Reviews and Comments of 'Douglas Blyde' (93)
INVITATIONS no longer tumble through the post – they ping through the ether. I recently received an irresistible one: to see a saw tugged through a dry-hung swine. Playing butcher, chef, Adam Byatt would talk us through rump and rack as he separated, scraped and minced (or should I say, used a mincer), whilst perma-tanned Jean Trimbach (12th generation ambassador of the leading Alsace wine producer) would supply agile refreshments. The venue: ‘Trinity’, Clapham Common, named, according to staff, because dishes originally featured three components, although its location within a triangular parade seems a more fitting explanation.
Byatt spent much of his youth ‘cooking egg-white only omelettes’ for Dame Barbara Cartland when she kept table at Claridge’s. How that venue must miss their star. An apprentice turned member of the Academy of Culinary Arts, he describes his early exposure to cooking warmly. ‘Instead of recounting the usual sob stories of chefs like Giorgio - rolling macaroni on one knee - I learnt about food from my mother, a cook to directors’ dining rooms.’
A sleek-fronted, but cosy venue softly lit by three-sided lampshades, it pivots somewhere between ideal local brasserie and, on the appraisal of Byatt’s mentor, Philip Howard, something meriting a Michelin-star. As with nearby ‘Chez Bruce’ it has fast become an unofficial embassy for the capital’s wine trade since it opened end of 2006. In addition to hearty fodder (menus make a virtue of hock, marrow and even faggots) its sommelier, Rupert Taylor shows inquisitiveness through his 250-bin selection, and is open to corkage (£20).
Overlooking and overlooked by the kitchen, a glug of hacks gathered at the chef’s table. Ben Smith of importer, Enotria, sits beside Trimbach. If Smith’s name might seem familiar, it could be because he played bass for pop band, ‘Curiosity Killed the Cat’.*
Beginning the autopsy on the bright pink half-loin of Gloucester Old Spot, Byatt proclaims, ‘Britain produces the world’s best pigs - and this is the quintessential breed.’ Stroking its skin with his German blade’s tip, he asserts, ‘I can tell you about the last 10-minutes of a beast’s life. If its skin is ruffled and bruised, and the flesh stiffened by lactic acid, it shows it suffered. But this one is tender.’ As lights are raised to make easier work for photographers, Trimbach nods excitedly, ‘the cochon becomes nobler in light!’ A relatively small swine, Byatt confirms that he prefers working with slim specimens ‘under 50kgs, and 9-12 months old depending on breed.’ Drawing a comparison with viticulture, Trimbach agrees, ‘it’s true, we don’t like grapes that become bloated and therefore flavourless...’
Liver removed with a plop and cuts categorised, Byatt proceeds to loop heat-resistant string around neck fillet at a furious pace. Extolling the virtues of buying in an animal, he advises, ‘a side is much cheaper than pre-portioned parcels. This one cost £45 [wholesale] and should yield enough for 25 people.’ Above fiscal value, butchery confers craft, ‘which I am damned to lose.’ When asked from where the popularity of ready-meats came, Byatt loses no time in attributing this to ‘[Sir Terence] Conran, who bought in prepped meat as a time-saving measure when feeding 1000s.’ In addition to sharing his passion with a kitchen brigade which, in a symmetrical gesture, includes an apprentice from the Academy of Culinary Arts, Byatt voluntarily (and perhaps worryingly) teaches knife skills to ‘naughty’ 14-year-olds at adopted school, ‘The Academy’.
Carcass away to kitchen, we begin the feast with fluffy, poignantly roe-stained Taramosalata scoops smeared over sweet, charred, crisped flatbread. This is followed by the first piggy hit, prefaced as coming 'from one we did earlier'. Thick-cut devils on horseback are stuffed with moist Agen prunes (the historical provenance of which outdates Trimbach’s 1626 foundations by four centuries). Served in a wide-brimmed, fragile glass tea cup which I am tempted to bite through, white onion and thyme velouté is spun with black truffle flecks and offered with a singular, greaseless onion ring. Reticently currant-leaf scented, Trimbach’s estate and grower-grown ‘07 is a dry, stony Riesling which alas proves a hopeless collaborator, curtailing the cappuccino’s cosseting creaminess.
