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Reviews and Comments of 'The World in 202 Meals' (16)
It’s been a bit of a roller-coaster ride of excitement and disappointment (but mainly excitement) with this place. Let me explain.
Much anticipation ensued when we spotted a newly-opened Chinese restaurant around the corner from my work earlier this year. Brick Lane has more restaurants than you could shake a stick at, but has lacked a decent Chinese for a long time. The next nearest lunchtime option is Noodle King; about the best thing I can say about this place is that their servings are significantly larger than a Pot Noodle.
Our excitement increased when we spotted Red Bar’s menu—full of Szechuan and north-eastern Chinese specialities, many of which we recognised from the excellent Gourmet San (further down Bethnal Green road, but not open for lunch). Now Szechuan food excites me—it’s spicier and more intensely flavoured than the Cantonese-style food which most Chinese restaurants in London serve. What’s more, as a less well-known and spicier option, it’s usually prepared to a higher standard for more of a Chinese clientele.
My excitement was soon tempered, though, by a number of failed attempts to eat there at lunch. Red Bar’s opening hours can be a little sporadic, and it was a while until we got to eat there.
Boy, was it worth the wait.
The first thing we tried—Yu-Hsiang shredded pork—stuck with me as a favourite. Tender strips of pork, Chinese mushroom and vegetables come in an intensely flavourful sauce, full of garlic, chilli oil, Chinese wine and vinegar. Servings are big, and with some steamed rice this will leave you very satisfied.
I developed other favourites over a series of visits. Beef brisket with tomatoes is really tender, served in a thicker, delicately spiced sauce which is full of flavour. Lamb on fire (who can resist “on fire”?) comes wrapped in foil and surrounded by a slightly strange burning gel; it’s marinated in Chinese wine and spiced with lots of cumin, which for a moment almost recalled some of the curry joints down the other end of Brick Lane. But with black bean, the wine and other flavours, it makes for a tasty combination which I’d not tried before.
Another stand-out is sea bass, baked and served in foil with spring onions and (again!) a rich, intense sauce which also features cumin. Western cooking usually tries to avoid overpowering a fish like this, but here it totally works, the fish juices adding into the mix of flavours and producing something really rich and sublime.
This being Szechuan food of course, chilli does feature quite highly. Most of the drier dishes come with both smaller dried red chillis (quite lethal, but mainly just there to garnish and imbue flavour) and slices of the larger fresh red and green chillies, which are quite edible and tasty when cooked (taking the seeds out helps a bit). Some dishes, like the chilli king prawns, come with a giant pile of both.
It’s not all spice though; one soup starter we tried, while very large, was rather too watery. On the other hand, braised chicken and mushroom (which turned out to be virtually a soup) is excellent, with a dark fragrant broth and a generous helping of different dried mushrooms. Veggie dishes also turned out great, with yu-shiang sauce suiting the sweet sautéd aubergine particularly well.
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After a bunch of evening visits, it was a while until we tried the place again at lunchtime. So there was another rush of excitement a few weeks ago when we spotted the introduction of an unlimited £5 lunch buffet, which on our first visit included a dish of giant mussels!
The mussels sadly never returned; and the buffet options on the whole leaned a bit more towards their Cantonese-style takeaway menu, which we generally ignore at dinner in favour of the more interesting options. But these dishes are better done than the usual Chinese buffet, and with more of a chilli kick too. The buffet featured things like fried chicken, a great stew with beef, pork ribs, fish in a sauce, battered fish, tofu, noodles, egg-drop soup and more. Tasty and great value for money.
Disappointment was in store again, though. Demand seemed low for the buffet (we were the only customers sometimes) and they stopped doing it. Here’s hoping it comes back!
One question which many will ask is: how does Red Bar compare with Gourmet San along the road (one of London’s most recommended Szechuan restaurants)? It’s not yet as popular, so no queues to get a table, and some of the dishes which I’ve tried at both were slightly better presented down the road. But there’s really not a lot between them in terms of flavour, and on their top dishes I think Red Bar has a slight edge on the competition. They try a little harder than Gourmet San with the decor too, but it’s still fairly basic—it’s the food that matters here.
Price-wise it’s all very reasonable too, and unless you’re particularly hungry, you can easily share 3 main dishes between 4 (or 2 between 3). In fact, sharing is the best way to go with this food.
In short, a great local restaurant, and just what the area needed. There are lots more dishes for us to try (including some untranslated ones, some of which apparently are Hangzhou specialities, for even more variety!) and we’ll be back again and again.
As gluttonous food bloggers, we’ve experienced some pretty excessive meals. While it’s not unusual for us to leave restaurants in danger of bursting, there have been a few particularly extreme cases—stumbling home after multi-course feasts at Lemonia and the Old Justice, for example, I’ve sworn never to eat again.
In Broadway Market’s Buen Ayre, though, we have a new champion. We left the restaurant not only with sickeningly full stomachs, but with doggy bags full of two pounds of leftover steak—these salvaged from an even bigger pile of unconsumed meat. (Matthew got four days of steak sandwiches out of his doggy bag share.)
Why so much meat? Buen Ayre specialises in the Argentine art of the parillada, a mixed grill cooked on a parilla, an Argentine grill that’s hung above flaming charcoal with chains. Starting at £16.50 per person for a minimum of two diners, Buen Ayre’s parilladas are a vegetarian’s nightmare—sizzling heaps of Argentine sausage, black pudding, sweetbread, kidney and all manners of grilled steak. (The Parillada Mixta does however come with yummy grilled provolone and deliciously nutty pesto-stuffed mushrooms in place of short ribs.)
Irish-Argentine chef John Patrick Rattagan grew up barbecuing meat outside Buenos Aires, and the charred, juicy results really are Buen Ayre’s reason for existing. The lengthy menu extends to starters (we ordered empanadas and ox tongue) mains and sandwiches, but there’s hardly a vegetarian option to be found; the restaurant’s simple setting, a small, slightly cramped dining room with wooden floors, tables and chairs, means the meaty dishes are the main attraction.
We ordered two parilladas, the Mixta and the Al Paso, a lot of meat for even the most serious carnivore, but, as the last table of the night, when it came to portion size we did even better: the kitchen piled their leftover glut of sirloin steaks on top of our expected lump of flank steak, sausage, black pudding, short ribs, provolone and mushroom. On the side was the famous oil-chili-garlic-oregano sauce, chimichurri, and two bowls of fluffy, crispy chips (one bowl drenched in garlic and parsley), and our glasses were full of Argentine red from the lengthy wine list.
The challenge of chewing through such a mountain of flesh was made easier by fact that it was all pretty tasty. The rich blood sausages were swallowed effortlessly, and the steaks, though slightly tough, were nevertheless rare and well-seasoned, just the way we like them. (The lengua a la vinegreta, our marinated ox tongue starter, remained the highlight of the night, however—the vinegary, tender slices converted even those of us disgusted by ox tongue as children.) Come midnight and closing time, we were still happily (though sluggishly) chewing. We’ll be back—definitely without any vegetarians in tow.
