Pollen Street Social Review

& a glimpse inside the kitchen...

Last week I went to a blind wine-tasting in a stuffy carpeted room on the top floor of a Mayfair pub. On the table, columns of bottles were massed, awaiting palatal analysis and identification.  One of the sweaty, post-work crowd sidled up to me and refused to leave my side the entire evening.  Not for any flattering reason: he had arrived drunk at the alcohol imbibition.  The sole potential benefit of his presence was his vaunted knowledge of wines, gained from downing over fifty years’ worth of ethanol. Wine after wine he sipped, swirled, glugged, holding each up to the window despite the fading light. Glass after glass he swigged and squirted from one side of his mouth to the other, patting his lips, flipping his tongue up to his palette  in order “to catch the aftertaste”, sucking and squelching.  “Taste the vanilla in that”, “feel the syrupy smoothness of this”, he said, nodding sagely.  1/9 of his answers were correct…

To me, this is all a manifestation of the emperor’s new clothes syndrome which may sometimes be applied to Michelin-starred restaurants. Do I really want to dine on fussy little squiggles of substance that I have to chase with another globule of something or other so that the perfect scientific reaction can effervesce at the back end of my tongue?  However, Jason Atherton’s soon to be double Michelin-starred flagship is not in this category.  An idyll amongst the raucous, tourist-ridden bustle of Regent Street, Pollen Street Social sits opposite its sister restaurant, Little Social (see review here). Its style is unfussy, open, and clean, with attention to detail: even our bags were given individual stools.

Before we had even turned the page of the menu, a selection of amuse bouches materialised: dainty sweet corn muffins topped with delicate swirls of dill and cucumber cream, beetroot and blackberry filled tuiles that burst with sweet vinegary freshness, and my favourite, a Jerusalem artichoke crème.  These were followed by cups of mushroom consommé topped with delicate parmesan foam, salty and meaty while being vegetarian.

To start, I chose the neeps and tatties in a mushroom ragout- a wonderful coil of tender turnip ribbons generously grated with umami Berkswell cheese.  I could have easily devoured my dining companions’ portions as well.

Out of the whirr and buzz there then appeared the sprightly figure of Tiziano, the junior manager, who filled the room with his energy and excitable charm. He whisked me off to view the upstairs kitchen and the pass – a dark, orange- lit forge, tantalisingly situated behind glass.

It was sprung with energy but, unlike the amped up drama so often portrayed on TV, it was at the same time controlled and calm. Whilst fixing plates, advising chefs on the pass, and approving the dishes that flowed past us on wooden board, Dale (Head Chef) talked me through the dishes.

Our main courses were served as soon as I returned to my seat: the juiciest of chicken breast with a skin so crisp that even I (spurner of skin) couldn’t resist – its earthy savouriness was contrasted with the little pops of peas and broad beans, underpinned once more by the seasonal buttery, almost molten, girolles. The wild garlic flowers added to the dish with their fresh savouriness. My dining companions’ lamb and gnocchi dishes were also successes, although if there were any criticism it would be the mushroom theme that was developing throughout the vegetarian dishes – a non fungi fan would have had difficulty.  In addition, my companion found some of the mushrooms somewhat too heavily salted.

We decamped to the dessert bar to watch the pastry chefs practising their craft. First, a palate cleanser which was one of the highlights of the meal, straddling the line between savoury and sweet, and without risking losing stomach room for dessert: light yogurt foam with fairy-thin shards of meringue and a verdant and astringent basil sorbet.

We watched as cylinders of tempered chocolate were filled with an aerated milk mousse and crumbled sticky and crunchy caramelised puffed rice.  A chocolate disc was delicately placed on top like a lid, and adorned with a gold leaf foil, and then accompanied by a rocher of honey ice cream.  My dining companions' poached berries with lime and cream cheese sorbet with honey sugar tuile were also a hit. These were chased by a velvety chocolate mousse, and an almond and cherry financier, and a passion fruit and blood orange pâté de fruit, as well as a hazelnut crème entremets for the road…just in case.

