Seventeen

Relocating to Britain back in the early-Noughties, one the first major culture shocks I experienced came in the unlikely surroundings of a Chinese restaurant. Forgetting the fact that at least half the pub football team contracted food poisoning that night and we had the forfeit the next match, what actually shocked me most about this insalubrious Oriental eatery at the end of Durham City’s North Road was the lack of General Tso’s chicken, crab rangoon, and beef and broccoli. My studies at university would later encourage me to think of these discrepancies in a post-colonial light, but to be honest no amount of Said, Ashcroft and Bhabha quite explains why American Chinese restaurants stuff crab and cream cheese into wonton wrappers and British Chinese restaurants don’t.

It’s just one of those things. I may consistently struggle to find satisfactory Chinese meals in the U.K., but I'm undeniably spoilt for choice when it comes to Indian food. You just don’t get good curries in Boston and my first taste of the tandoor – along with having my facial bum fluff amount to acceptable ID in bars – was one of the the things I looked forward to most as the plane set off from Logan International each summer.

So what a pleasure it is when I find Chinese food that meets my exacting and geographically biased standards. There hasn’t been much that makes me want to get out of bed over the last ten years, let alone shave and wipe down my trainers. I enjoyed eating at the revered Ken Lo’s Memories of China, but it was so extravagantly priced I felt like the cheque should have come with a return ticket to Beijing. I also really liked my meal at Silk Road in Camberwell. It was the first time I was fully exposed to the brow-mopping delights of authentic Szechuan cooking. In addition to the ball-numbing amount of chili, it cost less than a fry-up at Little Chef, offered something vaguely familiar in the kebab-like skewers, and gave pride of place to tripe dishes on the menu. In other words, it was pretty close to my ideal dining formula.

The food I ate at Seventeen in Notting Hill, where I attended a blogger’s dinner last week, belongs to this fascinating and tempting subset of Chinese cooking. But as a restaurant, it’s a different proposition altogether. Where Silk Road is all loud students drinking cheap lager at communal tables, Seventeen is well-heeled West London couples sipping sexy cocktails in sleek, Hakkasan-like surroundings. On paper, it’s the sort of place I hate. But the food is very good so I am prepared to put aside my prejudices and say that it’s worth a visit.

Cumin lamb skewers arrived first, wowing the table with their heady aromas. The juicy meat was packed with intense spicy flavours, the sort that evolve in a pleasingly slow manner rather than exploding all at once, and so ultra-tender that I’m tempted to think it had been marinated. Whatever the case, these were seriously satisfying skewers

 The meal’s two standout dishes followed. Szechuan-style fish featured something that could have been groper, drowning in a pool of spicy goodness. Our host Mark explained the method of cooking, and while I’ve long since forgotten the intricacies, the gist is that it was slowly poached in the sea of chili oil it arrived in.  Isn’t that fucking awesome? Is there a better way to cook, well, anything? Yet somehow, the heat it offered was pleasantly understated: it came close to satisfying the masochist in me, but was subtle enough not to overwhelm Al like some of the bolder dishes at other Szechuan restaurants. Crucially, it didn’t compromise the delicate flavour of the smooth fish itself, which melted in the mouth while it emitted its fragrant heat.

It was, without a doubt, excellent, but for me the highlight of the evening came next: the thinly sliced chili beef shank. The meat gave a soft, almost erotic mouth feel, and was tantalisingly moist, while the chilli sauce packed another solid punch without causing too many tears and sweat beads. That it came cold and still impressed to this degree was the real star turn. It seemed a bit bizarre at first, but Singaporean Jason, aka Feast of the World, pointed out that the serving of fiery dishes cold makes sense as the different heat sensations balance and complement each other. Whatever the physics of it, I just know I loved it. I was also a big fan of the other cold dish, the chili chicken. It worked in a similar way, with succulent meat bathed liberally in various layers of chili and then left to cool. After these two examples, I gave myself a sharp slap the wrist for ever thinking that serving cold food as a main course at dinner is a bit of a faux pas.

Accompaniments were competent without being revolutionary. Greens beans were slightly crisp without having had all the freshness fried out of them, and the crumbling of pork gave it a nice layer of extra saltiness. Chinese broccoli with garlic didn’t contain any massive surprises but it was fresh and well cooked, while rice was, well, rice. I tend to think that, in the West at least, you shouldn’t ever really take much notice of it and if you do it’s probably for the wrong reasons.