In Broadway Market’s Buen Ayre, though, we have a new champion. We left the restaurant not only with sickeningly full stomachs, but with doggy bags full of two pounds of leftover steak—these salvaged from an even bigger pile of unconsumed meat. (Matthew got four days of steak sandwiches out of his doggy bag share.)
Why so much meat? Buen Ayre specialises in the Argentine art of the parillada, a mixed grill cooked on a parilla, an Argentine grill that’s hung above flaming charcoal with chains. Starting at £16.50 per person for a minimum of two diners, Buen Ayre’s parilladas are a vegetarian’s nightmare—sizzling heaps of Argentine sausage, black pudding, sweetbread, kidney and all manners of grilled steak. (The Parillada Mixta does however come with yummy grilled provolone and deliciously nutty pesto-stuffed mushrooms in place of short ribs.)
Irish-Argentine chef John Patrick Rattagan grew up barbecuing meat outside Buenos Aires, and the charred, juicy results really are Buen Ayre’s reason for existing. The lengthy menu extends to starters (we ordered empanadas and ox tongue) mains and sandwiches, but there’s hardly a vegetarian option to be found; the restaurant’s simple setting, a small, slightly cramped dining room with wooden floors, tables and chairs, means the meaty dishes are the main attraction.
We ordered two parilladas, the Mixta and the Al Paso, a lot of meat for even the most serious carnivore, but, as the last table of the night, when it came to portion size we did even better: the kitchen piled their leftover glut of sirloin steaks on top of our expected lump of flank steak, sausage, black pudding, short ribs, provolone and mushroom. On the side was the famous oil-chili-garlic-oregano sauce, chimichurri, and two bowls of fluffy, crispy chips (one bowl drenched in garlic and parsley), and our glasses were full of Argentine red from the lengthy wine list.
The challenge of chewing through such a mountain of flesh was made easier by fact that it was all pretty tasty. The rich blood sausages were swallowed effortlessly, and the steaks, though slightly tough, were nevertheless rare and well-seasoned, just the way we like them. (The lengua a la vinegreta, our marinated ox tongue starter, remained the highlight of the night, however—the vinegary, tender slices converted even those of us disgusted by ox tongue as children.) Come midnight and closing time, we were still happily (though sluggishly) chewing. We’ll be back—definitely without any vegetarians in tow.
One of the problems with a blog like ours is how to truly taste one country’s cuisine via a two-course meal (or three if we’re particularly hungry). Lemonia had a solution to this problem—its mixed meze option, which showcases a huge portion of its Greek Cypriot menu. For £18.50 a head, they gave us pretty much all of the cold mezes on the menu, a large proportion of the hot meze, and—they really should have warned us to leave room for this—a selection of the main dishes.
Even after the first round of cold mezes we were comfortably full. There were dips of pretty much every Greek variety, from tzatziki to taramosalata, as well as salads and some cold shrimp. Of all the dips, I kept returning to a tasty tuna concoction, and, of course, the hummus. We made the mistake of trying to finish everything in front of us, forgetting that we had two further rounds to eat.
The hot mezes which followed were even better than the cold. Fried calamari was just right, neither too rubbery nor too crispy; grilled halloumi was also on just the right side of the rubbery/soft balance. There were spinach and feta pies, sausages, and yet another round of shrimp, this time fried and the better of the two shrimp dishes.
After an hour or so of eating we finally got onto the main course, with assorted chicken and lamb souvlaki, small lamb chops and a salad. Sadly the lamb was slightly overcooked, and our tongues so drowned in the Cypriot red wine and the tastes from the previous courses that it was hard to tell the different flavours apart in the souvlaki. Maybe I should have just stopped eating after the spinach pie.
As world cuisine geeks, we did wonder if we’d tried anything distinctively Cypriot. Maria—who hails from Greece and heartily approves of the place—confirmed that Greek Cypriot cooking is indeed quite similar to Greek. Halloumi is the national cheese of Cyprus though, and served with lountza (smoked pork lion, another local speciality), was perhaps the most Cypriot dish on the menu.
In hindsight, one of the best parts of this meal was the overall feel of the evening. We were never rushed, and through the general décor of the restaurant, it did feel like an evening in the Mediterranean. On emerging from the place at 11pm, I had three final thoughts: “We’re back in reality again”, “We really should have had this meal for lunch”, and “I am so, so full”.
Even after the first round of cold mezes we were comfortably full. There were dips of pretty much every Greek variety, from tzatziki to taramosalata, as well as salads and some cold shrimp. Of all the dips, I kept returning to a tasty tuna concoction, and, of course, the hummus. We made the mistake of trying to finish everything in front of us, forgetting that we had two further rounds to eat.
The hot mezes which followed were even better than the cold. Fried calamari was just right, neither too rubbery nor too crispy; grilled halloumi was also on just the right side of the rubbery/soft balance. There were spinach and feta pies, sausages, and yet another round of shrimp, this time fried and the better of the two shrimp dishes.
After an hour or so of eating we finally got onto the main course, with assorted chicken and lamb souvlaki, small lamb chops and a salad. Sadly the lamb was slightly overcooked, and our tongues so drowned in the Cypriot red wine and the tastes from the previous courses that it was hard to tell the different flavours apart in the souvlaki. Maybe I should have just stopped eating after the spinach pie.
As world cuisine geeks, we did wonder if we’d tried anything distinctively Cypriot. Maria—who hails from Greece and heartily approves of the place—confirmed that Greek Cypriot cooking is indeed quite similar to Greek. Halloumi is the national cheese of Cyprus though, and served with lountza (smoked pork lion, another local speciality), was perhaps the most Cypriot dish on the menu.
In hindsight, one of the best parts of this meal was the overall feel of the evening. We were never rushed, and through the general décor of the restaurant, it did feel like an evening in the Mediterranean. On emerging from the place at 11pm, I had three final thoughts: “We’re back in reality again”, “We really should have had this meal for lunch”, and “I am so, so full”.
I must admit to feelings of inexperience when picking out a place to eat dim sum in London. Reading reviews, it seems that opinions are strongly held on quality and authenticity within this rather tasty sub-genre of Chinese cuisine.
Not being sure to know an authentic dim sum dish from a chichi western imitation, we called on the assistance of Jill, who hails from the dim sum capital Hong Kong via pleasant Oxfordshire. (We’d already decided our dim sum meal should represent Hong Kong; we’re eyeing a Szechuan spot for China proper.) Jill is vehement in her dislike for chains like Ping Pong, which I’ll admit to having enjoyed in the past; so she suggested an oft-neglected dim sum restaurant in Chinatown serving the real deal.
The standard restaurant food at Golden Pagoda is, all told, as mediocre as any of the other outlets dishing up westernised Cantonese food on Gerrard street. That’s not why we visited, though. At weekend lunchtimes, a dedicated dim sum chef (Wai Sui Yu, from the acclaimed Dragon and Castle south of the river) takes over, and things take a turn for the better.
