Food

Under the knife: Four Corners at Rondo la Cave

I first went to Rondo la Cave a couple of years ago when I saw a snap of the Detroit-style deep dish that Four Corners was doling out during its residency there. Combine these serious slabs of pizza with a funky but clean, crisp take on Provence rosé from Freddie Cossard – made with 20-year-old Cinsault – and I fell in love. The residencies that followed both caught my eye – Chet’s Thai-Americana junk food courtesy of Night+Market’s Kris Yenbamroong, and Dollars, a celebration of the deli sandwich from Singapore’s Andrei Soen, and then Brooklyn’s Four Horsemen. I wanted to catch each one, but didn’t. When I saw that Four Corners was back – and this time for good, the pull was too much to resist.

The natty-leaning wine bar is tucked beneath The Hoxton in Holborn. Unlike the sleek-yet-casual minimalism of the hotel, this basement channels dive-bar chic. A neon sign welcomes you as you descend to a slightly gloomy space, with an open kitchen, chalkboard menus, rustic wooden panelling – spotlessly clean yet with just a hint of grunge.

Operating as both a wine bar and shop (with some particularly fun beers and ciders too, although those aren’t all available to drink in), the list is firmly natural, with few familiar names. But in amongst these are reassuring signals of good taste – such as a rosé from Judith Beck (vibrant, juicy, moreish and a touch reductive) or the cult Domaine des Ardoisières Argile Blanc. The “house red” is a País//Cabernet/Carignan blend – juicy, savoury and fruity, the sort of thing that is perfect pizza fare.

Pure, utter filth.

And the pizza, oh the pizza. Trays of two-inch-thick focaccia are re-baked with cheese around the edge, forming a filthily savoury, fat-crisped crust to each pie. The list of topping options is short and simple, with specials making guest appearances. The red top (tomato, cheddar, mozzarella, pecorino and oregano) sets the bar, with its sweet-and-salty balance. Pistachio and mortadella combines a pistachio pesto with flutters of mortadella (surely the king of cold cuts?) and soft, creamy mounds of burrata. The soppressata combines gentle heat and meaty richness with sweet arrabbiata sauce and honey, the cut of basil making it the most moreish of them all. Slices are generous, verging on obscene, yet the base feels so airy, the combination of flavours so addictive, that it’s easy to devour much more than you intend to. Fortunately, doggy bags are offered freely.

Weninger’s hopped rosé – a delicious curiosity

To finish, we had a fascinating hopped rosé from Weninger. This curiosity sat somewhere between cider and wine, with a pleasing savoury, almost bretty feel, but still lifted fruit and freshness, as well as a satisfying phenolic grip. As we were about to leave, a member of the team arrived with a mystery gallon jug, scribbled with permanent marker. Sweetcorn, chilli, mezcal and several other ingredients were combined to make a maverick twist on an old fashioned – smoky, fiery, savoury and totally lethal. it’s just one marker of the service here, that draws you in, making you an insider.

It’s not flawless. Some wines were out of stock, one member of the team didn’t really know the wine list or if things were available, and I’d have loved it if the Brooklyn Ghost Bottlings they sell in the shop were on the list to drink in. But, beyond that, this joint feeds your guiltiest dreams with undeniable class, blending junk food and funky wine to create a spot that exudes fun. The one downside of Four Corners’ return? Calories now feature on the menu. Don’t bring your reading glasses, and you’ll have a much better time. Ignorance, in this instance, really is bliss.

Four Corners at Rondo la Cave, 199-206 High Holborn, London WC1V 7BD

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Under the knife: Café Deco

Look at Anna Tobias’s Instagram and it is deliciously ugly. The queen of #beigefood, she’s a refreshing counter to the curated profiles of London’s leading culinary talent. There’s no portrait mode, no careful lighting, no considered plating and careful ceramic selection. Indeed, her trademark has become the Chartier plate.