Served on a slate which thoughtfully for staff features handles (Byatt claims he spent two-years building his front of house team), the next dish is introduced with, ‘this is as pretty as it gets at Trinity’. Looking unnervingly like a pair of little fingers, overly potent sole goujons fall over a uniform eel slither, laid-out like a zip, but hauntingly flavoursome. But the best part is the pristine, tightly-woven leek terrine. By contrast, an inexplicably steamed rock oyster painted in an odd membrane is unnecessary embellishment. Made only in good years, Trimbach’s gold-labelled ‘02 Pinot Gris Reserve-Personelle is still fresh after seven years with a glossy mouth-feel. But lacking the body of age (minimum recommended cellaring is 10-years) it seems submissive against every part of the dish.
The next porcine plate (or trunk): pig’s trotter bisected by a long wisp of cracking crunchy crackling, adorned with a golden quail’s egg and framed by a rim of frustratingly wine-repelling sauce gribiche. This is rendered unflatteringly on a cross-section of tree. In answer to my slightly tipsy enquiry, does Byatt take inspiration from the obligatorily ‘legendary’ Koffman, he answers bluntly that he does not, preferring to de-bone his trotter post braising rather than prior. Pinot Noir Reserve (‘07) is simultaneously lean and sugary, again made meek by acidity, this time of the vinaigrette-like green sauce.
The final savoury course, which I was most eagerly awaiting, fails absolutely. Despite being decadently glazed in maple syrup, pork belly has suffered, as would I, from being trapped in a water bath for 16-hours at 68c. It is as supple and appetising as rigamortis. Making matters worse, it squats black olive mash which, as tabletop mumblings confirm, evokes a pat from a cow prescribed a laxative-only diet. Saffron vinaigrette, and mushy celery ‘hearts’ (warmed celery is charmless) makes a farce of wine matching. But two are offered – choice rieslings named after ancestor, Cuvée Frédéric Emile, from ‘97 and ‘01. Delightful enough, but the ‘01 spontaneously wizzarded by Taylor (on his list for £100/half bottle) is what really proves the riesling to be cheerful about. Justly commemorating Trimbach's 375th anniversary, this striking syrup unravels with a sustained energy and a beam of acidity. I want to take a taste to heaven, but realise that a version of heaven is already spinning around my glass.
We finish with a crisp quince tarte Tatin (this version of the allegedly accidental dish seems very much in vogue) cleansed with elegantly fading nobly-rotten gewurztraminer from ‘89 - the year that heralded the Soviet Union’s collapse, the Australian PM cried on TV after admitting adultery and Japan’s Fantasty Novel Award was established. Floral, even flamboyant, with a hint of anise on the long-lived, iron-stained palate, the richness of drink and dish finally makes equal fighters.
Marble-sized Poire William-imbued truffles come from Bucks chocolatier, Damian Allsop and are apparently made with a water-based ganache. Regardless, they set like cocoa cannonballs in my tummy.
As we eventually leave, I think I spy Richard Corrigan under the dusky lights - but he actually turns out to be a larger than life she. Byatt kindly gifts us kits in Kilner jars to recreate his signature trotter recipe (albeit on a plate not a plank).
I reflect. Both chef and winemaker showed unremitting passion. Divorcing the ungainly mash, unrequited water bath, and mean Pinot Noir, I spied repeated finesse. But what a shame that there has been such tortured dialogue between dish and glass.
*Disclaimer: any rumours about a Curiosity Kill the Cat comeback gig are sadly fallacious...
THE rambling basement sequel to Waterloo’s ‘Bangalore Express’ has a colour scheme resembling a hyped sports shoe, austere seating and A3 placemats that double as menus (supplemented by a la carte flyers).
