Soho Diner: a chip off the old block

Just another diner. Not different, just better.

Diners are like London buses because they're FRICKIN' everywhere. I went past about five on my way down Old Compton Street to the Soho Diner, including several I've already reviewed (like Ed's Easy Diner). And when you're not tripping over diner-themed restaurants, you're walking headlong into trendy burger bars. It's ridiculous.

And I love it. And I also love the Soho Diner. I was as hungover as one of Michael Barrymore's party guests on Saturday and still I finished that burger. True, I had to duck out to the loo twice just to be safe, but I was determined to get through it.

What the diner has so cleverly done is recreate was the McDonald's burger is in our heads before we actually eat it. The patties are thin but rare, the sauce thick and sticky, the cheese so gloopy it sticks to your throat, and all in a sweet brioche bun that feels cheap but so, so good. Perhaps sensing my hangover shakes (or simply smelling the alcohol) they asked if I'd like bacon and eggs on my burger. Ambitiously I said that sounded excellent. It made it seem more like brunch, which is a good, hearty thing to eat when suffering the drinker's withdrawal. The bacon was something else, about 2cm thick and rammed with sweet honey and gammon flavours. And then the egg was perfect and runny, but perfectly circular, just like the crap McDonald's ones.

If all that sounds a little too sycophantic don't read the rest, because I haven't even started on the milkshake - pistachio and honeycomb. Oh my days. If I'd sicked it up I'd have probably tried again it was that good.

Having ranted about the food, the location seems somewhat moot, but it is rather nice. Very spacious and wooden, with cocktails on tap and a decent enough beer list (could do better Soho House, could do better). There was even a European-like gathering of probably-older-than-you-think guys in leather jackets drinking beer from stemmed glasses outside, despite the freakish weather and an enormous delivery truck (probably needed for the extra thick bacon) blocking their view of the street. This is why I have no picture of the outside.

There are some pretty shoddy reviews of the Soho Diner on the usual customer websites. They're hardly a barometer for good food, but I am baffled. It's not changing the world, but Soho House (who run the place along with Chicken Shop, Dirty Burger, PizzaEast and Dean Street Townhouse) never try too. They just nail it. Whoever is at the top knows what the public want, and from a diner it's trashy food done in style, in a place where they would want to come at any time of day. It's open 'til 3am at the weekend, so I know where I'm going when caught short and drunk in Soho. Hopefully I won't need loo breaks at that point.

Livebait: caught in the net

RIP.

Just before Christmas I met one of the 2.67 million unemployed people in the UK. I must have met hundreds - the Daily Mail envisages them walking around the country like zombies in a horror film - but I saw the real impact of it at Livebait on the Cut in Waterloo.

Why was an unemployed person eating on one of the trendiest streets on south London, I hear you ask. They weren't. It was the waiter who was unemployed, or soon to be. Livebait is no more, their website is now a white scar on the internet. It seemed that our waiter had been informed of this that very day, and during the meal we watched a man slowly fall to pieces. It was like a TV dinner that got a little too real.

The whole situation was mad. We actually had to wait thirty minutes for a table, which is not the usual sign of a restaurant going into liquidation. After retreating to a nearby spanish bar, we returned a little the worse for wear, and more than little giggly, after an ill-advised margarita and crossword race. We were confronted by a sweaty, middle-aged man, rushed off his feat and on the verge of tears.

Once seated we failed to flag down any service for a good 10 minutes, and were on the verge of giving up and leaving when he came rushing over and collapsed to his knees at our side as if praying. With the table taking his weight, he took a deep breath and said:

"So it is easier to explain what we do have on the menu than what we don't. Our suppliers have stopped delivering, half our staff aren't working and I will very soon not have a job."

So we set about the task of choosing between scampi, cod and plaice (that was it) and contemplating the situation.The waiter was crying, the menu had more dishes crossed out than not, and the specials board looked like a child with ADHD had been set lines and wondered off. We decided to stay, partly because it was now 9pm, but more because we didn't want to be the trigger that caused our poor waiter to kill himself.

The food was rather irrelevant by this point - and, given the amount and speed of the margaritas, my memory is sketchy. The wine was drinkable, the food good - although the chips were a little too chip-shop soggy to be served in a mid-market fish restaurant. I struggled to see why this poor man has been put in this position - busy restaurants should not fail, even if the decor has more in common with a kitchen show room than an eatery.

But as the meal went on we created a sense of camaraderie, and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. So why has it failed? Being a chain, our increasingly honest (and possibly drunk) waiter assured us his was the most profitable branch and that they had been let down by the failures of others. I wouldn't blame the people in the restaurants. There will always be a market for good fish and chips, which is what Livebait served, and the fact we waited long enough to put away eight shots of tequila is testament to that.

Livebait was a good restaurant, albeit built on an industry beset by environmental and economic issues. Evidently it proved too much, despite the demand. Our waiter, like so many unemployed people, was a (sweaty) dolphin caught in the net - although it didn't help he forgot to charge for our starter.

