The Manor Arms 2/4/12

Down here in Streatham, we’re very proud of our gastronomic heritage. Come pay homage to our kebab shops, capable of keeping bits of dead animal warm for as long as anywhere in the country (or your money back). Marvel at the handful of high street Italians, quite dazzling in their bog-standardness. And where else in London would you find such a diverse range of fried chicken franchises?

I think you get the point. Streathamites with appetites cast jealous glances towards our trendier neighbours in Brixton, spoilt for choice as they are, with the thriving Atlantic road area getting a lot of positive press in the past year or so. Franco Manca is frequently described as the best pizza place in London. Kaosan is ‘startlingly good’ according to Jay Rayner. And they’ve got a tube station. The smug bastards.

However, the buffalo mozzarella may shortly be wiped from their faces, as The Manor Arms is the best thing to happen to the restaurant scene in SW16 in my lifetime. I realise that this is hardly high praise, given the introduction, but it is an establishment that would grace an area far less scruffy than Streatham. Refurbished and re-opened last year, it is every inch the modern gastropub – seasonal and unpretentious British cooking, informal service, local ales, a good wine list.

Entering is a soothing experience. It’s all varnished wood and dim lighting, with a shiny open kitchen as a centrepiece where chefs in pinstripe aprons buzz around purposefully. It feels like somewhere that will feed you well. They have a set menu at £12 for two courses or £15.50 for three. My parents, paying, both go for this, and so in the interests of fairness I go a la carte. If I say that it proved a wise move then it’s not because their grub isn’t good, it’s because mine is three courses of pure, unblemished joy.

The first thing to say about the food is that it is all served on plates that are round and white. Anyone who has ever chased a dribble of coulis round a slate with a tiny fork will know why this is such a relief. The one exception to this is the bread - served (funnily enough) on a bread board - which is homemade and comes in three varieties. All of them are lovely. And so onto the starters: shards of brown duck confit, glisteningly moist, are matched with sharp blood orange and rocket. Cauliflower soup is rich and velvety, with crisp croutons so abundant with olive oil that it fills your cheeks. Let there be no doubt that this is a good thing. A little ice-cream scoop of goat’s curd is mild and unassuming, but it comes with absolutely sublime toast. Seriously, that’s what my dad said: “this toast is absolutely sublime”.

Such praise can rarely have been afforded grilled bread. Neither can too many people have said that the best scallops they have ever eaten were in Streatham, but if indeed any actually exist then I can now join their club. The melting softness of the little pearls makes my fork feel like a samurai sword, and they are perfectly partnered by chorizo and butter-heavy mash (see above). Elsewhere, vegetable curry hums with cumin and punches with chili, although it might have been nice to have been told that it contains yet more cauliflower, whilst an open burger is appropriately juicy. Frankly I’m more interested in the skinny chips it comes with, which I pinch to mop up the chorizo oil from the bottom of my plate. Real men mop up their chorizo oil with chips. This is the best thing about The Manor Arms – you can have a burger or you can have scallops and you can be pretty sure they’ll do either of them well. You can have a glass of Chablis or sit there with a pint and you won’t feel a fool. The importance of making people feel at ease is something many restaurants don’t understand.

The grown-up in me wants the mixed nut financier, which my dad goes for, but my inner child throws a tantrum and chooses the brownie with butterscotch sauce. It is an ode to gooeyness. As it turns out, the little nut cake is a bit boring, even if the ginger ice cream it comes with does its’ best to liven it up. This is the worst thing that I can find to say about the entire meal.

There are those who will say that one restaurant does not a foodie haven make, and they are right. It is always amusing to read press coverage of somewhere in Britain being awarded a Michelin star, as if this represents some kind of food revolution. Of course it doesn’t – what we need is not an above average quota of fabulous restaurants, accessible only to the rich and foolish, but a fleet of affordable places making the most of their ingredients. Streatham now has one. Perhaps this is the birth of a new food culture here. I doubt it, but I’ve got all my fingers crossed.

