On a grey, semi-warm Monday at the back end of last year, I almost hopped on one of Boris's bikes. They appear to have sprung up everywhere in the wake of their inception one year ago and they are as much a part of the tourist attraction of the city as well as something kind of hip for the Hoxton lot to make appearances on.
I decided against the idea for two reasons: 1) I'm not great on bikes and 2) I'm not sure how one actually goes about using one of these. I'm sure I could find all the information on line, but I was fairly stumped at the time, and on the south bank I declined to bike on. That I was there in the first place owed to a day off work and a desire to get a little more active. My surgery was still a few weeks away and I was annoyed at how lazy I had become. Several months later, things sadly haven't improved; I'm probably less active now than I've been in many years.
The other half and I had decided to walk from our home in west London to the Tate Britain, a fine and free institution which, whilst sometimes overwhelming, is nonetheless a decent day out if you are a little strapped for cash and want to look at some fine pictures. On the way, we stopped off for lunch at Earl's Court's most famous café, The Troubadour.
A prominent music and arts venue, the place has housed some truly iconic performers in its time. Any small pub (which essentially is what The Troubadour is) which had Bob Dylan play in it is worth a visit for my money, so what better way to check it out that with a pleasant late lunch? When I say "lunch", that's a bit unfair on them - it was going on half four by the time we got around to food, so we may perhaps have caught them off guard.
That's the excuse I'm going with, at least. The food at The Troubadour is not much cop. It might be that the best way to enjoy food here is swinging a flagon of ale on a Thursday night whilst the bar is filled with boozy punters in the mood for music and a lively evening, but as someone who does not drink, I would be hesitant about coming back here for food. That's not to say it's bad as such, just that it's not great.
We tried a breakfast, since that seems to be what they're fairly renowned for. It was essentially your run of the mill hotel breakfast. Nothing really struck home here. Same more or less went for the burger, the chips, the dessert - a poor apple crumble - and, in fact, the meal in general.
Erm... That's it actually. There's a lot to say about The Troubadour, but I wouldn't recommend you go there for anything food related unless it's a plate of something to chew whilst you're knocking back the booze late one night, or something to share with friends whilst a band or beat poet is on stage. The place has genuine character, despite being a bit tacky in places, but the food does not.
The Troubadour
Sunday 31 July 2011
Thursday 21 July 2011
East End Trend: Pizza East & St. John Bread & Wine - Spitalfields, Sunday 31st October, 2010
I can't stand Hallowe'en. Apart from one great Queens Of The Stoneage concert many years ago and some nifty horror films, the celebration has never held much relevance or enjoyment for me. It's all a bit American, a bit throwaway, a bit trashy and cheap, to be honest. Trick or treat..? I will acknowledge the need for this, but only until one is 8 years old. Any older than that and they ought to be slapped in the back of their parents' car and whisked home with a lecture about acting one's age.
...But that said, as I get older, it's easier to ignore this sort of nonsense and focus on the sort of stuff which does excite me in mid-autumn. This includes in-season game, brisk afternoon walks and leaves in the road. And chestnuts falling from the trees. Now there's something I want to hold on to as a treasured childhood memory. Much better than tearing around a neighbourhood annoying people.
This particular autumn day - and this particular Hallowe'en - the other half and I popped out to the east end to check out Spitalfields market, buy a few clothes (I was more of a carthorse at this point) and eat a bite or two (playing more to my strengths).
Whitechapel, Spitalfields and most of E1 is synonymous with curry. When once this area of London housed a thriving Jewish community, now it is home to a great many Asian folk, Bangladeshis in particular. What it means is you have a tonne of - by and large - average or below average curry houses trawling for business on Brick Lane, leaving most passers-by entertained or annoyed. (Or maybe just indifferent. Or oblivious? I'm not going to list any more emotions Brick Lane curry promoters might make you feel.)
We walked down Brick Lane and discovered Pizza East. That's not to say I hadn't heard about it before now, but I'd never actually seen it. I didn't realise it was part of the utterly-east-end Tea Building, on the corner of Shoreditch High Street and Bethnal Green Road, former venue of the popular Tea Rooms. Pizza East now takes up the bottom floor of this hulking, lovable monstrosity and people are flocking in.
And in we flocked. If two people can indeed flock... We ate pizza. We drank water. We had a lovely time. I'd heard from a couple of people that this place wasn't really all it's cracked up to be, but that depends on the result of any up-cracking, really... It's very tasty pizza. And when it comes to pizza, that's all you need to know. It's not classic, in the style of Santa Maria, but it's good quality stuff. Fresh, rustic, filling, satisfying.
