Aquum: Thai to be nice

Flawed whatever moves it tries to pull.

Free food is not a phrase I treat lightly. No one should. But still I headed towards this review with real trepidation. Clubs should not do meals. It's not that I thought the Thai food would be bad, it was more the idea of eating in a place as soulless as a club.

However well decorated a club or bar is, during the day and early evening it lacks its most important decoration: the people. As a man who worked in pubs for several years, the dullest part of the shift was when there were no people. You see the stains on the floor and smell the stale alcohol. When you talked, the walls talked back at you. Without the context of people, most drinking venues are tacky and try-hard.

Which perfectly sums up Aquum the place, but not the food. For all its faults, we ate honest, authentic and fresh pan-Asian food. But there were a lot of faults. The dim sum pastry was soggy, the Malaysian curry  bland and under-seasoned, and the steamed bream fillet with red Thai spices too watery. We also had a duck stir-fry dish that was overcooked, and overcooked duck is a very sad thing indeed given how moist it should be. But we did get to drink fresh coconut juice straight from the coconut, and the lychee sorbet we had to finish was sweet and refreshing – probably outsourced, but still tasty. It was also nice to see that they had created a special wine and cocktail list to match the food, which shows an awareness of flavour and an aspiration to make everything work together. Which it doesn't, yet.

But it's the atmosphere on eating in a place that, just hours later, would be full of young hipsters drinking Champagne and yelling at each other over second-rate R'n'B that really grates. It's bizarre to enjoy authentic Asian food in such a overtly un-Asian surroundings. And it's not that the atmosphere is wrong, there just isn't one, and no bustling crowd to provide it. The food needs to sing, to draw people in. But Aquum's menu doesn't. The menu is so wide it would rival most Indian takeaways, assaulting you with choice and inevitably just driving you towards what you know and trust.

But what is strangest is who the menu is pitched at. A main course was between £7 and £9. Truth be told, this is a bargain. But it sits strangely next to the drinks menu, from which you can order a £3,000 bottle of Champagne. It's aimed at two completely different people, no one would ever order both.

If Aquum wants to convince some slightly drunk revellers that they don't need to run out for a kebab when the hunger strikes, they've pitched it right, although a menu of Thai finger food and platters would be better for a club. If they're are trying to be taken seriously as a restaurant they have got it wrong. Either way, the food needs to be better, the menu more concise, the drinks cheaper and the prices higher.

Byron: carefully crafted

An example of how to do a chain restaurant. Truly excellent.

Another day another Byron Burger opens up. This time on the trendy Charlotte Street, a road famous for tricking revellers into peoples houses, because the bars are so well disguised.

This blog should be renamed Fatman'sbaphands because all I seem to do it go to burger restaurants. Perhaps it's a sign I have restricted tastes, or maybe it just backs up my theory that the burger is the safety net of foods. It's borderline impossible not to enjoy a burger, however bad it is. That's why McDonald's rages on. A crap burger is still a burger.

Byron, however, do very good burgers. The buns were straight out of a burger van, but the meat is well seasoned and cooked rare and the vegetables are fresh. The Byron sauce was almost completely flavourless, but the crispy bacon gave all it had. Strangely, the gherkin was served on the side and was cut rather thickly, so when you added it to the burger it was like two railway sleepers poking out the sides. But all in all a glorious, sticky mess. But the onion rings were the stars of the meal. Crispy, oily, herby and gooey on the inside they were a real treat. You could taste the bad, feel the calories, revel in your slowly closing arteries and bloated stomach.

But even the onion rings couldn't hold my attention for long. Byron does a spectacular job of seeming personal and unique despite being an enormous, faceless chain. This Charlotte Street "offer" as they say in the business, is in a converted pub. During it's time as a boozer is musty have been quite a dingy dive. It's long and thin. It's windows hardly let any light in. You can imagine opening the door onto old men in flatclaps, who cover their eyes from the daylight, toothless mouths agape.

Now it's got white and black tiles, chrome around the bar, US-style booths and even, on the way to the loo, a walk way where you can look down on the diners. For some reason that pleases me, to see the balding patches of tubby men from an angle they never expected to have exposed.