The food compliment comprises a bewilderingly expansive array of dishes, from Indi-tapas to solitary low fat plate, via (drawing breath): French ostrich tikka, Caribbean curried goat, South African Bunny Chow, Indian Fish ‘n’ Chips, Massala Burgers, Indian Calzone and a 28-box strong customisable flow chart of ‘big plates of curry and rice’, not forgetting appalling desserts.
Despite a lightness of touch from a kitchen dealing with what totals over 100 combinations, and a pleasant, patient, knowledgeable team front of house, the muddling of genres will infuriate a purist.
My verdict? -This is a case of simplify or die...
CONSIDERING consumption (and copulation) are life’s cornerstones, the desire to know what others are eating is hardly surprising. But bites for bytes, it does seems that everyone has become a critic these days, vis-à-vis the Big Bang of blogs, review sites and real-time, mealtime, ‘Twitter’ updates...
Such instant, accessible and often entertaining reviews must cramp the style of resto-ranting mainstream critics, many of whom have enjoyed a kind of culinary ‘Droit de Seigneur’ for rather too long.
Other than receiving an occasional insult from them, my frustration with the paid print ‘cholesterasauri’ is their London focus. If it’s well-sourced, competently cooked and elegantly served, I’ll travel miles for a memorable meal. In the past month alone, I’ve savoured sublime seafood in Scotland and perfect pork on Jersey.
More entertaining than the town’s floral clock and in ruder health than its ill-looking palms, Hove’s ‘L’Eglise’ brasserie is well-worth an escape from the capital’s chaos. Founded by former Camden and Covent Garden restaurateur, Jean-Christophe Martin (above) and his wife, Julia, I am told that the majority of customers track it down via word of mouth.
I booked for a Bordeaux-themed banquet – a journey in five-courses and five-wines chosen by Knight of France’s Order of Agricultural Merit, François Domange (top). Domange begun tasting wine ‘by age three’, becoming proficient in cellar duties in the Loire ‘at 13.’ A kind of ‘vinous angel’, he now works with small, largely unknown estates, advising on style and branding whilst taking care of sales and export. Customers include the Holy Grail, ‘Le Gavroche’.
Representing Bordeaux’s ‘Miroir d’Eau’ - a rectangle of shallow water reflecting buildings on the Place de la Bourse - we started with a glossy tile of al-dente dim sum sacks of pristine steamed duck foie gras and meaty goose confit crossed with expressive Cabernet Sauvignon paste. Rested, Château Pavilion Rocher’s ’04 Grand Cru added fine, truffle-scented savoury facets and a little dry herbs and fruit.
As one waiter transported roast duck legs to the estate agents next-door, another brought us tender monkfish tail ‘caught from the middle of the English Channel’. Served with saffron-kissed, beady rice and pearl-like grapes, a sufficient depth of velouté coated the forkful – far more functional than a few dainty, decorative dots. ’07 Graves Blanc (Domaine Moulin à Vent) was aromatic and full-bodied with honeysuckle, discernible bite and a long, dry, mineral rich finish. A slight trace of resin brought the pine tree windbreaks that protect the vineyard into the glass.
The absolute highlight was the Côte Bordelaise (beef short rib) lacquered with lustrous winey sauce lifted with cinnamon and star anise. According to Martin, who originally worked as a chef, this was inspired by ‘Balthazar’, New York’s ‘ultimate’ Parisian-styled restaurant. From the same soil as illustrious, Château Beychevelle, Château du Retout’s Haut Medoc Cru Bourgeois ’02 was sturdy, with saddle leather, earthy cress, some cassis and cosy game notes, echoing the ruddy seven-week matured meat. Incidentally, by arrangement, the restaurant will push some cuts to three months maturity. By contrast, conversation fleetingly turned to Heather Mills’ nearby vegan café...
Unfortunately, grilled goat’s ‘Fromage d’Aquitaine’ on walnut toast lost its grace alongside still-closed Saint-Estèphe Fief de la Haye (’05). When spun in the glass, it left inky traces like potassium permanganate. Despite Domange ‘not being scared of it’, the vinaigrette binding an accompanying mesclun muddled matters further.