Farmer Brown's 7/11/11

This month, I'm a slacker. I've been desperate to find a place to review that's disappointing so that I can slate it. Don't be shocked – there are two very good reasons for this: a) I'm not a journalist and am therefore under no obligation to be unbiased as seekers of truth are and b) anyone who knows me will tell you I'm a miserable sod, and what do miserable sods love more than slagging things off? Dubious motives aside, I can tell you right now that I didn't try hard enough. Farmer Brown's is the real deal.

It's not as if I made no effort whatsoever. I'm not a fan of anything twee, and Farmer Brown's is the very epitome of a mincy name for a restaurant. Furthermore, I went on an all-you-can-eat Monday night. As four word combinations go, All You Can Eat is buried (or rather repressed) somewhere in the nether regions of my brain that also hold Essay Due In Today and England Penalty Shoot Out. Here, however, there is a twist: instead of their usual menu being cooked in advance and staring sadly out at you from metal containers, head chef Stuart Pegg – born in Sheringham - has created the concept of Norfolk tapas. I know, I know: it sounds a bit silly. But I'm a Londoner, I like living dangerously. I skip red lights on my bike. I wear an above-knee dressing gown. And I eat Norfolk tapas.

I'll admit to being overwhelmed at first. Once our party of 13 (extra brownie points to the staff for being unflustered by our large table and the fact that we'd changed the reservation several times) has arrived and sat down, a tsunami of different sights and smells engulfs us. No sooner am I eagerly spooning unctuous garlic mushrooms onto my little tapas plate than another dish arrives – and another, and another... Here a dip, there a dahl, everywhere an ox heart. This provokes the simultaneous feelings of excitement and urgency, as if I've been given 5 minutes alone in a room with Rachel Stevens. What's really impressive is that I have the same sensation now, as I giddily type these words. Do I tell you first about the searingly hot chilli beef strips, straight out of the pan, sweet and still a touch pink? Or the game stew, boasting soft little nuggets of pheasant buried amongst a rich savoury gravy? Perhaps I should get the low points out of the way: tempura vegetables are greasy and a bit boring; sesame pork balls the same and actually quite dry inside, which is surprising, and the whitebait is hardly touched by anyone.

I feel sorry for the little fishies and give a few of them a good home. They actually aren't bad at all, just nowhere near as exciting as the katsu curry, made with salmon, monkfish and plaice. It is spectacular: subtly sweet, fragrant and meaty. Someone suggests later that this is the best thing on the menu, which is greeted by a round of nodding and “mmmm”ing. Tempura cod cheeks are a trip to a good chippy, the kind you point out to your friends as you drive past, just as you'd point out a curry house that does a cauliflower dahl as authentic as this. Cottage pie has too much ale for some but I like it – remember your student credentials guys – and clam chowder is creamy, warming and well seasoned. There's also a couple of jazzed up classics, sausage and mash and bubble and squeak,which are only easy winners if cooked properly, and these are. The sausages are herby and fat and clearly come from a farmer/butcher who knew what they were doing. Kudos to the chef for putting the aforementioned ox heart on the menu, it's not for everyone. I've never eaten heart before but I liked it – it's less pronounced than offal and not as chewy as I thought it would be, even if there are parts of the animal I'd rather eat. And no tapas selection would be complete without some patatas bravas, which I repeatedly return to to quench my thirst for chilli. New batches of any dish will be knocked up by the kitchen at your request.

The major disappointment of the evening is the fact that there is no dessert option. Under usual all you can eat etiquette this would be understandable – everyone would have felt the misplaced sense of obligation to eat so much that the prospect of pudding provoked a collective wheeze. But this is a proper establishment serving proper food, and I like to finish a nice meal with something sweet. If they can rectify this then they're onto something very special indeed here: they've already carved themselves out a nice little Monday night niche. For £10.95 you could do a hell of a lot worse. Next time, I'll be trying to do just that. I'll have to steer well clear of Farmer Brown's. 

