April, 2011

His life-long dream, to own his own restaurant – a humble goal, that’s all he wanted. Now it’s happening, and within hours Jason Atherton has Thomas Keller swanning into the room, headed straight for the kitchen. Daniel Boulud breezes in behind him. Maschler is on a table of four, notebook flourished. Rayner carouses on a table for six nearby with Jacquesson Champagne. Pressure? Expectation? Just the beginning of the maelstrom which will be swirling around 8-10 Pollen Street W1S.

The Social Room Bar is the life of the restaurant, a space to drop in and out of casually. It’s smart too, very smart. Martini is as crisp as a winter’s morning, glass frosted within a degree of its shatter threshold – the kind that has has you enraptured at the thought of almost frozen spirit charging your veins with other-worldly energy. A chiselled and pristine, clear as glass block of ice is the big f**k you of the cocktail bar-tender. We’re hardcore, we’re the real deal, now how dry would you like this Martini? Sahara, please.

So with those perfect frozen glasses, block of ice, dazzling array of twenty-eight Gins, my choice of Whitley Neill (soft, balanced, citrus-heavy), a first sip delivers the requisite effect. Full-throttle.

The main room sees a return to the unobtrusive kitchen, tucked away modestly in the corner, something of a respite from the “open-kitchen” scene which can often come across as some sort of self-flagellating penance for crimes in a past life. “What, a chef you say? Well you must perform in front of your adoring public, we want to hear the sizzle, see the maddening flames, feel the droplet of sweat from your flicked hair…”. Or something like that.

Menu sees Starters and Sharing plates, Warm and Hot, Cold, averaging £10 a plate, a short list of five mains which play around the £25-30 mark. We choose just to hit the starters and sharing plates:

Escabeche of quail, chicken liver cream, nuts & seeds - Slivers of tender pigeon, other sparks of flavour playing off each other, brooding swirls of mushroom ketchup insist on being chased round the plate, feisty bit of salty, pickle of carrot. Scattered seeds, shards of nut, the quail’s lunch?

Smoked foie gras, black sesame, smoked golden raisin – Couple of discs of suitably decadent Foie terrine, atop thinly sliced disc of pear, the fruit zesty, kick of spice, as if pickled. Dots of raisin purée sees dried-fruit sweetness, revealing a hit of real smokiness. These shrivelled puppies have been smoked somewhere down the line.

Full English breakfast - De-constructed fry-up. Slow-cooked egg. Searingly good crisped slivers of Alsace bacon, sweet roast tomato bringing it all together. I may have hallucinated but I think I popped a puckered morsel of morel between my lips, lurking beneath. A liquefied toasted bread sauce is poured with a flourish before eating. Buttered toast, blitzed, I overhear. Dish gets better as you eat, yolk melding with sauce, distilling separate elements into one. Yeah, man.

Cauliflower & squid, clear roasted squid juice - Chef’s Favourite, whispers our waiter conspiratorially. Risotto in reverse. Tender cubes of squid for rice, cooked risotto rice liquor for stock. Fishy, inky slick at the bottom is spoon-up-every-last-drop good. Barely cooked sliver of cauliflower dares to convert the Haters.

24hr braised Suffolk pork belly & pork cheek, fermented apple sauce,nuts - Satisfying slab of belly, decent tranche of crackling, belly fans rejoice.  Puck of dark cheek alongside hits the pig buttons too. Scatter of seeds beneath evokes the pig’s snuffling habits, crisped Pork Puff murmurs a Momofuku moment.

“Ham, cheese & herbs“ Watermelon, candied goat’s curd, basil sorbet - Echoes of Mugaritz as a watermelon pretends to be a piece of Jamón, wafer thin, opalescent edges echoing piggy fat. Curls wrapped around curd. Basil sorbet is a blast of spicy, herbaceous intensity, cleansing like an after-dinner mint.

“PBJ” Parfait, cherry jam, creamed rice puffs – Riffs on cherry, cherry tagliatelle luminescent like a cherry string from the 1980′s, good cherry sorbet, nutty rice puffs.

Sangria mousse, blood orange granita, curd milk jam - Glances from across the room, distinctive number served in a glass. Rippled, textured mousse looking like violet Mr Whippy. In a good way. Perky blood orange granita beneath.

The song clicks on in my head before dessert: Maschler to the left of us, Rayner to the right, here we are, Stuck in the Middle with Them.