Only the twice-fried pork belly failed to totally impress. Belly is a particularly fatty cut of pig, and in this dish it had been sliced so finely that it ended up resembling a bacon rasher. This was comforting in a bizarre kind of way, but not necessarily pleasant and certainly not the kind of refinement you would expect at a high-end restaurant capable of producing truly stunning dishes. Puddings left the realm of pure Szechuan authenticity and embraced a broader pan-Asian spectrum. While nothing  produced the collective gasp that marked the arrival of the visually stunning fish dish, chewy Japanese mocha was deemed a winner, while the mango jelly won't disappoint many.

Nor will the wine list. Al enjoyed the sauvignon blanc offered with the meal, the acidity and tropical fruit flavours matching up well with the spicy cuisine, and a brief glance showed the rest of the oenological offerings to be similarly well considered. People seem to think that pairing wine with fragrant, often fiery Asian food is a tricky one, and beer is often the default choice.  However, wine can work exceptionally well, especially off-dry whites, and Seventeen offered a number of appropriate options, including Riesling, Pinot Gris, and my personal favourite, Gruner Veltiner. They seemed acceptable value, with many just the right side of the £30 mark, while for the fatter wallets there was some serious kit from Zind Humbrecht.

Seventeen is a very slick operation indeed. Mark made no attempt to disguise that its décor borrows heavily from the more bespoke end of the Alan Yau spectrum and the last thing they could be faulted for is their style. It’s not necessarily my cup of tea, but I appreciate that it’s done well: dark, sleek, and sexy, it has serious date restaurant written all over it and will no doubt appeal to West London’s moneyed types. The average punter will be looking at  a minimum of £50 per head for dinner before drinks. Those on a normal budget should mark it down for a special occasion, and I was pleasantly surprised when I mentioned it down the pub to some non-moneyed mates recently that two had actually been.  Personally, I’d take two or three meals at more proletarian establishments over one with the high rollers. 

Szechuan continues to be the savvy option if you’re slightly jaded by the typical, hole-in-the-wall Chinese takeaway, and based on this showing my feeling is that Seventeen should do away with the more crowd-pleasing dishes and focus solely on regional specialities like the ones we sampled. Perhaps if they ditched tired standbys like sweet and sour chicken and threw on more tripe delicacies, or some dishes with really full-on authentic heat, I might be tempted to the occasional splurge. Even if I did get an scary text from the bank the next morning...

Scotch Eggs: The Jugged Hare and The Old Red Cow, City of London

From humble utilitarian bar snack to fully evolved gastro pub status symbol, the recent gentrification of the Scotch egg speaks volumes about our current gastronomic zeitgeist. A bit broke without being totally penniless, the discerning punter now contextualizes the relative expense of their eating and drinking habits. Now, he or she rightly thinks: if it costs more, it should do more. So generic, only vaguely psychoactive piddle of the Carlsberg school has been replaced by potent double IPAs from as far as New Zealand and smoky porters from as close to home as Haggerston. We have come to realise, it seems, that while more bespoke pleasures may cost more, they also tastes twice as good and, crucially, pack twice the punch. 

The same but also the reverse is true of our dining habits: no longer can be regarded as slaves to the sit down meal. Rather, a splash out supper can now comprise a few small plates over some pisco sours at a trendy new joint like Ceviche or, if you’re really ancient, a comparable experience at the relatively geriatric Spuntino. Likewise, for considerably less trendy types like me, it can amount a bit of old school munch at a nice boozer – not the full on sausage and mash treatment so much as that wondrous deep-fried combination of chicken period, sausage meat, and bread crumbs, the Scotch egg. Sure, with some of the better ones approaching £5, it might all seem a bit excessive for a bar snack, but when you consider that Mark Hix would call it a starter, charge close to a tenner for it, and have it served to you by an arrogant turd, you realise that you’re almost approaching the realm of good value.