Delicious, unfussy, comfortable and exciting – this is one of the finest dining experiences I have had in the last few years.  And I can say that without any fear of an emperor’s new clothes diagnosis.

Food: 9.5/10

Ambience: 8/10

Service: 10/10

Price: ££££

Loos: 9/10

Other side of the door: inside the kitchens of Le Caprice (Part 1)

Only a blue tinted portal  - the one way door into the depths of the Underworld - suggests the behind-the-scenes drama of the kitchen, and, if you’re looking at the right time, slivers of stainless steel and the flurry of chefs’ whites.  Once seated, silver bowls of bread materialise quickly.  The waiter is charming, with perhaps a glint in his eye. Food arrives, plates tucked into invisible crevices in his arm.  You’ve ordered the salad to start  - the radicchio is cold and crisp, beetroots bathe in just the right amount of truffle honey dressing, and nestled in the middle is a golden nugget – crunchy on the outside but releasing molten goats’ cheese as soon as it is pierced.

You might acknowledge this or you might not.  The meal continues.  Mains come and go.  You order dessert.  One of your dining companions goes to the loo.  Dessert arrives immediately after his return.   Fresh mint tea, or an espresso, and the meal’s over, and you leave the buzzing Art Deco-style emporium.  Did you stop to think how many people it took to make that one salad?  How many spats arose over that chorizo?  That the waiter had been closely observing your departure to the lavatory and had announced it to the entire kitchen: “Hold dessert - he’s in the loo!” I didn’t, until a couple of weeks ago.

I swanned in at 9am on Monday, through the revolving door.  The chic black and white décor was the same, but that is where the familiarity ended.  No excited chatter, no heads turning from tables to scrutinise who has entered (anyone famous?), and no one to slip my coat off my shoulders and guide me to the seats with which I possess a lifetime of acquaintance.  Instead: tables denuded of their usual crisp white tablecloths, stacked on top of each other, naked legs in the air, and chairs piled up across the room.  I wove my way through the maze of disarray, and with some trepidation approached the blue portal.

The door swung shut behind me.  One way only.  Then I descended into the Underworld.  Mike, the senior sous greeted me with a pile of freshly folded chef’s whites.  No room for glamour here; only baggy elasticated-waist black trousers, a floppy, short-sleeved, double-poppered shirt and a stripy blue apron.  I scraped my hair back and tied it up: number 1 fear was having a customer send food back after semi-choking on a long brunette hair.

Mike then gave me a tour of the various stainless steel divisions that comprise the underground empire.  First: “veg”, which featured cauldrons/baby bathing tubs bubbling furiously,

as well as vats of overnight-maturing stock.

Next: “meat”,

which included bricks of pork belly cut at perfect right angles,

blocks of already cut frozen meat defrosting, their crimson juices dripping into the sink,

octopuses splayed casually,

and blue-gloved hands peeling back pimpled chicken carcases for delicate dissection.

Last: “pastry”, on the ground floor, tucked away to the side and from which billows of homely sweet pastry  and freshly baked bread filled the room.

I, however, spent my first day on “sauce”, upstairs, where Lauren was juggling béarnaise sauce for the fish, and caramelised apple for the pork.  Prepping hedgehog mushrooms for the risotto was my job, scraping the mottled brown fuzz from under the mushrooms’ umbrellas. I was standing in front of the stoves from which service takes place: flames flashed through the grill suspended from the ceiling, oil hissed from four vats in the corner, and hot plates were churning the air above into a haze – as close to the fires of Hades as any mortal can get.  After a couple of hours of herb picking and carrot peeling, Lauren mentioned lunch.   “Get there quick,” she said. “The waiters are greedy”.  She never goes, and nor do many other of the chefs.  So chefs are never hungry and waiters are – or so it seemed in the case of Le Caprice.  She spoke the truth: after stumbling down dead ends, I found the staff room where waiters were hunched over plates heaped with minced meat sauce, rice and salad.  Presentation wasn’t quite the same standard as that on the other side of the door.  I had arrived on the scene too late – only a puddle of minced meat was left, and a waiter was scraping the remains of the rice onto his already piled high plate.  He looked down on me pityingly and redistributed a few grains from his plate on to mine.  I wasn’t actually interested in eating rice, but the gesture was there.

