Marcus Wareing at the Berkeley

Marcus Wareing at The Berkeley
Wilton Place
Knightsbridge
London. SW1X 7RL


First of all, for all the non-English people stopping by here, the Berkeley is apparently pronounced the Baaaarkeley, not like Berkeley in California, and not like you would expect from the spelling, obviously, now why would we want it to be simple? I'm just saying this because I spent a week excitedly saying it wrong to everyone around me before being corrected and now you can avoid doing the same.

I am lucky enough to have a dad (the French part of my family) who likes to eat good food, and thinks nothing of spending a sizeable amount of his monthly salary on taking his daughters (that's me and my sister) out for their birthdays. For this particular birthday (my 23rd if you really need to know, and her 22nd), we just happened to all be in London and it was up to me to choose the place. Being a particularly indecisive person I made a shortlist (and have since been to another place on that shortlist - review coming soon), sent it to my sister who blindly selected the most fancy and expensive, in true princess style.

Now, when I told people where we were going, the general consensus was that Wareing makes incredible food, but the place is a bit stuffy. Well, I tend to like it a bit stuffy. I like the whole feeling of occasion it gives, the excited waiters, the conversations of other diners drifting through the vast room. I like the ceremony around the food and the way there are always 3 waiters around to do any one thing. Also, I usually find that if you actually start talking to the wine guy (sorry - the sommelier) with the tetra-pack custard-thick French accent and the upturned moustache in his three-piece suit, you actually find that he's pretty darn amusing. Case in point, on that night, we got to talking about how many of the staff would come out to sing happy birthday with the pudding, and I scored an almost-invitation to lunch the next day (though that might have been due to what I was wearing - I wasn't exactly keeping my cleavage a secret).


The food then - well now, that was truly incredible. My father and I both went for the tasting menu and plate after plate was a wonder, but my absolute favorite was the quail, served with shallots and endives that were mellow and sweet from caramelization, and a light-as-air goat's cheese mouse. Instead of the scallop course (I am allergic), I was brought beautiful stretches of flat pasta strands, with herbs laced into them almost like a piece of art, topped with a generous and pungent shaving of trufle. My sister, who had ordered à la carte, was brought the same, an attention from the kitchen to ensure she did not have to watch us eat for too long. For the main course my father and I both chose the pork - tender suckling pig served whith chorizo and all manner of delicious things, but the real discovery here was my sister's choice of the beef with smoked bone marrow. After the first bite she let out a low moan and practically force fed us a piece each so we could join in, and my oh my we did. I don't think I have ever tasted anything like it and in fact, the true originality of the menu was what made it so enjoyable. That, and the incredible cheese platter, with a surprising German blue cheese whose name I have forgotten, but was as buttery as the waiter promised.


The deserts were good, maybe even very good but I am less often blown away by Michelin-style deserts than savory food because they are usually "too much" in some way - the chocolate is too dark (here, just a few drops of dark chocolate mousse on the side of the plate nearly brought tears to my eyes), the alcohol notes are too strong, the orange is too... you know, orange-y. Anyway, with very full stomachs (we had extra deserts in the spirit of getting older - also a present from the kitchen), we left with little sachets of the home-made truffles, which sadly included all the strange ones I didn't want to try (like fennel and turkish delight and other weird ones). I did have the strength to very inelegantly have one bite of every single truffle offered, and some were delicious - a caramel one I believe? The sachet ended up as a gift though.


So there you are. A taxi ride home with my two fellow diners and an excited conversation about the food we had just engulfed - the sign of a truly wonderful experience, which brought some additions to the list of dishes I will never forget. It comprises a pea and mint tart from Hibiscus in London, a velouté de cèpes from la Vieille Fontaine in Avignon, a squid-ink based tapas with parmesan foam from Hélène Darroze in Paris and a few different things from Pierre Gagnaire, also in Paris, including, incredible, a single piece of cucumber. Not a bad list to be on. And more on all of those later, of course!

Beigel Bake

Beigel Bakery

159 Brick Lane,

London E1 6SB

I did say, a couple of posts ago, that living in Shoreditch wasn't really for me. Financing-wise, I mean.

Well, this means that I spent 5 months living a 5-minute walk away from Brick Lane but in the other, 'let's pretend this place doesn't exist' direction - Whitechapel, that is. I still had the single bed (creaky enough to prevent any form of uncouth exercise), with just enough space around it to squeeze in my collection of vintage fur jackets, cutoff 501's and scuffed men's shoes (so I could dress the part when venturing into the cool side). At least though, it wasn't £600. Just, you know, £500. And the hot water worked most of the time.

With the remaining £12 a month I found in my pocket, I quite often chose to feed myself in the area, and there really is a number of delicious places to do so. If the feeding happens around 2am however, the number of available places drops quite a bit and I found myself walking up Brick Lane many a night (do not ask me what I was doing up at that time), to a little shop near the top of the street, lit up through the night, and with seemingly random rush hours.