Bishop's 30/9/11

A friend of mine ate at The Waterside Inn the other night. Despite the fact that he wasn't paying, and he's not a huge foodie, he wasn't that impressed. The golden plum soufflé wasn't up to scratch, apparently, and they had to send the foie gras back. My heart bleeds. Such extravagances (£200 a head all in) are beyond me for the moment and it's a source of anguish, but I'm finding increasing comfort in the excellent lunch deals available in Norwich. Eating out at lunchtime fits perfectly with the student lifestyle – the dinner menus are too expensive and I rarely have anything to do in the middle of the day - so I'm determined to make the most of it while I still can.

It's difficult to know what to make of Bishop's. After a glowing recent review by Jay Rayner (http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/jun/19/jay-rayner-restaurant-bishops-norwich ) I was immensely looking forward to eating there, to the extent that my excited gibbering managed to convince four chums to join me for a let's-celebrate-our-loans-coming-in meal. It turns out to be a place of contrasts. Our bespectacled Italian host wears an expression that says we've just walked in to his library to return a two month overdue book, but in actual fact he's a friendly and efficient waiter. The tiny dining room is cosy but nice and light, although the oversized mirrors are somewhat offensive. And then there's the food. I've never been so confused by a dish as I am with my potted shrimps starter. A generous ramekin full of buttery prawny goodness, with a nice sweet shallot touch, is betrayed by a comically stingy portion of bread. Suddenly, Signore librarian is nowhere to be found, which proves to be a problem across the table too as a nicely made and properly smoky ham hock terrine also suffers from half baked frugality. This is annoying but perhaps I was unwise to ignore the combination of garlic aioli and dapple gallette (a big cheese crisp to those of you in the cheap seats) which accompany a pepper and aubergine roll. Lesson learned: when someone next offers you garlic and cheese together, don't turn it down.

Mains don't mess about, by which I mean they're all about meat and gravy, and normally I wouldn't complain about that. But today I can actually, as whilst my Guinea fowl is satisfyingly soft and surprisingly flavoursome (somewhere between chicken and pheasant for the uninitiated), it is let down by its' entourage. I forget now how fennel, mustard, lemon and tarragon are meant to be arranged around the sweet meat but they're four pretty big hitters in the world of flavour and you'd think they could have organised a better shindig than what I get, which is a bland little pile of fennel and an anaemic sauce. Confit duck is more impressive - it's seductively crispy and the meat falls off the bone just the way you want it to. It comes with nice cabbage and roast spuds although there aren't quite enough of them, nor of the cherry sauce, which is roundly raved about.

Three of us manage to man up and face our dessert destiny, and sure enough we're taken three different ways. My path is the stickiest – it genuinely pains me to report a below-par treacle tart. There's way too much orange marmalade, the soft 'n' chewy treacle filling is totally overwhelmed, and the pastry's soggy. Crème brulée fares better – which is clear from the satisfying sound of the first crackle of spoon on sugar to the delightful, orange scented (pastry chef take note) cream. And finally, a “rich dark chocolate pot” reveals itself to be about half a pint of dense, buttery cocoa of an intensity that would make the woman off the M&S adverts blush. This is not just a chocolate pot... it's a heart attack in a glass. We can't finish it between 5 of us.

If you think I've done a lot of nit-picking, you're absolutely right. This is the kind of scrutiny I'd give to a far more expensive eatery, the kind I can't afford right now. At £15.50 for three courses this is bloody good value, even if it is a shade pricier than St. Benedict's or 20 St. John's. Bishop's is not without it's flaws, but it's a good and timely reminder that even if I miss the soufflés and goose livers of the Michelin world, I definitely don't miss paying ten times the price for them.

Dinner by Heston Blumenthal 06/7/11

There cannot be a more universally loved figure in British cooking than Heston Blumenthal. I mean everyone loves Heston don't they? The Fat Duck has been at the top of the tree for the best part of a decade, he's unconditionally adored by the critics and now he's successfully transcended the barrier of cynicism between kitchen and TV screen without resentment from his peers (Ramsay take note). He's the eccentric genius that you'd love to have a pint with, if only he wasn't too busy putting Marmite in the sponge cake, or gunpowder in the carpaccio, or whatever his latest brainwave is. His new venture, Dinner, is right in the heart of Knightsbridge at the luxurious Mandarin Oriental hotel. Even though the area is already Michelin-starred up to its' eyeballs, this is clearly not a place that's going to struggle for customers.