It’s a neat embodiment of the food you’ll find at Café Deco, her Bloomsbury restaurant that opened in the heart of the pandemic in late 2020, a collaboration with the 40 Maltby Street team. On the quiet of Store Street, it glows welcomingly, with the soft light and a stripped-back feel under its soft green awning. But there’s an Old World classicism here, with white table cloths and tealights that feel reminiscent of a French bistro or Italian trattoria rather than modish London eatery.

The menu is hard to describe, at once determinedly British, yet with classical French and Italian influence running through it. Modern European is a disservice to this very gentle combination that seems both familiar and totally refreshing.

Flawless sourdough and creamy salted butter set the tone – offered here without an additional charge, a rarity beyond the most expensive establishments. Smoked mackerel with beetroot and horseradish chrain (£11) is a statement in simplicity: the pleasing chunk of mackerel closeted in its iridescent skin, bones and all, pertly placed alongside a pile of firm and flavoursome, vibrant beetroot cut by the fire of horseradish. A mouthful of the pumpkin caponata and baked ricotta (£12) offered the perfect balance of sweet and sour, with the soothing creaminess to balance its intensity.

Beef mince on dripping toast, watercress and pickled walnut (£25) cries out to me – and rightfully so on a wet and windy November evening. But this is no Quality Chop knock-off. The oblong of toast is crisp, the mince an honest and subtle alternative to its Farringdon friend – less decadent, rich and gout-inducing, yet no less comforting. A perfect pickled walnut provides the sharp bite to prevent the plate’s reassuring brown-ness becoming bland. Roast halibut, potatoes and salsa verde (£28) sees similar acclaim from my fellow diners.

Chocolate pudding pie (£9) was a triumph – the finest, crispest pastry shell holding an almost inappropriately good chocolate ganache, layered with an almost obscene volume of pillowy whipped cream: the ensemble is one of the sexiest puds you’ll ever eat. Apple charlotte and cream (£9) leaves a Lancashire-man speechless.

Everything is simple, modest, yet executed to the finest level. It’s cooking that speaks of Tobias’s CV so far, with Jeremy Lee, the River Café and Rochelle Canteen, not to mention the P. Franco residency that I still have FOMO about. It’s not cheap, but it’s also the sort of place where you can linger, you can hear everyone around the table, where napkins are weighty, there are plentiful coat hooks. These details are the thing that elevates this from just a nice restaurant to somewhere that you can see yourself returning to time and time again.

There is but one black mark against the place. The wine list, unfortunately, is for me the only downside. It’s the sort that is obfuscatingly, determinedly natural. And few bottles sit below the £50 mark, making most choices risky. The wait-staff were delightful, but I’m not convinced they’d be particularly helpful in guiding you to a safe choice. On the upside, corkage is available, at £25, which is worth doing if you plan to drink well.

Take a bottle, or just savour the joys of #beigefood pure – I can guarantee you won’t regret it.

Café Deco, 43 Store Street, London WC1E 7DB

The magic of miscellanea
The view down over Clos Saint-Denis

One of the most joyous things about my job is getting to write (and commission others to write) on such a range of topics. True to form, it’s been a few months since I got round to sharing my latest jottings, and putting them together for one “article dump” highlights the variety.

First up is a personal favourite, delving into the unexpectedly fascinating and murky realm of the world’s most treasured tuber: white truffles. I spoke to Rowan Jacobsen, the author of a new book on the topic – and a tale of his own journey of discovery, as well as a real-life trifulau about the truth behind the white gold shaved over your fresh pasta. Read the feature here; Jacobsen’s book, Truffle Hound, is out now – and worth every penny.

Just before my nose led me down the truffle trail, I managed to make it (post-Delta, pre-Omicron) to Burgundy to taste the 2020s. My first overseas excursion since my trip to taste the 2019s, it was unsurprisingly brilliant to be somewhere else, let alone tasting such an extraordinary vintage. As with last year, I was heavily involved in the FINE+RARE coverage of the vintage – all of which you can find here, including our overview and a breakdown of the year by producer.