Because for all our pretensions as foodies - for all our affectations as crusaders of the smoked artichoke - sometimes it still is more about lining the stomach than chasing down the next temple of gastronomic greatness. Until about a year or so ago, I scarcely knew Scotch eggs existed outside of the odd roadside M&S en route to the mysterious territory known as the North. Now, they’re the first thing that cross my mind every time I step into a pub that seems to have an above average air about it. More often than not, I’m disappointed and presented with something that’s about as attractive as a graceless description of its raw ingredients. Occasionally I find myself satisfied, and ever so rarely I’m left wowed. 

The Jugged Hare is one place that elicit the less common response. As you would expect from the ETM Group – also known for the Botanist in Sloane Square and the Prince Arthur in London Fields - the recently opened Hare is a textbook posh pub. The deferential bar staff dress in waist coats and are attractive in a generic kind of way, there are lots of stuffed dead things, and much of the building is given over to full-scale dining. You really wouldn’t fancy your chances of getting served if you wandered in wearing a tracksuit, but it’s not so intimidating that you wouldn’t pop in just for a beer and ales are a real strength. The well-kept selection is focused around London breweries and is served in frosty mugs, a brave move that will no doubt irk traditionalists but one I fully endorse. Inevitably, the pricing is enthusiastic: the handpulls aren't too jawdropping, but bottles, including an excellent house pale ale, are a bit precious for my wallet. Still, so long as you have an ample budget and don't get too worked up by the 'City types' that tend to dominate this part of town, it’s a good spot to get a good beer. 

And a very good bar snack. Crispy skate knobs sound tempting, while chips and gravy seems deliberately out of place on the menu of a City gastropub, but it's really all about the Scotch egg. While the choice of meat filling comes across as knowingly upmarket, there is no question that this venison version is superb. Made fresh – so expect a short wait - it arrives warm, crisp and delicately crunchy on the outside, with rich gamey flavours lurking inside, along with an egg that is crucially still a bit runny. It's big enough to justify it's £4.50 price tag and the accompanying Cumberland sauce is another gutsy decision I thoroughly approve of and a further nod to the more righteous elements of Northern gastronomy. In fact, I would actually venture that it’s a much better partner as hot mustard can be too dominant at times.

Bavarian Beerhouse, Old Street

I’m a pretty cheap date. I can happily point out the redeeming features of a Nando’s, fully understand the cold functionality of a Wetherspoon’s, and even occasionally appreciate London Transport. Hell, I actually really like Pizza Express. But I’ve come to realise that, however much of a gastronomic hussy I may be, I’m just not slutty enough for the Bavarian Beerhouse.

Before accepting to run this particular gauntlet, I did a bit of research. After looking at their website and briefly pondering their menu, every sensible part of me (and there are a few left) was screaming: “Don’t do it!” For some reason though, I felt obliged, perhaps because of the slight flattery that came with reviewing solely on the back of my blog’s name for the first time. So I told myself that I could be wrong about it, reminded myself that the exterior of my beloved Cirrik does itself down by way of a loutish kebab sign, and thought back to an alright meal I think I had in Mallorca once, where the menu was a similarly vulgar melange of cheap photography and flaccid description. But honestly, looking back, I shouldn’t have even been in the bookshop, let alone judging things by a certain clichéd bit of paper.

The best thing I can say about the Bavarian Beerhouse? Well, I can see that it serves a purpose of sorts, just like the Monster Raving Loony Party offer voters a choice, and heroin does exactly what it says on the tin. Slightly more downmarket and dingy than your average Student Union bar, the fact that drinking games aren’t only tolerated but openly encouraged speaks volumes about the target audience: office piss-ups, stag and hen nights, and football fans.

Yet for some reason, I was invited to review the food. Not to try and hit nails with the wrong end of a hammer surrounded by inebriated young ladies, nor to watch the next Bundesliga match and learn rude new songs in a foreign language. God knows why they wanted to self-flagellate on the PR front like this, for the food they serve is so dire, so mind numbingly terrible, it seems like an overt act of political one-upmanship. I’ve never had astoundingly wonderful food in Germany, but never anything this bad and I've certainly never been confronted by a ‘Hawaiian schnitzel’ on a menu - not exactly a good start for a place that bills itself as "traditional" and "authentic." In making even the most average Munich beer garden look like the height of gastronomic sophistication, it also makes England look undeniably shit for playing host to such a diabolical venue. In that sense, what a stereotypical example of efficiency it is.