Lastly, jelly-shaped, chewy-edged Canelé de Bordeaux baked in copper and enhanced with vanilla ice cream achieved sybaritic unison with young, cleansing Sauternes. This presently light-coloured sweetie came from Château Caillou – a surprisingly well-known wine to punctuate Domange’s otherwise low-key portfolio (’07).
It was unquestionably worth the journey for this journey, which brought the world’s largest fine wine region 1,000 miles closer. At £70 inclusive of fizz, all matches and espresso, it seemed fairly priced. Whilst omissions, like the absence of side-plates proved a perpetual niggle, the culinary mastery of chef, Jean Yves Guiomar (particularly his dexterous saucing) combined with Domange’s thoughtful vinous collaborations made this meal a standout...
The next epicurean event takes place 15th December.
Financed by at least one Russian oligarch, and structured by the same interior designer as nearby Grand Café, ‘The Wolseley’, Ricard represents an altogether more fussy attempt at facsimile.
Unfortunately, despite an enthusiastic chef poached from the glory days of Sir T’s ‘Pont de la Tour’, it pails...
From a beautiful, Quink-ink kitchen, we endured a rubbery ‘breakfast soufflé’, a study at congealed Eggs Benedict and an unacceptably greasy, bad bhaji-like bubble and squeak – a costly trio that failed to live up to the decadently-inclined décor. Sweetened orange juice was annoyingly cloying and coffee bore parity with dredged fenland riverbed.
Even if the early morning fare had been fine, the empty room was ill-conceived. Sheer, thickly-curtained booths are modelled on old-fashioned railway cars, seating quads or fewer. Unlike the lofty Picadilly venue, forget that curious sport of ‘sleb spotting’, therefore. And perhaps more distressingly, whilst table-top toasters were a cute touch, those much wrtiten about ‘press for Champagne’ buttons solicited zero response before midday. In an opulent venue, I expected decadence to be served around the clock...
With a cellar strung with home-cured frankfurters of intimidating proportions, head chef Henry Herbert practically interprets the business of serving up local food. When I met him after my long lunch, the fourth generation baker was popping out to pillage skips for components to make a smoker. My companion, who waitressed here in leaner moments mentioned that Herbert often heads to Oval to pluck crab apples from his ‘favourite tree’, blackberries from Hampstead Heath, or even Epping Forest mushrooms…
With best friend and baking alumni, Anthony Smith, the 22 year-old has put together an enticingly edible and unfussed menu. Dishes are divided into £4, £6 and £8 brackets with a £10 special and modest drinks offers. We painted the table, tapas-style.
For fans of Brett Graham’s venison version at southwest London’s ‘Harwood Arms’, I recommend a pilgrimage for Herbert’s supremely rich Scotch egg with mustard. The finely spiced, thickly spun, pink sausage meat cocooned a molten core. Close pressed rabbit rillette with cornichons dissolved on entry. Being in bounty, beetroot salad with marinated shallots and fluffy goat curd left an inky trace on the plate, and a sugary-citric finish on the palate. But the star was the whole mackerel, torpedo shaped and overlapping the dish. It came with nutty new potatoes and a scatter of samphire.
In addition to a good range of beers, owners Giles and Colette Webster have crafted an engaging and amusingly annotated wine list, including pretty reds served from the fridge. La Giaretta’s ‘Volpare’, a largely tannin free Valpolicella, dared to have more strawberry, cherry and vegetal flavours than the normal supermarket swill, ‘going with everything, jarring with nothing’.
Daringly ripe Langres, Tomme Crayeuse, Etivaz and Crosier Blue came from esteemed ‘affineur’, Jon Thrupp who is frequently seen at Borough Market.
From bear bating to baking, predictably all breads were excellent, especially the sweetened rye bread, apparently inspired by chef Richard Corrigan’s recipe, although far lighter.
Despite being amongst some of the capital’s most esteemed gastropubs and so nerve-rackingly close to the buried River Fleet that in parts you can hear it, the Coach & Horses holds its own. I plan to return to sample urgently sautéed duck hearts, pistachio and prune terrine with blackthorn jelly and veal shank pie...
