Not Quite the Holy Trinity

Trinity is our local bolthole where we go for a treat. After some disappointing weekend experiences in the West End we’ve found it’s far better to dine somewhere more local. Or at least local to Cowie! Our previous meal at Trinity was nearly faultless. We were treated to some of the best service we’ve ever had as well as a sensational starter of pigs head that got the better of its cousin at Wild Honey and a hare dish that rivaled the Royale at the Zetter.

If you like your tablecloths to be crisp; your service to be smooth; your wine list to be accessible and interesting and your food to be refined and imaginative then Trinity ticks a lot of boxes. But if you like your sweet things to be sweet and your savoury dishes to be savoury, then you may have a freak out like we did…

Sitting at the best table in the house and drinking effete little glasses of Prosecco we gorged on some fine bread and slightly too warm butter whilst feeling like we were in a benevolent version of the Truman Show. It seemed that the whole restaurant was constructed around us with the fellow diners showcasing dishes we might order, offering background noise and in the case of a lady next to us with a notebook, a source of constant amusement. Especially when she repositioned her husband’s spoon as he was about to use it to dig into a soufflé which was then allowed to go cold!

Cowie adored a pristine starter of tuna and crab with a tomato consomme which was as close to being the Platonic Form of Cowie’s dream starter as is possible. Meanwhile, my pigs’ trotters with quail eggs on toasted sourdough was startling. Deeply savoury and with the swine dial on maximum, it made me want to roll around in a muddy field and scratch my bottom against a barbed wire fence.

I am a big fan of restaurants that serve wine by the carafe. Cowie loves white wine, but is less of a fan of red, so the carafe approach let’s me have a glass of red with my main course. A splash of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc was ideal with our starters and some Pinot Noir was ideal with the lump of meat that arrived next.

My fillet of beef with bone marrow, snails, onion tart and bordelaise sauce was richer than a Sheikh who’s just won the pools. It pulsated with flavour and mooed with medium rare rouge. From now on I am refusing to eat fillet steak without snails and marrow on my plate. But the soggy onion tart can stay at home.

Cowie ordered rabbit two ways and had to send it back because some elements of the dish were stone cold. When the plate arrived back it was a much better temperature, but was destroyed by a vanilla sauce that smothered everything in sickly sweetness. I like vanilla a lot but have learnt my own lessons that it can easily overwhelm a sweet dish, let alone a meek and mild little bunny rabbit.

And as if the pastry chef and the rabbit chef had just played musical stations we were then presented with the most bizarre dessert we’ve had in years. The apricot tart looked stunning. The golden topping was sweet, sour and fragrant. But then things got weird. We couldn’t put our finger on it, but then it clicked. The pastry wasn’t sweet, it was cheesy. After triple checking we scraped off the topping, closed our eyes and realised that the pastry tasted identical to cheese straws. How very, very odd. So we mentioned this to our waitress who after a visit to the kitchen said it always tasted that way, but that no-one had ever complained.

Having not seen each other for ages we weren’t going to let a few sweet and savoury cross wires get in the way of a romantic evening. Especially when the starters and my beef were so ravishing. But for 150 quid, you’d expect the kitchen to be able to get the basics, such as savoury for main course and sweet for dessert, right. As we moseyed home we reluctantly relegated Trinity down our “must return to” list which means we’ll be heading to Chez Bruce for our next treat.

Flashes of Brilliance from the Tasting Menu at Launceston Place

We arrived at Launceston Place eager to indulge in a feast of imaginative food and a trough of fantastic wine and we weren’t disappointed. Having read various glowing and negative reviews on a range of blogs we were keen to judge Launceston Place for ourselves. What we found was that it is like a bit like Theo Walcott – frequent flashes of brilliance but occasional slip ups that mean that people are divided about whether he deserves higher honours.

We started with a glass of Roederer Champagne and some dainty devilled crisps sitting under a futuristic fibre-optic chandelier that had a touch of Dr. Who about it. It was very hard to resist the deluxe wine pairing menu from our charming sommelier who certainly isn’t called Sue Mellier (for full chat about the wines see “Steamed Off Labels“)

We were seated next to a very camp man in jeans and a beanie who spent the next 45 minutes shrieking and aurally assaulting the rest of the restaurant whilst seemingly charming his two female friends. Whilst we were trying to ignore the amateur dramatics on the table next to us we were treated to a wonderful show from our waitress who was about to emphatically present us with the wine list – but as she was handing over the folder the sommelier saw the imminent mistake, slunk over, and gently snatched it from our waitresses grasp, leaving her dry, high and speechless. Seconds later she recovered and asked if we’d like some water. Then a waiter sauntered over and presented us with some more devilled crisps and set about explaining what they were in minute detail even though we’d already been through this whilst having our champagne. And at the end of the meal when we asked the last remaining senior waiter what he thought of the food he tied himself in knots and then explained that he hadn’t yet tried any of the dishes yet. I know these are minor points, but what is captures is the fact that almost all of the service is slick, professional and engaging. But every so often it falls flat.