Wine list shimmers at Pollen Street Social, no mistake, no happy co-incidence. Laure Patry, the elfin Head Sommelier has done her dues in town, arriving ten years ago from France and was Head Sommelier at Maze. The list bristles with energy and interest. First to catch the eye are the Pollen Street Social own-label red and white, which she sourced herself, making it an exclusive. The white is an Anjou Chenin Blanc, and is taut, finely boned and balanced. “I’m from Anjou”, she says. Insider knowledge enriches the restaurant.

Champagne includes Jacquesson from magnum as house (£12.50), with other excellent names, Gosset among them, and grower Champagne Gimonnet. Thomas Keller would have approved – it’s by the glass at The French Laundry.

Front of House are headed up by the experienced Mike West, ex-Gordon Ramsay also, ten years with periods at Pétrus, Claridges, Boxwood Café, before becoming Maze Restaurant Director. Pedigree. It shows as he chats to guests at the bar, a steady hand at the tiller.

Atherton emerges from the kitchen at the end of the night, propping up the Dessert Bar, admitting he’s exhausted from the thrill of his baby finally being born tonight in Mayfair, and no doubt the drain of dealing with wave after wave of well wishers, critics and a roll-call of Inter-Galactic chefs who just happened to be attending the highest profile restaurant awards list in the world. Enough to drain the best of them.

Hub of the restaurant is the unreserved Social Room Bar. It’s the first thing you see. Martin Renshaw, Assistant Manager, reveals that the whole menu can be eaten at the bar. “We want it to be casual, no rules.”

No rules.

Samuel L. Jackson would approve.

Pollen Street Social

8-10 Pollen Street

W1S 1NQ

**Martini partner in crime at Pollen Street Social was Adam Hyman of Restaurant Gossip

So yeah, we knew it would be good, and we knew we’d like it, and we just knew the St John boys carry off everything they do with panache and Godfatherly aplomb. In the Beginning was The Word, and The Word was Fergus.

Langouste. Huître. Moules. This the credo emblazoned on the outside wall, an echo of its seafood history as Manzi’s seafood restaurant for some sixty years.

Boxy. Yeah so the room is boxy. I call it cute. I like the idea of the table in the corner, 7pm, a rowdy and animated dinner for two, Pike and Leek Pie, a blur of wine.

Langoustines – Sweet and perfect. Trademark St John mayonnaise, heavy on the olive oil, a bold concoction that urges bread dipping.

Bacon and Snails – High impact dish to wow the crowds. Champions League bacon, thick slice with the wobbliest, most joyful quiver of fat imaginable, earthy and meaty morsels of snail, slick of liquor moistening the whole. Triumphant, cocky dish.

Brown Shrimp, Artichoke and Egg - Exquisitely cooked egg, sunburst yellow yolk gleaming, bullets of sweet shrimp, generous slices   of perfectly turned artichoke.

Veal Tongue – Preternaturally silky soft, almost disturbingly so. Perky Dijon mustard dressing.

Tripe and Onions –  Sweetly sweated onions, alluring crumbed topping. Only a faint whisper of  stinky tripe.

Pigeon, Turnips, Anchovy - Cooked crimson as expected, gamey kick, the star here being the punchy toasted bread with a mash of           livery Pigeon innards. The best, coarsest paté you ever did see.

Chicken Broth and Dumplings – Chicken Soup for the Soul done St John style. Slightly tame broth with carrots, spring onions and characterful dumplings, couple of chunks of pig on the bone, looking like rib. A bit one note.

Rhubarb Trifle - Joyful pink celebration of rhubarb in a pretty  glass coupé, studded with crystalised lavender. Creamy, tart and enlivening rhubarb sharpness, evoking Englishness of a bygone era. I don’t even like trifle. This I give my hand in marriage, pretty girl in pink.

Fergus Henderson is in for lunch with wife Margot, it’s all bonhomie in the room, Jeremy Lee of Blueprint Café is carousing in the corner and enjoying the Pike and Leek Pie among much else, with magnums of red from South-West France. It’s a happy place on its first lunch service.

The bar upstairs is a bit Doctors surgery. Other than it being open after a feisty and wine-laden meal downstairs, it won’t seduce you inside. Which is fine, as you can only go there if you dine.

Prices will make a few double-take. Bacon & Beans (for two ) £28. Watercress Salad £5.50. Bacon & Snails £19. Look, it took a long delay before they opened, ingredients are inter-galactic in provenance, it’s on the edge of Leicester Square – when the food is this distinctive and memorable, they can charge what they damn well want, I’ll still want to eat there.

Lucky people will have a room for the night they can stagger to from the bar. Starting at £200 for a Post-Supper room, “a room with a window”, it may just tempt you one day after that unnecessary extra bottle of wine in the bar.