'Beauberry House: gen. tidy req'd; odd camel cage odour; St. E '85 =£45; kitchen calibrated (veal fillet & t. tatin on £21/3cs striking)'
Despite taking this snap under soothingly low light, I hope you can see just how lavish a platter it turned out to be. Beyond the parsley was a large crab, legs intact. After an uncompromisingly spiced Bloody Mary, it took me an hour to methodically work through. For £22.50, this must offer the best value in London. I doubt that neighbour, Bentley’s could (or would wish to) compete.
I used to enjoy fruits de mer at Butler’s Wharf Chop House, although on recent visits I became stressed by tedious service and a crudely cost-cutting kitchen. After terrine bound in raw bacon, the aftertaste of a fried strawberry dessert clung around like a toxic aftermath. I hope the Thames covers it.
By any comparison, Fish Works works.
“Listening to John Betjeman’s life story,” I explained. “Did you know that the IRA put a price on his head?”
Just past Pope John Paul II (one of many disconcerting oils) the Male, Female and Unisex facilities are an impressive distraction. With glossy veneers, isometric tiles and piped prose, they upstaged the windowless, mirror-pillared dining room. Despite Chinoiserie, this resembled a nightclub so strongly that even after three hours with silver chopsticks and hot towels, I couldn’t ditch the feeling that we were sat on a dance-floor.
Five months after the event, I was being treated to a birthday dinner at The Dorchester’s Cantonese, ‘China Tang’. It takes its name from founder, Sir David Tang – designer, gold-miner and cigar aficionado. Cuba’s Honorary Consul no less.
In the deco bar, we dived straws into cleanly prepared filthy martinis. Despite having to duck a hopefully accidental ice cube missile, this contrives to be a more civilised space then the five star’s main bar. There, what was a subtle, limed-oak haven, has been ‘upgraded’ into a vulgar cave of coloured stalagmites and moody music.
Even though their product is pleasure, Sommeliers can be terribly earnest, probably because they are relied upon to generate so much of a venue’s profit. Thankfully, Tang’s was amicable, patting me on the back when I agreed his suggestions. China, incidentally, is no stranger to the vine, being the sixth largest producer. Having encountered troubled Beijing bottles at ‘Vinopolis’, our pickings today came from closer to home. These included a strikingly opulent, oak-matured Austrian white, a lush Chilean three vintage blend and a chilled North Island, New Zealand Pinot Noir. The latter was served not only with a back pat, but a back-story. When on Penury Way, its producer planted pumpkins between vines to raise funds at market.
Fuzzy winter melon fruit swam in a clean consommé - not just an appetising starting pistol to the meal, but apparently good for weight loss too. Loathing their kind when encountered alive, I forked the jellyfish vengefully. This culinary first revealed a texture of crimped coleslaw or “rubber bands” as a hollow-legged friend later put it, adding, “I love them!” I think I agree, although a muddy sauce mired this version's tagliatelle-like strands.
Braised abalone provided another first. A chef friend once told me that these rock snails are a delicacy because of the difficulty harvesting them at considerable depths. £60 bought one livery, chewy splodge which squatted hauntingly bad oyster sauce. Despite our initial excitement, the result reminded me of the tenderised conch meat endured on a Caribbean holiday - best liberally cleansed with anaesthetising Smirnoff.
Less successful still, salt and pepper lobster claw was spongy, having drowned many deaths in a deep fryer. And vim-less scallops lazed on re-used shells.
Thankfully, in braised pork belly, we reached the dish of the dinner. Beneath a 10 Yen coin thin crust, which could have been caramelised by blowtorch, its flesh was near sinfully moist and fattily tender.
All around, signature Peking Ducks were wheeled towards an A-Z of celebrities. The colour of emergency and puffed like bagpipes, these disconcertingly complete specimens perhaps explained the bitter mood of the waitress who carves some 50 a day. (Incidentally, my well-intentioned question - had she visited ‘The Peninsula’, a humble, but “legendary Chinese”, at Greenwich’s Holiday Inn – was met with incredulity).