But enough prattle about service. We’d come here for a feast, not an HR workshop.

What we described amongst ourselves as a cauliflower cappuccino laced with heady truffled oil kick started the meal impressively. It was texturally like drinking aerated double cream, but because of the cauliflower it felt as virtuous as a whole box of Sanatogen.

A single scallop adorned with seashore herbs arrived next. Being the inquisitive bunch that we were, we asked our waiter what the herbs were and were told that he didn’t know. This brought another waiter over who claimed it was the chefs secret. Fair enough. But when we asked Tristan Welch later he laughed it off and told us that they changed depending on what they had in but that ours included Alexanders and sea purslane. The scallop was beautifully soft and tasted not only of itself but of its naturally surroundings. They cook the scallop whilst still attached to the shell by searing it in a pan. The shell acts as a natural lid and it gets steamed in its own juices. Outstanding stuff, that was well matched with some Austrian Riesling.

Venison tartare emerged next along with a glass of Saint-Joseph. I’ve had a very similar dish recently in Gothenburg, but this one blew it out of its Baltic water. It was my favourite dish. Partly because of the way it connected us emotionally with the chef, whose wife is Scandinavian, but also because it engaged me with my forthcoming home. The meat was glossy, deeply flavoured and enhanced by the yellow mayonnaise, slithers of shallot and walnut dust which resembled breadcrumbs. The soft boiled quail’s egg added a sensual gloss to an exceptional dish. A glass of Saint-Joseph was a perfect match. I could swear the woodiness of the nut dust was actually in the wine.

A mini stargazey pie was an impressive looking little dish. But whilst we loved the presentation, perfect pastry and general idea, the overall experience was less than the sum of its parts. We enjoyed it but the wow was more visual than gustatory.

Perfectly pink lamb kissed with the finest jus, straddled by some lamb crackling and flanked by a salt roasted potato arrived next to both ahhhs and ooohs. The lamb itself was some of the best I’ve ever had. It was utopic. But the crackling didn’t crackle. It was extremely tasty, but, sadly was limp. What a shame. Ever since we’d seen the words “lamb crackling” on the menu we’d been dying to try it. Unfortunately that wasn’t the only problem.

The solitary potato that was presented to us in a salty bag may have been a nice idea. But it doesn’t work. It looks ugly. And was so salty it spoiled the whole dish. Which was a massive shame. I like the idea of the kitchen “showing its working” but only when it tastes good.

A deconstructed Waldorf Salad in a martini glass cleansed our salty palettes and lead us in to the cheese course which allowed us to have a very nice glass of sweet sherry before we were treated to a very disappointing pre-dessert.

Served in the same glass hemisphere as the excellent cauliflower cappuccino this clementine sorbet with valrhona chocolate was simply unpleasant. I won’t dwell on it, except to say that it weirdly achieved what it set out to do like a “forlorn hoper” in a Sharpe episode. Namely it made us love the real dessert.

And so to the best dessert I’ve had for ages. A rice pudding soufflé with raspberry ripple ice cream. Sheer, unadulterated genius. The soufflé was fluffy and textured with soft, creamy pudding rice that was penetrated with rapidly softening raspberry ripple ice cream. We adored this dish and almost applauded.

The main technical difficulty, which they have overcome, is to get a soufflé mixture made with rice to rise consistently and become airy. But they’ve achieved it spectacularly.

This was a phenomenal finale which was capped off by a visit to see Tristan Welch in his lively and banterful kitchen. He was extremely friendly and eager to hear what we thought as well as to share his stories about learning to use twitter and cook at the same time!

It was a very special meal that left us feeling seriously impressed by Tristan Welch’s frequent flashes of brilliance. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a decadent treat that I’d love to repeat. It bore all the hallmarks of someone who is trying extremely hard to prove themselves – and like anyone who is pushing boundaries and reaching for the stars, the occasional mistake creeps in. But in making these slip ups, it shows they are really trying. And whilst this might seem perverse, I’d rather see a chef really go for it and slip up once or twice, than play it safe. That’s why we loved El Bulli and L’enclume so much.

