The Lawn Bistro, Wimbledon

For me, Wimbledon’s culinary renaissance began in earnest when The Lawn Bistro opened last year.  Whatever the merits of the food at Claude Bosi’s revamped Fox and Grapes – and early reports were decidedly mixed – I can’t forgive him for so drastically changing a pub that didn’t have anything wrong with it. It’s now the sort of place where just popping in for a pint seems frowned upon, and dogs are almost certainly no longer welcome. If such a wholesale reinvention were necessary, the pub label should have been dropped entirely: it’s blatantly no longer anything of the sort.

Like the old Fox and Grapes, Lydon’s restaurant was a relic of the old Wimbledon Village. Unlike the Fox and Grapes, however, its loss went largely unmourned. Lydon’s offered a certain nostalgic charm: nearly everything was wheeled out on trolleys – the fish of the day, desserts, cheeses – and the menu was from an era when the prawn cocktail represented the height of sophistication. It really was the restaurant that time forgot, the sort of place where you could imagine the Major from Fawlty Towers stumbling in half-cut to report on affairs at the local cricket club. But the novelty had largely worn off by the time the (sizeable) bill had arrived and you realized that the place’s only merit was to allow people who remembered, possibly even fought in, World War I to have a smartish meal out.  

Exit Lydons, enter the Lawn Bistro and chef Ollie Couillaud. I first got wind of Couillaud when he took the helm at The Hansom Cab in Earl’s Court Road shortly after Piers Morgan bought it and tried to reinvent himself as the Kensington posh boys’ favourite publican. I knew the Cab well: the Oddbins where I worked was just around the corner and the since deceased Kensington Arms, where many of my friends had jobs, was one street over. The Cab’s transformation from non-descript-but-convenient dive into a place with gastronomic ambition intrigued me, not least because I was starting to get more serious about food writing at this point. It’s a shame I failed to visit it at the time because now it’s part of Marco Pierre-White’s empire of overpriced mediocrity, I almost certainly never will: I haven't the remotest desire to pay the best part of £10 for a bowl of soup. But Couillaud’s name stuck in my mind.

Chef Couillaud has quietly developed a bit of a reputation in foodie circles that dates back to his early days at Chez Bruce and La Trompette. The connection with the latter was immediately obvious on my first glance at The Lawn Bistro’s menu, which features a main of cod with vanilla vinaigrette. I remember a very similar dish the only time I dined at La Trompette: this slightly bizarre and overpowering flavour combination was the one bit of the evening I didn’t thoroughly enjoy. While my nineteen-year-old taste buds weren’t perhaps as adventurous as they are now, I feel my opinion on fish-pudding hybrids is unlikely to have evolved too much. So I knew immediately what I wasn’t going to order, because I wanted very much to like The Lawn Bistro.

I didn’t have to try very hard. A smooth operation that impressed to varying degrees at every stage of the meal – even the homemade bread (below, top) was more than an afterthought – the Lawn Bistro’s food isn’t actually of the razzle-dazzle or overly challenging variety despite the presence of vanilla and cod on the same plate. Like the restaurant I most recently raved about, The Empress, it’s more about confident execution of quality ingredients and the odd little flourish, and much the better for it. My starter of mackerel escabeche (below, bottom) was the kind of gutsy fish dish I tend to rave about, the pickled flavours coming through strongest in the accompanying vegetables rather than overpowering the mackerel itself. I’m unsure about the finer aspects of preparing escabeche so don’t know if crisp skin is even possible, but if it is, it would have been an added plus. The accompanying green olive crostini offered a bit of saltiness and crunch and rounded out the plate amply.

Al began with crab and scallop tortellino. Also close to faultless, her only worry was that she opted for the obvious girly option. Looking a bit like a fine sculpture when it arrived, it was lightly bathed rather than swimming in the champagne veloute, the pasta not too soft, and the delicate flavours of the fish melding together nicely with the subtly sweet fennel. Personally, I’ll always cross the supposed gastronomic gender divide – what a load of absolute bollocks it is though – when this is the kind of pay-off I can look forward to. For more alpha male types, the duck hearts would no doubt have sufficed at this stage of the meal.

The Empress, Victoria Park (Hackney)

Those wanting to observe quality sub-editing in action are directed to my sugar daddy: http://hackneycitizen.co.uk/2012/04/10/elliott-lidstone-the-empress-e9-review/

Trading the most prestigious job at a Michelin starred restaurant in an idyllic Berkshire village for the challenges of reinventing an urban kitchen might not seem like a normal career move, but then Elliott Lidstone is no ordinary chef and Victoria Park is far from a typical corner of London. With leafy, tree-lined streets, bespoke shops, and gentile denizens, it possesses a definite air of suburbia, despite the hustle and bustle of Mare Street being less than a mile away. More importantly for Lidstone, whose CV boasts twelve years experience at top rated restaurants, and his newly transformed Lauriston Road eatery, The Empress, it is one of the epicentres of Hackney’s thriving food scene.

This enviable location is exploited to the full, with meat coming from master butchers and neighbours The Ginger Pig and all manner of things aquatic from expert fishmongers Jonathan Norris across the road. The E5 Bakehouse rounds off an impressive list of local suppliers, delivering fresh sourdough (by bicycle, of course) on a daily basis. The quality of produce is evident in Lidstone’s cooking, which, at the risk of wrongly equating his frequently masterful food with shoddy gastropubs across the land, is modern European: firmly British dishes like trout with Jersey Royals and samphire co-habit the menu with Italian-tinged fare like roast guinea fowl with borlotti beans.

