Soho Diner

Soho Diner is the new incarnation of Bar Boheme, previously a weak point in the otherwise faultless repertoire of the Soho House gang, although to be fair it was very of its time. But times move on, and in place of mojitos we have negronis on tap (startlingly potent) and instead of a cocktail stick poking into the burger, it is speared by a massive knife. Yup.

I only tried two dishes which were some ham and cheese fingers and the burger. The fingers were a toastie cut into strips with pointless dip. Fine if you’re after such a thing, but frankly it’s a bit shit.

I love a toastie, but I don't come to Soho for one. Well, I did as you see below. But the fried chicken was sold out and I didn't know it would be so basic. Fool me once...

The burger was a surprise; as well as the steak knife, the ‘single’ came with two patties and were cooked Dirty Burger style, that is to say, medium-well but still moist. But in a steamed way, rather than richly juicy. Good value, but better to be had nearby.

These guys show continually fantastic judgement, from their clubs to the restaurants and the touches consistent across their diverse portfolio, there is a real sixth sense for what the market needs and an extremely delicate balance between the informal, the exclusive and the business friendly.

The real appeal here is the location and licensing – it’s open until 3am on weekends so you can grab a passable burger, some more rocket fuel and engage in what is still some of the best people-watching in London.

The Crooked Well

Amble down from the madness of Denmark Hill station towards Camberwell and you might double take at your surroundings. The grandeur of Camberwell Grove, faded in parts, undimmed in others, is well-known, but parallel Grove Lane is more of a hidden gem. 

And believe me, having recently made the pilgrimage down to SE5 (responsible for your humble correspondent's brief hiatus), I ensure every single visitor witnesses it, hopefully distracted from the lively folk of the Maudsley, just behind.

That rarest of London phenomena; a pristine, un-Blitzed terrace of Georgian houses with a comfortable ten metres of croquet-ready lawn frontage, it should by rights be somewhere far more salubrious. By the same logic, so too should The Crooked Well, a relaxed yet upscale pub dining room – but they both seem to fit in just fine.

The term gastropub doesn’t mean anything much in 2013, and it’s lazy at best. In fact it’s odious. But I’m sure it would be bandied about here; ostensibly just a pub where dining comes before boozing. Perfectly ok here, as there are plenty of nearby boozers and often the contrast of ‘finer’ dining and quality service in pubby environs makes for a more relaxed experience. 

From The Oak in Notting Hill to Fulham's  Harewood Arms, it's evident that the exoskeleton of a pub can reassure many who'd sweat profusely in a stuffier venue about cutlery etiquette or how to react when that sign of quality, the metal crumb scraper comes out. Clue: it's less awkward than lazing around the house while the cleaner is grafting away. 

Food is modern British, not wildly adventurous but definitely a step up from a tarted up pub menu. There are three dishes for two to share; a fish pie, a Côte de Boeuf and the masterful rabbit & bacon pie. And yes, it really requires two people.

Other highlights included picanha steak, pata negra, a cocktail of the day with charitable donation and a list of strictly French apertifs, unique in eschewing those ubiquitous red and orange bitters of Milan. The cheeseboard is impressive too.

I’m trying to resist being too effusive, but it’s just really rather good here. Service is attentive and well-informed but laid back, warm bread is offered more than once, and the chips are bloody excellent. There is little more satisfying than well-executed simplicity, and The Crooked Well balances its uncomplicated quality with a hint of refinement to work for most occasions. Except perhaps a raucous knees-up.

Crucially both the (briefly) idyllic setting and the pub itself are absolutley perfect for that South East London parental charm offensive, when they’re wondering what on earth possessed you to move here. Cue astonishment and relief as they walk through the door; places like this are exactly why I won’t be going anywhere for a long time.

 

MEATmission

MEATmission is more of the same. Whether that is a good or bad thing depends completely on whether or not you like its older siblings. Personally, I’m a huge fan of the food, booze and vibe so It was never going to be a hard sell for me.

Differences here are that they take reservations before 7pm, the space is more condensed and some food tweaks. Notably, the monkey fingers – a huge serving of buffalo coated and fried chicken pieces. I could eat these every day.