A lunch worthy of beatification at St. John

I’ve re-written this introduction four and half times now. Which is quite apt given that the occasion was to celebrate my departure from my current job after the same number of years of busy toil. And for the same amount of time I’ve been gagging to eat at St. John and have developed a zealous love of off-beat cuts of meat and English cooking styles. So to say I had high hopes is like suggesting that John Terry has got an eye for the ladies. I just prayed that all my pent up enthusiasm wasn’t going to be let down. Fortunately, it wasn’t.

From the moment we arrived in the stark but light atrium, surrounded by institutional white paint and police station glass, until the moment we left four and a half hours later, we were treated with informal efficiency. The sight of Fergus Henderson enjoying a light lunch just made the whole experience even more special.

We started with a pint of savoury Black Sheep ale whilst a colleague got sidetracked on the phone. This gave us time to delve deep into the bowels of the menu whilst tucking into perfectly baked bread. We had to be careful not to wolf it all down and spoil our appetites.

Langoustines were magnificent specimens that begged to be sketched by someone with more talent than me. They were sweet. Fishy. Juicy. A more classically inclined individual might describe them as the Platonic ideal of shellfish. The yellowy-green, mayonnaise they were served with made for perfect dunking as the slightly bitter taste helped to highlight the langoustine flavour. Whilst fiddling with the claws, in an ambitious attempt to get the last shard of flesh out, I remembered a story my father tells about how on a holiday to Brittany when I was still in a pram, I was parked opposite a lobster tank and fell under the mesmeric spell of the shellfish. The next time I was fed I rejected my pappy baby food and demanded langoustine which promptly made me very ill! This whole episode probably explains an awful lot!

Bone marrow with a parsley and caper salad is famous. And rightly so. I now know why dogs are obsessed with the things (minus the parsley). Is there anything in the world that visually promises so little but delivers so much? Spread on hot toast and sprinkled with salt and we were all in bliss.

Sprats with tartar sauce were tremendous. I’ve had them a few times recently and these were definitely the best. Crispy, juicy and well sauced.

A single native oyster from Mersea was the best I’ve ever had. It deserved to be put in one of those memory capsules that school children fill with things they want people in the future to discover. Crucially it tasted purely of itself.

It took us a while to decide what to have for our main courses. Guinea fowl with lentils turned out to be delicious as did a Flinstonian sized pork chop. But I was delighted to be ushered in the direction of chitterlings and chips rather than a safer option. Chitterlings are exactly the sort of thing you should eat in a restaurant like St. John. You can cook guinea fowl, pork chops and steak at home. But chitterlings require expert knowledge to ensure they are prepared properly. Failure to do this can result in illness owing to fact that they are only inches away from a pig’s anus.

The only previous time I’ve encountered chitterlings was at Chilli Cool, where they were prepared in a Sichuan style to great effect. But this time they were simply served having been poached and then grilled over charcoal. The meat was soft, juicy and salty. Not unlike eating roast ham in sausage format. I’ve been in raptures about them ever since. The chips and sauce they came with cannot be faulted either.

Ox heart with beetroot and horseradish was magnificent as well. The heart had been sliced into livery slithers and quickly grilled. It was soft and lean like Rowan Atkinson wrapped in an acre of velvet, but a lot more edible. I just wish they served ox heart in sandwich format on a regular basis.

Excellent Eccles cakes and blackberry ripple ice cream added a triumphant full stop to our meal. It’s rare when something you’ve hyped up to biblical levels lives up to your high hopes. St. John, didn’t live up to them. It rewrote my expectations and has inspired me to eat more boldly. Thank you for the best lunch I’ve ever had in London.

Hide the Sausage at Polpo

Tapasification is a good idea. Not only does it give you more choice. But it also means the spectre of food envy is forced to loom large elsewhere. The trauma of missing out on an amazing dish whilst you are tucking into something you ordered in a panic is cast aside. The only downside is that you tend to spend more money and are constantly fighting your fellow diners and deploying clandestine tactics to distract them from the last knee wobblingly seductive morsel.

So well done Polpo for popping up. An Italian, sorry Venetian, tapas, sorry bacari, joint is just what we needed. Being British we rather enjoyed the queue and less than charming welcome from the barman. It made us feel comfortable and fortunate to be allowed to eat in their restaurant. We quickly resorted to rudimentary sign language in order to communicate given that the noise, sorry, buzz was so loud, sorry vibrant.