In contrast to the impressively gaudy marble entrance which you must endure to get there, the restaurant atmosphere is reassuringly relaxed. It's a good sign when all you can hear is the hum of contented chatter. Despite being slightly slow to start, our waiter is friendly, confident and knowledgeable. It's already clear from the absence of formality – or amuse bouche – that they're avoiding the ponce factor here, which is very much the modern trend. But looking for early signs of what Dinner's going to be like is really just us killing time as the anticipation builds.

Mackerel, also in vogue and in season, arrives with a lemon salad and 'gentleman's relish'. There is no detectable anchovy flavour but as it turns out, that's not such a bad thing as the creamy, lemony sauce is so vibrant that it doesn't need anything else. The mackerel is fresh as can be, as you'd expect. But is that really it? Across the table sits a Salamagundy of chicken oysters with salad, bone marrow and horseradish cream. It is, in a word, wonderful, and not overwhelming in flavour. The cream has the mildest touch of horseradish without any of the bite or pepperiness. The marrow slips down unnoticeably (really?) and is described as “one of the best salads I've ever had”. My companion takes his salads very seriously, and this is high praise indeed.

Although both our starters were excellent, we're a bit deflated. Where are the fireworks? Are we choosing too conservatively? That shouldn't be a problem with my next dish, “Powdered Duck”, which I have deliberately not asked about. Never have I been so disappointed to see two such divinely plump duck legs put in front of me. There's no powder to speak of, but there is a deep flavoured, savoury sauce and exquisitely creamy, almost liquid mash which is more than worthy of mopping it up. The duck itself isn't as tender as I would like, although the skin is sticky and moreish, and there's some smoked fennel which adds nothing. As it turns out, “powdered” is an olde English word for brined – i.e. the duck was stored in brine before being cooked. What a disappointing way of being witty. Turbot, with chard and cockle ketchup, is cooked to perfection; the fish crisp on one side and the flesh breaking apart pleasingly. The chard it sits atop isn't bad, but it's too bitter for the fish; more of an acquaintance than a friend. The cockle ketchup is sweet and sparks fly when it's combined with the fries (optional extra) and the fish. Those who don’t order chips are missing out on the best of this dish. But it's a slight affront to one's sensibilities to pay forty pounds for what is essentially a posh fish and chips.

Desserts are a let down. Malted barley ice cream sounds intriguing - there is indeed ice cream, yeast sauce and a salted butter caramel underneath, which is fantastic. However, the malt biscuit, which is far too big, barley oats and little croutons are unfortunate; they take the dessert out of the realm of the sweet and turn it into a savoury (you could say unsavoury - ha) experience. And I quote: 'It reminds me of being at my granddad’s house, opening a biscuit tin full of the oldest, most sugarless biscuits the world has ever known and that crushing disappointment of being offered a treat that’s neither sweet nor tasty'. Oh dear. My “chocolate bar” is intense on the cocoa, no bad thing. And it comes with a passion fruit jam and a slap-round-the-face ginger ice cream. You can't go wrong with components like that, and they don't. It's nice enough, just a little boring.

This is the theme of the evening. There's no doubt that Dinner boasts some seriously accomplished cooking, and we found a lot to like about it. I'm yet to read a review of it which doesn't fall over itself with praise for the place and I'm not sure that's merited just yet. There are places which do refined better than this. But I don't think any of that even matters – Heston, national treasure that he is, will be fully booked for the foreseeable future. Most that eat here will be very happy with their Dinner, but I think a few will leave hungry for more inspiration.

Co-written by Meshach Daniel Falconer-Roberts

Itsu 17/6/11

I'm sorry, but I'm not having it: sushi is not sexy. Perhaps, if it had some redeeming feature which didn't scream 'health food' I could warm to it, but as it is I'm struggling. I just can't muster the same desire for raw fish as I can for more decadent dishes, the same lust as I feel for a juicy, bloody rump steak with crisp salty chips and buttery béarnaise, or a garlicky plate of dauphinoise, swimming in double cream with lashings of sweet, golden brown Gruyère cheese on top. Sushi is a long way away from any of these artery-hardening delights: not content with merely being healthy, it has the barefaced cheek to be very proud of its' beneficial qualities. In fact, that's one of the main reasons it sells so well. One look at Itsu's website will tell you this. If you get beyond the mantra (why does a restaurant need a mantra?) 'health and happiness' you'll find a 4000 word essay detailing every ingredient they use and how ethically sound and good for you they all are, which is quite impressive in a teacher's pet sort of way.