We tried two pizzas. In the true style of a critic - which I am not, I suppose, but what the hell, I ought to be - we tried a margherita (left). Of course, you absolutely have to get the basics right. Without a good cheese and tomato, any pizza restaurant is nigh on done for. Fortunately, Pizza East is alive and well. Top stuff - comforting, crunchy, gooey cheese in the middle and a little basil on top to finish with a zing of peppery goodness. Yes, any pizza eater would enjoy this. And that's good pizza.
Now, at one end of the scale you have a classic done well. So naturally you want to see if they can compete at the top end of the scale too. So we tried a veal meatball pizza (right). Certainly a long way from a margherita in both style and taste. I would usually baulk at the idea of eating pizza without tomato, but when the pizza in question contained veal meatballs, my anger subsided enough to distract me to try a taste. Let's just say I'm no longer wedded to the idea of tomatoes on pizza as I might've been before.
The menu lists ingredients in their pizza the same way all the trendy, up-and-coming places do now; like this: "Veal meatballs, prosciutto, cream, sage". Take a moment to (figuratively) digest those ingredients. Not bad going for a down on the ground pizza place, right? The pizza was as simply delicious and fattening as its description read. Creamy, thick cheese sauce broken up by the meaty, punchy meatballs and silky prosciutto.
We didn't need much after we finished these. A splash of water and a sprinkling of black pepper to help them down was sufficient, which suggests that this brief lunch time outing was a total success. It was relatively quick, it wasn't too pricey and it was actually rather delicious.
Pizza East may be old news to many, but to me it's quite the place to be. With that kind of attitude, coupled with my distaste of Hallowe'en, I suddenly feel comfortably middle-aged and satisfied. Is that a catchphrase Pizza East wants to adopt? Assuredly not, but I suppose what it does tell us is this: they'll add years on to your age, but you won't mind because the pizzas are lovely.
We strolled outside, took in a breath of grubby Shoreditch air and wandered back towards Spitalfields Market. Clearly we had to work off the pizza lunch, so we wandered around some more shops, took in a few more edifying sights and eventually found ourselves at the back end of the afternoon, in the mood for dessert and, well, maybe just another small snack?
Horrendously gluttonous, I know. But in my defence, St. John Bread & Wine made me do it. That's what they do. With the memory of the 4 weeks prior pig adventure still fresh in the mind (and that particular evening's intake yet to relinquish its hefty oppression of my arteries), I just couldn't say no to St. John's sister restaurant, which sits so quaintly on the border of Spitalfields Market. It is just opposite what used to be The Spitz; a classic old London music venue.
Whilst London's plan to seemingly rid itself of pop cultural institutions (The Spitz is one in a long line of charming places which don't exist any more) continues on relentlessly, its urge to throw great restaurants and successful restaurateurs' empires at us all warms my heart slightly. St. John, as I fawned a while ago, is just about as positive as you can be when describing London's eating scene. It is impeccably conceived, so absolutely I fancied some late afternoon refreshment at the secondary restaurant in St. John's armoury.
Now, when you've been sauntering around the east end of London all afternoon, having taken in an impressive but not gut-busting pizza lunch and are subsequently ready to eat some more a few hours later, you are absolutely looking for impeccable conception. Folks, I give you the St. John Bread & Wine menu. It seems pretty pointless linking it here because it changes daily. Try your luck if one happens to be online today.
Basically, they offer three main courses for the evening menu, plus a load of other stuff. It's more or less English tapas. And though that may sound absurd, ill-conceived and pretentious, if there's one franchise that can carry it off, it's this one. A list of around a dozen small plates and ten desserts was pretty much exactly what I was in the mood for come six o'clock.
We shared some bread and butter (of course - this is the sort of restaurant that prides itself on such basics) followed by pink fir apple potatoes, wild sorrel and a poached duck egg (left). It was heavenly. So simple but undeniably perfect. Unspoiled ingredients and unpretentious execution are possibly the two most important features of modern British cuisine and this dish was right on the money.
These were the best new potatoes I have ever eaten. I don't know if they should be technically labelled such, they were a little misshapen and bulky to pass for traditional news, but they tasted outstanding. Coated in a thin sheen of butter, they were nearly sweet in their al-dente glory. The sorrel was pretty, adding some green flourish to the dish, as well as softening the potatoes' taste a little. The egg was perfectly poached; a silky, slightly gelatinous centrepiece which would've taken first prize off most plates, but not with these potatoes.
We then decided to try a couple of desserts to finish our day of eating in style. The other half ordered us a chocolate terrine with milk ice cream, whilst I was champing at the bit for some jam roly poly. The former was chocolatey in the extreme, which I suppose is what you might expect, but the massive rush of cocoa from the terrine overwhelmed the milk ice cream and any subtleties in the dish were lost. Fortunately, the roly poly was a stormer (right). Served with a quaint jug of custard, the slice was piping hot, perfectly balanced and further justification that the folks at St. John know their stuff on all three courses.