To our enormous excitement we were seated on a table next to none other than Charles “Dinner-Party-Average” Campion and a companion. Cowie could barely contain herself as she rubber necked as if she was studying the fine detail of a particularly interesting car crash. Our waiter helpfully pointed out that he was a food critic who likes the food so much that he lets the kitchen cook him whatever they feel like.

If this wasn’t a debossed wax seal of approval then nothing is. Inspired by Campion and his insatiable appetite we threw ourselves into our task of eating as if there were medals at stake.

Arancini were texturally accomplished and a triumph of what some would call subtlety and others blandness. Chopped liver on toast was loamy but under-seasoned. Salt cod on grilled polenta was far more interesting causing me to hide the second half of it behind a wine bottle. Spratti in soar were the least popular, but that’s fine by me because I rather liked them. I chuckled as I thought of them as the Mini Me to Mackerel’s Dr. Evil.

And just as I thought this is all good without being thrilling, out came some pizzetta bianca. Like Dawn French in a Philadelphia advert I tried to mask my look of greedy glee as I chewed my first bite, spluttering to the others not to eat it because it tasted horrible. But they didn’t fall for it! I’ve been pining for some ever since reading Jeffrey Steingarten’s ode to pizza bianca. It’s a very simple dish. And in many ways the epitome of pure Italian food. It consists of a perfect pizza base that has a specific degree of thinness. According to the chaps at Wikipedia it is “topped with olive oil, salt and, occasionally, rosemary sprigs”. It is then cooked very quickly and served without any fuss or accoutrements. There is an outside chance I enjoyed the idea of this dish as much as the real thing. But either way my debut was a thrill that has inspired me to explore the real thing in Rome.

Main dishes ranged from the excellent calf’s liver, flank steak and polpette to the decent pork belly and polpette. I found myself playing hide the sausage with the Cotechino. Mackerel tartare almost gave me a funny turn and fritto misto was crispy and well fried but bordered on tasteless. Slow cooked duck was inexplicably dry – if it was an actor you’d describe it as wooden. Two vegetarian dishes outshone most of their meaty table companions – a creamy slew of pumpkin again found itself cowering behind a wine bottle which was soon joined by the remnants of the wet polenta and some expertly roasted vegetables.

To finish we shared two rather ill conceived desserts – a semifreddo in a cone and a hot chocolate soup which were a bit of an afterthought. Maybe an affogato or just an espresso would have been a better idea. But it wasn’t all bad in the pudding department – Cowie’s almond tart was sensational.

Throughout our meal the service was swift, assured and helpful. I’ve only got two complaints but they are about the sludgy brown ceiling and crappy loos. But who cares about that when the atmosphere is so alive, and the food is so interesting. Charles Campion obviously doesn’t. And how can I not love the restaurant that plucked my pizza bianca cherry.

Champor Champor (Guest Post)

(Anna’s on the left and that’s Edwin on the right)

Anna, has been a key part of the Paunch ever since it first started. She’s been with us through the good times such as our amazing camping trips to Devon and “cottaging” in the Peak District but also through the low times such as the horrific Essex Serpent and near fatal catastrophe of the exploding fondue. She’s also been a keen participant in sushi parties and pancake competitions. O. And she makes a mean mousakka.

Many moons ago I promised my dear friend Browny that I would contribute to his eminently impressive paunch as a special birthday present. So here goes… actually before I proceed, a quick warning… I am more of a ‘moodie’ than a ‘foodie’, which means that although I enjoy great food, I enjoy great atmosphere more, which is the very reason I have chosen Champor Champor as my first foray.

“Champor- Champor” is a Malay expression which loosely means ‘mix and match’ (not a lot of people know that!) and that is a perfect way to summarise the bohemian riot that welcomes you here (and it is really does welcome you, especially on a cold winters night, after a bit of trek under the arches at London Bridge).I would not be writing home based on the exterior or local environment but once inside the décor is sumptuous, hippy without being sleazy or seedy and every possible surface is scattered with artefacts or candles. The walls are covered in somewhat erotic artwork – one particular highlight adorns the toilet but I won’t spoil the surprise!

I was eating with a gaggle of girls on a Hen-do, and as we strutted in, I saw the relief of the fellow dinners, as we were lead to the private dining room downstairs. It was brilliant and entirely perfect for the occasion but next time I’m looking forward to eating in the main restaurant.