In fact my current buffalo obsession led me onwards to try the buffalo chicken burger which was long overdue after a spate of dead hippies. It’s pretty much a big monkey finger in a bun. The chicken ‘burger’ is absolutely vast – you could quite easily halve it and fill two buns. It’s an unwieldy, greasy mess, and all the better for it.

A reviving glass jug of Brooklyn was punchy at £11 for two pints, but hoarded and guzzled all the same. My companions Piglet and @scouserachel preferred the sanguine hues of their ‘Time Of The Month’ cocktails. 

Service is friendly and extremely competent for this cacophonous, well-lubricated environment. The space is an old Christian mission, hence the name, and the stained glass effect mural is a nod to this. Sort of. If Satanists had worship space, perhaps. Frankly, an old church might be the only way to top this latest venue in terms of gothic drama.

The burgers are high-end slop, the crowd is young and loud, and you have that occasional reward of no-reservations; they thoroughly approve of people lingering to get drunk. It's a go hard or go home sort of place and you’ll already know if you’ll like it or not. I do profusely, and Monkey Fingers are worth crossing town for, but MEATliquor pips it, primarily for being more spacious and a lot more fun. 

Food – 8/10

Drink – 9/10

Service - 8/10

Value – 7/10 
Tap water tales – 8/10

Staff Hotness – 8/10

Mishkin's

Day late and a dollar short was this pig to the Mishkin’s party. On a Sunday afternoon, it was relatively languid but having been past several times (and with plenty of Polpo experience) I can imagine how loud and hectic it must get.

The food is an eclectic collection of inspirations and quite resolutely refuses to be pigeon-holed. Yes it’s heavy on the New York Jewish dishes, but East End Jewish features too, and yet it’s not kosher. You couldn’t expect so from the man famed for pork & fennel meatballs or the pork shoulder and pepper pizzette. And of course, it’s boozy, music-focused and sceney. So really it’s many miles from being Katz’s in London, which the laziest blurbs indicate.

However, matzo ball chicken soup (£6) isn’t something you come across every day in London. This was a small bowl with only one dumpling (you’d be strung up in NY for such parsimony) but it concealed plenty of shredded chicken and veg in a light chicken broth. Clearly this isn’t New York and there is better to be had in situ (for about $3-5) but I was glad of the escapism and warmth on that hideous afternoon. A regular ‘Jewish penicillin’ chicken soup might be a smart addition too, especially as a seasonal special.

Onwards from a wholesome bowl of cuddles to a rich, oozing mess. The mac ‘n’ cheese (with mustard and salt beef - £11) was quite something. Baked and crispy on top, with a select few of those teeth-threateningly burnt pieces.  Plenty of chunks of salt beef – absolutely delicious. Do not be deceived by the size, this is rich, heavy fare. I was stuffed full about halfway through, but persisted to the inevitable stupor and slump. 

 

East End chips with green ketchup were staggeringly tasty and moreish. The green ketchup seems to be something close to chip shop/Chinese curry sauce. Chips were crunchy, piping hot and yet soft inside, with some skins left on for a bit of variety. Superb.

Cinnamon donuts are rarely bad but I’ve had better (Disco Bistro’s were world-beating) - these weren’t fryer-fresh judging by the struggle they put up, and the chocolate sauce was thick but too springy, meaning it merely imprinted the donut, rather than transferring. Generous portion though.

Unlike Polpo and its small plates, there isn't any pressure to dine in a sophisticated or civilised Mediterranean manner – you are thoroughly encouraged to stuff your face, wipe the melted cheese off and waddle out. The size of the deli sandwiches (including the famed Reuben) attest to this. I would say it's by far the best value in the stable, for this reason. I'd struggle paying £10 for a pizzetta having gorged at Mishkin's.

Service and staff are similar (attentive, clued-up and quick, but totally into themselves) and drinks are top notch. The spiced negroni (£8) provided a zingy kick to the Sunday, desperately needed to attack the cheese gloop now sunken to the lowest fathoms of my stomach.

