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 So generic, only vaguely psychoactive piddle of the Carlsberg school has been replaced by potent double IPAs from as far as New Zealand and smoky porters from as close to home as Haggerston.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.

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.