As I alluded to at the start I’m no foodie but in summary, the menu was striking and creative…… fusing traditional Malay village cooking with other eastern influences (apparently!) and I would say the result was immaculate. I wasn’t expecting to review and so didn’t make specific notes or photos, but the for starters – the hen, who opted for the crisp fried mackerel fillet on a nest lemongrass, was waxing lyrical, although I was a little disappointed with festive roast beef with Borneo green pepper; tamarind and chilli dip, the meat was a tad too tough for my liking.

My main course made up for it though, lotus root and aubergine koorma, tofu and young mango rojak with red pepper rice, it was rich with incredible flavours and depth and was quiet frankly fascinating!

Pud wise, they were all very tempting I didn’t try it on the night but would definitely look to try the black rice pudding on return.

The waiters were polite and unassuming and brought interesting extras such as the bread ‘offering’- which included a reassuringly dense banana loaf and tofu-skin bread (wafer thin and sprinkled with cumin).

The menus are, in my opinion, very reasonably priced, excellent value for money and fixed at two or three courses but also include optional ‘inter courses’ (cue hen party singgers) which we opted out of but in fact I would have welcomed something that cleansed my pallet.

Champor Champor may miss a trick or too and for some the décor may be more brothel than bohemia and detract from the food, I don’t know, but for me, it was truly unique and very memorable…. p.s. If there’s two of you, try to bag the mezzanine table when booking.

Thank you so much for my birthday present Anna. I’m looking forward to seeing something special from Edwin in due course.

This was a special guest post by Anna “Moodie not a Foodie” Railton.

La Barca – Ideal for Dinner before the Old Vic

Image from Celebdu on Flickr

Choosing restaurants to take your parents to is tricky. Especially when you’ve got the added parameters of having to be finished by 7pm and be near Waterloo so we could make it to the Old Vic in time to see The Cherry Orchard. A spot of research on Twitter led me to La Barca. Luckily, I didn’t look at the reviews on London Eating, otherwise we would never have gone…

“The service was slow, rude and pompous.”

“It’s one of the most overpriced restaurants I’ve been too.”

“La Barca used to be great; there’s clearly something seriously awry with it now.”

“My advice – only visit here if you’re prepared to put up with badly cooked food and poor customer service, we certainly won’t be going again.”

On the night the air was stickier than a fly catcher and more saturated than a toner cartridge. Sweat clung to my back and made me feel like a filthy urchin. Just typing it makes me feel clammy. So the beautifully air-conditioned interior of La Barca was gloriously welcome.

With 5 of us eating (and Dad paying) we were able to sample a wide range of their impressive, but robustly priced menu. My Mother and Sister guzzled their enormous prawns, still enveloped by their terracotta shells, in garlic and lemon butter before any of us got a look in. They looked sensational. When quizzed Mum said it was the best thing she’d eaten in ages. Dad’s smoked salmon parcel contained a cushion of crab meat that had him purring like our geriatric Siamese cat. Meanwhile Cowie’s bresaola with truffle oil and parmesan was a treat. My grilled sardines were, grilled sardines.

Whilst the starters were good, the mains stole the show. Cowie devoured her pink centred tuna. Dad demolished his mixed platter of fried white fish with a grin on his face that apparently I’ve inherited. Whilst Mum enjoyed her rosy best end of lamb with a slightly dodgy gravy. But, it was my dish that stole the show.
Because we’d arrived late I’d ordered very quickly and without much thought. Why I ordered sardines, I’m not quite sure. But where I’d missed out on the first course I won on the main course. It was like accidentally filling in a lottery ticket and winning the jackpot.

My “Spaghetti a La Barca” arrived in a paper bag and was lovingly spooned, tableside, into my bowl. Squirmy spaghetti jostled with plump mussels, clams, squid rings, tentacles, scallops and a vast tiger prawn. And mingled with a spiced tomato sauce that I managed to splatter all over my white shirt. It’s one of the best bowls of pasta I’ve ever had.

I loved it so much I asked them how it’s made. Apparently they boil the pasta and make a rich tomato sauce with some mild chilli to give it background heat. They then pour the pasta and sauce into a paper bag and add the seafood before baking it in the oven for 10-15 minutes with the lid on.

The technique is elaborated upon by John Thorne, in “Simple Cooking”:

“With the paper bag method, the pasta is cooked in the ordinary way until it is almost done, then mixed with the sauce and put in the oven to bake. Since the bag is collapsed around its contents and sealed, the flavour of the sauce completely penetrates the pasta.

