Flesh & Buns

Flesh & Buns has managed to pull off that rare miracle in London's food scene; originality. 

It is a hotchpotch of Japanese dishes, with Korean and Chinese elements lurking around, but to call it an izakaya would be completely missing the point. It’s not an izakaya, in the same way that The Ivy is not a pub, even though they both serve safe, generalist classics such as Shepherd’s Pie.

In addition to the meat + buns main event, their offering ranges from sushi to yakitori, with plenty in between. Our chicken yakitori was sweet, faintly pink and absolutely charred to Tokyo yokocho perfection, but without the fag fumes. The fried squid, which at best I am ambivalent to, was zingy, light and lacked any rubbery texture at all. A first for me. 

Beef tataki was vinegary, tangy and frankly divine:

But on to the buns. The idea is to order from a range of predominantly meat dishes which come with hirata buns (similar to the bleached-white char sui dim sum buns but in halves) to fill. Cucumber and hoi sin-esque dipping sauces feature heavily, and so it’s fair to equate this with something in between the rituals of Peking duck and making your own sarnies. 

Many meals fundamentally boil down to DIY sandwich-making (observe us Brits in a tapas place) and so I have no doubts about its enduring popularity here.

Both of our dishes were fantastic. Top marks went to the Flat Iron steak – exquisitely cooked and sliced. The pork belly with mustard miso was also excellent, and a much bigger portion. 

The venue itself is long, open and woody – not hugely different to Wagamama I’m afraid, but I’m unsure how else to have done it differently, and it works. I remember this as some sort of dreadful pre-craft, Belgian-style microbrewery which itself was a MASH rip off.

Service was super keen and friendly. My date, the inimitable Grace Dent, kept to her inimitable punctuality and although I only waited about 15 minutes and was more than happy guzzling my Asahi, the Japanese waitress sweetly and sympathetically asked me if I wanted to order, but now for one. I’ve never been stood up in such a manner, but having experienced a taste of the accompanying pity, it’s not a morale booster…

I absolutely loved the food here. Charred, sweet, smokey and meaty. Meat. Carb. Sauce. All you ever really need.

In these heady days of opening-chasing, endless soft launches, 'pop-up pop-ups' and the perpetual hunt for the next thing, I can safely utter some endangered words in London’s 2013 food scene: “I will actually come back here.”  

Shake Shack, London

Food commentators on Twitter, the London press and even some of my previously oblivious, nonchalant mates had remarked that London’s burger mania had peaked and become dull. Even my Mum is aware of the craze. But this week’s opening of US transplants Shake Shack and Five Guys surely marks the crescendo.

As the debates rage on the limits of queuing, on London’s colonisation by US chains and thirdly on whether the humble burger itself merits all of this attention, it can be difficult to maintain a stance. The ‘to each their own’ mantra so universally appropriate has to be the way forward here.

Personally I wouldn’t like to queue 2 hours for a burger, but if someone does, that’s fine. I wouldn’t sleep rough for a new iPhone either, but I did wait 45 minutes at Frank’s for a lukewarm, assembly line Negroni which I could have bettered for free in my suntrap garden around the corner. So I’m a mug too… or, we’ve all got our weaknesses.

Is London becoming the 51^st State in regards to openings? Well, perhaps. We have Balthazar now, and in retail, J Crew and Williams Sonoma are following Banana Republic, Abercrombie & Fitch and many more before them. Nothing new there though. 

I doubt anyone would rather the repulsive Quick of France, or Pans & Co of Spain, and we should be pleased about the employment and investment created. Frankly, heightened service levels might cross the pond too. I’d much rather a Japanese invasion of fashion and food, but that’s another story.

But the burger itself should surely be the main issue. Is it worthy enough of all this hype? Is it just meat within two slices of bread? Yes, of course. But therefore a steak is just grilled meat and sashimi is just sliced fish? Anything can be disseminated for ridicule. If somebody values something to queue for a certain period or pay £15, then that is its value. Simple.

 

But Shake Shack itself? From the preview: a bit disappointing. They’ve made a huge effort, the team are fantastic and I wish the venture well – but the Smoke Stack burger (with cheese, bacon, peppers and a cloying mayo-based sauce) lacked much depth in flavour. The Aberdeen Angus patties were greyish inside, underseasoned and underwhelming. 

Top marks for the cheesy crinkle cut fries, and the shakes themselves. Kernel beer is decent but I hope they end up collborating with a London brewery here, as with Brooklyn’s Shackmeister. 

Curiously, the Cumberland sausage hot dog was the stand-out dish for me. Rich, gamey flavours and the crispy shallots were a perfect accompaniment and substitution for the usual bog-standard onions. With more of that cheese sauce. Fantastic, and probably the one reason I’d return.

I’ve eaten in Shake Shack in New York, and enjoyed it. The branding is superb and the staff great, but the actual food isn’t memorable on its own merits. It’s not as good as Burger Joint at Le Parker Meridien. Or Fanelli’s. Or countless other more affordable burgers in New York.

Let’s be truthful here: that positive Shake Shack NY impression becomes amplified when back home and amalgamated into the joys and vibrancy of a New York visit overall. The superlatives come out, the power of nostalgia becomes inscrutable, the positive memories indelible. But we in London have been busy, and this isn’t a patch on Honest Burgers or Tommi’s.