So, if a man feels he has to deliver the specials in the prayer position, tip well. And pray for him.

I would give the location, but I guess it doesn't matter where it is now ...

Champor Champor: how to get malayed

Hit and miss but worth the trip.

Champor Champor is not for purists. Apparently.

Who are these purists? What makes them search for purity in a world where there is no such thing? Not in cuisine anyway. No culture is unchanged by the comings and goings of foreign influence, and food is a manifestation of that. Would purists be happy with the fact that a vital part of Thai cuisine is the French baton?

You can’t buy a sandwich at Champor Champor, but we did start with banana bread. Once the novelty of it was over I was left wondering  what the point of it was. It dirtied the palate, went badly with the other “antipasti” – a sweet and sour spoonful of relish and spicy guacamole on cucumber – and made no sense in the context of the rest of the menu. And I’m no purist.

My companion and I spent so much time contemplating the meaning of the banana bread that it took us almost 20 minutes to decide on our food. Normally this wouldn’t be such an issue, especially as the restaurant was almost empty. However, in a fit of romanticism I had booked the mezzanine table, which sits by the window and on a level much higher than the restaurant floor. It is a beautiful table, enshrined in an ornately carved wooden box that gives the impression you are dining in a four-poster bed. Popular as it is with the diners, it must infuriate staff, who are unable to check on the diners without popping their head around the corner like a mother keeping an eye on her teenage son with a girl in his room.

This strangely voyeuristic act repeated itself three time during the first course, which somewhat put me off my sliced duck with tamarind sauce and a sweet potato mascarpone. The duck was also a little chewy, but the sweet potato was smooth and delicious.

The main course was chosen for me by the waiter, who had tired of hovering around corners and quite rightly started to chivvy us along. He selected his favourite item on the menu, beef sirloin with fresh green peppercorns, krachai (wild ginger) and lemongrass, which was excellent. However, sadly the French influence did not reach the steak, and it was overcooked. My companion’s duck soup (technically clay-pot salted duck leg with shitake mushroom and spring onion; Jasmine rice and water chestnut in lotus leaf) was tasty enough, but a little too salty and lacking any flair.

Flair was not lacking from the chocolate, chilli and jaggery cheesecake, however.  Another thing not missing was the chilli, which caught me on the back of the throat, causing me to sound like Rod Stewart for the remainder of the meal.

It was hard to leave such a charming place, even if the food was at times mediocre. Ownership recently changed hands and the decor has been scaled back. The ornaments and features that used to adorn the walls have been stripped. Many would prefer the more airy atmosphere, but I think it has lost a little of its charm. It’s still a wonderful place to take a date, especially if you can book the mezzanine, but for me the fireworks were with my guest, not the food.

62-64 Weston Street
London SE1 3QJ
http://www.champor-champor.com

   

The Gay Hussar: are you Hungary?

Tired of burnt pans and the endless washing up, I decided this year to eat out on Pancake Day. Hungarian Soho Square Staple The Gay Hussar was offering a special Shrove menu, and mentioned something about deep fried pancakes. I was sold.


Shrove Tuesday is traditionally the day that Christians use up all their food stuffs before the 40-day lent fast. Given the amount of ingredients it used, the Gay Hussar must have a very full pantry indeed.

This may be partly because the restaurant was empty when we arrived. The ambience was more like a library. My companion and I whispered conspiratorially while exchanging guilty glances, worried that a waiter may come and “shh” us. Towards the end of the evening it began to fill, but by then we were too distracted by the glorious food to notice.

The downstairs room is a cosy mix between a living room and train dining carriage. The waiters were friendly and delighted to talk about the food, wine and history of the restaurant. Being just south of Soho Square, it has seen its fair share of the highlife. The walls are adorned with caricatures famous politicians and journalists that have eaten there, a social circle it fully justifies.

Their pancakes are world away from the lemon and sugar creations soon to be stuck to kitchen ceilings throughout the UK. My deep-fried goulash-stuffed pancake was as hearty as any British stew and had a depth of flavour that belied its simple roots, although the veal itself was slightly overpowered by the sauce.

Our bottle of Tokaji Muscat Blanc powered through, however. Its floral nose, sweet start and dry finish cut through the heavy sauces. Hungarian wine is not exactly a staple of restaurant lists, or indeed supermarket shelves, but their white wines are often worth a risk.

For pudding I had the walnut pancakes, made famous by Budapest celebrated restaurant Gundel, after which the pudding is named. The dark chocolate sauce and walnut and rum filling were savoury enough to stop the dish being overwhelming, and the raisins gave short, sharp bursts of sweetness. After such a heavy main however, the second pancake could have easily been replaced by some light cream, to balance the plate. Chocoholics would doubtless disagree.