There is also a second advantage. Because no moisture escapes, the cook has the opportunity to get a maximum amount of flavour from a minimum of undiluted sauce…”

As we walked across the road to the Old Vic, Mum and Dad said it was one of the best meals they’ve had in London for many years. It’s not cheap, but if you just order the pasta in a bag and have a bottle of house wine you can’t go too far wrong. The negative comments on London Eating seemed very wide of the mark. If you are planning a trip to the Old Vic with your family, then a trip to La Barca before hand is just the ticket.

Sketch Gallery – An Advertising Agency in Disguise?

“Arrive with an open mind and imagine, if you will, a painting that never dries” – (Mark Lawson Bell-Artistic Director)

Sketch is one of the most creative places I’ve been to. More playful than most art galleries. More imaginative than most theatre productions. And as creative as any advertising agency I’ve been involved with. Sketch is an art gallery, bar, living room, tea shop, restaurant, bonkers water closet and catwalk rolled into one. If you are the kind of person who likes ideas you’ll love it. You’ll drink it in and ask for more.

We were greeted by the most charming Maitre D’ we have ever encountered. Nothing was too much trouble and everything was done with a twinkle in the eye. He showed us around the whole building including being allowed to peak into the Lecture Room where a handful of lucky people were tucking into some Michelin starred food…

On our tour we fell in love with their eccentric taste in art. In particular the sculpture of two dogs going at it hammer and tongs and the glitter ball girl with syringes sticking out of her head! The whimsical art sets the tone for the creative food that we were to discover in the Gallery.

We were given the best seats in the restaurant with full view over everything. It was like being a dictator watching your troops do a big parade… except the troops were all girls and rather more glamorous than what your normally see on Newsnight. We sipped more champagne as a big ball bounced around the white walls, projected on the bare white walls. The Gallery is a blank canvas that is brought alive by a series of projectors that captures Mark Lawson Bell’s opening statement. Apparently the previous projection of an irritable fly sent everyone a bit mad!

The bread was so good that Cowie tucked in too. The fact that it was served in a basket made of Lego had me almost in tears with giddy joy. It transported me straight back to my childhood memories of messing around for hours, days, months and years with multi coloured bricks and little men with arms that don’t move very well. “Little touches” like this aren’t just good ideas they are moments of genius that have been dreamt up by someone who understands the way the mind works and should really work in advertising. I vaguely remember the bread being good (and if it hadn’t been the whole thing would have imploded), but it’s the Lego basket that has stayed with me. And the message encoded in the Lego basket is of playfulness and creativity.

Our starters were works of art that tasted almost as good as they looked.

Tahiti – ceviche of grouper, barramundi & red snapper marinated in coconut milk & lime was a platter of firm fish textures that aims to transport you to Tahiti, not that I’ve ever wanted to go. It was cool, light and full of tropical tones. Maybe it should have been called a Pina Colada though.

Cowie’s “Red Tuna” was a giggle. What we thought was tuna turned out to be watermelon! And then when the tuna was served it was soft and fiendishly good. Not sure we should be eating tuna though. Tut tut.

A shared bowl of ravioli with a chicken and gorgonzola broth was superb. The waiter almost refused to let us have them because he wanted them for himself. I couldn’t help myself from pouring more sauce over my pasta from a silver tea pot that I wanted Cowie to sneak into her handbag!

For some reason I chose beef tartare (diced rib-eye with mustard, gherkins, spring onions, capers, egg mollet, Espelette pepper, parsley, fondant potato, fresh spicy tomato). Get raw beef wrong and it’s not only dangerous, but also highly unpleasant. The next tartare I eat is going to have to be very good to beat this one.

Mediterranean cod was great fun. We almost sent the plate back at first as it looked like a mozzarella and tomato salad. But as Cowie started playing we realised that the soft white cheese was actually cod and the olives were dark green gnocchi. The dish had been styled by someone who likes to tease! The fish flaked. The dark green gnocchi were soft but had bite. It was a beautiful dish that reinforced sketch’s reputation for cooking fish.

Cowie loved Malabar. It is a dessert that has been inspired by a brand of French bubblegum. It’s one of the stars of the menu, but given that I don’t like bubblegum it isn’t for me.

My Cadiz was a brilliant rhubarb and orange number. It came with some rhubarb marmalade and shards of glassy rhubarb sticking out of some ice cream. Not only was it beautiful, but it acted as a giant palette cleanser. Any residual beefiness from the tartare was replaced by a feeling of freshness. It has inspired me to make some rhubarb marmalade.