Our meal began with some of their nibbles, both of which were the sort of snack that bars with or without gourmet aspirations would offer in an ideal world. Crispy pig’s ears (top), served with a smooth apple sauce, were like refined pork scratchings: moist and chewy rather than dry and crunchy, they maintained the crucial saltiness that is the key to a good drink accompaniment.  Ham croquettes (bottom) were of a similarly high standard. Specked with prosciutto and oozing gooey Béchamel sauce, they were equal to the offerings of some of the capital’s finest tapas bars, even those of the mighty Morito. 

A starter of pearl barley and cauliflower risotto was a particularly thoughtful vegetarian option, streets ahead of your average stuffed mushroom in terms of creativity and not ruined by lazy lashings of truffle oil. Not just an imaginative triumph, it was wonderfully executed as well. The risotto was appropriately creamy, while the pearl barley offered sufficient bite, and spring onions perked up the taste buds. Crunchy hazelnuts and crispy fried shallots finished the dish and added extra layers of texture.

Tastes of the Nile, Swiss Cottage

Swiss Cottage, where I am currently spending a couple of weeks with the fine folks at the Islington Gazette, isn’t exactly a gastronome's delight. Its main claim to fame is that, ten minutes down the road near the South Hampstead overground station, there is a sushi bar outpost of the venerable Atari Ya group. It is beyond outstanding, so watch this space for a fawning review of them sometime soon. Other than that, it’s what you would expect of an area that is, for all intents and purposes, a large road that takes you to the more interesting parts of North London.

Chain fast food joints abound, there are plenty of chicken shops, and lots of dubious looking cheap cafes and sandwich bars. I’ve heard that the rather grimy looking little Chinese place on Finchley Road, Green Cottage, is something of an institution and it’s definitely on my gluttonous hit list. So too is Eriki, an Indian restaurant which garners generally good reviews – not even Morleys could get less than three stars from Time Out – but puts me off because of its overly spacious, airport lounge interior (they actually have a second branch at Heathrow).

What a pleasant surprise then to discover a little farmers’ market last Wednesday. Of course, farmers’ markets are typically visited mainly for their produce and, in all honestly, I’m not actually a fan of most of them, especially those that fall under the official London Farmers’ Market (LFM) banner. I find them inferior to independent local markets like those found in places like Brockley, Hackney, Deptford and Dalston, which tend to be less expensive, more vibrant, and crucially offer a diverse range of quality street food.

I suppose LFMs serve a purpose in so far as they encourage people who are a bit intimidated by other cultures and the non-familiar to make an effort to support small producers rather than just running to the nearest Whole Foods, but damned if I’ve ever had anything other than burnt burgers and sausages – top quality Organic Freedom Soil Bio-Sustainable burnt bangers, mind – to eat at these bag-for-life bashes. Apologies to Millwhites and Kush Cuisine, who are well worth seeking out at these events and for whom I will happily swallow my pride (though I might choke in the process), but on the whole I just can’t see the reason to shop at these places, let alone go to them with the intention of finding something to eat.

Until a few days ago, that is, when I encountered an interesting little stall called Tastes of the Nile at the farmers’ market in Swiss Cottage. Elaine El-Essawy serves Egyptian-style food here as well as at a little cafe in Camden and it’s a simple enough concept at the market: you choose a freshly prepared meat or vegetarian main option that is then served with various salads and sauces. What makes it special is the staggering range of accompaniments they manage to fit into one tray. Normally, my memory is pretty good when it comes to recalling the components of a meal, despite my best efforts at university to compromise all my cognitive abilities. But this was one of those times when I just had to take notes.

Brew Dog Bar Bad Ass Burgers, Camden

The lack of interest in the burgers at London’s Brew Dog bar surprises me, if only because their menu – which also features a small selection of pizzas – was designed by Tim Anderson. Tim was the slightly nutty, totally loveable American Japanophile and craft beer fiend who triumphed on last year’s edition of Masterchef. With sliders. You read that correctly: he won the most prestigious amateur cooking competition in the United Kingdom with mini-burgers.

They were hardly ordinary sliders, mind, with his tribute to Los Angeles including a German smoked beer to invoke the city’s smog on the palate. It was his ability to create this kind of bizarre gastronomic nostalgia and his madcap but genius deployment of unusual ingredients in even quirkier ways that helped him on his way to becoming the show’s youngest ever winner. So you would think that the prospect of burgers conceived and endorsed by the wacky Wisconsiner, accompanied by some of the finest brews in the land, would have London’s burgerholics flocking to Camden Town faster than the Great Red Donkey Andy Carroll would rewind to last season's January transfer window if he was able to.

Yet to date, only Burger Anarchy seems to have launched an investigation into the state of affairs in NW1. Are bloggers and beef patties falling out of love? Hardly. One needs only to witness the success of new arrivals like Brockley Market’s Motherflipper and Street Kitchen’s recent pop-up venture, Patty and Bun, to know that this is a gluttonous liaison with some serious shelf life. The blogospheric neglect is even more surprising because, in more ways than one, it’s a pretty decent burger. 

  

I’ve munched Brew Dog’s ‘Bad Ass’ burger on two occasions now. The first was following a lunchtime knees-up at the new Camden Brewery bar not long ago and was not the most instructive experience to judge by. Not only was I was I gradually becoming over-refreshed, but it’s kind of cruel to pronounce on food after yamming down two Big Apple Hot Dog’s in the sun. So a second bit of ‘research’ was clearly in order and while somewhat surprisingly I hadn’t missed anything too important, I was able to clarify a number of points. The three main ones were: it’s extraordinarily good value, the patty and its accompaniments – especially the sauce - are better than fine, and the bun is absolutely fucking awful.