As I left, the chap who had demolished three half bottles of Krug Champagne (£135) had left a glass behind. Someone passed it to me and I took a sip.

A sweet finish.

St John Hotel

1 Leicester Street

WC2H 7BL

A shock of blond hair. Impish grin. Wooden board laden with grilled Suckling Lamb’s liver and heart. This is how Tom Adams rolls.

Recently landing at the charming Italo Deli from Blueprint Café, an influential period with Jeremy Lee, Adams has shaken things up on the menu like a crazed whirling dervish.

He’s a San Sebastian junkie. He adores the Pig.

Italo Deli is the cute oasis you’ve never heard about. Seconds from the Oval cricket ground, turn a corner and urban London becomes a throw-back to the 1930′s, neighbourhood shop, locals greeted by name, pristine Italian cured meats and imported gems – all set on the cutesy Bonnington Square where it seems the sun always shines. You can pick up a killer “Pasteis de Nata” Portuguese tart here. Warm Amaretti biscuits made by flamboyant Italian Massimo, moist and perfect, sit cooling on the counter. The Italian makes savagely good ravioli too. Mini Calzone are pumped out by Jamie Berger a couple of times a week. A glimpse of how good this place is.

Owned by Charlie Boxer, son of esteemed food writer Arabella Boxer, Italo Deli has given twenty-two year old Adams the platform to showcase his bold and raucous flavours, first announcing his arrival with a series of dinners at Bonnington Cafe opposite the deli, assisted by his brother Ben, a talented cook, artist, gardener, cricketer – talent courses through the Adams family like a drug, brother Jimmy is an opening batsman for Hampshire.

Fuelled with a love of gutsy cooking, he whacks on items like Morcilla Croquetas, Smoked Aubergine and Scamorza Arancini, Ravioli of Beef Short-Rib Ragu, Marmalade and Brandy Doughnuts, onto the short, daily changing lunch menu.

Star of the evening is the Suckling Lamb, a sordid thought, almost illicit. Is this even legal? The piglet pulled from the teat we see often. The ickle lamb pulled from its mothers dugs? This needs a brief intake of breath.

It has bathed during the day in its own bath of milk, lardo, porcini, fennel, rosemary and garlic. Cleopatra never had it so good.

Adams is exhorting the spirit of the Abbachio Romano, the Roman original tradition of roasting baby lamb, dating back to the Ancient Romans, protected by its own PGI (Protected Geographical Indication). This is serious stuff, man, no room for faint hearts in this room.

The evening unfolds like a joyful hallucination:

Pickled Fennel – Classy, cleansing, subtle “house” pickle of fennel seeds, star anise, bay leaf. Crunch of fennel, haunting aromatics.

Lardo – Proper Lardo. Gossamer thin, white pig fat, Italian cure of herbs, melting on the tongue like a wispy obscenity.

Grilled Suckling Lamb Liver and Heart, Crispy Sage – Sordid pale morsels, liver with just a faint metallic twang, yielding, juicy heart.

Salsify, Feuille de Brick Pastry - Wafer thin pastry crushed with clarified butter, sprinkle of Parmesan, wrapped around Salsify like an unholy filo cigar. Whack of cheesy crust, tender salsify within.

Pumpkin, Amaretti and Sage Ravioli -  Sweet, sweet pumpkin, perfect casing of pasta, bitter twang of almond an unexpected pleasure.

Suckling Lamb – Behaving more like chicken than lamb, this is the pale flesh of the innocent, bathed and roasted in milk and lardo, whiff of rosemary, a haunting of garlic. Beguiling. The Romans were onto something here.

Grilled Leeks, Wild Garlic and Hazelnuts – Side dish of  judiciously charred baby leeks, kick of lemon.

Blood Orange and Sea Buckthorn Sorbet – Slap in the face of perky Blood Orange and startling luminous Sea Buckthorn juice with rampaging acidity. Disturbing on its own, perfect in this sorbet.

Possessed. It’s a word that seems appropriate for Tom. It’s as if he’s being propelled by an unseen force towards any number of possibilities on the London scene.

Next up is a flurry of activity to get a barbecue truck ready for the summer with Jamie, with an initial pitch on the Southbank of the Thames. Pulled Pork Shoulder. Salt Brisket. Brined Rotisserie Chicken. A smoker is being assembled in the US. A truck has been secured. Another gear kicks in. Pitt Cue Co. will arrive shortly as his next project.

He has a way of summing up the fact that he is not hanging around, he’s not waiting about, he’s making things happen now:

“I’m not here to f**k spiders mate…”

Italo Deli

13 Bonnington Square

SW8 1TE

0207 450 3773