Despite our banquet being at an end, the fun hadn’t stopped. My espresso was served in a flexible coffee cup that had a touch of Dali about it. And as for the Dr Evil loos… wow! I’ll let the pictures do the talking.

It wasn’t just a meal. It was a Hollywood assault on the senses. An uber-camp-experience that was fizzing with creativity and glamour. At sketch the idea comes first and then everything follows, just as it does in an ad agency. Rather than a kitchen it has a creative department. But it also comes with a bill so abrasive it is delivered in a sandpaper envelope. Luckily we’d taken advantage of their £50 off voucher on their facebook fan page and had held back on wine so whilst being so expensive it could cause a run on the Pound, was a fair price at 140 quid. Especially when you consider that the sketch experience means tickets for the theatre, art gallery and entry to a nightclub aren’t necessary.

Eating at sketch is like being a client and turning up to an advertising agency such as Mother where they will blow you away with their bonkers ideas and slick presentation and then send you an embarrisingly large bill. And sometimes their ideas will be full of hot air and hopeless. But because they are so fresh and original you’ll pay the bill and tell your friends to go there too. Sketch – are you an advertising agency in disguise?

All the photos are from a nice person at sketch.

Saltoun Supper Club – The best place to eat in Brixton?

The Saltoun Supper Club is refined, urbane, slick and charming. From the moment we arrived we were set at ease and made to feel welcome. The fact that it is on my doorstep in Brixton is a bonus of Forsythian proportions.

Arno’s house is a fabulous setting for dinner. If you had only 1 guess about what Arno does for a living you wouldn’t opt for something boring like accountancy. The whole house was like being in a photo shoot. But rather than feeling forced or intense, it just made us feel very special to be part of Arno’s world for the evening. In a nutshell, this is what makes “secret restaurants” so appealing. Restaurants rarely give you this feeling of intimacy and a direct connection with the person cooking your supper across the dining room.

Our starter of courgette carpaccio with barrel aged feta is something I wouldn’t order in a month of snow days. But it was as if Arno had read our minds. At the end of a hot day, after a sweltering tube journey, we were dying for something light and refreshing. The edible equivalent of a gin and tonic. I could hear Cowie humming with glee as she reached out her fork to steal a slither of courgette whilst I was thirstily draining a glass of Douglas’s prosecco.

A duck terrine then arrived, very photogenically, on the lid of an old port case. The terrine was wonderfully deep, tasting intensely of duck with a smooth richness that wouldn’t be out of place at an ambassador’s cocktail party. My tounge almost got splinters as I tried to lick the wooden platter.

A simple fillet of sea bass served with new potatoes and peas was a lovely piece of fish that was allowed to speak for itself. It wasn’t the evening for fancy sauces, especially when you conider Arno was cooking fish for 14 people in a small kitchen.

Then, Arno hit us with one of the best surprises I’ve encountered all year. He produced an oyster the size of Belgium from his fridge and asked if we’d like him to cook it for us! Wow.

Arno battled with the blighter for several minutes before poaching the enormous oyster and serving it to his awestruck guests with a beurre blanc let down with the poaching liquor. It stands out as the best thing I have eaten all year by quite some distance. It was so good I wouldn’t be surprised if he had laced it with opium. Unfortunately my photos don’t do it justice whatsoever…

Sharing a gigantic communal oyster is a surefire way to get the party started. Whatever imaginary barriers existed between individual tables or with Arno vanished. The decibels went up and we all mingled between tables as if we were at a friend’s dinner party.

Our eton mess with mango and salted caremel was simple and delicious, oozing style and caremel in equal measure.

The meal then officially finished with coffee and petit fours that put many restaurants to shame.

After a couple of tables had disappeared and Arno relaxed after a lot of hard work, we found ourselves being treated to a wine and cheese lock in with a bottle of wine that Douglas described as a “couth, cigar, hymnbook and distantly blackcurrant scented Bordeaux [which] turned out to be a vital delight.” What a treat.

We left on a high; buzzing just like you should do from restaurants, but o so rarely do.

P.S. Here’s what Douglas thought.

Kastoori – Vegetarian Magic in Tooting

Our trip to Kerala and Goa opened our eyes to the world of vegetarian food. The range of interesting and complex dishes we had that contained no meat or fish was astonishing. By the end of our trip we had stopped thinking of food in terms of a piece of protein plus some veggies and instead just enjoyed what was in front of us. In Kerala it is meat eaters who are the odd ones out, to the extent that places that serve meat are referred to as “non-vegetarian”.