Two meals in four hours; two great restaurants. I'd go back to both of these places with little provocation. Great pizza, great small plates and a great day in the east end. Sometimes it seems like the only restaurants you'll ever need are in London. Last Hallowe'en was one of those times.
Pizza East
St. John Bread & Wine
...But that said, as I get older, it's easier to ignore this sort of nonsense and focus on the sort of stuff which does excite me in mid-autumn. This includes in-season game, brisk afternoon walks and leaves in the road. And chestnuts falling from the trees. Now there's something I want to hold on to as a treasured childhood memory. Much better than tearing around a neighbourhood annoying people.
This particular autumn day - and this particular Hallowe'en - the other half and I popped out to the east end to check out Spitalfields market, buy a few clothes (I was more of a carthorse at this point) and eat a bite or two (playing more to my strengths).
Whitechapel, Spitalfields and most of E1 is synonymous with curry. When once this area of London housed a thriving Jewish community, now it is home to a great many Asian folk, Bangladeshis in particular. What it means is you have a tonne of - by and large - average or below average curry houses trawling for business on Brick Lane, leaving most passers-by entertained or annoyed. (Or maybe just indifferent. Or oblivious? I'm not going to list any more emotions Brick Lane curry promoters might make you feel.)
We walked down Brick Lane and discovered Pizza East. That's not to say I hadn't heard about it before now, but I'd never actually seen it. I didn't realise it was part of the utterly-east-end Tea Building, on the corner of Shoreditch High Street and Bethnal Green Road, former venue of the popular Tea Rooms. Pizza East now takes up the bottom floor of this hulking, lovable monstrosity and people are flocking in.
And in we flocked. If two people can indeed flock... We ate pizza. We drank water. We had a lovely time. I'd heard from a couple of people that this place wasn't really all it's cracked up to be, but that depends on the result of any up-cracking, really... It's very tasty pizza. And when it comes to pizza, that's all you need to know. It's not classic, in the style of Santa Maria, but it's good quality stuff. Fresh, rustic, filling, satisfying.
We tried two pizzas. In the true style of a critic - which I am not, I suppose, but what the hell, I ought to be - we tried a margherita (left). Of course, you absolutely have to get the basics right. Without a good cheese and tomato, any pizza restaurant is nigh on done for. Fortunately, Pizza East is alive and well. Top stuff - comforting, crunchy, gooey cheese in the middle and a little basil on top to finish with a zing of peppery goodness. Yes, any pizza eater would enjoy this. And that's good pizza.
Now, at one end of the scale you have a classic done well. So naturally you want to see if they can compete at the top end of the scale too. So we tried a veal meatball pizza (right). Certainly a long way from a margherita in both style and taste. I would usually baulk at the idea of eating pizza without tomato, but when the pizza in question contained veal meatballs, my anger subsided enough to distract me to try a taste. Let's just say I'm no longer wedded to the idea of tomatoes on pizza as I might've been before.The menu lists ingredients in their pizza the same way all the trendy, up-and-coming places do now; like this: "Veal meatballs, prosciutto, cream, sage". Take a moment to (figuratively) digest those ingredients. Not bad going for a down on the ground pizza place, right? The pizza was as simply delicious and fattening as its description read. Creamy, thick cheese sauce broken up by the meaty, punchy meatballs and silky prosciutto.
We didn't need much after we finished these. A splash of water and a sprinkling of black pepper to help them down was sufficient, which suggests that this brief lunch time outing was a total success. It was relatively quick, it wasn't too pricey and it was actually rather delicious.
Pizza East may be old news to many, but to me it's quite the place to be. With that kind of attitude, coupled with my distaste of Hallowe'en, I suddenly feel comfortably middle-aged and satisfied. Is that a catchphrase Pizza East wants to adopt? Assuredly not, but I suppose what it does tell us is this: they'll add years on to your age, but you won't mind because the pizzas are lovely.
We strolled outside, took in a breath of grubby Shoreditch air and wandered back towards Spitalfields Market. Clearly we had to work off the pizza lunch, so we wandered around some more shops, took in a few more edifying sights and eventually found ourselves at the back end of the afternoon, in the mood for dessert and, well, maybe just another small snack?
Horrendously gluttonous, I know. But in my defence, St. John Bread & Wine made me do it. That's what they do. With the memory of the 4 weeks prior pig adventure still fresh in the mind (and that particular evening's intake yet to relinquish its hefty oppression of my arteries), I just couldn't say no to St. John's sister restaurant, which sits so quaintly on the border of Spitalfields Market. It is just opposite what used to be The Spitz; a classic old London music venue.