Now first of all, there are two of these shops. One, ours, is called (as you might have guessed) Beigel Bake. The other, I believe, is Bagel Shop. Beigel Bake is the good stuff, I tell you. Not that I have ever been to the other side, but my first visit to Brick Lane was about 5 years ago, in the company of a family of dark curly hair and a good Rosen-something name, and thus the authority necessary to make such sweeping bagel-related statements as 'that other one, it's the devil'. If further proof were needed, 'the other one' sells ham. Surely not an accepted bagel-filling if the place's history was properly respected.

The place is an institution, and rightly so. They're not famous for their smiling service, but as the entire thing will last about 8 seconds it's not much of a problem. Bagels are fresh, fillings are plentiful and the hot salt beef is tender and perfect with tear-inducing Hellman's mustard. The bread is said to be delicious and though I have never taken the plunge into the artery-clogging cheesecakes, they seem to be popular. But my very favourite thing to do, at 2am on a Tuesday night, is to hand over a £1 coin in exchange for a simple cream cheese bagel that knocks a Dunkin' Donuts out of the park - and I'm a full 50% American.

Mama Racha

 

Mama Racha

Costa Rica 4602

Palermo, Buenos Aires

After three months in Buenos Aires with plenty of time to wander the streets, I have settled on the trendy Palermo as my favourite district. The stylish girls who walk around the area remind me a bit of Londoners with better hair, wearing the same skinny jeans and cool t-shirts (though they are very fond of clogs here, a trend I have still not come to grips with, especially with the many the irregular cobbled streets). The shopping is definitely the best in the city and, best of all, when the money in your purse has run out and you are carrying so many bags that you have earned the right to call it a workout, the streets are dotted with the most delightful cafés and restaurants.

Most of the places around are wonderful and a quick look at the menu and the dishes in front of the seated diners will tell you all you need to know, but one of my personal favourites is Mama Racha on Plaza Armenia, right at the corner of Armenia and Costa Rica. 

The atmosphere is laid-back and easy, I love the wooden tables and pale colour palette and the terrace upstairs is the perfect place to soak in some sun and watch the passers-by. The food is reasonably priced for the area and very good. I've had breakfast, a sweet orange juice to accompany facturas and dulce de leche, and lunch, once the grilled vegetables (done to perfection, though with their skin still on which made them a bit tricky to eat) and once the couscous salad which was light and delicious, but with the plastic-y cheese which is, sadly, ubiquitous in Argentina. The cakes and cookies on the counter taste as good as they look (the coconut-dulce de leche slice is ‘oh my god’ good), and are very generous portions as well – just see if you can finish one!

All in all, the perfect place to spend an hour, or the whole sunny afternoon with a book (and the refreshing orange, carrot and ginger juice).

Le Loir dans la Théière

Le Loir dans la Théière

3 rue des Rosiers

75004 Paris

Le Loir dans la Théière is an address frequented by all the trendy Parisian girls. You know the ones, who wear vintage parkas over their flowery dresses or Breton-stripe t-shirts with sparkly skirts, and walk the cobblestones in heels as if they were barefoot on a beach. They plonk their skinny little asses in the mismatched wooden chairs and talk, with much hand gesturing, about the crazy art on the walls, and order half the dessert menu because it's that irresistible. This means that there is usually a queue, and even a long one on weekends.

I always go on weekdays, because I'm lucky to have the time and I'm not really into crowds and prefer to have the comfy leather armchair by the window. There is a larger selection on week-ends though, or at least the most popular choices run out a lot later.

The menu is simple and light, just the way I like it. I wouldn't be able to play favourites because everything I've had there was delicious, but I will mention last time’s choice of poached eggs over spinach with a creamy parmesan sauce which was even more than delicious. Like, super-delicious or something (my dad often complains about my lack of complimentary vocabulary, I can’t think why). The selection changes regularly, in fact the 'plat and pâtes du jour' really do change daily I believe, which is fantastic when you go as often as I do (and I have been known to go twice a week).

Anyway, enough with the savoury, the real star here is dessert. You have to get up and go to the counter to look at what's on offer, home-made beauties rolled out throughout the day from the kitchen, their descriptions hastily scribbled on a chalkboard. Of course, you have to try the house special, a 'tarte au citron meringuée' piled so high with creamy meringue that I have never seen anyone finish it on their own, save for me and my best friend, who have been working towards that goal for a while now. My favourite, though, is the classic Tarte Tatin which they do to perfection, though their pear version is scrumptious as well. Of course, the selection here changes often as well and most of the choices are seasonal, so I have had to say goodbye, maybe forever, to many a homey apple-caramel crumble or silky-smooth chocolate-coconut tart. And to help with all that sugar, there is a large selection of teas, coffees, and even hot chocolate which I am told is very good (not my thing), served in wonderful metal pots.

