Mushu, Warren St.

During my brief spell under the tutelage of Time Out’s Guy Dimond at City University, I remember writing up a little place called Wagamama, my first ever review. Either London’s dining scene circa 2004 was at an all-time low, or my recently relocated teenage self was overly excitable when it came to flavours not commonly found in chicken wings or clam chowder. I was reminded of this wide-eyed Massachusetts yokel moment the other day whilst on a lunch date with Al. Chowing down on dumplings and other assorted pan-Asian goodies at Mushu, I remembered how eye-opening a Japanese meal that didn’t feature raw fish seemed back then. As is often the case, this sense of nostalgia existed solely in my over-fed mind – the only tangible resemblances it bore to Alan Yau’s 21^st century Japanese Wimpy Bar was the communal seating and the availability of karaage. 

For Mushu is far superior to the large room above Urban Outfitters on Kensington High Street where I had my first encounter with katsu curry and gyoza – not that that’s saying much. It’s not fine dining by any stretch of the imagination, but it is some of the better fast food I’ve had in this or any other city, the sort of place I wish was on every street corner and in every neighbourhood. The dumplings arrived in less time than it takes McDonalds to accommodate a ‘hold the tomatoes’ request and they were very good dumplings indeed. Possibly not quite on a par with Silk Road but still better than many a dim sum joint in this town. Classic pork and cabbage (top) were reassuringly simple and pillow soft, while beef and kimchi pot-stickers (bottom) had developed the right, slightly chewy texture on the underside and the filling was rich enough to hold its own against their special Szechuan hot sauce. Though the sauce wasn’t as authentically spiced as I would have liked, it was a pleasant, light brow-mopping heat that complemented the fuller-flavoured dumplings whilst not overpowering the more delicate ones.

At this point, I would have been happy to leave and tell you I’d found a great little dumpling bar smack in the centre of town. But Al wanted to explore the full extent of the menu and I don’t usually take much persuading to eat another plate of food. The mains offered were diverse, ranging from sashimi salads to noodle soups by way of a number of rice-based dishes. Al plumped for a salad of buckwheat soba noodles (top) with shredded chicken and a sesame dressing, which she approved of both nutritionally and taste-wise. My spicy chicken karaage (middle) was similarly well executed. Again, heat-wise it wasn’t exactly Pitt Cue’s suicide wings or a Cirrik shish wrap generously anointed with Holy Fuck, but it was a pleasant, gently-tingling spice sensation. What really struck me was the quality of the chicken. In recent times, I’ve noticed that the aforementioned High Street establishment uses classic generic ‘chicken bits’ in its karaage, but at Mushu the meat was definitely from a known part of the bird, tasting like juicy, tender bits of thigh. There was potentially too much rice for the amount of sauce, but the hot sauce left over from the dumpling round provided an acceptable substitute. A side of ebi katsu (bottom) came drizzled with a punchy reduction and was pleasant enough without being earth-shattering.

Service was a real strong point and I’m sure if I had requested things spicier than normal, the staff would have obliged without blinking. Cashiers and waitresses all exhibited the kind of charm generally reserved for private homes and toadying to influential critics. The kitchen was completely open and the chefs’ breakneck work-rate explained how the food managed to be both alarmingly fast and noticeably fresh. It was, in other words, once again the exact opposite of a certain chain. The restaurant itself seemed aimed at functionality rather than style, which is absolutely perfect when you’ve got a tight window for lunch. Of course, the real tell-tale sign of quality was the other clientele – local suits who could obviously afford to eat somewhere far more expensive than a little oriental canteen and a reassuring smattering of non-Western faces.

For some, the cafeteria-style atmosphere might render it a less attractive option in the evening, but to my mind it has an obvious purpose in the P.M. as well. The menu expands then to offer a fuller selection of meat and fishes dishes as well as a good range of sushi, with very little breaking the £10 barrier. Sure, the tapas label they apply to night-time dining is totally inappropriate and cringe-inducing, but it still seems worth a shout for a quick bite before heading off to find a new boozer to complain about. At lunch, we pigged out and it came to around £15 a head. A swifter, less indulgent lunch could have been done for less. While it wasn’t a life-changing gourmet experience, a great many restaurants, especially chains, could do a lot worse than to try and emulate Mushu’s fresh, fast fodder, honest pricing, and near flawless service. To hark back to the inexplicable sense of nostalgia I experienced on arrival, it’s what a Wagamama might be like in an ideal world.

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