Last but not least is a piece about a producer I first came across visiting Australia in 2018, the fabled Bass Phillip – an estate that made some of the best Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, I was told. I trawled shops seeking out a bottle I could afford to taste, but no such luck. Last year, I got to try the wines for the first time, just as the estate changed hands, with the legendary Jean-Marie Fourrier taking the reins from Bass Phillip’s founder, Phillip Jones. I sat down with the Burgundian to talk about the project, one that has been made far from easy by Australia’s stringent border controls in the face of Covid. Read the full feature on FINE+RARE Editorial.

Here’s to an ever more eclectic selection of stories in 2022.

The year gone-by

Chilling at Hill & Szrok
Getting my hands dirty at Pierro, Margaret River
The day job continues at Berry Bros. & Rudd, St James’s Street

While another year flies by, and I bid to make more of this site, a quick run-through of jottings past is due. Here is a short-list of the topics that I typed on in the not-so-recent months…

Keep an eye out for more soon.

Under the knife: Aquavit

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“Oh. My. God,” my friend says, seizing the two weighty slivers of cutlery in front of her, ogling them like Beyoncé had just sat down opposite her. “This is Georg Jensen cutlery. My Georg Jensen cutlery.” I, meanwhile, stare somewhat blankly at this reference to utensil fame, deeply impressed by her knowledge. She’s a woman of impeccable taste and I can only believe that this means something, to those who know about these things, the knife-and-fork elite.

The cutlery is just one element that adds to the oozingly luxurious feel of Aquavit, the newest Nordic addition to London’s restaurant scene. It’s hardly surprising, given its location just off Lower Regent Street, that this is a restaurant positioning itself at the very top end of the market, with prices to match. Classic Nordic cuisine with a modern edge is served in surprisingly generous portions, but some dishes are more successful than others. Mackerel tartare, sorrel and lumpfish roe was inspired; the shrimp Skagen was a posh (and overpriced) prawn cocktail on toast.

Read a full review, with the highlights of my meal, on bbrblog.com here.

Sitting down with the Naked Chef

Jamie Oliver is studying the room, a PR machine whirling around him – photographers setting up in one corner, white-shirted chefs loading haunches of rare-breed meats into fridges, support teams juggling appropriately slim-line laptops and iPhones, a black-suited security team milling at the door. We’re sitting in the back corner of the new Barbecoa, a week before its official launch, chatting about the restaurant, the area, and how to stay ahead in the restaurant game.

It’s perhaps no surprise that the extraordinarily successful Naked Chef is a perfectionist. “I’m not quite happy with this room at the moment,” he muses, not particularly aimed at me. “I haven’t quite digested what I’m not happy about yet. I need to fix a few things.” This, combined with an expert entourage and a natural flair for self-marketing, has led to him becoming his very own, unique brand – one that is recognised and, for the most part, adored by anyone from the ages of 9 to 90.

Read my full interview with Oliver here on bbrblog.com, with details of his newest venture and his thoughts on our evolving attitudes to food and drink.

Under the knife: The Clove Club

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There’s a meal haunting me. I lie awake at night and lightly salivate as I dream of the numerous courses. I wake up anxious at the absence of duck, morel and ginger consommé, reaching for another sip of soup that isn’t there. It’s been three months, and I’m not sure how much longer I can handle these gustatory ghosts. It doesn’t help matters that 2017 has begun in a utilitarian, austerity-stricken manner – but, boy, were the excesses of 2016 worth it.

The meal in question was three months ago, my first trip to The Clove Club, a restaurant that feels so established on London’s scene that it’s almost passé to gush over its fabled dishes. Almost. But then you taste one mouthful of any of the nine courses that forms their extended tasting menu, and it’s clear that the world can indeed handle another five-star statement (alongside yet another Instagram of their irresistible basket of buttermilk chicken in pine salt).

Slipping through the pearly gates (alright, blue doors) of Shoreditch Town Hall, a magnificent structure perched on Old Street, you’re greeted by a window filled with home-cured haunches, hanging alluringly, just out of reach.