What I enjoyed about Mishkin’s its uniqueness and honesty. This is not healthy. These are not small plates. Or for sharing. It’s selfish, coronary-inducing food, far beyond the levels normally ascribed to ‘comfort’. It does have obvious themes, but constantly surprises, twists and ultimately bangs its own drum. Or shtick. I’m not aware of anywhere imitating it beyond the odd reuben, and in contemporary London gastronomy, a dash of originality is a precious thing indeed. 

Food – 8/10 

Drink – 8/10 

Service - 7/10 

Value – 8/10 

Tap water tales – 8/10 (jug brought and topped up) 

Staff Hotness – 9/10 (as ever, hand-selected by Russell I'm sure)

Wishbone

Wishbone is a tiny hole in the wall place in Brixton’s Market Row, selling fried chicken. Whether it is glib, lazy or at worst offensive to reference the inevitable popularity of chicken in Brixton, (or pointedly naïve not to mention it), it’s not inaccurate as Wishbone was absolutely packed when I visited.

This is no Chicken Cottage situation however; all birds are free range and dishes include wings and deboned thighs with various seasonings and treatments such as Buffalo, Korean and barbecue, served with dipping sauces. The Buffalo wings were pretty damn spicy and very meaty.

Special mention for the side dishes, especially the deep fried mac’ n’ cheese. These are pockets of the hash brown variety, hot and crisp, filled with macaroni cheese. Absolutely delicious, I’d say that ironically these contain no chicken and yet could become the signature dish of Wishbone. You get 4 for about £4.50.

You might infer from the (very reasonable) pricing that this isn’t a place to linger, but a long list of sours and strong beer selection means there is plenty to stay for and we felt no pressure to hurry at all. The staff were lovely and chatty, tunes were old school hip hop and service was quick.

My one red flag was the Hot Mess, which was a jumbled dish of broken hash browns coated with cheese and tomato sauce, jalapenos and pickles. It sounds like the ultimate in dirty filthy junk dude whatever food, but when faced with it, the grease quotient is just a little too much and makes the dish quite unappealing.

When we visited (a Saturday around 2pm), the quarter and half chicken portions were unfortunately sold out, so the selection was between wings, boneless thighs and the chicken wrap. Hopefully this was an isolated issue, but if not I’d say that now they’re bedded down, they may want to expand the menu a little. 

Still, it’s a buzzy, fun place and I’d definitely return. A fried chicken and waffle brunch dish wouldn't go amiss...I'm not aware of anyone in London doing it at the moment. This I ate at the Nob Hill Grille in San Francisco last month, and it was quite fantastic:

Sao Paulo

Innovative food, relaxed diners, global variety and adventurous design. This might be Tokyo, London or New York. But Sao Paulo? Surely they only eat steaks, meat buffets and some sushi and bad Italian? Do they even eat?

These were my preconceptions of Sao Paulo before a recent visit, gladly all proven wrong. It is not Rio. The guys wear tieless suits and the girls wear Gucci. This is a city which works, eats, drinks and drives (and together too, sadly), as opposed to preening and playing foot volley on the beach with a beer in hand. More's the pity.

Avenue Paulista emerged as a new CBD for the city when the original one was left to rot. It features a lot of big business and shopping malls, but curiously some rare colonial mansions from Sao Paulo’s original coffee barons, a Bahia-style church and the beautiful Trianon park, which is a mini-rainforest haven in the midst of the chaos. And right opposite the brutalist masterpiece which is the Sao Paulo Museum of Art (MASP).

I love brutalist architecture and Sao Paulo has the best on the planet, dramatically juxtaposing with the other unplanned mayhem of the city, such as being retained as the base for the more modern skyscraper below.

Just off the Avenue Paulista is Spot where I had a fantastic dinner. Food is modern European, heavy on the pasta dishes. It’s very much a hotspot and as I came to learn, even the best cooking in Sao Paulo takes a backseat to posing, the scene and the amazing people-watching. The astounding frivolity and superficiality of the crowd is worth the steep prices, and somehow being among them seems less soul-destroying than the equivalent crowd might be in London. Pass it off as cultural curiosity and observation perhaps.