Overall, even to a relative rookie of China’s Eight Great Traditions (or regions), it had become clear that China Tang serves sloppy, nursery slopes Cantonese. There must be a myriad of better options dotting the High Street. Its appeal, I suppose, is its discreet location, allowing a chichi clientele to sate their cravings far from autograph addicts and phone-photo hunters.
We revolved onto Park Lane, glimpsing our fleeting reflections in a gliding Rolls. What, I wondered, would encourage my return? In a positive effort, I will end by awarding it ‘W1’s best WC’. Rather than flex the credit card to snapping point for middling plates, I will definitely be back to spend a penny...
Well, ‘Quilon’ peddles purgatory - so look away now...
In a misguided attempt to camouflage what may well be London’s most soulless hotel dining room, shrubs sprout from mirrors, MFI-style cabinets block daylight and stiff banquettes the colour of jaundiced salmon flesh correspond with waiters’ shirts. It is ominous that such garish garments were chosen not by a remote, colour-blind head office op-o, but Aylur Sriram, the restaurant’s Michelin starred chef. How, I wondered, could such an esteemed culinary artist have handpicked the ‘Dynarod’ pantone for his enviably sited dining room?
I went as the guest of Humayun Hussain, Editor of ‘Tandoori’ magazine and writer of punchy critiques for The Guardian’s ‘Guide’. (Disclaimer: these are my views; you must wait for his). Because Humayun is writing a feature on a lighter style of Indian food suitable for summer, Sriram’s southwest coastal cooking greatly appealed. His is a philosophy of subtle finesse, where butter and cream are banished, and chilli heat is never deployed for heat’s sake alone. The only garlic I noted came pickled in a jar – to go with the pappadums scattered with crunchy lotus ‘pepperpots’ and offered with homemade yoghurt and coriander dip. That was alas, anaemic, bringing to mind masticated silage.
As inert Indian muzac segued into something more sapless – let’s call it ‘flotation tank vibes’, I attempted to kick-start the meal with a ‘Quijito’ cocktail. Served short, this gently spiced take on the Mojito was brought by a Maitre’d whose Mr. Blobby-esque Polka-dot tie contrasted a grave temperament.
An almost homoeopathically chilli bitten, slightly over-grilled scallop was mingled with tooth-sized mango cubes, providing a thoroughly benign, salty-sweet exchange. But a curiously warm tomato chaser uncannily resembled a Heinz 57 canned oxtail soup. A perennial favourite of Sriram, this cleanser in fact had me sweating. Glancing around, fellow sufferers included business bods who find harmony in this former conference suite, and the dazzling wife of Bollywood actor, Om Puri. She was dining with über-food blogger, Simon Majumdar.
Tilapia – the Pinot Grigio of fish – gained little from being roasted in plantain leaf, remaining in need of a sassy sauce. A coconut sprinkled salad of green beans and asparagus shaved lengthways as to resemble avocado, was so excruciatingly virtuous that conversation flowed into that discussion beloved of critics - what is the worth of ‘Saf’? (Shoreditch’s limply titled, vegan eatery frequented by Heather Mills). Thank goodness, despite fairly bland morsels, Mangalorean chicken basked in a more invigorating coconut sauce. But being richer and spicier and generally more interesting, it technically eschewed Sriram’s temperate philosophy. The best dish by far was merely an afterthought: deep-fried mellow mallow – crunchy, greaseless okra.
Leftover mango from the scallop starter found its way into Humayun’s fruit salad, served with a ladle of black pepper ice cream. Faced with a demoralising pudding, for the first time in my life, I envied that most tedious of dishes. Mine was a gungey bebinca cake with surgical spirit smelling ice cream (the trouble-shooting cookbook’s index could read, ‘when vanilla goes wrong’) and a chocolate slice which adroitly impersonated blood pudding (replete with the knobbly bits). With Lotus flower tea as fragrant as a cosmetics counter, a presumably bought-in chocolate/fudge truffle tasted of indictment - it utterly upstaged both dishes.