But for all this there is one thing that makes Byron a GOOD chain, rather than just a chain. And that is the beer list - full of US and UK craft beers. Amercian IPAs, Hells lagers and porters. Whether they are matched to the food is hard to tell, but they all have high ABVs and more than coped with the strong flavours and textures of the meat. It's an exceptional touch, proof that a little thought can put you miles ahead of any competition.

It is, of course, being ahead of the competition that can send you spiralling off into faceless chain mode. But for now, Byron deserves it's success and it's crown as the best burger chain.

MeatLIQUOR: bap to basics

Stupid place, incredible burgers. I think.

The reputation that precedes Meat Liquor strongest is its queues. Miles in length the critics howled, longer than Disneyland they decreed, not worth the wait they posited.

Well we arrived on a windy, hailing, shitty excuse for an evening to find the evidence of queuing (a put-out bouncer, the obligatory concrete corner, Chinese whispers about waiting time and a pointless rope) but not much of a queue. And if I hadn't arrived 10 minutes late after approaching the restaurant from Old Street but via Notting Hill Gate (don't ask), I was assured by my companion that I would not have waited at all.

The reason behind this potentially flawed reputation is that MeatLIQUOR is trendy. It has managed the enviable trick of having the respect of East London, without actually having to be there. Decor-wise it is sat beneath a concrete block and things get even dingier inside, landing somewhere between an abbatoir and a pub toilet.

Closer inspection leads us to assume it is an attempt at a macabre US diner, arguably something we should have seen coming. After a short wait we were led through some plastic, red-paint stained curtains to a seat where the waiters would never, ever find us. So we immediately ordered their "house grog" (which they claim is so strong they only let you have two) and settled in for the long haul.

Just 10 minutes in we were both drunk and tucking into our "Dead Hippie Burgers", which essentially had all the ingredients of a Big Mac, but none of it was so limp you could eat it with a straw. However, it was so hard to eat a straw may have helped. The sauce fell out the sides, the meat fell apart and the gherkins clung to the side of your mouth like they were afraid of the dark. This is not date food. It's a dirty, dirty dinner. Hence the healthy supply of Plenty on each table. The burger was good, damned good. A little under seasoned, but also a little under-priced, which was refreshing for somewhere trendy.


Feeling cocky we also ordered a side of onion rings, which were the size of slinkies and delicious. Sadly however, half the chips were limp and went cold too quickly. I was also slightly disappointed by the presence of Mr Heinz and Mr Hellman on the table. Surely somewhere as focused on flavour and simplicity would choose to make their own sauces, or find a small artisan supplier.

The burgers don't match up to those of Hache, and only marginally beat the Diner chain. But they are cheaper and are more decadent. The cocktails were also good and the atmosphere of the place just the right side of trendy. I don't know why booking has gone out of fashion, but the only way to review a place like a this is to say how long you'd queue. We waited 10 minutes and, on a less miserable evening, I'd have probably queued for around 20.

But then, I'm still drunk from the grog.

MEATliquor | 74 WELBECK STREET | LONDON | W1G 0BA
@MEATliquor | info@MEATliquor.com | 020 7224 423

   

A love letter to an anonymous lover (in China Town)

Lovers in a dangerous time.

Dear last night's lover,

It's funny to think that I can't even remember how we met, given that I think about you all the time. I can't even remember your name. Is that bad? Because you were there when I needed you most. Like a beacon in the dark, a street light on a country road, an open Chinese restaurant at 3am on a Saturday.

You were beautiful, your glowing face lit up mine.  And I knew instantly that inside you were beautiful too. I loved your perfume, your open door, the moody waiters... We had some laughs, some spills (sorry about the tablecloth) and some thrills. Your Szechuan Chicken was crispy, sweet and sour, your spring rolls not completely soggy, and your duck fat and juicy. The beer was bad, and the waiter brought it after our main course, but that may have been a clever move on your part.

Life with you was so easy: a dream, a blurred, nausea-fuelled trip. It's strange how you stumble into love, and waiters, when you least expect it. It's funny how, even with booze and soy sauce all over your insides, I still got a dry smile from you. Like you knew me, or my type. You understood me so well. You knew my carb and protein needs, that flowing tap water was a good idea and easy access to the loo vital.