As a last note, I couldn't leave you without mentioning that the decor is a wonderful mix-and match of old wood and leather furniture, with crazy paintings, posters, and sometimes artist exhibitions on the walls, all in accordance with the Lewis Carroll name. The service is, shall we say, Parisian (read, disagreeable and fast in a ‘please let the next paying people in’ way), but I say that in the best way possible, as I would actually be disappointed to be treated any other way in this city. And it tends to be better at the less busy times. And being smack bang in the middle of Paris’ gay area means that this is one of the rare places in the city where being a pretty girl will not get you preferential treatment. Finally, the intensely cool Loir dans la Théière could not be situated anywhere but the intensely cool Marais, home to all those perfect French brands that other countries are catching onto, home also to the only COS in Paris and to some of the best vintage shops in town. The rue des Rosiers itself is a lovely street to walk down, and perfect for some authentic falafel if you still feel hungry after that lemon pie.

photo from blog.elle.fr/ras-la-toque

Pizza East

picture from metro.co.uk

Pizza East

56 Shoreditch High St

London E1 6JJ

I’m a bit of Shoreditch girl. Not that I’ve ever lived there, because forking out £600 a month for a room only slightly wider than my bed and a bathroom straight across from a middle-aged man with binoculars isn’t my idea of good financing. But I do love the area and I find myself wandering past the City several times a week, stopping to try on a hat and a couple of pairs of shoes at the Spitafields market, drawing out the short walk up Brick Lane  by entering all the vintage shops to sort through flapper dresses and retro sunglasses. I sit at a café with a hot chai tea and a suitable book (I find Jane Austen or anything in French to draw approving glances from passers-by, but I admit a more common choice for me is the month’s Elle) and check out the beautiful girls and boys who walk past with jeans so skinny they can be used as a method of hair removal.

I don’t find it a problem, in any case, to go to the corner of Shoreditch High Street and Bethnal Green Road for some pizza. The people I was going with, however, were a different story – one of them travelling from as far as the faraway land of Notting Hill – and they all arrived, with varying degrees of lateness, ready to complain.

Thankfully, when we entered, (at around 9pm on a Wednesday, with no reservation), the staff in charge of coats and seating, a girl who looked like she should be on the cover of the aforementioned Elle, was charming and a table for four was free. We followed her and took in our surroundings.

Pizza East is owned by Nick Jones, who also has Shoreditch House right next door (not to mention Soho House, Babington House and others). There is a definitely similar vibe here, brought on by the raw wood and metal decor, exposed concrete pillars, the large square bar in the middle of the room and the impossibly stylish clientele. The room was pretty busy but not full, certainly far from the over-spilling crowd of a week-end night. The sound from fellow diners’ conversation carries quite easily and the music adds to the general level of noise so that it was necessary to raise our voices slightly around the round table to hear each other. This was not my first time at Pizza East but it was the first time I was seated elsewhere than the counter at the bar. I find the latter a more entertaining and enjoyable spot, not least because on one occasion my chatter with the barman earned me a free (and delicious) Margarita.

A friendly waitress showed up as soon as we had all closed our menus and listened with good nature as we emerged as the most indecisive and picky of customers, trotting out allergies, swapping pizza toppings and changing our minds repeatedly. She wrote it all down and brought us a jug of tap water, stayed for a few minutes to chat, with a chirpy American accent, about the new tube stop opening soon right across the street (it will mean madness for the restaurant, she predicted).

We each had a pizza, which are small and sparse in ingredients, but pretty dang delicious. On mine, the mixture of smoked ham with the best ricotta I’ve ever had, some bitter leaves and a subtle pesto has me ooh-ing at every bite and I managed to negotiate a bite of the Salami pizza to my right, with a slight hint of heat from chilli, also a good choice. The base of the pizzas is light and crunchy with a tangy note (sourdough?) but slightly too done for my taste – I didn’t eat my leftover crusts, which never happens with soft doughy pizzas. The ingredients shine both individually and in their combinations, and we couldn’t resist ordering a selection platter of cheeses and hams to round off the first part of the meal.

For desert the four of us ordered different things and this time I was more forceful about having a taste of each, it’s for the review you understand. My donuts with a dark chocolate sauce were perfection, the banana cake (no longer on the menu) moist and its accompanying sauce rich and toffee-y while the salted caramel and chocolate tart tasted like a Twix only, you know, a lot better. But the real surprise came from the homemade mint sorbet, usually my least favourite flavour, which here reminded me of a perfectly sweetened mint tea. We all had a spoonful and in ecstasy, raised our eyes to the cool-looking exposed pipes on the ceiling.

We left with a £90 bill (none of us had alcohol) and full but not distended stomachs. The complaining stopped after the first mouthful and Shoreditch doesn’t seem so far anymore. Next time, I think I’ll try to step away from the donuts and have the mint sorbet myself. With some chocolate sauce on the side though, of course.