Don't get me wrong, I like my greens. No matter how much I want to, I can't eat steak and cream every day. I do want to delay my inevitable heart attack until I'm at least 24 (not long now). So with this in mind, and the fact that I am still detoxing after a hedonistic week in my beloved Norwich, I am persuaded by a smug friend to give Itsu a try. We went for the flagship restaurant in Kensington, because it's supposed to be the best of the chain. Whilst I suspect that might just be Chelsea snobbishness, darling, I'm not in a rush to try all three of them to find out.

Obviously, as it's a June evening in London, it's pissing it down. This does little to help the resentment building inside me that I'm about to pay top dollar for some food that I don't actually want that much. But walking in is surprisingly soothing, and not just because it's good to be out of the rain. I like the nice clean lines, the low lights and the trendy little stools around the conveyor belt. Our waiter is perfectly pleasant, but treats us with too much respect. Come on mate, I know it's Chelsea but this is finger food, where's the banter? And again I have to remind myself that everyone else in the world takes sushi very seriously indeed. So we'd better get on with eating some of it.

Crab crystal rolls with green chilli dip are zesty and tasty but the crab itself is a bit under seasoned, which is a real shame. A Salmon tokiko roll is nice enough and the fish is clearly pretty fresh. So far, so sushi. But then a quaint little portion of seared beef with shallot sauce steps things up a gear – the beef is tender and flavoursome, and we love the sauce. My friend keeps it when her dish is taken away. OK, you've got my attention. I'm annoyed that she got the best plate so far, but not for long: tuna and salmon tartar was delicious, accompanied by a punchy basil and lemongrass sauce. Believe me when I say it was a bit fishy in all the right ways. Similarly, seared tuna with wasabi is divine – by this point it's clear that tuna (responsibly caught yellow fin, naturally) is the way to go, especially after a good-but-not-great seared salmon and wasabi peas, which lacks the necessary wasabi kick, although the salmon is joyously soft and the peas, again, taste fresh and healthy. It's at this point that I give in and admit that I'm impressed. Although I'm hardly a sushi expert, I can safely say that if you put the bland crap they sell in little plastic boxes in supermarkets at one end of the scale, and one of those places in Tokyo where the chef measures your mouth for precision at the other, this is closer to the tape measure than the Tesco. I finish with a crème brulée which looks hideously out of place going round with all the dainty bits of fish but which is weirdly good nonetheless. I've had better brulées but you could count them on one hand. Probably.

This brings me to my main point: eating all that sugar reminded me why I love eating in restaurants so much. I love the warm, alcoholic glow I feel after waddling out of somewhere with three courses worth of saturated fat making its' way through my intestines. I absolutely couldn't eat like that every single day but then I can't afford to eat out every day anyway, and when I do I don't want to give up one of my weekly treats. Sushi, I know now, can be delicious: it was in spurts at Itsu. But whilst I will grudgingly admit that it is more than just a health food, it will never clog up my heart in quite the right way to win a permanent place there.

Ledoyen 13/5/11

Welcome to my blog. I'm going to be mainly writing restaurant reviews but who knows what else will inspire me.

Here's the first one - what a way to begin...

Ledoyen 13/5/11

When I first arrived in Paris I was homeless, near friendless and less-than-fluent in the language. Rare indeed was the day, during that period of integration and house hunting, that my emotions didn't swing drastically with every oversized cupboard narrowly missed out on and every vin rouge sipped in the company of a mysterious, chain-smoking young parisienne (contrary to popular belief in blighty, an English accent is very much a help, not a hindrance, in these two differing gallic tribunals. But enough about that). Rather appropriately, my recent celebratory end of year meal followed the same pattern.