I did come with an idea of what to expect—my first dim sum experience in Toronto’s Chinatown centre was, I imagine, pretty authentic. Trollies full of small unidentified dishes were wheeled around the large room and devoured by eager Chinese pensioners, leaving the non-Cantonese-speaking amongst us to take a “lucky dip” approach to the day’s lunch menu. I tried many things, some delicious (dumplings, buns), some not to my taste (rubbery pickled slices of chicken feet) and some completely unidentified.
While Golden Pagoda doesn’t serve from trolleys, we were still glad to have some help in deciphering the Chinese order card, on which one ticks off quantities of dishes desired. Having a big table meant we got to sample a great variety of dishes, which is the best way to go about it, although leaves me struggling to describe all we ate.
Lots of Cantonese favourites were present, including many varieties of dumpling. (Har gau with their pleated wrappers; siu mai which are open-topped and orange-tinged; siu lung bau, extraordinary feats of engineering which burst with a filling of hot soup; the translucent fun gor.) And of course, some great steamed buns with char sui (bbq pork) and chicken.
Cheung fun are another Cantonese classic, with meat and seafood fillings wrapped in soft rice noodle sheets and slathered in soy. They’re slippery customers when armed with chopsticks, but proved very popular.
Yummy squid came both deep-fried and raw with a vinegary salad; lo bak goh (steamed turnip cake) and a similar steamed seafood cake proved a little gelatinous for some of us, although served well at soaking up soy. Lo mai gai (lotus leaf rice), while comforting, was not the best I’ve had.
The surprise for me was the chicken feet (fung zao), which I’ll admit to approaching with scepticism. This batch, served whole, boiled until tender, heavily seasoned and barbecued, were a much more agreeable proposition than the rubbery kind I’d tried in vinegar.
When it comes to desert, I missed out on my favourites, deep fried sesame buns. But we did try fried custard buns (near enough!), and a Hong Kong speciality, egg custard tarts. (These look very similar to the Portuguese pastel da nata, and probably arrived via the nearby Portuguese colony Macau.) Jill’s favourite was another Hong Kong dish, mango pudding, which rather resembles a blancmange.
How was the food then? Experienced hands certainly thought highly of it; for my part, I found it an altogether different experience to the fancier-looking dim sum chains. Perhaps a little less variety and subtlety when it came to flavours and fillings, but more wholesome and satisfying, and the feeling that liberties weren’t being taken with a reliable tradition. Good hangover food, in fact, making it an excellent choice for Sunday lunch, and great value at around £10 a head.
Not being sure to know an authentic dim sum dish from a chichi western imitation, we called on the assistance of Jill, who hails from the dim sum capital Hong Kong via pleasant Oxfordshire. (We’d already decided our dim sum meal should represent Hong Kong; we’re eyeing a Szechuan spot for China proper.) Jill is vehement in her dislike for chains like Ping Pong, which I’ll admit to having enjoyed in the past; so she suggested an oft-neglected dim sum restaurant in Chinatown serving the real deal.
The standard restaurant food at Golden Pagoda is, all told, as mediocre as any of the other outlets dishing up westernised Cantonese food on Gerrard street. That’s not why we visited, though. At weekend lunchtimes, a dedicated dim sum chef (Wai Sui Yu, from the acclaimed Dragon and Castle south of the river) takes over, and things take a turn for the better.
I did come with an idea of what to expect—my first dim sum experience in Toronto’s Chinatown centre was, I imagine, pretty authentic. Trollies full of small unidentified dishes were wheeled around the large room and devoured by eager Chinese pensioners, leaving the non-Cantonese-speaking amongst us to take a “lucky dip” approach to the day’s lunch menu. I tried many things, some delicious (dumplings, buns), some not to my taste (rubbery pickled slices of chicken feet) and some completely unidentified.
While Golden Pagoda doesn’t serve from trolleys, we were still glad to have some help in deciphering the Chinese order card, on which one ticks off quantities of dishes desired. Having a big table meant we got to sample a great variety of dishes, which is the best way to go about it, although leaves me struggling to describe all we ate.
Lots of Cantonese favourites were present, including many varieties of dumpling. (Har gau with their pleated wrappers; siu mai which are open-topped and orange-tinged; siu lung bau, extraordinary feats of engineering which burst with a filling of hot soup; the translucent fun gor.) And of course, some great steamed buns with char sui (bbq pork) and chicken.
Cheung fun are another Cantonese classic, with meat and seafood fillings wrapped in soft rice noodle sheets and slathered in soy. They’re slippery customers when armed with chopsticks, but proved very popular.
Yummy squid came both deep-fried and raw with a vinegary salad; lo bak goh (steamed turnip cake) and a similar steamed seafood cake proved a little gelatinous for some of us, although served well at soaking up soy. Lo mai gai (lotus leaf rice), while comforting, was not the best I’ve had.
The surprise for me was the chicken feet (fung zao), which I’ll admit to approaching with scepticism. This batch, served whole, boiled until tender, heavily seasoned and barbecued, were a much more agreeable proposition than the rubbery kind I’d tried in vinegar.
When it comes to desert, I missed out on my favourites, deep fried sesame buns. But we did try fried custard buns (near enough!), and a Hong Kong speciality, egg custard tarts. (These look very similar to the Portuguese pastel da nata, and probably arrived via the nearby Portuguese colony Macau.) Jill’s favourite was another Hong Kong dish, mango pudding, which rather resembles a blancmange.
How was the food then? Experienced hands certainly thought highly of it; for my part, I found it an altogether different experience to the fancier-looking dim sum chains. Perhaps a little less variety and subtlety when it came to flavours and fillings, but more wholesome and satisfying, and the feeling that liberties weren’t being taken with a reliable tradition. Good hangover food, in fact, making it an excellent choice for Sunday lunch, and great value at around £10 a head.
One of my first encounters with Korean food was the sight of a wondrous, clattering walnut-cake machine steaming up the windows of a small bakery in Toronto’s Koreatown. As a child, I had a brief fascination with food machines, drawing up blueprints for all manner of Heath Robinson contraptions—so this walnut creature made a strong impression on me. Walking past at the right time of day, a display would ensue—jets of dough squirting into hot, cast-iron moulds, which clapped shut on their journey around a circuit. At the end emerged soft, perfectly-formed replica walnuts, pleasant to the bite if not as spectacular as their creation was to the eye.
After moving close to Koreatown I investigated the area’s restaurants more thoroughly, and was spoilt with a great variety of warming, hearty, home-cooked food. Nourishing, richly-seasoned soups, meats and stews—served with endless complimentary side dishes of rice, barley, kim-chi (vegetables pickled with chilli), fried fish, seaweed, beans and more. Korean became one of my favourite cuisines during the winter months, and something I began to crave after returning to London.
More recently, a little strip of unpretentious and inviting Korean cafes on St. Giles High Street (near Tottenham Court Road station) has tempted us greatly, and will definitely warrant a visit. For this outing, though, I felt like learning a little about the more sophisticated side of the country’s food. And so Andrea, Karol, Alex and I dropped in on Kaya, a highly recommended London Korean establishment in Mayfair, priding itself on its authenticity and offering dishes from Korean royal court cuisine.