So when we arrived at Kastoori, a vegetarian Indian restaurant in Tooting, I got rather excited and tried to order almost everything on the menu. Luckily the waiter stepped in and very purposefully told me to not be greedy and calm down! Weirdly, I quite enjoyed being put back in my place by a stranger with a notepad and a mustache. Let’s hope it’s not a strange fetish that’s beginning to rise to the surface! Luckily the waiter did allow us to order two of the best named dishes I’ve ever come across: Dahi Puri and the “not-un-Star-Warsy” Dahi Vada which I imagined arriving with a light saber and black mask.

The Dahi Puri are one of Kastoori’s signature dishes. The menu describes them as “taste-bombs” which does a pretty good job of bringing them to life. Crispy shells are filled with “diced potatoes, chick peas, puffed rice, onions, pani sauce, sweet and sour sauce and topped with yoghurt sauce”. I can’t remember the flavours much, but the textural experience was sublime.

Dahi Vada was far more fun to ask for than to eat, which was to be expected. I found the yoghurty sauce a bit overwhelming and made a beeline instead for the bhajis…

… which were sensational. Crisp, savoury and no-where near as greasy as they tend to be. I even convinced Cowie to have one!

Our Kastoori Bhatura was a wonderfully inflated chipatti that resembled a bready woopy-cushion. Dipped in our array of sauces and spicy condiments, it was fantastic.

Whilst we were pottering around India I kept missing out on having a dosa. They are large, think, rolled up pancakes filled with savoury sauces. The masala dosa at Kastoori was visually arresting, but unfortunately the spiced potato filling and accompanying sambar wasn’t quite as exciting.

(Putting a slightly dull filling to one side, it has made me think that a dosa could make a fantastic left field appearance at next year’s pancake competition as a follow up to our Crispy Aromatic Pork Belly Pancakes this year.)

The star of the main course was a chilli banana dish that is spiced with red chillies, lubricated with tomatoes and inspired by Africa. It was a one of the most unusual things I’ve eaten and had us wondering what John Torode and Greg Wallace would have said on Masterchef if you’d served it to them. I can just hear Pudding Face “Tut-tutting” and saying, “No, no. This is all wrong”. But it worked. What a dish. It’s worth the trip to Tooting alone.

A bean-ball curry and vegetarian curry were both good, but suffered from being in the shadow of the chilli banana…

Desserts are always terrible in Indian restaurants, but we couldn’t resist ordering a couple to test the water. Jeffrey Steingarten singles them out as being one of gastronomy’s great mysteries – “they have the texture of face cream”. And he’s not far wrong.

Rice pudding with pistachio was like someone had tipped a can of Ambrosia into the microwave that I could see through the kitchen door and then crumbled some pistachios on top…

And the comically conical mango ice cream was clearly missing from the set of Babestation.

But the desserts were never going to be any good, so let’s just have a laugh and reflect on the fact that Kastoori is a brilliant, inexpensive restaurant, that happens to be both Indian and vegetarian. And luckily for us, just down the road. Just don’t arrive with a yearning for chicken tikka masala.

Balham – Comings and Goings

New restaurants and foodie ventures are popping up around Balham like zits after a bath in engine oil. It’s only adding to the much derided claims that Balham is becoming the new Notting Hill. What more would you expect from an area that is the birthplace of Ainsley Harriot.

Following the recent opening of Light of Gurkha, Balham has now been blessed with a new Italian restaurant called Locale which “offers comfortable dining in an intimate atmosphere with a warm feel.” It looks pretty decent and can be found a short walk to the south of Balham station.

Nearby, the Blue Pumpkin has closed. Boo.

But, wipe away that tear, because “The French Cafe” is taking its place…

Almost without us realising it, Meze has appeared opposite Paddyfield with initial reports suggesting it’s “pretty good”.

But most excitingly, Chadwick’s has moved locations so that it can be closer to Cowie’s house. We’ve become big fans of their meat, in particular their lamb and chicken. Their new site, opposite Waitrose, is far more spacious allowing them to exhibit their amazing carcasses in a special cabinet at the back which I had to be forcibly dragged away from!

Well done Balham. We’re looking forward to seeing what happens next. In an ideal world an awesome coffee shop/bakers/deli would open next to Holy Cow… fingers crossed. Just so long as it’s not an Ainsley Harriot noodle bar.