Memories of Africa Flooded back at The Double Club

I often pine for Africa having spent 1/27th of my life breathing in the joys and despairs of the African continent. I’ve got giddy memories of living and working in Ghana. Of riding crocodiles. Exploring cocoa plantations. Walking with lion. I’ve got an enduring fondness for South Africa having taught in a school in Cape Town and in spite of being shot at. I’ve got a fuzzy feeling for Tanzania and Zanzibar having spent a few weeks on a beech there. And if we’re counting, I’ve had a great time in Morocco. But I’ve only scratched Africa’s surface.

Most of my foodie memories from Africa are of endless braies in Cape Town. But my favourite meals were in Ghana. Whilst I detested fufu and kenke I adored the way they cooked tilapia with onions, peppers and chilli. To this day the two-foot long tilapia we shared between 3 of us in a treehouse in Accra ranks as one of my favourite meals ever. Poullet Yasser wasn’t bad either. It’s made with a lemon and mustard sauce that makes you gasp. If you want to find some African recipes visit the Congo Cook Book.

So when Douglas and I were looking for an unusual restaurant to explore and the Double Club was mentioned, I got terribly excited and booked us a table before you could squeeze in a bad gag.

We turned left out of Angel and almost decided to retreat to the safety of Balham. The alleyway was scattered with tramps and strewn with litter. We tried to be anonymous as we walked past a bunch of scary youths handing out little plastic packets to strangers who were giving them money, but failed horrendously as Cowie’sstiletto heel got caught in a cobble! (I now know why cobblers are called cobblers.)

In contrast the door to the Double Club is guarded by two of the friendliest bouncers you’re ever likely to come across. (Bouncers, Richard. Bouncers. At a restaurant Richard. A restaurant.) But this isn’t a restaurant. This is a concept restaurant.

The Double Club is the creation of Carsten Holler who has joined forces with Prada to give birth to a restaurant that is half Congolese and half European that only has a 6 month life span. Holler’s love of Congo as a country and for its cooking sees the venture giving 50% of its profits to abused women back in Africa. It’s a remarkable idea. A refreshing change both in terms of its approach and its altruism.

I was determined to eat as much Congolese food as possible. If it meant I landed up like Kurtz then so be it. Luckily, Douglas was of very much the same opinion. Coming with girlfriends as well, meant we could explore as much of the menu as possible. European included.

The first thing that caught our attention was the smell. That languid, dusty smell you get as the sun goes down in Africa. When the guys with the hot coals burning in the middle of a car wheel start charring spiced goat kebabs. I love it. I miss it. It never ceases to amaze me how the sense of smell can transport us. Take that sight. In your face sound.

The restaurant is staffed by Prada clad models who did an exceptional job servicing us. The tables alternate from being authentically-rustic-African to glitzy-posh-European. I hate to pick holes in the styling because I think on the whole it is inspired. I just can’t help thinking that the African areas could have been more acutely African. It’s just a bit sanitised.

We ordered wildly. With wanton disregard for our appetites and wallets. A bewildering array of dishes arrived such as some enormous prawns called kossakossa. Gently spicy and slightly dirty tasting, they couldn’t have been more authentic. We almost had a fight for the last one. But, that could have been because one the other dishes of green African vegetables was depth charged with smoked, hard, grey, dry fish. Having eaten many similar things over in Africa I can vouch for its accuracy. But am also willing to testify against it in a court of law for being one of the most foul things I’ve eaten in a long time. Probably since Ghana in 2003.

Pigs trotters were fun even though you never get much meat on a trotter. The dish was more of a short essay on texture. The gelatinous sauce coated the tongue and the pulses added some body. You’ve just got to watch out for the small trottery bones that lurk in the murky depths. I imagine its one of those dishes that rewards the tactile, manual eater.

Curried goat was irresistible. It jumped around on the menu with its hand in the air yelling, “ORDER ME!” “OVER HERE!” “PICK ME!” So we did. It promised a lot. And whilst perfectly decent, it lacked the searing heat of the African cooking I remember. That said the lack of spice allowed the flavour of the goat to shine through with its sure footed charm.

Having indulged in most of the Congolese food for starter, Cowie and I chose the veal for our main course. It arrived looking resplendent. Almost regal.Without a hair out of place.It was cooked perfectly, but let down by some celeriac chips that were a step too far.

Douglas’s girlfriend wolfed down her beef ribs before the rest of us had been able to extend our telescopic forks. We can only conclude that it was, therefore, exceptionally good. Douglas put us all to shame by ordering the Congolese chicken that had been braised in a brown sauce. Now, I know that the chicken is the closest living animal in genetic terms to the T-Rex, but the size of Douglas’s chicken was absurd. I swear they mistook a Christmas turkey for a chicken. Either that, or Congolese chickens are all built like Big Bird from Sesame Street.