The Delaunay

Hard to believe as it is, April saw my first ever visit to The Delaunay. This less formal, warmer incarnation of The Wolseley, with its power breakfasts, Middle European afternoon tea and good-time crowd seems already to be an institution. Going by my Twitter timeline, it’s now as established as any West End stalwart. I've even recommended and referenced it to people as somewhere to take parents, mindlessly oblivious the irony that I hadn’t been myself.

And it’s great. It has all the elements required to add a little grandeur to a restaurant visit. The entrance is grand and instils a slight specialness to your arrival. Staff are exceptionally polite, well-groomed and as they take your coat and guide you to the bar area for a some cold and fizzy, your socks are already charmed off.

Food is really very decent. There is nothing adventurous on the menu, but that isn’t why you would dine here. The weekend brunch menu ranges from breakfast staples to steaks, running through salads, fish dishes, the odd burger and hot dog, and those Austro-Hungarian specialities you might know from The Wolseley.

Hungover as I am wont to be on a Saturday, the chicken noodle soup was beyond what the doctor ordered, beyond even junior doctors’ own saline drip remedy perhaps. A piping hot clear broth, with strong chicken flavour came with a decent amount of shredded chicken, the noodles and some veg (carrots, celery?) to add further taste. Simple and fantastic.

Revived, prosecco-ed up and feeling much better about life in general, my hungover choice of Chicken Cordon Bleu was still a solid decision. A bit of retro fun, but executed perfectly. A huge, juicy chicken breast was flawlessly breaded and filled with a layer of ham and cheese oozing out. It rested in a ridiculously tasty jus and the whole dish was an absolute pleasure to eat, with a twist of nostalgia. Surely there is nothing better than a fancy ‘kids’ tea’? The place that does grown-up waffles and beans next has my vote. 

 

Dessert options are compendious and faced with the choice of a Viennese grand café, I retreated into my ignorant shell and plumped for the obvious apple strudel with vanilla ice cream. It was crunchy, soft, warming and above any criticism. I’m a simple man with relatively simple tastes though: much like pancetta/bacon and savoury dishes, there are very few desserts a cheeky scoop of vanilla won’t enhance. Or compensate for. But this was inscrutable.

I don’t have anything further to add on The Delaunay. As I mentioned, bizarrely, it snuck into my repertoire and I spoke of it with familiarity and affection long before I’d been. Which is so odd. But I guess is a testimony to how consistent the reception has been that a dependable consensus seems to have infiltrated my consciousness.  

Queuing for burgers and eating street food on the pavement has its moments, but call me a traditionalist; this is how restaurants should be. Simplicity, atmosphere, timelessly contemporary, reliable and with a sense of occasion. It smacks of longevity already. 

Food – 8/10 
Drink – 8/10 
Service - 9/10 
Value – 9/10 
Tap water tales – 6/10 (nominal-charged filter option pushed, but tap available) 
Staff Hotness – 9/10

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)

Aperitivo at Il Tempo

The origins of aperitivo are hotly debated; the vermouth influenced aperitifs themselves seem to have started with Turin’s Cinzano empire, but the culture and practice of today seems to be a Milanese adaptation. Either way, who cares, it’s from up that way.

 

We Brits can certainly learn a lot from the characteristics of Italian eating and drinking which aperitivo espouses:

That is is better to drink in moderation (prices are often doubled) and always with food, to not only slow your drinking speed down but also to reduce the effects of the booze itself.  And that you should socialise and network with friends and colleagues after work, but also return home at a decent time to your family (sober-ish) for dinner. 

Then again, at age 25  (let alone 30) we aspire to have moved out, so La Dolce Vita isn't quite as enviable. Supposedly some old-school mammas in Italy complain it spoils their kids’ appetites, but among the many possible booze-related grumbles, it’s not so terrible. Skip the starters and have a quick nip yourself Mamma...

And so, onwards to Il Tempo, a bar on Chandos Place, very discreet to the point of almost missing it despite having walked past one hundred times. There are scattered aperitivo options in London, but despite some optimistic predictions the craze hasn’t quite skyrocketed as thought. It certainly is more spoken of, but there is some way to go yet.

Aperitivo is not great here.  Firstly, there was no red vermouth which meant no negronis or americanos; a heinous crime worthy of Mussolini-style hanging in Milan I’d wager. And secondly, the selection of food on offer was pitiful. Beyond some postage stamp-sized morsels of peppers with a bland breadcrumb topping, dry crackers and the odd olive, there was nothing. I didn’t have the heart to photograph it as they’d have known quite obviously it was for scorn and shame value.

There were upsides to this mature and cosy place. Our Campari spritzes were huge, and the wine list looked impressive. We ordered a mixed platter from the menu which was fantastic; beautifully fragrant finocchiona, silky San Daniele and even better spicy and regular pecorinos, and huge parmesan chunks. For £22 this was a great sharing dish. 

Notably, most punters had ordered food off the menu and ignored the aperitivo, and we exchanged some wistful, embarrassed looks about the sad selection on the bar. They curiously have a gnocchi selection too – our wild boar ragu was barely discernable and the two flecks of mince topping were not worth the £8 at all. Avoid.

short changed on the cinghiale

So the hunt for London’s aperitivo continues. Do not expect anything close to Milan’s best at Il Tempo – that generosity of spirit has not crossed the Alps just yet. The drinks are elevated to £10 but without any of the treats this surcharge should accompany.

The bar itself is reasonable, the staff chirpy and it’s worth a drink and snack if you can’t get into Terroirs perhaps, but I would draw the line there. My Milan write-up not so long back suggests where to find the best aperitivo and exactly how it should be… come on London!