So there we have it. Edible but unlovable. If I’d dined alone, I may well have dozed through to morning. Then the room becomes the setting for the breakfast buffet bussed in from the hotel next-door.
A glance at Sriram’s biography reveals a quarter of a century in hotel catering, with the last two decades under the same employer, ‘Taj Hotels, Resorts and Palaces’. Such a beige existence in a chain which only makes news when terrorists check in, must inevitably result in bland food. An insidious erosion.
Michelin dubiously gave ‘Quilon’ a star last year, which says all and nothing. But I’ll gladly hand out some made-up prizes of my own. ‘Quilon’, I honour you with the Starbucks award for the most jolting musical playlist, the Noel Edmonds bursary for sartorial inelegance, and the Chain Hoteliers Choice for creating the least provocative dishes possible.
Free from the shackles of a hotel budget spreadsheet, I do wonder how Aylur Sriram’s cooking could evolve. Whilst he calls his current style subtle, I see it as an unremitting sacrifice of flavour
After antipasti of milky buffalo mozzarella on ruby-red beef tomato, just a pizza Frisbee away at their new-ish ‘Trattoria’ (Semplice itself doesn’t have a bar), my friend, Matteo Inama and his winemaking father, Stefano (the unofficial ‘Kings of Soave’) settled in for the sort of stress-free lunch that explains why Italians lead such long lives. We talked about blood of the soil bottles, dwarves, and the legendary Italian eateries to have dotted London throughout its timeline.
Whilst others veered à la carte, with Tatler’s award of ‘best set lunch in London’ in mind, I was keen to exchange £22 to investigate. It included home baked bread, a glass of wine (although Inama’s greengage scented Classico would be in the Riedels today) and espresso ground from still moist beans. These come from artisan, Gianni Frasi, Italy’s most respected ‘torrefacteur’ (coffee roaster). Frasi chooses his outlets, then ‘tunes’ the machines, forcing a culture of freshness by only supplying a strict quantity at once.
Incidentally, when encountering a batch considered just below par, he ordered it off the menu until the next delivery. If I had been there, the reject beans would have quickly entered my morning routine…
As the name suggests, Semplice is about (meticulous) simplicity. A generous starter of fat pappardelle was glossily spun with racing green baby spinach and earthy, springy chicken livers. Such an unequivocally peasant Italian effort ironically came from head chef Marco Torri’s Japanese sous chef. Despite their lobster plates, it warranted envious looks from my à la carte friends.
My main of grilled tuna was fleetingly seared, keeping a suggestion of the sanguine, licked by bright, tart olive oil and Sarawak pepper. It flaked to the touch, but still retained bite. To finish, whilst it could never grace the cover of Vogue on account of its casual presentation, my fruit tart with coconut ‘cream’ and mango ice cream was a charmingly soppy meeting of cool, sweet goo. Overall, considering the glamorous décor, clean ingredients and near telepathically anticipative service by Maître’d/co-owner, Giovanni Baldino (ex Locatelli), it was hard to find fault with Tatler’s title. It was, quite Semplice, a strikingly satisfactory lunch. But did such wholesome home-cooking really deliver enough to justify Michelin’s star?
I thought back to the recent Italian chef’s congress, ‘Identita London’, held at Vinopolis. There a new wave of chefs demonstrated a cuisine of evolution using principally Italian ingredients. Why, I wondered, do we so rarely (if ever) see a presentation-crisping overhaul in our Italian restaurants? Rather than advocate an elBulli approach likely to be badly copied, having lunched with a winemaker, it seems appropriate to use the vinous analogy of Super Tuscan wines, where an Italian classic is given a little ‘French polishing’. A sensitive spin where the original version is still recognisable. It seems that Britain’s Italians are experts at expat cooking, replicating, time and time again, Bella Italia’s greatest (rustic) hits. Whilst I enjoy this style of food, I wondered if the team behind Semplice were to launch another eatery, might it be more trailblazing? After Semplice Ristorante and Semplice Trattoria, why not embrace the opportunity with Semplice Futuro…
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