We somehow all had space for dessert. Douglas’s apple tarte tatin was good without being great. What it lacked in buttery pasty and oozing caramel it made up for with appliness. The highlight of all of our puddings was a goats’ milk ice cream that was quite simply brilliant. I can imagine a lot of people hating it. But not us. It managed the considerable feat of upstaging the Valhrona chocolate pudding it was accompanying. Cowie’s rhubarb pudding and my spotted dick showed the kitchen knows how to round a meal off in style.

The bill was large. But why shouldn’t it be? Especially when you consider there were as many staff as guests; the place is only here for 6 moths; they are running two menus; half the profits are going to charity; we had some lovely wine and Prada are involved. I suspect we won’t return, but we are delighted to have paid the Double Club a visit. It brought back so many fond memories and stretched our culinary frames of reference. If I ever go back, it will be to go to the bar for a beer, a goat kebab and some private time to read Cry, the Beloved Country.

For Douglas’s review click here.

Saf – "Food as Medicine"

London’s restaurant scene is well pisted. The snow is compact and the piste bashers do a great job of making sure the slopes are manicured and suitable for all abilities. I love carving down a racy red or blasting down a deadly black run. But it is so exhilarating to push the boundaries off the beaten track, where a small mistake can trigger an avalanche or a ride on a bumpy blood wagon.

My latest departure from the road well travelled was to, Goody Two-Shoes, Saf in Hoxton with Douglas. Saf apparently means “pure” in various Near Eastern languages which translates as a concept to vegan food, rarely cooked above 48’c and lacking in gluten. The menu is wheat, meat and dairy free.

Chad Sarno, who is the mastermind behind the cooking side of the venture, is variously known as the “The king of uncooked and vegan cuisine” (GQ Magazine (U.K Edition), June 2005) and in Woody Harrelson’s words, “Chad Sarno is without question the greatest raw food chef alive. He is the Michael Jordan of live foods… the best at what he does. And I’ve been fortunate enough to experience his delicious creations”.

His credentials as a pioneer of uber healthy food are beyond question and his food is celebrated in the form of Saf in Istanbul and Munich. He is also the brains behind a sweep of restaurants across America where he has crafted healthy menus for spas, retreats, sanctuaries and restaurants and is the doyenne of health crazed Hollywood stars.
Saf is part of LifeCo, whose website says things like:

“Every day we are exposed to a toxic environment through the air we breathe, water we drink and food we eat. Our body does not run efficiently which puts stress on our entire system and can manifest itself as illness and disease.

Our environment is becoming increasingly unnatural. The air’s oxygen level has halved in the last 200 years and the air indoors is 2-10 times more polluted than outdoors. Animal products are full of antibiotics and growth hormones which we in turn consume, while 80% of food in grocery stores did not exist 50 years ago. Our stress levels are 10,000 times greater than 100 years ago.”

Quibbles about these statistics to one side, it seems that The Life Co is a very successful health company, which has branched out into restaurants that bring their concept to life in a culinary way. It’s almost as if the restaurants are being used as a marketing tool for the parent company… a loss leader if you like.

I arrived, late, at Saf and saw Douglas sitting at a table in the window like the man on the left of Edward Hopper’s, Nighthawks.

I had come without a camera, notepad, a sense of punctuality or any preconceptions. I was keen to evaluate Saf’s promise and judge it fairly. I love meat. I adore dairy. And I like at least part of my food to be hot. My favourite taste is that incredible hit of charred flesh that you get on the outside of a Hawksmoor steak; that amazing mouthfeel of animal fat that coats the inside of your mouth. I’m like most Englishmen, I eat my greens like a good boy and have the occasional side salad. But I’m firmly on the carnivore side of omnivore.

Our exploration of Saf’s menu couldn’t have been more in depth. We meandered through the chef’s selection of 11 courses which took us around 5 hours.The service was peerless and friendly. The staff here have to be on their toes to answer a barrage of questions that wouldn’t crop up in other restaurants. Such as “what effect will the mung beans have on my metabolism?” Rather than waffle about all the courses I’ll just give you the Match of the Day version:

We started with “caviar”. As ever, you need to use your imagination and suspend your belief. It arrived on a large expanse of circular white china looking like an exhibit at MoMA. The component parts were chive pearls, sweet potato cakes, apples and sour cream. It was a triumph, managing to be pretty, tasty, healthy and something I’d order again. We were convinced there was a slither of truffle in there somewhere.