Whilst London's plan to seemingly rid itself of pop cultural institutions (The Spitz is one in a long line of charming places which don't exist any more) continues on relentlessly, its urge to throw great restaurants and successful restaurateurs' empires at us all warms my heart slightly. St. John, as I fawned a while ago, is just about as positive as you can be when describing London's eating scene. It is impeccably conceived, so absolutely I fancied some late afternoon refreshment at the secondary restaurant in St. John's armoury.
Now, when you've been sauntering around the east end of London all afternoon, having taken in an impressive but not gut-busting pizza lunch and are subsequently ready to eat some more a few hours later, you are absolutely looking for impeccable conception. Folks, I give you the St. John Bread & Wine menu. It seems pretty pointless linking it here because it changes daily. Try your luck if one happens to be online today.
Basically, they offer three main courses for the evening menu, plus a load of other stuff. It's more or less English tapas. And though that may sound absurd, ill-conceived and pretentious, if there's one franchise that can carry it off, it's this one. A list of around a dozen small plates and ten desserts was pretty much exactly what I was in the mood for come six o'clock.
We shared some bread and butter (of course - this is the sort of restaurant that prides itself on such basics) followed by pink fir apple potatoes, wild sorrel and a poached duck egg (left). It was heavenly. So simple but undeniably perfect. Unspoiled ingredients and unpretentious execution are possibly the two most important features of modern British cuisine and this dish was right on the money.These were the best new potatoes I have ever eaten. I don't know if they should be technically labelled such, they were a little misshapen and bulky to pass for traditional news, but they tasted outstanding. Coated in a thin sheen of butter, they were nearly sweet in their al-dente glory. The sorrel was pretty, adding some green flourish to the dish, as well as softening the potatoes' taste a little. The egg was perfectly poached; a silky, slightly gelatinous centrepiece which would've taken first prize off most plates, but not with these potatoes.
We then decided to try a couple of desserts to finish our day of eating in style. The other half ordered us a chocolate terrine with milk ice cream, whilst I was champing at the bit for some jam roly poly. The former was chocolatey in the extreme, which I suppose is what you might expect, but the massive rush of cocoa from the terrine overwhelmed the milk ice cream and any subtleties in the dish were lost. Fortunately, the roly poly was a stormer (right). Served with a quaint jug of custard, the slice was piping hot, perfectly balanced and further justification that the folks at St. John know their stuff on all three courses.Two meals in four hours; two great restaurants. I'd go back to both of these places with little provocation. Great pizza, great small plates and a great day in the east end. Sometimes it seems like the only restaurants you'll ever need are in London. Last Hallowe'en was one of those times.
Pizza East
St. John Bread & Wine
Wednesday 20 July 2011
Yauatcha – Soho, Thursday 28th October, 2010
Whilst I was mired in pre-operation tests, masses of day-work and a decidedly dreary couple of weeks in October, I was able to eke out a couple more days off so I wouldn't be stuck with loads of leftover holiday at the end of the year. Happily enough, most of these days off involved some sort of eating and luckily for me (and you, dear reader), I have an excellent memory. Let the raptures of meals past come forth once more!
…Ahem. Tea time at Yauatcha is nothing to be sniffed at. Named after the successful restaurateur and patron Alan Yau (the man behind Hakkasan), it sits on the corner of Berwick Street and Broadwick Street, right in the middle of Soho. It's bizarre to think that on the edge of a Soho street market, next to a parade of the ugliest flats and the dodgiest fabric shops, sits a Michelin-starred Chinese restaurant.
The place itself is pretty swanky. Deep, cool blues everywhere from the fish tanks to the screen in front of the kitchen, soft yellow backlights and a real feel of Mayfair chic. Bizarre for what is essentially a Soho café. Mind you, the food is generally more expensive and - importantly - better than what you'll find elsewhere in W1.
Well, it is better but it isn't quite good enough. It's cheap but not quite cheap enough. There are highs but strangely these just are not high enough. Most of what we ate - cheung fun (thin, white dumplings stretched long to accommodate beef), char siu (puffy buns housing more impressive pork), char siu bao (pork buns as comforting as the cosiest bed) - was really lovely. Kind of like Hakkasan without the spotlighting and grandeur.
Crackly, deep-fried batter housing something that looked like it had been wheeled off the set of Alien was actually light, crispy, rich in salty flavour and just lovely. I've never eaten anything that looked or tasted quite like this.
I'd go back to Yauatcha, but only for a quick lunch or a traditional Asian tea time. It's not the sort of place you would go very often, but as a midday outing or afternoon treat, I'd recommend it.
I do find it hard to get too galvanised by Yauatcha in general. The food is - more or less - very good without the eye-watering prices you might expect, but the place itself is a bit contradictory, a bit clinical and a bit precious. I'm sure I'll go back, but I won't be hyper-excited about it.
Yauatcha
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