After I’d clambered upstairs again, I found Lauren setting up for service. Surfaces were clear and sterilised (almost obsessively), drawers of condiments and herbs were fully stocked and arranged neatly, a bowl of sterilising hand wash was on standby, together with separate boards for fish and meat, sauces in bottles, and plates stacked high under the oven to keep warm.  A sliding fridge contained all the ingredients, perfectly portioned and ready to be cooked.

At 12.30 service began.  Mike assumed his position in front of the counter.  There was an energy in the air – no stress, just adrenaline.  Unsurprisingly, January is a quiet month.  Most of the regulars are on holiday, Lauren explained – a quiet lunchtime service equals roughly 60 covers, no small feat in my book.

There was no Hell’s Kitchen vibe, none of the head chef shouting which had entertained me in countless episodes of Masterchef. Receipts began to roll in.  James was also on the pass – he’d only been there a few months as part of his course at chef school.  Duck eggs were fried, pork fillets were fried and roasted, cod was cooked on the hot plate, and chicken escalope, prawns, and shoals of Thai baked sea bass were juggled and whisked onto the pass.  The dishes were placed underneath a heater to keep them warm until service was shouted, and the dishes were collected in a particular order so that the last picked up is the first to be delivered to the women at the table.

I’d done a mild version of service previously when I did work experience in Villandry’s pastry kitchen – even then, I found slicing cakes for service stressful, so I was rather pleased that my only job was to peel back the palm leaf on the Thai baked sea bass and drizzle it with sweet chilli sauce.  Halfway through service, a third chef was called up to the pass.  Dishes were flying off the counter, and rather disappointingly  (for me) from a drama perspective, everything was in sync: receipt read out, food fired/baked/grilled/roasted, service shouted, garnish scattered, dish scrutinised by Mike, and then whisked off by the waiters into the diners’ realm.  If there were any drips, not enough dressing, or lack of crispness he notified the chefs, but this was a rare occurrence, and the spirit was a jovial one rather than strictly hierarchical.  Every ten minutes or so, as if by clockwork, a man would appear to conquer the ever-mounting pile of dishes.  I had squeezed myself into a corner to take in the action but even then it was difficult not to be in someone’s way.  Every now and then Mike would pass me something to try: sea parsley, a slice of Perigord truffle, an onion bhaji, parsnip and apple soup, hot smoked salmon, celeriac rémoulade, Bouillabaisse sauce… I could almost hear my metabolism weeping. The highlight occurred at around 1.30, mid-frenzy.  James slid a bowl toward me overflowing with the most golden and crisp pommes allumettes.  I stared at him briefly in disbelief and attempted to pace myself while failing utterly to disguise my greediness.

Service peaked at around 1.30, and the frenzy began to simmer down.  The third chef on service dropped out, and around 2.30 Lauren began to tidy away.  Enervated and relieved, we descended to the basement kitchen.  I spent the rest of the afternoon crying as the pile of halved onions in front of me grew.  To be continued...

Nopi

Last December, I visited Vietnam, some of whose most renowned dishes – like pho – include seafood and pork.  As I was with a vegetarian this was clearly not ideal, so our guide thoughtfully took us to a “vegetarian” restaurant. Its conception of vegetarianism, however, was a little warped; the fact that vegetarians eschew meat as they don’t want to eat it was lost on them.  This restaurant had dedicated a lot of time and thought into hubristically imitating the textures, flavours and shapes of meat and seafood. Rubbery pieces of unnameable mottled gunge floated limply on a meaty tasting broth, and fleshy pink sponge had been moulded into the semblance of shrimps lined up proudly on the serving plate. It turned out to be one of the most grotesque meals of my life, and would not have been out of place at Trimalchio’s dinner table (along with the fish made out of a sow's belly, a woodpigeon out of bacon, a turtledove out of a ham, and a chicken out of a knuckle of pork…).