Yukhoe (육회), one of these royal dishes, proved an interesting starter for the table. Tender, delicate shreds of raw beef are seasoned with sesame, soy and sugar crystals, and stirred up at the table with strands of Asian pear, cucumber and a raw egg. Despite some initial reservations about the raw meat, it was universally loved—combining soft, light textures with rich flavours and a delicate crunch. Korean pancakes were a recommended pairing, and proved thick and moreish, a great way to soak up the rich seasonings.
Of course we couldn’t say no to the obligatory kim-chi on the side. Korea boasts as many as 200 varieties, but we chose two classics—Chinese cabbage and daikon radish. I’ve always been a fan of the dish, but as presumptive newcomers we were warned, it can be quite pungent, with the vegetables salted and fermented for some time with chilli and other preservative seasonings. Some versions I’ve tried emerge soggy, gaseous and a little cloying from a jar, but theirs tasted homemade, crisp and full of pep. They use garlic, ginger and fish sauce, but I suspect less vinegar and sugar than some readymade versions, which may explain the difference.
While tempted by more exotic options, when it came to mains I couldn’t resist ordering their take on a popular dish, bulgogi. This is cooked from tender, thinly-sliced steak, and marinates for some time in a classic Korean mixture, containing an acidic fruit juice to tenderise the meat. Sometimes kiwi juice is used (which I can vouch for, having tried it at home), but in this instance it was pear. As an added bonus, I was shown how to eat it in what is apparently the classic style, which I hadn’t tried before—scooped up in a lettuce leaf with rice and seasoned strips of spring onion, plus a dollop of chilli sauce. Simpler versions of the dish incorporate chilli directly into the sauce and serve it with rice only, but this approach was most tasty.
Others at the table investigated another Korean classic, dolsot bibimbap—a hot stone pot filled with rice, topped with vegetables, beef, egg and other goodies, and stirred up at the table with a dark chilli sauce. (The Korean take on which, I find, has a particularly distinctive and tasty flavour. I wonder what distinguishes it?) This is great comfort food, and their version was eagerly devoured as soon as it cooled down.
All in all this was the best Korean I’ve found in London. While pricier than some, the service was impeccable, surroundings palatial, and the food pretty exceptional. Better, I would say, than Asadal in Holborn, which Time Out appears to prefer but underwhelmed me a little on a visit last year.
We’re craving more Korean already, which is just as well, since we can sneak in a visit to another establishment soon, under the guise of covering the communist North too. Kaya, named after an ancient southern kingdom and serving royal cuisine, we felt must ally itself with the South–but New Malden, south of the river, hosts the largest Korean community in Europe, and should be as good a place as any to find Northern dishes.
After moving close to Koreatown I investigated the area’s restaurants more thoroughly, and was spoilt with a great variety of warming, hearty, home-cooked food. Nourishing, richly-seasoned soups, meats and stews—served with endless complimentary side dishes of rice, barley, kim-chi (vegetables pickled with chilli), fried fish, seaweed, beans and more. Korean became one of my favourite cuisines during the winter months, and something I began to crave after returning to London.
More recently, a little strip of unpretentious and inviting Korean cafes on St. Giles High Street (near Tottenham Court Road station) has tempted us greatly, and will definitely warrant a visit. For this outing, though, I felt like learning a little about the more sophisticated side of the country’s food. And so Andrea, Karol, Alex and I dropped in on Kaya, a highly recommended London Korean establishment in Mayfair, priding itself on its authenticity and offering dishes from Korean royal court cuisine.
Yukhoe (육회), one of these royal dishes, proved an interesting starter for the table. Tender, delicate shreds of raw beef are seasoned with sesame, soy and sugar crystals, and stirred up at the table with strands of Asian pear, cucumber and a raw egg. Despite some initial reservations about the raw meat, it was universally loved—combining soft, light textures with rich flavours and a delicate crunch. Korean pancakes were a recommended pairing, and proved thick and moreish, a great way to soak up the rich seasonings.
Of course we couldn’t say no to the obligatory kim-chi on the side. Korea boasts as many as 200 varieties, but we chose two classics—Chinese cabbage and daikon radish. I’ve always been a fan of the dish, but as presumptive newcomers we were warned, it can be quite pungent, with the vegetables salted and fermented for some time with chilli and other preservative seasonings. Some versions I’ve tried emerge soggy, gaseous and a little cloying from a jar, but theirs tasted homemade, crisp and full of pep. They use garlic, ginger and fish sauce, but I suspect less vinegar and sugar than some readymade versions, which may explain the difference.
While tempted by more exotic options, when it came to mains I couldn’t resist ordering their take on a popular dish, bulgogi. This is cooked from tender, thinly-sliced steak, and marinates for some time in a classic Korean mixture, containing an acidic fruit juice to tenderise the meat. Sometimes kiwi juice is used (which I can vouch for, having tried it at home), but in this instance it was pear. As an added bonus, I was shown how to eat it in what is apparently the classic style, which I hadn’t tried before—scooped up in a lettuce leaf with rice and seasoned strips of spring onion, plus a dollop of chilli sauce. Simpler versions of the dish incorporate chilli directly into the sauce and serve it with rice only, but this approach was most tasty.
Others at the table investigated another Korean classic, dolsot bibimbap—a hot stone pot filled with rice, topped with vegetables, beef, egg and other goodies, and stirred up at the table with a dark chilli sauce. (The Korean take on which, I find, has a particularly distinctive and tasty flavour. I wonder what distinguishes it?) This is great comfort food, and their version was eagerly devoured as soon as it cooled down.
All in all this was the best Korean I’ve found in London. While pricier than some, the service was impeccable, surroundings palatial, and the food pretty exceptional. Better, I would say, than Asadal in Holborn, which Time Out appears to prefer but underwhelmed me a little on a visit last year.
We’re craving more Korean already, which is just as well, since we can sneak in a visit to another establishment soon, under the guise of covering the communist North too. Kaya, named after an ancient southern kingdom and serving royal cuisine, we felt must ally itself with the South–but New Malden, south of the river, hosts the largest Korean community in Europe, and should be as good a place as any to find Northern dishes.
Meals like our meal at Tbilisi are exactly the reason we started this blog. The food was maybe the most unpredictable we’ve tried so far, and the wine, coming from a country that claims to have invented the drink, was just as interesting. Plus, the presence of a few new additions to our group of eaters made for a big, crowded table—the perfect atmosphere for sampling the cuisine of a country that prides itself on a tradition of wine-soaked feasts full of toasts and chatter.
It’s strange that Georgia isn’t better known for its wine. Wine is central to Georgian culture, and those who claim Georgians invented it might be correct. Archaeologists have found evidence of viticulture in the region from early as the fourth millennium BC, according to The Georgian Feast by Darra Goldstein. (Other fun facts from Goldstein: scientists believe the original wine grape was native to the Caucasus; some linguists consider the Georgian word for wine, ghvino, to be the prototype for the words vino, vin and wine; and early Georgians actually worshipped the grape with sacred back garden wine storage sheds.)
