Hibiscus, London

Hibiscus operates in a smart location just off Regents Street, its interior befitting a two starred restaurant in Mayfair.  Its all clean lines, neutral decor and plush seating.  Modern art dominates the walls as a army of waiting staff glide over the thickly carpeted floor.  Its all very Michelin.  Its not the kind of place you come to have a good time, unless your idea of a good time happens to be hushed conversation and overhearing a nearby table discuss hedge funds.  They make no excuses that here is a temple of gastronomy, pushing the boundaries of modernist haute cuisine in a city not known for its food innovation.

The modernist approach is in your face from the off.  Eggs arrive in a carton, the perfectly trimmed shell encasing a silky mushroom mousseline, a coconut froth and a dusting of curry powder.  It succeeds in providing interest in that I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not until the last mouthful.  I don’t.  A smoked chicken terrine is pitch perfect, the flavour pronounced and lifted by a little foie gras.  We forced the last of the meat and quince jelly on to sourdough from the Hedone bakery, which is about as good as a shopping trip for bread can get.

Poached cod arrives under a cloud of foam, the fish surrendering to the merest of pressure from the fork. The fine dice of shallot, lemon and capers taking French home cooking to dizzying heights.  We fight over who can mop the last of the cooking liquor up with more of the bread.  No such arguments were needed with black pudding of Hare with a glossy jugged sauce.  It was blood with more blood and needed far more acidity than a roasted apple to cut through richness that bordered on sickly.  The accompanying pomme puree had been overworked to a gloop.  There should be a t-shirt and Hall of Fame for anyone that can finish this in one sitting.  

More game was had with partridge, with a slightly tough breast and wondrous confit leg which had me gnawing at the bone.  There was clever use of cauliflower roasted and also worked into a couscous like texture.  Genius was at work with the sauce, perked by curry and raisins, which lifted the dish firmly into two star territory in a unique and playful way.

Desserts were a mixed bag.  I saw little enjoyment in their take on Tiramisu, with a grainy ice cream spoiling a pleasantly different combination of coffee and cardamom.  It made me wish I had joined the rest of the table in ordering the sticky date sponge which drew silences thanks to a fudge sauce with a pronounced smoked flavour.

The bill is kind for this level, with lunch for three, including half a bottle of wine each and a cocktail apiece, creeping in at seventy quid a head.  It allows a small glimpse into the world of Claude Bosi’s cooking, which provokes at all times and succeeds a little bit less.  The best of the cooking is up their with the best, with other dishes disjointed in comparison.  Maybe my palate is too primitive but food at Hibiscus is not somewhere I would come running back to when I’m next in the capital, however intriguing it may be.

7/10

 

Pizzeria Margheri, Lichfield

Today I find myself north of Birmingham in Lichfield – a phrase I haven’t been able to say too often in the past. I am here for the holy grail of good company, good beer and good food. It is the food which I find most intriguing; I have come on the lure of a family run Italian restaurant where good pizza can be had. I have often bemoaned the state of Italian found in Birmingham – it’s the most poorly represented cuisine in the city and I am yet to eat in any in my home town that I would recommend to others. In Birmingham if you want good pizza you go to The Plough in Harborne. If home made, silky pasta is your thing, then I am sorry to have to break this to you, but you are in the wrong city.

Pizzeria Margheri doesn’t look much at first. It’s a small room, with tired beige tiles on the floor and exposed brick walls. There are too many wooden tables for the cramped space and I imagine at full capacity the conversations of nearby diners become very much your business.  It is a good thing that they take the food so seriously:  They import as much as possible from their native Italy, from buffalo mozzarella through to hunks of cured meat which is sliced onsite.  Its an expense that pays off; the mozzarella is young enough to still threaten your chin with its milk, whilst the proscuitto has a depth of flavour and glistening fat that we rarely find on these shores.  With no cooking required the plate is an exercise in ingredient sourcing.  They pass the test with aplomb.

The aforementioned pizza is made with a sour dough base which we try in a couple of forms.  First up is dough balls which are world away from the spongy tripe that they serve at Pizza Express.  Here the dough is deep fried and non-uniform in size.  There is a pleasingly high salt content and a chunky tomato salsa which pays thanks to the quality shopping again.  Think savoury donuts for grown ups and you’re just about there.  The pizza was a delight.  Everything above board was well sourced, from more of the mozzarella to the discs of salami, but it was below decks where the hard work was done.  The dough had been treated to a blitz through an oven which rendered leopard spots of char on the base.  The crust was chewy, the centre correctly soupy.  It is up there with a certain Franca Manca in London as the best pizza in the country.  And all of this on a side street in a city that only qualifies as one because of a cathedral.  The thirty thousand residents of Lichfield don’t know how lucky they are.

Did I mention that they have a constantly changing pasta menu which I’ll be going back to try?  Or that it is seriously cheap? Throw in a starter, main course and a few beers apiece and you’ll struggle to reach the dizzying heights of twenty-five quid a head.  All of which makes the fact that we dined in a half empty restaurant on a Saturday evening all the more shocking.  Maybe they need a fully-functioning website, or maybe they just need to relocate to my street so I can single-handily keep them ticking over.  In a country full of chains serving faux-Italian, independents such as Margheri deserve to thrive for serving authentic food at a fair price.   At last I have an Italian which I can recommend.  Go try it for yourself, even if like me it is forty minutes on a train away.