I should say right away that it was far more up than down. It would be frivolous and frankly inaccurate not to. This was, after all, the 3 Michelin starred Ledoyen, one of the grands restaurants not just of France but the entire world. The bill wasn't quite as dear as we thought it would be. We got to meet the chef at the end. Minor aesthetic issues we had with the décor and the ugliness of the plates were an amusement rather than an annoyance. And yet I still left feeling as if it had been less than perfect.

It's the stress it caused me, you see. I wish I was wealthy enough to be blasé about spending hundreds of pounds on a single meal, but I'm not. I'm a student and that's a lot of money to me. It's not that I regret spending what I did – absolutely not. It's more the fact that at restaurants of this level (or of this price range at least) it seems to be de rigeur that you are expected to behave as if you are the wealthiest person alive. This is more so the case at Ledoyen than any other restaurant I've been to, and it made me feel uncomfortable. They don't ask if we'd like a glass of champagne to begin, just which kind we'd like. The arrival of the lunch menu with the much larger a la carte is accompanied with a slightly sneering, regretful acknowledgement of its' presence by our waiter, and neither bears a price. Once it becomes clear that we have the cheek to order a single bottle of one of the more affordable (55 euros) wines, our mains and desserts are plonked down in front of us, desserts the wrong way round, with no explanation of what any of the delights before our eyes might be.

And that's why I can't bring myself to dwell on this snootery. For every stress I feel, another surprise appears from the kitchen to compensate. Quite simply, the food is fabulous. Pre-amuse bouches, including a technically bewildering ginger and campari bubble , demonstrate the skill and subtlety on show here, as does the house-baked bread. The main event, amuse-bouche wise (ha!) is a perfect taste-bud awakener, a zesty little piece of dorado sushi with a cucumber jelly that is modest enough to impress rather than thrill. The real thrills are yet to come.

Our lobster entrée is strikingly fresh and clean flavoured. Good fish should not taste of fish but of the sea, and the buttery soft flesh of the claw plunges me deep into the Atlantic. Whilst I'm gasping away, I stumble upon four little pearls of various flavours including squid ink and watermelon which compliment without overpowering. This is the first indication of just how good the ingredients used here are. It is followed by another one in the form of steak, chips and ketchup. We do not require the steak knives we were provided with, so meltingly tender are the little strips of sirloin, which also manage to deliver a depth of savoury intensity I had never previously known existed in beef. This is by far the best steak I've ever had, and how witty of the chef to include ketchup in the little dabs one associates with Michelin star cooking. I suspect Mr. Heinz had about as much to do with its' production as Mr. McCain had to do with the hollow potato ovals that were somehow just as satisfying as anything you'll find on Brighton beach, or indeed your local Iceland.

Pre-desserts are stunning – my favourite being a moreishly crunchy little brandy snap with a salted caramel peanut entangled in it – and then onto the highlight of the meal. Funnily enough, it's not my dessert, but my companions' – or more accurately, his reaction to it. I take as much pleasure out of watching his expression as he tucks into his red fruit crumble as I do eating anything in the entire lunch. “Oh my god,” he says, “The sauce...”. I try some. He was right. The sauce... It is not an insult to my dish to say that it is not as good as his, because my textures of raspberry and lemon with rosewater is refreshing and delicious. But everything is relative, and thus I feel ever so slightly miffed that I didn't get the crumble. Any resentment I might be carrying is swiftly alleviated by the revelation that he doesn't like toffee, and thus will not be eating his fair share of the petit-fours. It was his loss – even in my bloated state, the dense and creamy toffees are the final straw for the bad feeling in my mind about the snobby waiters. With food this good, it's just not possible to leave unsatisfied.

That, I think, is what makes or breaks a good restaurant experience, the feeling you take away from the meal. Any niggling doubts about whether we really belonged there were just blown away by the quality of the food. Our brief chat at the end with humble chef Christian Le Squer only added to the immense sense of satisfaction in us both. As I said to my friend as we wallowed out the front doors: “Now you know the greatest sadness in the world”. When you're that content, you're allowed to exaggerate a tad.