Tbilisi celebrates this with a long list of authentic Georgian wines, and through a few decor nods—shelves displaying spot-lit wine bottles hang on the wine-red walls of the modern-looking space. (The restaurant is a warm, cosy place despite the contemporary look, though, with a menu full of charming spelling mistakes like “crashed walnuts” and “vanilla ace-cream”.)
Kvanchkara, at £18.99, was the priciest Georgian wine on the list, but we couldn’t resist; it came recommended by our waiter, and by the menu, which calls it “most favoured” by Georgians “with a rich sweetness of fruit and oak tones”. The sweet red was unusual but more than drinkable, with a honey aftertaste. Our second bottle was a dry red made from the saperavi grape, still boasting a hint of sweetness; its name, Tamada, so the label said, is the Georgian word for a host or toastmaster charged with creating a social, celebratory atmosphere during meals.
The arrival of our starter, khachapuri–cheese bread–was enough to create a celebratory atmosphere at our table. Like hot, fluffy pizza dough with a moist, mildly cheesy centre, it was delicious on its own, and even better with two accompanying toppings: a spicy salad of cooked carrot, coriander, cumin, crushed walnut and pomegranate seeds, and, the surprise favourite, salty, spicy chunks of liver adorned with onion, parsley and more pomegranate. (Surprising because some of us, like me, who had been disgusted by liver as children, couldn’t get enough.)
The spicy theme continued into the mains. My khinkali, dumplings resembling a larger version of the Chinese steamed sort (in texture, not shape), were topped in fiery black pepper that added an edge to the ground beef/pork and vegetable broth filling. Those dining on chanaki, “spicy lamb and aubergine”, called it a cross between rogan josh and goulash—the perfect description.
Walnuts were back again too, in vegetarian dishes like aubergine with walnut sauce. (This was surprisingly un-walnuty, more like a Moroccan aubergine/tomato combo with a jalfrazi spiciness.) Walnut sauce can also come atop tabaka, traditional Georgian chicken grilled on the bone, but our table chose a sweet and sour plum sauce for the dish.
The desserts arrived full of yet more walnuts—a baked green apple filled with a very Greek mixture of yogurt, honey and crushed walnut, and a jelly-like concoction made from grape juice and corn flour, and topped with whole walnut pieces. (Georgian chacha—grappa—was also consumed.)
Tbilisi’s food isn’t the most mind-blowingly delicious we’ve tried, but it’s exciting, reliable and filling. We’d love to see Georgian cuisine increase its presence around London, but for now, Tbilisi makes an excellent North London hub for those wanting to discover it. Here’s hoping the near-empty dining room we witnessed isn’t threatening this restaurant’s survival, because I want to go back.
It’s strange that Georgia isn’t better known for its wine. Wine is central to Georgian culture, and those who claim Georgians invented it might be correct. Archaeologists have found evidence of viticulture in the region from early as the fourth millennium BC, according to The Georgian Feast by Darra Goldstein. (Other fun facts from Goldstein: scientists believe the original wine grape was native to the Caucasus; some linguists consider the Georgian word for wine, ghvino, to be the prototype for the words vino, vin and wine; and early Georgians actually worshipped the grape with sacred back garden wine storage sheds.)
Tbilisi celebrates this with a long list of authentic Georgian wines, and through a few decor nods—shelves displaying spot-lit wine bottles hang on the wine-red walls of the modern-looking space. (The restaurant is a warm, cosy place despite the contemporary look, though, with a menu full of charming spelling mistakes like “crashed walnuts” and “vanilla ace-cream”.)
Kvanchkara, at £18.99, was the priciest Georgian wine on the list, but we couldn’t resist; it came recommended by our waiter, and by the menu, which calls it “most favoured” by Georgians “with a rich sweetness of fruit and oak tones”. The sweet red was unusual but more than drinkable, with a honey aftertaste. Our second bottle was a dry red made from the saperavi grape, still boasting a hint of sweetness; its name, Tamada, so the label said, is the Georgian word for a host or toastmaster charged with creating a social, celebratory atmosphere during meals.
The arrival of our starter, khachapuri–cheese bread–was enough to create a celebratory atmosphere at our table. Like hot, fluffy pizza dough with a moist, mildly cheesy centre, it was delicious on its own, and even better with two accompanying toppings: a spicy salad of cooked carrot, coriander, cumin, crushed walnut and pomegranate seeds, and, the surprise favourite, salty, spicy chunks of liver adorned with onion, parsley and more pomegranate. (Surprising because some of us, like me, who had been disgusted by liver as children, couldn’t get enough.)
The spicy theme continued into the mains. My khinkali, dumplings resembling a larger version of the Chinese steamed sort (in texture, not shape), were topped in fiery black pepper that added an edge to the ground beef/pork and vegetable broth filling. Those dining on chanaki, “spicy lamb and aubergine”, called it a cross between rogan josh and goulash—the perfect description.
Walnuts were back again too, in vegetarian dishes like aubergine with walnut sauce. (This was surprisingly un-walnuty, more like a Moroccan aubergine/tomato combo with a jalfrazi spiciness.) Walnut sauce can also come atop tabaka, traditional Georgian chicken grilled on the bone, but our table chose a sweet and sour plum sauce for the dish.
The desserts arrived full of yet more walnuts—a baked green apple filled with a very Greek mixture of yogurt, honey and crushed walnut, and a jelly-like concoction made from grape juice and corn flour, and topped with whole walnut pieces. (Georgian chacha—grappa—was also consumed.)
Tbilisi’s food isn’t the most mind-blowingly delicious we’ve tried, but it’s exciting, reliable and filling. We’d love to see Georgian cuisine increase its presence around London, but for now, Tbilisi makes an excellent North London hub for those wanting to discover it. Here’s hoping the near-empty dining room we witnessed isn’t threatening this restaurant’s survival, because I want to go back.
At university, I was fortunate enough to have a lecturer who spent nine months a year doing fieldwork in Ethiopia. In one memorable lecture, she described sharing a meal with a whole Ethiopian village—speaking not only of a rich and aromatic cuisine, but also of the fun she had dining with the whole community. Ever since then I have been eager to experience Ethiopian dining for myself, so for my birthday I arranged a large gathering at Lalibela in Tufnell Park.
Lalibela, named after the northern Ethiopian city and UNESCO World Heritage site, is a traditionally decorated restaurant with tables spread over two floors. The menu offers over 20 vegetarian dishes, in addition to a large meat selection.
At the heart of every Ethiopian dish is injera, a sour and tangy-tasting pancake unique to Ethiopia. On its own, injera is slightly bitter and unpleasant—but eaten in combination with other dishes, it provides the perfect balance to the often-spicy cuisine. The injera acts as a plate on which all dishes are served. Diners can scoop up their food with some accompanying injera rolls, and when the dishes are done, enjoy eating their ‘plate’ soaked in the juices of the meal. (As you eat with your hands, Ethiopian dining is a rather messy experience. Be sure not to wear your best clothes when eating this food!)