The menu was traditional, varied and reassuringly expensive. The only flaw I could find was that there was too much on the plate: too much thought, too much food and, sometimes, too many flavours. But in hearty cuisine this is not necessarily a bad thing and I left contented, feeling like I had prepared for a 40-day fast.

www.gayhussar.co.uk (50% off you bill here)
0207 4370 973

2 Greek St, Soho, London. W1D 4NB

   

Bistro Rosa: a great night out ... catering included

I have never experienced bad service until now. We waited 20 minutes to give our drinks order, another 30 to give our food order and 30 minutes for our starters to be cleared away. All this meant that, an hour and twenty minutes into our booking we were asked if we would like coffees. I was so bemused by this point I wasn't sure whether the waiter was joking or genuinely thought we had had all three courses.

Gun to my head though, (and being in St Helier that could happen) I'd do it all again. Bistro Rosa may lack some of the rough-but-ready English service, but it makes up for it in fresh, glorious produce with a modern twist you wouldn't expect in the Channel Islands. Sat in the heart of the fish market you feel like you have discovered some hidden treasure, but from the fact we had to book well in advance, it seems the whole island thinks so too.

My moules were outrageously salty and creamy (and large enough in quantity to be a main), my monkfish with coconut and lime dressing and sweet and sour as I had hoped, and my chocolate cake decadent enough to redefine the term. The ambience in interesting, in essence you set up camp in the middle of a shop floor. The muzak pumped through the tinny speakers didn't help this awkward sensation, but added to the restaurants eccentric personality.

Our night was all rounded off with a superb drunken fellow diner, who was convinced my companion was "Off the American telly" and was insistant she admit it. He ended his night by vomiting in the one restaurant loo and stealing the waitress's coat. She left as cold as her service was.

A thoroughly recommended night out, and the catering was good too.

• Beresford Street, St Helier JE2 4WX
• 01534 729559

Dego: Go for the food,stay for the wine

Hearty Italian cuisine is so ubiquitous in London that I’m not sure we really know what it is anymore. And at some points during my meal I think Dego has become confused too.
The modren Italian defies all expectations. Not one aspect of the night failed to surprise me in some way or other. It is laid out more like a chic American diner than a traditional Italian. Customers are seated in rectangular booths with red and black leather, below lamps that pick you out like a soloist in concert.
It is determinedly modern, proven by the square toilet bowls and lack of zeros at the end of the wine prices. After a refreshing gin aperitif we ordered glasses of Verdiccio Castelli, which costs precisely £22.5 per bottle. Its complicated texture saved my overly salty beef roulade starter, which needed more dressing to balance it.
For my main I ordered what turned out to be a duck bolognese. I had expected something a little more subtle, and the menu needs to be more precise. But fortunately I was delighted by the hearty flavours that complemented the meat, which was lighter than duck has any right to be. However, the wine chosen by our helpful sommelier – a gewürztraminer from the Alto-Adige region of Italy – stole the show. Alto-Adige is a German-speaking region of northern Italy, which may explain the heavy, hop-like aroma and finish of the wine that matched beautifully with the duck mince.
I had to wait for the pudding for the food to amaze me. Again, the misleading menu undersold my chocolate, ginger and meringue desert. It was actually a pyramid of set chocolate filled with gooey meringue and caramel bathing in a shockingly spiced ginger sauce that was unique and delicious.
This could not save me from being slightly underwhelmed with the food, even if the prices were reasonable for the portion sizes and quality of ingredients. But the menu has enough on it to make every visit different, and there are sure to be more treasures in there. You should go for the food, but you’ll probably go back for the wine.


www.degowinebar.co.uk
0207 636 2207


Portland House
4 Great Portland street
London W1W 8QJ

   

Mar I Terra: a welcome change

Tucked in a side street not far from the bustling South Bank, Mar I Terra is worth a visit simply for the peace and quiet. A sense of serenity pervades the whole restaurant – which isn't hard given it is the size of my front room.

We were greeted on entry by some very authentic looking nuns, and things just got quainter. You could reach out and touch just about every other table in the place, the waiter was moustached and paunchy, the food was delivered via a dumb waiter that must have been operated by hand, and the dishes were as rustic as any I have eaten in London.

And they were glorious too. It is hard to amaze a diner with the basic Patatas Bravas, but the garish orange of the sauce and crispness of the potatoes drew me in, and gave me a benchmark against which all potato/tomato based dishes will now be judged. Portions were more than ample, but as is always the case with tapas, you keep eating until the plates are torn from your lifeless, exhausted hands.

The octopus was another highlight, and the rest of the food passed in mist of war as my companions fought over the last of it. The blurriness perhaps helped by the excellent wine selection, which kept us entertained thoughout the meal.

Eating at Mar I Terra is a jarringly intimate experience, but isn't that a refreshing change for London? I heartilty recommend it.

www.mariterra.co.uk/020 7928 7628

14 Gambia Street
Waterloo
London
SE1 0XH