While things start to haze around the eighth or ninth course (chiming with the end of the second bottle and the arrival of the first in a series of glasses); it’s rare to recall a meal so distinctly. But that’s the power of the restaurant’s genuinely life-changing creations.

I’ve written about the food in some detail on bbrblog.com – but, while you go for the food, the wine list is the best I’ve ever seen*. It’s interesting, varied, combining classics and unusual numbers with some under-the-radar bottles, without offering too much choice. It’s not cheap, but it’s not outrageous (and when you’re spending £110 per head on the food, that £70 bottle or £15 glass seems a minor addition).

We had a bottle of Sam Harrop’s taut Cedalion Chardonnay which gradually unwound over the first five courses, revealing a little more of its flesh, fruit and ageing potential. With the partridge we graduated to a bottle of 2001 Henschke Cyril Cabernet – a rich, gluttonous wine whose liquorous, Kirsch fruit was dark and dense, drowning all but the beef rump with Jerusalem artichoke, ceps and coffee. Of the two, the Cedalion was more to my taste; but you can’t deny that the Henschke was a great wine, just a bit brash and bulldozer-y. It would have been excellent with venison stew, thinking of it.

Today The Sunday Times declared The Clove Club to be Britain’s best restaurant; prompting my bid to vanquish my hunger-mares. Perhaps the only way to rid myself of such visions is to return, seeing if it really is as good as I remember.

*Andrew Edmunds is another contender, but of a different sort, and one I’m hoping to revisit soon.

Under the knife: Frenchie

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Having commissioned one of the Berry Bros. & Rudd team to write a review of this new Covent Garden spot, and subsequently read, edited and published with outrageous envy what an utterly wonderful time they had, I was determined to make a visit myself.

Anticipation was high. Not only had I been salivating at my keyboard for weeks over Guy Davies’s review, but there seemed to be an incessant stream of Instagram posts praising the establishment, each taunting me with glimpses of the ever-changing menu. Under two months after it opened, I struggled to book a table for two a fortnight ahead of the planned date. Clearly, this Parisian export was doing something right.

Unassumingly positioned somewhere between a heaving All Bar One and Fred Perry on Henrietta Street, it’s surprising to happen upon such a little sophistiqué spot that provides a civilised oasis from the crowds of Covent Garden’s uncouth. That said, it might be a touch hard to “happen” upon at all, as I managed to walk past it twice with the aid of Google Maps. Bearing in mind the indulgence that was to come, the exercise was probably wise.

The simple décor looked a little sparse in photos, perhaps a hint too Scandi, but it feels warmer than it looks – particularly downstairs where you can nuzzle the kitchen, eying up the dishes being whisked to other tables. The staff were supremely friendly, appropriately attentive without being imposing, offering just the right amount of advice and information.

Then – of course – there’s the food. We started with bacon scones, maple syrup & seasoned Cornish clotted cream (£4). Phwoar – the sweet-savoury balance was bang on, and I could have wolfed at least another two. Next came the smoked Arctic char tartare, chive & kalamata bergamot (£12), a recommendation from our waiter, which arrived rather gaudily – a purple flower posing raunchily on a voluptuous pile of green gloup that lay on the fish itself. Despite its slightly gareish appearance, this was unbelievably good: fresh, moreish with a wonderful citric tang. Lamb ragu pappardelle, confit lemon, kalamata olive & espelette (£14) was difficult to share, richly comforting. Perhaps we’d had enough by this point, but we plumped for Mesquer’s farm pigeon, beetroot, kumquat & sumac (£23) which slipped down rather easily. We sipped on a rather intriguing carafe of Vespaiolo – surprisingly Sémillon-like, lemon-layered with a waxy feel that was terribly refreshing; then moved onto a Barbera which was a little ripe, but perfectly acceptable. We finished with banoffee, nutmeg (£9), seriously spooning it up and savouring its spiced sweetness.

It may not have been cheap, but, quite frankly, Frenchie was fantastic: the best meal I’ve had in London for a long time. Go, book – before there is a six-month waiting list, a Michelin star and a price hike.

Frenchie, 16 Henrietta St, London WC2E 8QH