On our injera, three friends and I shared two we’ts (a type of Ethiopian stew), some side vegetables and salad. Lalibela’s generous portions were more than enough for the four of us. Served in a hot tomato sauce, the spicy chickpea and aubergine we’t certainly lived up to its name—my mouth was truly on fire by the end of the meal. Thankfully our side salad was served with Irgo, a raita-style Ethiopian yoghurt, which helped to neutralise the spices. Spinach and potato We’t and Lalibela mixed vegetables, our other two dishes, both had rich and intense flavours. The non-vegetarians among the group enjoyed a number of meaty stews, the favourite being lamb and pumpkin we’t, with the sweet pumpkin perfectly complementing the juicy pieces of lamb.
After the meal, we enjoyed an atmospheric “coffee ceremony”. Ethiopia claims to be the birthplace of coffee, so we were excited to be drinking one of oldest coffee varieties in the world. Our waiter brought some roasting coffee beans to the table, whetting our appetite as their aroma diffused around the room. Then he disappeared and returned with the same beans, now ground and served as coffee in a clay pot. Aromas from an accompanying bowl of burning frankincense mingled with the rich coffee scent.
I really loved Lalibela. The food was delicious, and the atmosphere relaxed. I was initially nervous at making so many friends try something so messy and so completely new, but everyone enjoyed the food and the communal experience. I would especially recommend trying Ethiopian food in a large group, as this allows everyone to taste as many dishes as possible. Since each we’t costs around £8, this is by far the most cost effective (and fun) way for a large group to dine.
Lalibela, named after the northern Ethiopian city and UNESCO World Heritage site, is a traditionally decorated restaurant with tables spread over two floors. The menu offers over 20 vegetarian dishes, in addition to a large meat selection.
At the heart of every Ethiopian dish is injera, a sour and tangy-tasting pancake unique to Ethiopia. On its own, injera is slightly bitter and unpleasant—but eaten in combination with other dishes, it provides the perfect balance to the often-spicy cuisine. The injera acts as a plate on which all dishes are served. Diners can scoop up their food with some accompanying injera rolls, and when the dishes are done, enjoy eating their ‘plate’ soaked in the juices of the meal. (As you eat with your hands, Ethiopian dining is a rather messy experience. Be sure not to wear your best clothes when eating this food!)
On our injera, three friends and I shared two we’ts (a type of Ethiopian stew), some side vegetables and salad. Lalibela’s generous portions were more than enough for the four of us. Served in a hot tomato sauce, the spicy chickpea and aubergine we’t certainly lived up to its name—my mouth was truly on fire by the end of the meal. Thankfully our side salad was served with Irgo, a raita-style Ethiopian yoghurt, which helped to neutralise the spices. Spinach and potato We’t and Lalibela mixed vegetables, our other two dishes, both had rich and intense flavours. The non-vegetarians among the group enjoyed a number of meaty stews, the favourite being lamb and pumpkin we’t, with the sweet pumpkin perfectly complementing the juicy pieces of lamb.
After the meal, we enjoyed an atmospheric “coffee ceremony”. Ethiopia claims to be the birthplace of coffee, so we were excited to be drinking one of oldest coffee varieties in the world. Our waiter brought some roasting coffee beans to the table, whetting our appetite as their aroma diffused around the room. Then he disappeared and returned with the same beans, now ground and served as coffee in a clay pot. Aromas from an accompanying bowl of burning frankincense mingled with the rich coffee scent.
I really loved Lalibela. The food was delicious, and the atmosphere relaxed. I was initially nervous at making so many friends try something so messy and so completely new, but everyone enjoyed the food and the communal experience. I would especially recommend trying Ethiopian food in a large group, as this allows everyone to taste as many dishes as possible. Since each we’t costs around £8, this is by far the most cost effective (and fun) way for a large group to dine.
While Polish food inevitably reminds me of my childhood, I’ve only relatively recently begun to experience it in a restaurant setting. The idea of a Polish restaurant was rather a novelty when I first encountered one; six years later I’ve been to a few, and I thought the opening of a new one would merit a 202 Meals visit.
Polish restaurants open in London less frequently than one might think. There has long been a Polish community in the city; Polish shops and restaurants have been around since shortly after the second world war. (Daquise, in South Kensington, claims to be London’s oldest.) But while the number of shops (and shop aisles) dedicated to Polish food has undoubtedly mushroomed in recent years, the restaurants have been slower to spread.
I heard about London’s newest, Tatra, from my father, who heard about it through the Polish version of Friends Reunited. It opened very recently—you can still smell the sawdust in places—and falls into the upmarket bracket of Polish restaurants abroad, like Patio Restaurant down the road, and very unlike the traditional Polanka in Hammersmith. The décor is modern rather than cosy, and one gets the feeling the restaurant is trying to appeal not just to Poles. If the other diners were anything to go by, it is succeeding.
The limited menu left me a little apprehensive, especially as some staples were conspicuous by their absence: for example, placki (potato pancakes), kopytka (potato dumplings), and kisiel (a unique dessert somewhere between jelly and custard in consistency). Pierogi, the most famous Polish dumplings, are only available as a starter. But the quality of the food more than made up for this; that it was attractively served did not go unnoticed either.
From what I’ve read in the British media, it seems impossible to write about Polish cuisine without using the words “stodgy” and “hearty”. With those out of the way, I can go on to say something less hackneyed about what we ate.
Before ordering, we received a plate of rye bread and smalec (a spread made of pig’s fat and pork) on the house, which would have disappeared much more quickly had we not kept some aside for the latecomer. I was glad that health was not a concern at the front of any of our minds.
We each picked a different starter. My rosół (chicken soup) was good but nothing special, while Matthew’s marinated herring with apple and beetroot salad was a little better received; Andrea and Alex shared pierogi z kapustą (dumplings filled with sauerkraut and mushrooms), and kluski leniwe (cheese and potato dumplings). The pierogi—large, and fried, rather than boiled—and leniwe, were so good that Andrea declared she could eat another portion as a main course. Little did she know what her actual main course had in store for her.
The roast duck, to Matthew’s and my disappointment, was off, so we ordered leczo and trout, respectively. Leczo (described on the menu as “goulash”) is a spicy beef stew, served with yet another kind of dumpling. The Polish-style trout—fried with almonds—was served on a bed of delicious and very Polish-tasting salad (dill is the flavour I most identify with eastern European cuisine). Andrea and Alex warmed themselves up with bigos, a “hunters’ stew” of sauerkraut, mushrooms and plenty of smoked meat with potatoes. Andrea and Matt are very keen sharers, but I dare say the liking they had for their respective dishes made them regret the decision to share even a little bit. I think it’s fair to say that all four of us were happy with our choices, and in some cases, with each other’s.
Full though we all were, the desserts looked far too good to pass up—with the unusual result that everyone ordered one. Alex enjoyed some fusion cuisine in the form of crème brûlée with vodka-soaked cherries; I was torn between this and the pancakes filled with cream cheese and raisins. in the end both Andrea and I went for the latter. Matthew’s disappointment that his poached pear with chocolate sauce did not contain vodka goes to show how much we were expecting after all we’d eaten thus far.