I'm sorry our goodbye was so abrupt. I'm sorry I underpaid. You slammed the door in my face, but you had to. I didn't want to leave, and that counts for something.

But dear lover, my lady of the night. It was a case of right time, wrong person. It kills me to say it. Maybe I'll see you again. Maybe one day we'll walk past each other and smile. In the cold light of day our beauty will be gone, but that doesn't make the memories any less special.

Or blurred.

All my love,
The drunkest guy in that drunk group last night

PJ's Bar & Grill: because nowhere else has a grill?

Not for me, but definitely for a certain type of person.

Another day, another classy restaurant trying to sound accessible by putting a name in its name. Today's is called PJ's Bar and Grill.

What a stupid name for a restaurant. Sure, shout about the bar - it's better stocked than most restaurants - but of course it has a bloody grill. What kitchen doesn't? You might as well call a Camden sauna a sauna & brothel.

They may mean a big industrial grill, but given I was invited there for breakfast, and the morning menu consists mostly of poached eggs, that is rather irrelevant.

PJ's has just rebranded its menu, claiming to be a haven for the hungover. If this were the case, they would have more than four non-alcoholic drinks on offer, or at least put the bloody marys above the Champagne.

The food hits the spot, full of salt, fat and hearty food. I had poached eggs and hollandaise sauce on bagels. The hollandaise was excellent and I have no complaints save the hefty price tag of £11, which was particularly galling given that my friend's full English cost just £3 more.

But this is Kensington - on this bright Saturday there was more money in there than in most Swiss vaults. They don't care if the eggs cost £11, or even that the full English costs the same. They don't look at the price. They look at the paintings of royalty playing polo, the lovely wood panelling and enormous gin selection that makes the back bar sparkle like diamonds. They also looked in theatrical horror when a young boy, in a fit of good humour, threw some chips over the balcony. 

It's a decent place, especially if you like Champagne and eggs for breakfast. My only criticisms are the poor non-alcoholic drink selection and the high prices. But if you're breakfasting in Kensington, I doubt you need to worry about either.

PJ's 

52 Fulham Road 

London 

SW3 6HH

020 7581 0025

www.pjsbarandgrill.co.uk

   

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 ...

Lazer Quest: Oh no... wait a minute

OK Belgo apparently.

The faux-industrial pipes and grating were cold and calculated. We were all crushed together, waiting for the siren. The tension was almost physical ... when would it be our turn? Where would we be taken? Out came a lady dressed all in black, looking surly.

"Garrett Party"

We followed her into the lift. She closed the bronze grills with a reverberating slam and the lift jerked into a descent. After what felt like an eternity we shuddered to a halt and she wrenched open the gate. It was at this point that I remembered this wasn't Lazer Quest. This was a Belgian restaurant chain called Belgo. I wasn't six, laughing at how the neon lights showed up the geeky kid's dandruff and made our teeth glow. I was 24, and I was about to order moules frites in a champagne and lobster bisque.

In many ways, that was a disappointment to me. The food was nice, although I didn't taste a lot of champagne, lobster or bisque in it. The beers were excellent, and made me wish I had been a Trappist monk (minus the celibacy and the fact that you to dress like a nun). In fact, I think the only reason to visit Belgium in the beer. Although I have to say that whatever I seem to try, however adventurous I am, I always return to a Chimay.

So the decor is bizarre, hence my fantasies, the costumes frankly ludicrous, the food unintelligible for any other moules frites (oh, and there weren't enough frites either), but there is something entertaining about the place. It feels unusual, it feels special and not just in a novel way. It's unique - or at least as unique as a chain can be. And, except for the specialist beers, it's pretty well priced. It's not for couples, it's not for parties - it's a great last ditch idea for beer lovers.

So to conclude, the greatest disappointment about Belgo was that it wasn't Lazer Quest, and I don't know how to make that a constructive criticism.

50 Earlham Street  London WC2H 9LJ
020 7813 2233
belgo-restaurants.co.uk