Things got more interesting when we were served “pesto au poivre” which melded cashew cheese, sage pesto, pink pepper, corn crust, heirloom tomato & white balsamic vinegar. The light vinegar sliced through the slice of cashew cheese like a cheese wire whilst the pink pepper and sage pesto added savoury depth. This was my first experience of cheese made from nut milk rather than animal juice. It wasn’t much like normal cheese and was oddly gummy. But at this stage we were ravenous so it was good ballast!

Beetroot Ravioli was stunning. Looking like a maroon scallop shell, our Beetroot Ravioli looked breathtaking but couldn’t deliver in flavour. I’m not sure what Saf’s stance on seasoning is, but this desperately lacked a good grind of salt and pepper to bring out the earthy sweetness of the beetroot.

Then came my nadir. Swiss Chard Rolls were almost inedible. I find it hard to outdo Douglas on this one… “It caused such a crunch in my cranium that I momentarily knew what it was like to be rabbit grinding its incisors. I may have appreciated it more had I had three more stomachs.” I’ll simply add that it was painful to finish and by this point I was day dreaming about steak and ale pie!

Our only hot course was a bowl of electrically spiced Tom Kha Soup. I was, embarrassingly, rendered speech and breathless for several minutes by the psychopathically aggressive chili oil that slicked the surface in attractive blotches. Tofu, shitake mushrooms and lemon grass bobbed around like slippery flotsam. It was an essay in textures.

Somosas were disappointing. Cloying and claggy, they simply got in the way of the delicious wine. They looked and tasted brown which was unusual for an otherwise very colorful meal. What this course highlighted was the problem Saf has with textures. Whenever the kitchen tries to do something pseudo-naughty it fails. Without recourse to animal fats or source of heat an attempt to reproduce the comforting mouthfeel you get from hot fat or dairy falls flat and tastes heavy and sticky.

Following on from this our chocolate torte almost killed us. We went from feeling light and bouncy after 9 courses to blubbery and clogged. It was denser than George Bush and made my stomach feel as though it had just had a barium meal.

The wines, selected by Joe McCanta, were a fantastic complement to the meal. But if you want to know more about them I suggest you pop over to read about them on Douglas’s blog.

Saf’s food is a fascinating diversion from the straight and narrow of London’s restaurant scene, giving us both an experience we will not forget. I am delighted that I have embraced a culinary area that is way out of my comfort zone. Having given the pinnacle of Vegan food a try, I can now put it to oneside and enjoy meat again!

I have got a few problems with Saf, that don’t directly involve the obvious lack of meat, heat or dairy.

First, the textures are either far too crunchy or cloying. Secondly, the menu is erratic – it doesn’t follow a traditional theme. You zig-zag from Italian to the Far East in a schizophrenic clatter. And thirdly, we only began to feel anything approaching full after we had scoffed down 9 courses. The final 2 finished us off, but most people will only have 3 or 4 courses. But then again people aren’t coming to Saf to “fill up”, they visit Saf to make their soul feel pure and cleansed.

But this restaurant isn’t for me. And that’s fine. It’s for the people of the Croydon Vegetarian’s and Vegan’s Guide to London:

“This is not just food, this is saf cuisine, this is not just service this is saf attention, this is not just a restaurant in London it is a magic doorway into the future of eating. Saf means ‘pure’ in Turkish and many other middle eastern languages for me it was pure magic, pure fantasy, pure indulgence pure epicurian ecstasy a pure personification of all my wildest dreams and more.”

It’s a triumph from a creative point of view, even if it isn’t my cup of yerba mate. There are an array of sayings about how constraints precipitate creativity… but this one from Henri Matisse sums it up for me.

“In art, truth and reality begin when one no longer understands what one is doing or what one knows, and when there remains an energy that is all the stronger for being constrained, controlled and compressed.“

Now time to return to the piste for a rare charred steak.

All photos are from the Saf website apart from the Nighthawks.

The Providores – with Douglas from Intoxicated Prose

Douglas and I met at a Trusted Places meet up this autumn and drunkenly (on my part) arranged to meet for dinner. We decided that we should find somewhere unusual. Nothing classic. Nothing too safe. Something with an edge. Ideas such as Archipelago, Saf and a few obscure places out of town were pinged back and forwards via email. Until we decided upon The Providores. We both share the view that food in London is a bit too reserved. There aren’t that many chefs who are exploring new ground (feel free to disagree and suggest counters to this assertion.)

The Providores is located on Marylebone High Street, just around the corner from my office. Many of my colleagues have dined there and have all been very verbose with their praise – possibly because they are pickled in Sauvignon Blanc. However, no one is ever very articulate about the food itself.