Dinner at Ottolenghi... #ottolenghi #luscious #red #raspberry #cake #tart #decadence

A photo posted by Culina (@culinasophia) on Oct 10, 2014 at 11:25am PDT

Although not perhaps to the same extent as that Vietnamese restaurant, vegetarian cuisine is all too often perceived as a restricted carnivorous diet: poor, disadvantaged vegetarians cannot enjoy the pinnacle of the carnivore’s diet - a steak/burger - so instead they often have to make do with a lesser equivalent: a sole Portobello mushroom - the vegetable perceived to be closest in taste to meat. The small-mindedness continues with meat being considered the focal point of the carnivore’s diet, so the apparently logical option for vegetarians is to substitute another food group, namely dairy.  An example of this is at the famed Relais de Venise in Marylebone where vegetarians have to make do with a plate of fat-laden casein.  Thank goodness for Yotam Ottolenghi.  Since the first branch of the Ottolenghi  delicatessen in Belgravia was created 12 years ago, he has been making waves on the food scene, and they are becoming tidal. His food is not solely vegetarian but he has revolutionised both carnivores’ and vegetarians’ appreciation of the potential of vegetables.  His recipes create such strikingly brilliant flavour combinations that the vegetarian ones are enough to turn the heads of even the most carnivorous.

As a proud owner of all of his cookbooks, a huge fan of all three of Ottolenghi branches, as well as the restaurants that his protégé chefs have opened, it seemed only reasonable to try Nopi, Yotam’s restaurant in Soho.  I had been told by numerous friends that Nopi was a disappointing experience but I thought I would risk disillusionment and try it out for myself.

The décor is similar to the Ottolenghi branches, with white-washed brick walls, and elegant copper lamps suspended from the ceiling creating a clean, chic environment.  My dining companion and I were led to our table which was noticeably small, especially when the restaurant concept is based around small sharing plates.  We hadn’t seen each other for months and it took a while to get round to deciding our order – a common occurrence, and one that I wouldn’t normally acknowledge in a review, except that our conversation was punctuated by our charmless waiter every two minutes  brusquely demanding our order.

When we did order and our food arrived, the table, as I had predicted, inevitably became rather crowded.  The first dish I tried was burrata, miyagawa, coriander seeds, and white balsamic:

The plating was modern and refined, and the burrata itself was as it should be: deliciously creamy with an almost molten centre.  However, though the coriander may have worked flavour wise, it hindered the pleasure of eating the dish as the whole seeds became gritty and rather tiresome after a minute of chewing with the flavour long gone.  The citrus addition worked well as an astringent, but more was needed particularly as the white balsamic proved elusive.

I moved on to the roasted aubergine, saffron yoghurt, mixed seeds, and pickled chilli. It was ok, but lacking some of the punch that the same dish in Ottolenghi has.

I had also chosen the Tenderstem broccoli, spiced buttermilk, and black fungus.  This was another disappointment as the broccoli was slightly undercooked and the black fungus which had drawn me to the dish in the first place was lacking in flavour altogether.

Next were the courgette & feta fritters.  Crisp and hot, with a delicious filling, these were the best dish by far but, regrettably, that’s not saying much…

To top off the mediocre food, our brusque waiter kicked us out of the restaurant two hours after we had arrived.  At 9 o’clock there was no one queueing, nor was there a lack of available tables.  This is understandable at a busy restaurant at a busy time, but the utter lack of charm tainted my opinion further.  Take my advice: don’t bother going here, go to Ottolenghi instead.

The loos were rather exciting though…

(I walked into about 3 people)

Food: 5/10

Price: ££££

Ambience: 7/10

Service: 3/10

Loos: 9/10

Suitable for: casual dates, celebrations, business lunches, family, friends