I hope Tatra stays around and does not go the same way as Zamoyska, an upmarket Polish restaurant in Hampstead that closed a few years ago. An encouraging sign was how busy Tatra got towards the end of our meal. It is not necessarily the most traditional, and certainly does not have the widest selection, but it is well worth trying, especially for newcomers to the cuisine.
Our meal complete, the waitress recommended home-flavoured vodkas, but we decided to let the food go down before drinking. After hopping on the tube (a gross exaggeration, in the circumstances) to Holborn, we spent a few hours in Bar Polski, a specialist vodka bar. As well as some 40 varieties of vodka, the bar offers a selection of Polish beers and food. However, a write-up of our Saturday night at a West End bar may be better suited to another kind of blog.
Polish restaurants open in London less frequently than one might think. There has long been a Polish community in the city; Polish shops and restaurants have been around since shortly after the second world war. (Daquise, in South Kensington, claims to be London’s oldest.) But while the number of shops (and shop aisles) dedicated to Polish food has undoubtedly mushroomed in recent years, the restaurants have been slower to spread.
I heard about London’s newest, Tatra, from my father, who heard about it through the Polish version of Friends Reunited. It opened very recently—you can still smell the sawdust in places—and falls into the upmarket bracket of Polish restaurants abroad, like Patio Restaurant down the road, and very unlike the traditional Polanka in Hammersmith. The décor is modern rather than cosy, and one gets the feeling the restaurant is trying to appeal not just to Poles. If the other diners were anything to go by, it is succeeding.
The limited menu left me a little apprehensive, especially as some staples were conspicuous by their absence: for example, placki (potato pancakes), kopytka (potato dumplings), and kisiel (a unique dessert somewhere between jelly and custard in consistency). Pierogi, the most famous Polish dumplings, are only available as a starter. But the quality of the food more than made up for this; that it was attractively served did not go unnoticed either.
From what I’ve read in the British media, it seems impossible to write about Polish cuisine without using the words “stodgy” and “hearty”. With those out of the way, I can go on to say something less hackneyed about what we ate.
Before ordering, we received a plate of rye bread and smalec (a spread made of pig’s fat and pork) on the house, which would have disappeared much more quickly had we not kept some aside for the latecomer. I was glad that health was not a concern at the front of any of our minds.
We each picked a different starter. My rosół (chicken soup) was good but nothing special, while Matthew’s marinated herring with apple and beetroot salad was a little better received; Andrea and Alex shared pierogi z kapustą (dumplings filled with sauerkraut and mushrooms), and kluski leniwe (cheese and potato dumplings). The pierogi—large, and fried, rather than boiled—and leniwe, were so good that Andrea declared she could eat another portion as a main course. Little did she know what her actual main course had in store for her.
The roast duck, to Matthew’s and my disappointment, was off, so we ordered leczo and trout, respectively. Leczo (described on the menu as “goulash”) is a spicy beef stew, served with yet another kind of dumpling. The Polish-style trout—fried with almonds—was served on a bed of delicious and very Polish-tasting salad (dill is the flavour I most identify with eastern European cuisine). Andrea and Alex warmed themselves up with bigos, a “hunters’ stew” of sauerkraut, mushrooms and plenty of smoked meat with potatoes. Andrea and Matt are very keen sharers, but I dare say the liking they had for their respective dishes made them regret the decision to share even a little bit. I think it’s fair to say that all four of us were happy with our choices, and in some cases, with each other’s.
Full though we all were, the desserts looked far too good to pass up—with the unusual result that everyone ordered one. Alex enjoyed some fusion cuisine in the form of crème brûlée with vodka-soaked cherries; I was torn between this and the pancakes filled with cream cheese and raisins. in the end both Andrea and I went for the latter. Matthew’s disappointment that his poached pear with chocolate sauce did not contain vodka goes to show how much we were expecting after all we’d eaten thus far.
I hope Tatra stays around and does not go the same way as Zamoyska, an upmarket Polish restaurant in Hampstead that closed a few years ago. An encouraging sign was how busy Tatra got towards the end of our meal. It is not necessarily the most traditional, and certainly does not have the widest selection, but it is well worth trying, especially for newcomers to the cuisine.
Our meal complete, the waitress recommended home-flavoured vodkas, but we decided to let the food go down before drinking. After hopping on the tube (a gross exaggeration, in the circumstances) to Holborn, we spent a few hours in Bar Polski, a specialist vodka bar. As well as some 40 varieties of vodka, the bar offers a selection of Polish beers and food. However, a write-up of our Saturday night at a West End bar may be better suited to another kind of blog.
I passed by this (then) inconspicuous-looking restaurant many times when I went to secondary school down the road, but it wasn’t until long afterwards that I decided to try it. Since my first visit some three years ago, Mahdi has established itself as one of my favourite restaurants.
That said, there’s one thing that I’ve never liked about it—the service. This time it started before we even got there. I got a call from the restaurant the day before our 202 Meals visit, informing me that although we had a booking for six o’clock, we’d have to come at “four-thirty or five”, because a group of 60 and a group of 20 were coming at half-past six. The waiter on the phone assured me this was to give us “the best service”, but the rather abrupt command to leave at the end of our meal the next day confirmed their motives were entirely more predictable.
Every Persian restaurant I have been to has nice decor, but Mahdi’s is particularly pleasing, with real waterfalls as well as Persian rugs and cushions. While waiting for the inevitable latecomers, we admired the walls, covered in Persian art, and ordered a pot of Iranian tea (black tea with cardamom). The tea was not to everyone’s liking; the same cannot be said about the houmous, which everyone ordered. The sesame seed-covered nan, made onsite by a baker stationed by the front window to tempt passers-by, was an excellent accompaniment.
The choice in main courses is between kebabs and lamb stews—the menu is more or less evenly divided between the two kinds of dish. Fortunately there were no vegetarians among us, for there’s only one (unspecified) vegetarian dish on the menu.
Most of us went for kebabs, and all three kebab varieties on offer were represented at the table: lamb, minced lamb and chicken. The lamb versions were not hugely different from similar Turkish or Lebanese dishes, but the chicken was cooked with saffron and lemon juice, making it a little more distinctive. Those who ordered a side of rice rather than salad or rice/salad split were given not just a mountain but a mountain range of the stuff.
Unfortunately for Andrea, the waiters brought her a slightly boring lamb and okra stew she hadn’t ordered, only then informing her that that the more exciting lamb, pomegranate and walnut stew she’d chosen wasn’t available. Matt was luckier on the stew front, receiving a pile of fragrant saffron rice filled with tender lamb bits. Everyone else was happy with their choices, if a little overwhelmed by the size. There were certainly more unfinished than finished dinners, but it wasn’t a reflection of the food itself.
There are many good Persian restaurants in west London, but for the best it’s worth going a little further out than West Kensington or Bayswater. Despite the negative picture this review may give about Mahdi’s service, the food convincingly trumps this.