That’s probably because Peter Gordon’s food is a crazy deluge of “global fusion”. Picking and choosing the best bits from around the world and seamlessly threading them together into combinations you’d never even heard of let alone considered. Simply understanding what you’ve read on the menu is a challenge. It is also somewhere that typically is reserved for expense accounts. It turned out to be the most expensive meal I’ve paid for, per head, ever. And that includes El Bulli. It is no coincidence, I suspect that Google’s algorithms have placed an advert for a second mortgage on The Providores review page on London Eating.

Putting the cost and menu to one side, like some sort of mistress being wooed by a French prince… what was it like?
I was expecting food that took me out of my comfort zone. Dishes that made me think about what I was eating. Wines that were almost a meal in themselves. The sort of overall experience that two passionate food lovers could spend 4 hours debating.

Did it live up to this promise? Without doubt. It was a fascinating meal. The service was faultless and attentive and we had the best table. Was the food perfect? Not quite – my halibut was overcooked and the dessert was too large. Was the wine up to scratch? You’ll have to seek a professional opinion from Douglas. But from my point of view it was up there with the wine pairings I had at Roussillon.

Feeling somewhat bamboozled by the menu, and keen to see what the kitchen was made of we asked our splendid waitress to simply send out what they thought was best – and where possible to select an appropriate wine to match each dish.

One of the great features about The Providores is their fascinating New Zealand based wine list. The have an astonishing array of NZ wines by the glass made possible by their clever argon gas preservation system. (nerd alert). Personally, it was a whirlwind education for me. I obviously knew that there is more to New Zealand than just Sauvignon Blanc from Marlborough (mainly from Tim Atkins)… but I was blown away by the range of wines that we were served. A fine pinot gris, refreshing fizzy Cloudy Bay, a spritely riesling, an aromatic gevurtztraminer, a robust chardonnay and some top class pinot noir. And these were just the wines in my glass – I’m feeling quite giddy when I realise how much wine I drank! See Douglas’s review for a full run down of the wines.

The menu read, although devoid of fluffy adjectives, like poetry. Rather than drone on in detail about the food, here are some highlights from the 12 dishes we had (you may need wikipedia handy – we wish we had).

Tamarind, green peppercorn and coconut laksa with squid, a panko crusted crab dumpling, green tea noodles, crispy shallots, coriander and crab tomalley

A great dish to start with. Awesome squid. Probably the best I’ve had. Soft and artistically prepared so that it fanned out like a star. No need for so many green tea noodles which were a fun colour but this would have been better without them.

Crispy soft-shell crab on ginger and wasabi tobikko arancini with pickle papaya and carrot salad with Nam Jihm dressing

What a dish. The crab was stunning. Another triumph. Light, crispy, bursting with unexpected flavours… wasabi added depth and punch. I’d happily eat this all day long. Great with the gevurtztraminer.

Tandori spiced squab pigeon on ginger ale braised cabbage with black trompette jus, banana raita and sumac lavosh

Another great dish. Beautifully tender pigeon with an aromatic char-y coating. Top class. Pigeon is one of my favourites and this is up there with London’s classic dishes. Niamh wouldn’t let me not have this one!

Crispy roast Middlewhite pork belly on Kim chi with wood ear mushroom, pickled quails egg and anise Sichuan broth

The special one. I have had many average pieces of pork belly over the years – this one reinforced just how mediocre they were. The crackling almost perforated my ear drums and brought a deep seated smile to my face as the moist flesh simply yielded. In it’s own right the pork was perfect, but in the context of this savoury, sour, spicy and salty dish it added the sweet aspect that the mouth craves. This was another exploration of depth.

Fennel pana cotta with dashi jelly, tataki of line caught Yellow fin tuna, sweet nori puree, braised shitake mushroom, crispy curry leaves and soy tapioca

Wow. Completely out of left field. A fascinating collision of textures. Creamy, savoury panna cotta… deep umami mushrooms, dashi and nori. Far too much for me to understand.

But that’s why I liked it and the meal as a whole. Not because I found it delicious (which it was), but because it was a challenging piece of creativity. Collectors don’t buy art because they think the pictures are pretty. They do so because they connect with the idea the artist is trying to convey. Given that language is a relatively poor conductor of meaning, often art, in its many forms, including in this instance cooking, does a better job of communicating feelings and ideas. Hence the intellectual attraction of Rothko, Beethoven and Kandinsky. And I think it is in this context that we should appreciate Peter Gordon’s art. He is pushing the boundaries of food in London, whilst the rest of the restaurant landscape is delicious, but a bit unimaginative.

Aside from the food, the highlight was Douglas’s company- you can read his erudite review here. He’s an amazing chap with an encyclopaedic knowledge of wine and a genuine epicurean thirst for new culinary experiences. I’m looking forward to pushing our culinary boundaries even further with our next adventure in the New Year.