8/10

 

Momofuku Noodle Bar, New York

The queue at Momofuku Noodle Bar reminded me of home.  Person after person, all lumberjack shirts, beards and beanies, waiting in line for a bowl of soup with bits in.  How very British.  I know people back in UK that would have joined the back of it for fun.  Me, I hate queuing.  Its wasted time that I could be spending doing more important things.  Like drinking.  Or being obnoxious.  But the original offering from the Momofuku group was high on the NYC hit list, partially due to it being a block away from our accommodation, though mostly down to it being a David Chang restaurant.  I like what I read about Chang; in every printed interview he embodies the ‘fuck ’em’ attitude that I love about his adopted city.  He is a sweary, belligerent man, with an apparent dislike for vegetarians and food bloggers alike.  Two dislikes which I happily share in the majority.

We eventually sit on a communal table in the brightly lit but narrow, canteen-esque space of pale wood.  We would have liked to have sat at the long counter and watch the open kitchen in action, though this is the kind of place where you don’t ask questions and take what you are given.  The menu is concise; some stuff in buns, other stuff in bowls.  There is a smattering of other stuff from which we order a moreish soft boiled egg, marinated in soy sauce and topped with crisp onions and chives.  We cannot resist going back for seconds whilst waiting for the hot stuff to arrive.

It was the steamed buns which started the hysteria here many years ago.  Today we take the beef brisket that requires minimal jaw work, sandwiched between a thin spread of horseradish and pickled onions which still retain some bite.  The buns themselves are a delight; little pillows of rice flour which offer a beguiling textural contrast from the braised meat.

From ‘bowls’ we order two riffs on ramen.  A pork one has tangles of shoulder meat and a wedge of gelatinous belly, the comforting stock which is central to the dish owed to a long simmering of discarded piggy bits.  The triumphant noodles, full of bounce and restraint, are even better when the runny egg yolk finally reaches them.  Another with morsels of smoked chicken thigh meat has a stock enriched with miso.  Its an addictive mix of umami, salt, and heat.  As far as ramen goes its about as authentic as a drag queen in a kimono, but Oh does it taste good.

Incredibly, a glass of wine here costs the same price as a main dish, so I’ll leave it to you to decide if the food is excellent value or the booze overpriced.  For me, Momofuku Noodle Bar takes the best of the flavours and textures from Asia and transports them to the western palate.  I just wish that we had somewhere in the UK with similar panache and without the piss-taking prices we are so used to.  Earlier, whilst stood in the warm autumnal evening waiting in line, I ask generic bearded bloke in front if the queues were always so bad.  His response; “yeah, its fucking good”.  David Chang couldn’t have worded it better his sweary, belligerent self.

8/10

 

Gramercy Tavern, New York

I blame the Notorious B.I.G. Whilst others siphoned their vision of New York from ten seasons of Friends, my view of the Big Apple came directly distorted from the music videos of Juicy and Big Poppa. I knew very little of the city other than pimped out vehicles and sweaty clubs where promiscuous ladies cavorted in hot pants, whilst men sipped on fancy cognacs and flashed wads of one hundred dollar bills.

Gramercy Tavern is nothing like that. Well, maybe the bit about cognacs and large currency, but certainly nothing like the rest. It’s a civil place where civil people go to enjoy civil food in a civil surrounding. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing; the meal would have been very different if we sat to the soundtrack of Puff Daddy and the Family. Instead we took central position on a dressed circular table in a dimly lit room with white-washed walls, long, arching dark wooden beams, and spectacular floral arrangements. It’s a pretty place to spend an evening, but then I knew that already. I also knew we could expect seasonal American dining from a kitchen which has held a Michelin star for a decade. Perfect surroundings for a meal early on in a celebratory trip to the city. In principal, at least.

 

We start with a tiny morsel of lobster salad on toast, which we all agree was delicious and left us wanting more. Up next was a pretty looking beef tartare with a salad of tomatoes and peppers that overpowered the slightly under seasoned meat, whereas a well flavoured carrot soup livened with hits of pickled onion was a little on the thin side.  Better would be a bolognese with coarse pork and folds of ribbed pasta which clung to the deeply flavoured cooking liqueur.

Mains were protein heavy with all meat options offering two cuts from the same beast.  Duck breast would be served atop of a mix of cabbage and confit meat.  The cooking of the protein was faultless, though the plate would be dominated by acidity thanks to the heavy glug of vinegar that ran throughout the cabbage mix.  Lamb loin came pink as requested with a slow cooked shoulder.  The accompanying aubergine, pepper and yoghurt taking the dish for a stroll through the Middle East.  It was well conceived and equally well received.

The pick of the mains was arctic char, gentle cooked and whizzed through the smoker at the last second, with the unusual paring of drupe, corn, and pepper.  The fruit offering a refreshing sweetness against the fish.  It felt balanced and original, unlike the conventional pairings which dominate the rest of the savoury menu.

We play it safe with desserts because no amount of wine is going to make me crave a combination of plum, potato and sorrel, or butternut and cranberry.  Instead we take the recommendation of a silky chocolate mousse cake, positioned on a thick smear of blackcurrant jam with flecks of wild violet and coconut ice to discount the richness.  Its the sort of dish that finishes you off for the evening and with the clock hands well passed midnight, we are glad for it.  For the same reason we should have retired to bed with the cookies and cream plate boxed up for the following day, though we don’t because they are too good – in particular a peanut butter cookie which I unsuccessfully beg for more of.

A word on the service.  I found New York in general to be a rushed, tip-orientated culture that frequently boarded on being rude.  Not here.  A team that was polished and knowledgeable, patient and understanding – even when one of the group came down ill minutes into our meal.  And no automatic service charge.  We well exceed the £65 a head for the three courses here because we are celebrating and still it feels value even if the we found the food a little off the mark a bit too frequently.  Gramercy Tavern is considered a dining institution to many New Yorkers; long may it continue to be so.

7/10