and the creamy richness, followed by a dull, mild offal after taste that lingered just a moment on the palette before it was all over too soon. While the sweetness of the caramelised chicory contrasted with the overwhelmingly rich sweetbreads, the mushrooms, which gave off a wonderfully meaty, woody, sweet aroma, added an earthy dimension that pulled everything together perfectly. 

Now, didn’t I say it was going to be a spectacular weekend? 

Ingredients:

100g chestnut mushrooms - finely diced

100g oyster mushrooms - cut into strips 

2 shallots - finely chopped

2 cloves of garlic - finely chopped

a handful of parsley - finely chopped

50g butter

squeeze of lemon juice

2 chicory

1 tablespoon caster sugar

1 tablespoon creme fraiche

200g veal sweetbreads 

olive oil

1. Put a third of the butter in a frying pan; add the chopped shallots and garlic; cook for five minutes until soft but not coloured. Add the mushrooms, season with salt and pepper, and cook on a high heat for five minutes until cooked. Add the crème fraîche, stir in then finish with the chopped parsley and a squeeze of lemon juice. Put to one side and keep warm.

2. Melt a third of the butter in a pan and heat up. Add the chicory, season and cook for two minutes before adding the sugar. Cook for a further three minutes until golden and caramelised. Put to one side and keep warm.

3. Add a little olive oil in a frying pan. Season the sweetbreads and add to the pan. Cook for five minutes on a medium to high heat until they start to go crispy and golden brown. Add the remaining butter, flip the sweetbreads and cook for a further five minutes, all the while constantly basting the sweetbreads with butter. To test whether the sweetbreads are cooked, take a metal skewer and gently slide into the sweetbread. If it slides in easily, it’s cooked; if it doesn’t, leave on the stove for a further two minutes. 


4. To serve, spoon some of the mushrooms on to the plate, place the chicory beside it and then top with sweetbreads.

Our weekend finished with chicken livers on toast with caramelised onions, bacon and poached egg. This time we chose the beautifully delicate 2000 Chateau Haut-Bages Monpelou, Pauillac – a true ‘old-school French’ style wine normally paired with more sophisticated French cuisine or red meat dishes. An almost equal blend of Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, with a tiny bit of Cabernet Franc which contributed to the lovely floral aroma, meant that it had very typical characteristics of a Bordeaux. It was one of my favourites in a long time and I should have been gutted that we didn’t wait to drink it with food with a bit more finesse. Surprisingly its medium-full body and silky tannins were just strong enough to conquer the earthy, meaty livers with that salty bacon and the richness of the egg. I didn’t regret it one bit. 

It was the perfect Sunday plate: simple, hearty and packed full of protein, complete with all the flavours you crave when nursing a hangover. (For the record, I was perfectly fine but thoroughly enjoyed it anyway.) More importantly, it was tasty, uncomplicated and quick. Start cooking at 7.30pm, and if you can chop as fast as The Chef does, you’ll be done in time to catch the X-Factor results. And if not, well, I’d choose livers over Louis Walsh any day. 

Ingredients: 

250g chicken livers

2 onions - finely sliced

1 clove garlic - finely sliced 

2 poached eggs 

4 rashers of streaky bacon 

50g butter

50 ml red wine vinegar 

bread

1. Add half the butter to a pan, add sliced onions and garlic; season and cook gently for five minutes. Add red wine vinegar and cook for a further 10 minutes. Keep warm. 

2. Grill the bacon until crispy and toast bread. 

3. To cook the chicken livers, add a little bit of olive oil to a hot pan. Season the chicken livers and then pan fry for two minutes. Add the remaining butter, turn over and cook for another one minute. 

4. To serve, spread the cooked onions over the toast, place a couple of strips of bacon on top, followed by the chicken livers and the poached egg.