That said, there’s one thing that I’ve never liked about it—the service. This time it started before we even got there. I got a call from the restaurant the day before our 202 Meals visit, informing me that although we had a booking for six o’clock, we’d have to come at “four-thirty or five”, because a group of 60 and a group of 20 were coming at half-past six. The waiter on the phone assured me this was to give us “the best service”, but the rather abrupt command to leave at the end of our meal the next day confirmed their motives were entirely more predictable.
Every Persian restaurant I have been to has nice decor, but Mahdi’s is particularly pleasing, with real waterfalls as well as Persian rugs and cushions. While waiting for the inevitable latecomers, we admired the walls, covered in Persian art, and ordered a pot of Iranian tea (black tea with cardamom). The tea was not to everyone’s liking; the same cannot be said about the houmous, which everyone ordered. The sesame seed-covered nan, made onsite by a baker stationed by the front window to tempt passers-by, was an excellent accompaniment.
The choice in main courses is between kebabs and lamb stews—the menu is more or less evenly divided between the two kinds of dish. Fortunately there were no vegetarians among us, for there’s only one (unspecified) vegetarian dish on the menu.
Most of us went for kebabs, and all three kebab varieties on offer were represented at the table: lamb, minced lamb and chicken. The lamb versions were not hugely different from similar Turkish or Lebanese dishes, but the chicken was cooked with saffron and lemon juice, making it a little more distinctive. Those who ordered a side of rice rather than salad or rice/salad split were given not just a mountain but a mountain range of the stuff.
Unfortunately for Andrea, the waiters brought her a slightly boring lamb and okra stew she hadn’t ordered, only then informing her that that the more exciting lamb, pomegranate and walnut stew she’d chosen wasn’t available. Matt was luckier on the stew front, receiving a pile of fragrant saffron rice filled with tender lamb bits. Everyone else was happy with their choices, if a little overwhelmed by the size. There were certainly more unfinished than finished dinners, but it wasn’t a reflection of the food itself.
There are many good Persian restaurants in west London, but for the best it’s worth going a little further out than West Kensington or Bayswater. Despite the negative picture this review may give about Mahdi’s service, the food convincingly trumps this.
Ever since Daniel moved to West Hampstead there’s been talk of eating at the nearby Czechoslovak National House. Based in a large detached house on West End Lane, it’s been home to London’s Czech émigrés since the late 30s, and (so Daniel would have us believe) became quite a hotbed of espionage in the cold war years.
The building’s interior is an odd mix of embassy and suburban house; we catch some old Czech guys watching TV on the way in and feel like we’re entering a rather grand home.
The club’s restaurant does appear to cater primarily to ex-pat members missing a taste of home. Our lack of Czech proved quite an impediment, both to explanation of the menu and comprehension of our order, leading to a few mistakes. The food is comforting rather than fancy, and lacks some of the flair of eastern European restaurants we’ve tried elsewhere in London. That said, the club is one of the few places in London where you can try Czech specialities, and resulted in an interesting meal.
(The Czech Republic and Slovakia were of course still a joint entity for much of the club’s life, as its name reflects. Its founder was a Czech, however, and its website humbly admits that “if you are after a classic Slovak restaurant in London we may not fully satisfy you”. So we’ll be seeking Slovakian food another time.)
A few of us picked starters, something of a brave move considering the usual size of eastern European portions. Pickled herring, one of my favourites, has just the firmness and pep I demand from it. Potato pancakes in the Czech style prove delicious, large, dark and topped with smoky bacon, but Alex’s brie salad, while interesting (it was served in a vinegary dressing) didn’t quite leave him crying out for seconds.
Whether by accident or design our main courses turned out very similar. On each plate a big hunk of roast meat swam in a generous but rather sickly soup of sauerkraut, more the consistency of apple sauce than the shredded German variety I’ve tried before. Czech dumplings (knedlíky) on the side were not quite what we expected either, consisting of large, bready slices of boiled dough. (Apparently smaller potato dumplings are also served, but knedlíky are the classic Czech variety.)
Meat and game are quite central to Czech cuisine—we tried goose, duck, boar, beef and chicken and all proved well-prepared, rich and tasty. My main course, stuffed breaded wild boar (plněný kančí řízek & příloha), was the subject of particular curiosity. Wobbling on the plate like a morbidly obese schnitzel, the wild boar fillet is breaded and fried after stuffing with onions, ham and smoked bacon. (More conventional schnitzel has a strong presence on the menu too, alongside other eastern European standards like goulash).
All this left us with little room for desert—just as well as we were turfed out rather summarily at the club’s 10pm closing time. All in all I’d say it’s worth visiting for the authentic Czech experience and the history of the place, but the service left a little to be desired and I’m not sure I’d recommend it as a first place to try eastern European food.
The building’s interior is an odd mix of embassy and suburban house; we catch some old Czech guys watching TV on the way in and feel like we’re entering a rather grand home.
The club’s restaurant does appear to cater primarily to ex-pat members missing a taste of home. Our lack of Czech proved quite an impediment, both to explanation of the menu and comprehension of our order, leading to a few mistakes. The food is comforting rather than fancy, and lacks some of the flair of eastern European restaurants we’ve tried elsewhere in London. That said, the club is one of the few places in London where you can try Czech specialities, and resulted in an interesting meal.
(The Czech Republic and Slovakia were of course still a joint entity for much of the club’s life, as its name reflects. Its founder was a Czech, however, and its website humbly admits that “if you are after a classic Slovak restaurant in London we may not fully satisfy you”. So we’ll be seeking Slovakian food another time.)
A few of us picked starters, something of a brave move considering the usual size of eastern European portions. Pickled herring, one of my favourites, has just the firmness and pep I demand from it. Potato pancakes in the Czech style prove delicious, large, dark and topped with smoky bacon, but Alex’s brie salad, while interesting (it was served in a vinegary dressing) didn’t quite leave him crying out for seconds.
Whether by accident or design our main courses turned out very similar. On each plate a big hunk of roast meat swam in a generous but rather sickly soup of sauerkraut, more the consistency of apple sauce than the shredded German variety I’ve tried before. Czech dumplings (knedlíky) on the side were not quite what we expected either, consisting of large, bready slices of boiled dough. (Apparently smaller potato dumplings are also served, but knedlíky are the classic Czech variety.)
Meat and game are quite central to Czech cuisine—we tried goose, duck, boar, beef and chicken and all proved well-prepared, rich and tasty. My main course, stuffed breaded wild boar (plněný kančí řízek & příloha), was the subject of particular curiosity. Wobbling on the plate like a morbidly obese schnitzel, the wild boar fillet is breaded and fried after stuffing with onions, ham and smoked bacon. (More conventional schnitzel has a strong presence on the menu too, alongside other eastern European standards like goulash).
All this left us with little room for desert—just as well as we were turfed out rather summarily at the club’s 10pm closing time. All in all I’d say it’s worth visiting for the authentic Czech experience and the history of the place, but the service left a little to be desired and I’m not sure I’d recommend it as a first place to try eastern European food.
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