I stayed in the Jardims area which is split between leafy streets of huge mansions (behind even huger razor-wired walls) and the northern part which is a commercial area, full of the swankiest shops, restos and bars in the city. As with Buenos Aires, an apparent lack of heritage planning restrictions has led to some outstanding retail design and construction, with a few similarities to the quieter streets of West Hollywood and Omotesando. 

Ritz in the Jardims is owned by the same people as Spot, and came recommended for its burgers and caipirinhas. Having tried many Brazilian dishes at various lunches, this fully paid-up burger geek wanted to see what Sao Paulo had on that front. The blue cheese burger was deceptively vast; a thick, coarse patty smothered in heady gorgonzola. The bun visually lets it down and immediately brings a Big Mac to mind, but it tasted fine and managed to hold everything together. Ritz itself is well worth a visit – superb staff and drinks and much more on the menu than the burger. It has a McNally look and a very international crowd, but with a distinctly Brazilian pace and vibrancy to it.

I also spent some time in the Vila Madalena area, which again echoed LA and where a lot of Sao Paulo’s nascent ad agencies and production houses are located. It also houses Coffee Lab, a contemporary shrine to the humble bean which would hold its head up in London, Melbourne or Wellington, housing a roastery, indoor café, outdoor space amid tropical plants and a store selling the usual Chemex and Hario goodies. But exclusively for Sao Paulo. At about £3 a pop it’s expensive for Brazil, but for the increasing population of expats and coffee snobs here, this place is clearly a godsend.

Allez Allez in Vila Madalena is a cosy neighbourhood bistro, with impressive period features such as imposing wooden doors and a quintessentially colonial veranda. The peppercorn steak was a lovely tender piece of meat which I was harassed into having despite my protestations about visiting Buenos Aires the following day (Brazilians will argue their meat equals any from Argentina).

Typical Brazilian lunches are not a tragic Pret sarnie at desk affair at all. They are lazy, drawn out and rather debauched affairs which reassured me that the Brazilians will be too busy lunching and chatting to actually take over the world. Our jobs are safe. 

Two hour lunches are not uncommon on any day of the week, and a traditional buffet was a brilliant way to try a little bit of everything. This is different to the churrascarias better known in London (the indoor barbecue where unlimited meat is carved out for you) – here you pay by the weight.

It’d be a terrible place for a vegetarian. There are countless stews of different beasts, fried meat dishes and even this poor piggy:

Brazilian food is decadent, hearty, warm and satisfying, but fundamentally very unhealthy. This is evident around the midriffs of many in Sao Paulo – again, Rio this is not. Even at the classiest places, you will be brought dishes of pão de queijo - pastries filled with cheese (basically Gregg’s) which whoreishly appear as starters, desk snacks, bar snacks, breakfast and any other occasion where artery-damming stodge might be needed. Brazilians are probably buried with these in their coffins.

If deep fried, cheese, meat, salt and butter are key components for you, Brazil is the place. But make sure the treadmill is too. And skip hotel breakfasts for some amazing fruit – here are some ‘plain croissants’ from my hotel, which actually have shredded chicken through them, and some rank sausages floating in oily Heinz soup:

Astor was the most memorable meal of my time there. The place is beautifully decorated, with an amazing bar, art deco touches everywhere and a lively, cosmopolitan crowd. I had picadinho which is a Brazilian greatest hits and frankly more food on one plate than good manners should allow. Quite how anybody can wolf this down and go back to ‘work’ for another five hours is a mystery to me, but they manage in Sao Paulo, the economic, lunching and slumping centre of Latin America. 

 

It features rice, a separate jug of black beans, farofa (flour with corn and bacon, deep fried of course), deep-fried bananas, a few more pão de queijo in case the starters weren’t enough, and a mound of beef stew, similar to stroganoff. And with a poached egg on top for luck. It’s absolutely delicious obviously, but that and the bountiful sake caipirinhas render you incapable of doing anything afterwards. Welcome to Fridays in Sao Paulo...